Jazz Funeral

Something sort of black. Perhaps because she had just heard Ti-Belle sing it, she thought of “St. James Infirmary,” and without speaking, turned around and started to play.
    She didn’t know what happened to her. It was the same thing that had happened before, when she was working on Ham’s song, but more powerful. It was like a great force came into her through her feet and swelled up to her diaphragm and then came out like a tornado, singing the song for her. It was singing it, not Melody; and yet a piece of her was singing it, was fully conscious even as she channeled, if that’s what she was doing. She didn’t know what to call it, she just knew she’d no idea she could sing that well. She might have sung herself right into that heaven she didn’t believe in if she hadn’t heard a disgusted, “Oh, shit.”
    Joel.
    But she didn’t stop singing. She wasn’t going to anyway, but still it was gratifying when someone said, “Shhhh,” and there were slight sounds of a scuffle, as if Chick had cuffed Joel for being so rude.
    When she was done, Chick said, “All right!” and applauded. They all did, even Joel. There were five of them now.
    “You are one talented lady,” said Tyrone, and she was almost as pleased at the adult appellation as at the compliment.
    One of them stepped forward and stuck out a big black paw. “I’m Terence. Don’t know who you are, but I sure want to shake your hand.” Melody grabbed his hand as if she thought he could pull her to safety.
    “I’m Janis,” she said, looking Joel straight in the eye. “I’m a friend of Joel’s. He showed me this place once and I sneaked in to work on this song I’m writing. Listen, it’s not his fault, he didn’t even know—”
    The fourth man interrupted her, speaking not so much to her or his brothers as to the ether. “She’s the answer to everything, you know that? She could be, like, our Aaron.”
    “Raymond, what you on about?”
    “Know why we’ve never made it big? ‘Cause we’ve never had a star, that’s why. We play good, but we sing shitty. All of us. What we need’s a vocalist, and we always have. Like Aaron Neville, you know what I mean? Like, what would the Neville Brothers be without Aaron? Look here, this white girl sings as good as Aaron does, any day of the week. Well, maybe not quite as good, but the chick’s hot.” He paused. “And she can play too.”
    Melody felt as if she should jump up in protest, it was such a travesty using Aaron’s name in vain that way. As far as she was concerned, he was the best male singer since Elvis, and what this man was speaking was purest blasphemy. One did not compare a deity with simple Melody Brocato. She was frozen in amazement.
    Joel was smiling. He nodded and gave her a thumbs-up sign, as if to say, “I told you so.”
    Chick said, “You mean, like, ask her to play with us? Like that chick in The Fabulous Baker Boys?”
    Raymond shrugged. “Well, we all talked about it at the time. Everybody said it was what we needed.” He folded his arms smugly.
    Melody had seen The Fabulous Baker Boys, had cried all the way through it and for days afterward. She had cried for the Jeff Bridges character, the sensitive artist, the true musician unrecognized by an uncaring world. But she had identified with the Michele Pfeiffer character. She wanted her own band to save.
    Now she imagined the Boucrees seeing the movie—renting it, probably, after some acquaintance had recommended it—and having the same fantasy.
    They needed her, she needed them, just like in the movie.
    She smiled, couldn’t help smiling, and then dug her nails into her wrist to get back to reality.
    Hold it, Melody. They’re just talking. This doesn’t mean anything.
    Terence said, “You know who said they’d catch our set, don’t you? Those two A&R men—from Atlantic and Warner.”
    “Tomorrow?” said Tyrone. “You mean tomorrow? We change our whole act for this girl here?”
    Suddenly Melody got angry. One minute it had been all gratuitous compliments and now it was gratuitous put-downs.
    She said, “Excuse me, I’m not available,” got up and started out the door, cheeks hot, thinking that if she wanted to be discussed in the third person, she could always go home.
    “Young lady, you just hold up there a minute.” The speaker was Tyrone again, and his tone was decidedly paternal.
    She turned around and spoke in what she hoped was a dignified manner. “Thank you for the loan of the