Jazz Funeral

before? Proctor was going to destroy her.
    She parked the car and got out, enjoying the breeze, distracted, thinking for a moment it might be a benevolent universe after all. It was April in Louisiana, how bad could things be?
    No worse. No way.
    She had to smile at herself. It was her optimistic nature that had gotten her through so far, but had things ever been anywhere close to this bad?
    Yes. They had.
    But now she had something to lose—a lot, on several fronts. Money. Love. Fame. Everything she’d always worked for and wanted and thought she’d never get. And Proctor was the one who was going to mess things up.
    She walked by the river, taking in the rich smells, feeling the air soft on her skin, like silk, a fabric she’d grown to love lately. Until two days ago her whole life had been silky. Now it was starting to tear apart, to turn rough and ugly. What the hell was she going to do about it?
    She was out of her mind with fear and anger. And grief, which surprised her. She was genuinely sorry Ham was dead.
    Relatives came and friends went, and George swam through it all. Actually, he was walking and talking, he knew that perfectly well, but he thought of it as swimming. Because the air resisted, as if it was water, and because of the way he experienced things as having a liquid quality, as if seen through water; water that wasn’t quite calm, that rippled and blurred things, threw them all out of focus. He was walking fine, he was talking fine, but nothing seemed solid.
    This is probably shock, he thought, and also thought it wasn’t bad, he rather liked it. He couldn’t remember this from the time before, when Dorothy died. All he could remember was searing pain. White-hot, razor-sharp. Maybe it wouldn’t come this time.
    Life was so peculiar. If anyone had asked if he loved his wife—if he cared for overweight, homely Dorothy—he’d have said he did, as a pro forma thing. She was the mother of his son, he was a Christian, he must love her. You were supposed to love your wife. He’d never have given it a second thought if she hadn’t badgered him all the time. Did he love her, did he really love her?
    Yes, yes, yes, goddammit, Dorothy. Will you just get off my back, I got work to do. We’re poor, haven’t you noticed? What kind of husband can do better than this? Would I work so hard if I didn’t love you? Now leave me alone, goddammit!
    That was really the only way the word “love” had come up. He guessed Dorothy was a pretty good wife. She was there, what else was she supposed to be? She said maybe he loved her, but he didn’t cherish her, like he said he would in the marriage ceremony. She wanted to be cherished. And Patty said the same goddamn thing, or something like it.
    Well, hell, he must have cherished Dorothy, he just didn’t realize it. The minute she was gone, it was like a fucking two-ton weight fell on his chest and crushed it. Crushed him. Crippled him. He missed her like a baby misses its mother. It had never once occurred to him that one day she wouldn’t be there. Hell, Ham was only sixteen or seventeen, he couldn’t really remember. Dorothy had been thirty-eight. Nobody dies at thirty-eight. And Ham had died at thirty-four! Was he ever going to learn?
    But the thing was, it was the same both times. The love part, the cherish part, the part that was supposed to be all rainbows and little chirping bluebirds, that part you didn’t notice much. It was just there, it was just life, it didn’t really give you pleasure the way your work did, the way your own family did, your brothers and all. That kind of stuff. But wait—something had once. Melody … oh, Jesus, a stab of pain, grief, something bad. Melody, when she’d been a baby, a toddler. That was as close as he’d gotten to “cherish,” he supposed. He used to see her walking on those chubby legs—running, she never walked—and he’d turn to bread pudding, all soft and sweet and squishy. He’d start feeling happy and he’d break out smiling. Just looking at her. That was the only way he could describe it. Just looking at her made him feel happy.
    He went to the bar and got himself a scotch.
    Nothing else had ever felt that way—not Dorothy, not Ham, certainly not Patty. Dorothy was the first girl he’d slept with. Well, not really the first, but the first Catholic one. And because she was Catholic and came from a real nice family that lived down the street, dressed modest, acted kind of quiet and all