Jazz Funeral

that, he knew she meant it. When she made love to him, she really meant it. And that meant a lot to him. That you could make love and both people would really feel different—not like when he knew the girl was just doing it because he wanted her to, or because it was what she did (pretty much screwed everybody)—that was a new idea. That had to be what they meant by love, and he knew damn well it was what she meant, and she was kind of cute and plump, certainly not fat at the time. And she was pregnant. So he married her. Why not? It was what you were supposed to do. And he’d never regretted it. Not once. As he’d told her all the time, whenever she asked. He could honestly say he’d never regretted it. But he still didn’t understand why she didn’t make him smile, like Melody had, yet it hurt so damn much, goddamn nearly killed him when she died.
    Now Ham. Ham was another thing entirely. He knew it then, he knew it now, but you didn’t say it if you were a man—he didn’t want Ham. He just flat-out hadn’t thought about what having a kid would be like, and what it was like was a fucking lot of work. He resented that. He had to cook in filthy shitholes to take care of another human being who hadn’t asked his permission to butt in. Then when he saw a way out, it was a goddamn lot harder because there was always a kid tugging at him, wanting stuff, needing stuff. And there was a lot of boring activity you had to do or everybody’d think you were a shit—like go to parents’ night and Little League games.
    Ham always needed something. Like a parasite. How the hell were you were supposed to relate to that? To a little boy? Now, a little girl was different—girls were supposed to be pink and helpless and need you. They made it easy—they knew how to charm you and wrap you around their little fingers; for the first few years anyway. He couldn’t remember much about Melody after about age five or six, maybe the time she started school. That was probably it. School. She got involved and didn’t notice her old dad so much any more.
    Ham as a young man was a problem. He never seemed to know what he wanted, what he could do. He certainly wasn’t interested in Poor Boys. That would have been the obvious solution—some kind of sinecure George could arrange—but Ham said business bored the pants off him and refused to get his MBA. Didn’t like a damn thing but listening to music, as far as George could see. And goddamn if he hadn’t made it work for him. He had turned himself from a nobody—a worthless, good-for-nothing—into somebody. He was somebody in this town. George was proud of him, heard people talking about him all over town, could barely believe it was really his son they meant. Didn’t see how he’d done it, if truth be told.
    That was all well and good, but by then he had hot ideas about how to run the goddamn business, which George had been stupid enough to give him a part of so he wouldn’t starve to death, and which all of a sudden didn’t bore his pants off. Now he knew fucking everything.
    George thought about watching Ham onstage at JazzFest, everyone applauding, his son the man of the hour. It was fine. It felt fine. He was glad Ham had turned out all right after all. But Ham still didn’t make him smile, just to look at him. He’d never thought about that before. Why not?
    It was because Ham was Ham, that was why. He’d see him up there and then he’d remember stuff—how the kid was always grabbing at his pants when he was in a hurry. Or whatever stupid fucking thing he’d said that morning about the way he thought the business should go. Or how silly he looked in a straw hat and those kind of Caribbean shirts he had made for him. Ham was a grownup, not a cute little baby—and there was a lot of water under the bridge. It was hard to forget that kind of shit.
    What distressed him, truly made him sad, maybe even sadder than Ham’s death, was the realization that he’d never had that pleasure, that delighted feeling love was supposed to bring. It was like being cheated—so much pain now, so little pleasure then. He’d had thirty-four years to enjoy being a father, yet he hadn’t. And he knew it couldn’t be because he didn’t love his son; he wouldn’t feel so miserable now if there hadn’t been some feeling. Life was so strange, so unfair.
    He sat in a chair by himself, with his drink, and some relatives came over to pay their respects. It was hard to concentrate,