Jazz Funeral

not her body: the ghastly feeling that meant the end of consciousness.
    It was quiet when she woke up, groaning, still sweating, head aching, but nothing more threatening than rats were approaching. She lay there with her eyes closed, listening to the quiet, grateful for it. She’d been out only a moment, she thought. She had to get away, someone could have heard the crash, could be on their way.
    She couldn’t move. She didn’t know whether it was from the fear or the fall, but her body was giving the orders and it was saying stay put. Her teeth were chattering again, her legs were weak and twitchy, her heart pounding, sweat pouring, stomach heaving.
    It’s the hash. I shouldn’t have had the hash.
    That helped—remembering there was a physical reason for her body turning on her. She felt calmer. Gradually the twitching stopped, the sweating stopped, even some of the fear left.
    Not fear —I’m going to die anyway. Paranoia.
    Still no one came. The danger must be over. Cautiously she sat up. The sick feeling was gone, her energy had come back; her body surged with it.
    She left the basement and found a back exit, slipped out. She heard the clang of a streetcar, a friendly, beckoning sound. On a streetcar she’d be safe. She could hide there, and think. She got on but didn’t think, kept her mind blank, just holding herself together, shivering once again in fear.
    She got off at Audubon Park and went to the zoo, hoping for grounding, some communion with the animals that would connect her with something; with the Earth perhaps.
    Ti-Belle had told her something once she said she’d never told anyone. Two things. That she was running from something, someone was after her, Melody didn’t know who—an ex-boyfriend maybe—but Ti-Belle couldn’t go back; could never go back home. And that she’d turned tricks. Melody wasn’t sure why she told her this; she’d probably been stoned. Or maybe she’d had a kind of premonition—seen something of herself in Melody.
    Melody knew she couldn’t live like this, like she was living now. Always afraid, not knowing what to do next. Having no home, no parents.
    Could she turn tricks? She thought about it. Picked out a stranger, a fairly young, slightly puffy white man wearing a baseball cap. Could she have sex with him? She thought about it.
    Maybe. But he’d probably smell bad.
    She picked out another one. An old guy, his face destroyed by gravity. She’d hate to see his chest, his shoulders. Could she do it with him? She imagined his hands on her, his mouth … and felt her gorge rising. She swallowed hard, repeatedly, till the sensation went away.
    She didn’t think she could do it. Not if she was going to throw up in his face. And shoplifting was too dangerous. If she got caught, she’d get sent home.
    Okay. Think about it again. What about home?
    Suddenly she could remember being at the zoo, this zoo, with her mom and dad. She was on her dad’s shoulders and there was a gibbon there, its throat swelling with its odd, wonderful, mischievous cries. Melody could remember pointing at it, unable to keep her eyes off, and her mother laughing.
    I want my mommy and daddy.
    She did. She’d been trying to keep the feeling at bay for the past few days, but that was what she wanted. She wanted a career and all that, of course, or her mind and her heart did, but she, Melody, in her soul wanted her family back.
    Could she have it?
    Suddenly she saw that she might have if she hadn’t run away, that running away was the worst possible thing she could have done. Now it was too late … the police would come, her parents couldn’t protect her, there wasn’t a way out.
    Who am I kidding? I don’t have parents.
    The more she tried to think of a way out, the more depressed she got. She told herself it was the hash, but she couldn’t shake it and after a while she quit trying. The time had come. She would die.
    She sat for a long time watching the alligators, wondering if she dared jump in with them.
    Go out with a splash.
    They didn’t bite you in two; she’d heard they dragged you down and drowned you.
    It could be quiet.
    It could even be peaceful. She might experience the rapture of the deep.
    But when she thought of them chasing their prey, fast, threatening on those short powerful legs, like speeded-up film, the next image was always the same—teeth and blood; red and white; splashing, flailing. No screaming, just the sound of the alligators, a sort of snorting as