Jazz Funeral

piano. I did not come here to apply for a job.”
    The dignity ran out when the tears came into her voice, and this frustrated her so much, she turned around and started to run again. She wondered if that stuff ever stopped, if she’d ever be able to say what she meant, what she wanted, without crying like a kid.
    Joel touched her arm as she went by. “Hey, Mel, come on—nobody meant to hurt your feelings.”
    She looked at him, and his eyes were so pretty, so moist and brown, so sincere and pleading, that she couldn’t leave him. “Janis,” she whispered. But she stopped.
    Tyrone said, “I’m mighty sorry, young lady—I think I’m the one was out of line. You’re a fine, fine singer, and even though you didn’t ask for a job, we were just thinking out loud about how we could get you. ‘Cause we want you, you know? That goes without sayin’. I didn’t mean nothin’ by what I said—I was just wonderin’ if we could do it—if it could physically be done by tomorrow.” He stepped forward and gave her his hand and a big smile. “Could you find it in your heart to accept my apology?”
    Melody shook with him and nodded. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
    Raymond said, “Janis, what you think about singin’ with a broken-down old band like us?”
    Before she could say a word, Tyrone said, “Now wait just a minute, you’re rushin’ things.”
    Terence said, “Well, I think we all agree.”
    To her amazement, Joel, her buddy and comrade-in-arms, her only friend, blurted, “She’s white! What the hell we gon’ do about that?”
    Raymond gave him a swat. “What’s the matter with you, boy, you a racist? You just shut up now.”
    Joel staggered. Raymond had hit him a good one. It was funny—Melody had imagined he was a boy who’d never been hit, a kid from a family so loving he wouldn’t even know what violence was. The strange thing was, the Boucrees did seem loving and warm when they weren’t arguing. She wondered if the Brocatos did.
    Chick said, “Harry Connick’s a white boy. Played JazzFest with James Booker when he was a baby, almost. And that was so long ago, nobody hardly remembers. We gon’ discriminate here in the nineties?”
    Tyrone said, “Okay, hush everybody, just hush now. Joel, I don’t know why you talk like that.”
    Melody thought that if Joel had been white, he would have turned scarlet. “I didn’t mean anything—I just thought it might look funny.” He paused. “I mean, she’s a girl, and Harry Connick wasn’t. How’s it gonna look, sixteen-year-old white girl up there singing with eight or ten black dudes? Gonna look funny, I can’t help it.”
    The image nearly drove Melody mad with delight. But Tyrone tugged his moustache—apparently something he did when he was thinking. “You got a point, son. I apologize to you.”
    She couldn’t imagine her own father apologizing.
    To Melody, Tyrone said, “We got more trouble than that, though, don’t we?”
    She stared at him, hoping he didn’t mean what she thought he did.
    “I know who you are, girl. I heard what Joel called you.” He said to the others. “Y’all leave us alone for a minute. Joel and I need to talk to this lady.”
    But Melody couldn’t see a reason for that. She felt an irresistible tug toward these people, wanted them, warts and all, to be her family, to adopt her and take them in. She said, “It’s okay. They can know. But y’all can’t turn me in. You’ve got to promise me that.” She looked at the others, pleading with her eyes, wanting them to know how desperate she was.
    Chick snapped his fingers. “Oh, no. Oh, shit. I know who you are too. You gotta be the little sister.”
    “Huh?” The other two were bewildered.
    “Ham Brocato’s little sister. The one that’s gone missing and every cop in the city’s looking for.”
    “Oh, man!”
    “Oh, shit!”
    “Look, I have a right to my own life. Things weren’t working out for me at home, that’s all. I haven’t committed any crime.”
    Terence said, “You didn’t kill your brother?”
    Joel said, “Shut up, motherfucker!” It pleased her that he was defending her.
    “It’s okay, Joel,” she said. She turned to the others. “No. I didn’t kill my brother, do you hear that? No!”
    Raymond flinched. “Girl, you sure got a voice on you.”
    “You might not have committed any crime,” said Tyrone, “but I bet we have if we take care of you.”
    Take care of her? What did he mean by that? The