Jazz Funeral

would take forever to walk around them, to push through the crowds, to observe Ti-Belle from the front of the stage. And if she decided to leave before Skip got there, Skip would lose her.
    That meant she had to follow her in. She sighed. Getting spotted might even be a deterrent. Ti-Belle wasn’t going to shoot anybody with Skip watching.
    Skip kept her distance, standing well behind the backstage crowd, behind Ti-Belle, and felt frustrated.
    It isn’t O’Rourke’s fault. He did me a favor—I’d never have known about the gun if he hadn’t given me that stupid order.
    Ti-Belle was boogying to the music, acting like anyone, the bass player’s girlfriend or something, anyone at all but a famous singer. She seemed blissed out, the last person in the world who’d shoot anyone.
    Should I leave?
    But in her heart she knew the chances of finding Melody at the Ray-Ban stage—even if she hadn’t changed her appearance again—were next to none.
    Yes, but at least I’d know I tried.
    Melody woke up, teeth chattering, at six A.M . She pulled the bedspread over her, and the blanket, which she had disdained the night before because it was rough and because she thought it might be harboring worse vermin than the ones she’d brought there herself. Bundled up, she realized she wasn’t cold. She was nervous.
    She tried deep breathing, then tensing and relaxing her muscles, but her tricks ran out with that one. Insomnia was new to her.
    Finally she just lay there, waiting for it to be late enough to get up. And realized she had the flu. She got up and threw up.
    But it wasn’t the flu. It was nerves.
    What the hell , she thought. I’m going to die today. No wonder I’m nervous.
    She was surprised when she heard bustling and traffic. She must have dropped off after all, like the other night when she had the crabs.
    That was last night.
    It seemed years away. She got up and went to the restaurant downstairs, knowing she had to eat to get through the performance. But she could get nothing down except some coffee, which left her wired and more nauseous still.
    She lay down for a little while, trying to recover, but her stomach felt like an entire Social and Pleasure club was marching in it.
    Finally she got up and applied the makeup that turned her black, wishing some magic could make it really happen. She thought about being reborn as a black person. How would that be? She couldn’t imagine it at all.
    Next the wig. Shopping with Joel, she’d considered a turban, but that emphasized her features too much, drew too much attention. Louise had wanted to sell them a wig with tumbling curls that she could shake around to hide her face, but it looked too much like her usual hair. She’d opted for a sleek, straight, shoulder-length one with long bangs that hung in her eyes; maybe they’d hide the blue. Billy DuPree had had plenty of sarong-type things in African fabrics, but too much skin would be exposed. She might get hot and the makeup might run. So she’d gotten a fabulous huge caftan with flowing long sleeves, which meant she had only her face, neck, hands, forearms, and feet, which would be in sandals, to worry about.
    Already she was sweating. The day was hot, the wig was hot, and the caftan was a furnace. Yet she had to dress here, because otherwise someone might see her white skin.
    She went back down to the air-conditioned restaurant and got a biscuit, which she crammed down, really felt she must. It was like a mud pie, baked dry in the sun.
    “Well, if it ain’t the African queen.” It was Terence, come up behind her. “Mama, you look fine.”
    His eyes were so obviously admiring, she actually believed him. He hadn’t looked at her like that when she was white, and that told her something; something painful. Joel would like her better this way too and she couldn’t produce it for him. She had convinced herself before she slept last night that Joel had rejected her for her own protection. Because he knew how hard it would be, being part of an interracial couple, and he wanted to spare her the pain. He loved her and he couldn’t bear to see her go through what black people had to go through as a matter of course.
    In the cold light of day, with Terence admiring her African magnificence, she saw this as pathetic grasping for straws. And she knew Joel hadn’t come for her because he was too embarrassed; or too frightened she’d pounce on him again.
    “I don’t feel so good,” she said, and ran for the