Jazz Funeral

mermaid, he said, but she thought he embellished.
    When the Boucrees were together and they played, it was some of the finest music Melody ever hoped to hear. When they weren’t playing, it was a wall of sound. For some reason, she’d associated the old phrase gumbo ya-ya —everybody talks at once—with women. It was clear to her now that men had invented it. They were like a bunch of black Brocatos, she thought sometimes, always arguing over business matters, digging at each other, hurting, going for the weak spots. They could be nasty, and that upset her. She’d run away for the same old thing?
    But they were warm too. They’d solve the problem and then they’d make up and play the piece they were arguing about and the music would be all the sweeter for it. All the more soulful, Melody thought, and wondered if that was racist. But she thought it wasn’t —soud meant feeling to her. The Boucrees wore not merely their hearts on their sleeves, but their spleens and guts and balls as well. They might not be perfect, might have their differences, but they made it work for them.
    Raymond said,
    “Fuck it, Tyrone, you’re screwing up again.”
    “Fuck you, Raymond. What the fuck do you know?”
    “I know what I know. Hey, Daddy, tell Tyrone to knock that shit off, will you?”
    “Knock what shit off, baby brother.”
    “That cornball crap, that white padly bullshit you were just play in.”
    “Why you talk that way in front of our guest?”
    Raymond remembered his manners and apologized. But Melody, mind made up so firmly on the Boucree side, convinced they were turning their troubles into art, couldn’t help wondering how long she could stand them. Maybe being a Boucree was as much a pain in the ass as being what she was.
    She was watching Joel to see how he took it. When they got into it, he dragged his drumsticks on the floor and kind of hunched over till it passed. He even looked a little as if he were taking a nap. She wondered if this was why he didn’t want to be a musician. A doctor worked alone.
    She particularly wondered about his relationship with Tyrone. As far as she could see, the man was pretty close to a saint. She loved the way he’d been with her—firm and strong, but at the same time gentle and warm. Perfect qualities for a dad—hers had none of them except strength, and he used it only to erect a wall between the two of them.
    He never speaks to me as if he actually likes me , she thought with surprise. No wonder it hurt so much to be around him.
    Joel seemed genuinely fond of Tyrone, had always spoken fondly of him, and seeing them together was good: they were nice to each other. Yet this model father had had his whole family yelling at him this morning, purportedly for abandoning his wife. As Joel seemed to take his side about that, Melody did too. But still she wondered.
    Was anything simple?
    Not lately, anyway.
    There were eleven of the Boucree Brothers, but one was usually drunk or out of town or otherwise unavailable, and tonight was no exception. The one named Mark was said to be “indisposed.” But ten male Boucrees of three generations, instruments and all, were crowded into that garage, every one of them focused on Melody.
    At first they argued about her too—the four who “discovered” her had to sell her to the others, and the negotiations weren’t pleasant. What it came down to was that Melody had to audition for them, something she hadn’t counted on, and that made her so nervous she nearly blew it. But Tyrone had said, “Take your time now. Start over. That’s it. Just sing it like you sang it this morning. Take your time now.” His voice had been so gentle, so encouraging, she’d felt she could do anything, but he nearly clutched till he sat down with her and started playing “Brickyard Blues.”
    “ Play something sweet, play something mellow … ”
    She chimed in on the next part:
    “ Play something I can sink my teeth in like Jell-O. ”
    She finished it with him and by then was so warmed up, she swung into a completely new song, abandoning “St. James Infirmary” for Janis’s “Ball and Chain,” which the other brothers—who didn’t know her—liked so much they wanted to close the set with it.
    But Melody wanted to close with “Blues for a Brother,” having finished it after her shopping trip, flying so high on adrenaline it only took about half an hour. Tyrone said that was a much better idea, that “Ball and Chain” wasn’t really