Jazz Funeral

the music stopped and so couldn’t have been more surprised when she found herself awakened by yelling. Two things about it were surprising: first, she didn’t know she’d been to sleep, couldn’t believe she’d actually dropped off, considering the circumstances; and second, she wasn’t at home. Brocatos yelled, not Boucrees; surely not Boucrees.
    Yet it was the Boucrees’ studio and yelling was occurring right now, before breakfast.
    “Goddammit, Tyrone, what’s wrong with you? Couldn’t you even make it to the bed we put in here?”
    “I got tired. I curled up on the rug. You got a problem with that?”
    Oh, no. If he’s been here all night, he’ll come in to use the bathroom in about two minutes. Suddenly, she got up and made the bed; rolled under it, holding her crotch, scratching it. She’d gotten up in the night to investigate the funny little itch she’d felt. There were red spots there. The itching wasn’t so bad, was hardly any worse, but the fear was making her sweat.
    “Motherfucker, you got a problem. Alicia’s been up all night worryin’ about you, not knowing if you were dead or in some woman’s bed. Why you do her like this?” It was a third voice. The sleeper was being ganged up on.
    “Hey, I got an idea. Know that transition we been havin’ so much trouble with? I think I got it figured out.”
    “Oh, man, you’re out of your mind. Your wife and four kids want to know where the fuck you are, that’s all you can talk about? Why you think we’re here, man? Alicia’s been callin’ all over everywhere.”
    “She call Mama?”
    “Hell, yes, she called Mama. Mama’s ‘bout to have a stroke, thinks you’re prob’ly lyin’ in a ditch. It wouldn’t occur to Mama you’re just a lazy, inconsiderate fucker, can’t even let his own wife know where he is.”
    “Hey, there’s a phone here. Is there a phone here?” The sleeper was getting mad. “You see that phone over there? Alicia might have called all of y’all, but she didn’t call me.”
    Melody heard someone stomp across the room. “Phone’s unplugged,” a fourth voice said. How many of them were out there?
    “Well, I didn’t unplug it!” the sleeper hollered. “Why don’t you assholes get out of my face. What the fuck’s going on here?”
    “Tyrone, you’re messin’ up everything. You’re the only one that ever fucks up, you ever notice that?”
    “Hey, I been up all night trying to trying to save y’all’s sorry asses. We’re gonna look like a bunch of jerks up there tomorrow if y’all don’t get it together.”
    “Sucker!” The word had a lifetime of venom behind it. Melody heard a crack, and a noise like someone stumbling, crashing into the piano. The speaker had hit Tyrone.
    Someone else said, “Mark, goddammit, what you want to hit him for? You always been that way—hit, hit, hit! You think that’s the way to solve everything.”
    She hated the way they were attacking each other, accusing each other, humiliating each other, more than she hated the hitting. Her father did that to her mother. The Brocatos did it to her father. Her mother even did it to her sometimes, mildly: “Melody, you never clean your room. You always leave your clothes on the floor.”
    Did her father do it to her? It was so familiar. Oh, yes: “You’re making your mother sick. Why can’t you do what she says and quit giving her trouble?”
    Without even asking her version. He didn’t know anything; he was never around.
    She lay under the bed, holding her contaminated crotch, feeling sorry for herself. Feeling hope drain away. Just when something good happened, three bad things happened next.
    It’s the physical thing. I’m sick, that’s what it is. Shit, I wonder what I’ve got? AIDS doesn’t start this way, does it? It could be herpes. Maybe it’s herpes. Syphilis! That starts with a bump. Or the clap. Can you still get that?
    She had read accounts of people having gonorrhea, and it seemed to her burning had been one of the symptoms. When they urinated, was that it? She broke out in a fresh sweat. Was it going to hurt to go to the bathroom? She had to go now.
    “Joel, my man, what you doing here?” There was a break in the din outside. Melody had let her mind wander for a while, partly out of depression, partly fear. She could be dying. Almost certainly she had a sexually transmitted disease—nothing could have been clearer to her. And yet—there was something funny; Chris had used a condom.