Jazz Funeral

can’t break away from … you
    make me cry
    I can’t break away,
    I can’t say good-bye
    No! No! No no no no! No! No! No! No! No no no no! No! No!
    I’ll never ever break away from you!”
    I wish I could do it twice!
    “I made a vow to myself
    You and I are through
    Nothing can change my mind
    ‘Sorry’ just won’t do.”
    For the first time since she’d had the great idea, she was sad.
    If I die, I can’t ever do this again.
    “That’s what I say each time,
    But I can’t follow through
    I can’t break away from … you
    make me cry
    I can’t break away,
    I can’t say good-bye
    No! No! No no no no! No! No! No! No! No no no no! No! No!
    I’ll never ever break away from you!”
    I have to do it. There’s no choice.
    “Even though you treat me bad
    Little words are so fine
    You have got a spell on me
    That just can’t be broken.”
    But I don’t want to.
    “I’ll snatch your picture down. And throw it away. There’ll be no waiting ‘round for you to call each day.”
    Yes, I do. I really, really do.
    The end was near, and it was so perfect, the part where it said, “I’ll never ever break away from you.” That was the problem, she couldn’t break away, she just couldn’t; she’d tried and it didn’t work. So now she was pulling a different kind of breakaway, guaranteed to work and keep working.
    She would sing like she never had before. She’d put the full force of her young body into the last two lines, go out with a bang as well as a splash.
    “That’s what I say each time, but I can’t follow through …”
    I can. I’m going to.
    Her fingers were starting to itch. Irma did the last line repeatedly, dragging it out and out and out before the final “you,” and Melody would too. She’d pull the string on the “you.” She could feel her muscles gathering. The music would carry her—she could feel the momentum—
    “I’ll never ever break away from— Never ever break away from—”
    Irma did it five times, to be exact, but who was counting? “Never ever—”
    “Melody!”
    She came back from the tunnel she’d been in, the odd gray space between death and life. Or perhaps she merely awoke from the deep trance of the music. She never knew, knew only that her mother’s voice brought her back to consciousness. She screamed.
    “What on earth are you doing?”
    Surely her mother didn’t know, couldn’t tell from such a cursory glance, but nonetheless Patty strode instantly to the other side of the garage and unplugged the piano.
    “Young lady, what have you done to your hair?”
    It wasn’t the tearful reunion a daughter might have hoped for, but Melody reminded herself that Patty knew she hadn’t been kidnapped and murdered; knew she’d run away and knew why. Patty had reason to kill her, not save her. Yet she had saved her, had disabled her weapon, seemingly without even thinking about it. Still, this hint. Somewhere deep in Melody’s gut was a yearning that gnawed and burned; the way a bullet wound would feel, she thought—deep, hot pain.
    “Hello, Mother. Did you hear me sing?”
    Patty nodded. “I didn’t know it was you at first.”
    “I saw you at the Oriole.”
    “I’ve been frantic, Melody. I’ve been trying to find you for days, just to talk to you. Look, the cops may have had the same thought I did. For all I know, they’ve been watching the garage. I have, when I could manage. So let’s be fast.” She opened her purse. “This is for you.”
    She held out a packet of money, went back for another, held it out as well. “It’s fifty thousand dollars. That’s the best we can do. Your father and I understand why you did what you did; we agree you have to leave, it’s the only real answer right now.” She looked at her watch. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
    “I suppose you already have a ticket for me?”
    “I’ll buy you one. To wherever you want to go.”
    “My father doesn’t know about this.”
    “What?”
    “You’re lying. You killed my brother, didn’t you? And now you think you can get rid of me just as easily. You never wanted me in the first place. I was just a convenience for you.”
    “I didn’t kill Ham and you know it.”
    “The hell I know it! Nobody else could have.” Melody didn’t shout the words, didn’t hurl them as she wanted to. She could speak only in a hoarse whisper. Her throat was nearly closed against the rage inside, boding rage, a force all its own, gathering itself into a maelstrom,