Jazz Funeral

warmth in her solar plexus, a new sensation, as if… she didn’t quite know. If you were loved, was it something like this? Did your mom hug you … hold you? She didn’t dare dwell on the subject.
    “You hungry?”
    “I’m sick.”
    Richard let her in, stroking her hair, patting her, something she’d never done before. They hadn’t touched at all—why would they? Richard was just somebody her mother had hired because she thought she ought to. It wasn’t like she was a relative or anything.
    “What’s wrong?”
    All of a sudden Melody was shy. “I’ve got this itching. And red spots.”
    “Where?”
    “Uh—well, I guess I better tell you. I slept with someone.”
    “You slept with someone?” Richard looked utterly astounded. “Someone other than Flip?”
    “Flip and I broke up. It was—” She hesitated, ashamed to admit it was a stranger. “It was someone I never told you about.”
    “How long ago was this?”
    “It was Thursday.”
    “Mmm. Today’s Saturday. Does it hurt to urinate?”
    Melody shook her head.
    “Any discharge?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t really look. But anyway, it doesn’t feel like it’s inside. I mean, it’s all around.”
    “How closely have you examined the area?”
    Melody was surprised. “Well, I haven’t, I guess. I mean I saw the spots and that was so gross—”
    “Okay, go in the bathroom and take a look. See if there’s any discharge. And use a mirror. I want to know what it looks like down there.”
    Melody was grateful Richard didn’t ask to look. She went in the bathroom and followed orders. And was so horrified at what she saw that she screamed.
    “What is it?” yelled Richard. “Are you all right?”
    “Oh my God! Things! Little black things! All over the place.”
    “That’s pubic lice, honey. Come on out and we’ll see what we can do about it.”
    “Lice! Omigod. I’ve never even heard of anyone having lice.”
    “Melody, just one thing—get one on your finger and let me have a look at it.”
    Gross! “I can’t do that!”
    “Okay, I’ll come in and look.”
    “No!” Melody got one and looked at it. It was so repulsive, she slung it off and reached for the soap. “Oh, God! It looks like a crab.”
    “Well, that’s pretty conclusive. Never mind. You don’t have to bring it out.”
    When she’d pulled up her pants and returned to Richard’s living room, where she’d never sat before, her shrink explained to her about crab lice. She could hardly bear to sit, so strong was the feeling of being unclean, unworthy; filthy. “They thrive in pubic hair. So you can get them even if you use a condom. Or you can get them from the bedding.”
    “Oh, no!”
    “What?”
    The Boucrees. Now she’d contaminated their bed. She felt like a roach—a big nasty thing that carried disease. Ignoring the question, she said, “What’s the prognosis?”
    Richard smiled. “You’ll live. There’s a drugstore remedy for it. All you have to do is wash your clothes and all your bedding, apply the shampoo, and the little suckers drop dead.”
    “How much is the cure?”
    “How much have you got?”
    “About five dollars.” Five dollars, no home, no plan. Now her shelter was problematic. If she didn’t wash her bedding, the crabs would take up permanent residence. How could she wash it?
    “Where are you staying?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Melody, we have to talk. Come on, I’ll fix you something to eat.” She looked at her watch. “I have a client in half an hour.”
    “On Saturday?”
    Richard shrugged. “Not everybody’s on nine-to-five.”
    “What happens when she comes?” Melody tried to keep the fear out of her voice. If Richard went into her office, to a place where Melody couldn’t go, she could phone the police, Melody’s parents, the FBI if she felt like it.
    “Look, I’ve got the money. I can get the stuff if you tell me what it’s called, but I don’t have access to a shower right now.”
    “Melody, are you living on the street? Or what?”
    “I’m not ready to talk about it.” This was a phrase she’d learned in therapy, that Richard herself had taught her.
    “You can stay with me, you know. I won’t turn you in.”
    Melody didn’t believe her. She didn’t trust Richard—her parents had hired her—and besides, there might be laws. Therapists had to report child abuse; maybe they weren’t allowed to harbor runaways. She knew perfectly well adults were capable of lying if they thought it was