Jazz Funeral

nothing but the music.
    She could have sworn the Boucrees were playing at the top of their form, even better than usual, and she was with them. They were a unit, each note blending with each other note, her instrument blending with theirs, she blending with them, with each of them, and it was as close to a religious experience as she’d ever had or was ever likely to have. This was what music was. This was art, this was life!
    This was happiness.
    She was giddy with the happiness of it. The crowd liked her, she could tell that right away, but after “Turtle Blues,” they went crazy. Jumped up and down and hollered. It had been taking a chance to do that song, she knew that, but it showcased her—it was perfect for her. Tyrone was so excited he came forward and introduced her again. “Miss Rwanda Zaire, ladies and gentlemen. Miss Rwanda Zaire!” Melody took her bow like a pro, and they swung into “Tipitina.” Then two more upbeat songs and after that “Blues for a Brother.”
    Steve grabbed Skip from behind, for once having the sense not to shout her name and alert Ti-Belle. But she jumped as if stuck with a pin.
    “I’ve found Melody. Come on.”
    She followed without another word until they were out of the backstage area.
    “Where is she?”
    “She’s singing with the Boucrees.”
    “Onstage? You mean just standing there in front of the whole world?”
    “Come on.” He pressed urgently through the crowd. “She’s now Rwanda Zaire, black blues singer. Her mirror wouldn’t know her. And let me tell you something—she’s fantastic. One of the best singers I ever heard.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “She’s a phenomenon.”
    “Better than Ti-Belle?”
    “Much.”
    “But nobody told me. I mean, her parents or anybody.”
    “Interesting, isn’t it? Oops, sorry.” He had knocked a plate of jambalaya out of a kid’s hand. The kid started to cry, but they couldn’t stop to comfort him. On the other hand, going wasn’t a lot different from stopping. The crowd was not only thick, but lazy; no one was moving fast.
    “Steve, how did you recognize her?”
    “I didn’t at first. Who could? She looks as black as anyone I ever saw. But she sang this song—this amazing, haunting song about a guy who taught her about music. It was sad, Skip—when you know who wrote it. It’s all about how she had nothing in her life, how hopeless she felt, and this dude gave her a new life.”
    “I still don’t get it.”
    “Well, the folks went crazy, and so the Boucrees announced the name of the song and said it was her own composition. ‘Blues for a Brother.’ How does that grab you?” It was hard to hear because she was ahead of him—had to be to use her badge to push through the crowd.
    She was pondering, thinking it was still a big leap, when he said, “Then I remembered ‘Turtle Blues.’ Who was the last person you heard sing that?”
    She was puzzled. “I don’t even know it.”
    “Janis Joplin used to sing it. Remember, Melody’s a Joplin fan? She sang it too. See, there’s a line about Janis in the brother song, so I put it together. And then of course there were these amazing blue eyes.”
    Skip looked at her watch. Time for the set to be over. They were close, but she didn’t hear music. Had the Boucrees already finished? She held her badge over her head and yelled, “Police! Coming through!”
    It helped some, for a while, but as they got closer to the Ray-Ban stage, it became apparent the Boucrees were still playing—they were doing “Tell It Like It Is,” and they sounded great. The audience was entranced, so much so that even loud cries of “Police!” didn’t do much to break the trance.
    They finished the song and thanked the audience. Rwanda Zaire, who looked so much like a black woman Skip thought Steve might have been wrong, took a bow, and the crowd shouted for more. She disappeared. The crowd kept stomping and yelling. Skip and Steve were nearly there.
    The Boucrees started their encore—without Rwanda. Good. She’d be joining them in a minute.
    Skip leaped over the barricade, ran to the side of the stage, just behind the musicians. People tried to stop her, but only till they saw the badge. “Where’s Rwanda?”
    The man in charge, a good-looking white man with gray hair, older than she’d have thought, looked confused. He shrugged, opened his arms. Skip didn’t have time for conversation. “Did she leave the stage?”
    He scanned the area. “She