Jazz Funeral

about her, he’d lost it.
    That could be it, and he knew it. He was thinking about her mouth, her voice, her crazy Cajun stories, her legs, the way she’d pretend to know something she really didn’t. He was thinking about her home alone, in that horrible suburban house, and wishing she was with him. And yet not wishing it. He needed space; he hadn’t moved to New Orleans to be with a woman.
    He had a spiritual anchor—Caroline Meyer was with him for a few months, Meyer-roshi, his friends called her, though she wasn’t a roshi and claimed she wasn’t even his teacher, just a more experienced student. Caroline said Nick was becoming obsessed with Ti-Belle (though that was more in her old-friend role than in her roshi role). It was true, he was. It seemed to him that if you were trying to free yourself from desire, which he supposed he was, a woman, the very symbol of desire in Western culture, was the last thing you needed. (Caroline said that showed what an extremely inexperienced student he was—the idea, to her, was to observe what you did, be alert to it, but that didn’t mean don’t do it.) His discomfort was his own; Caroline declined to give it sanction.
    He couldn’t count the number of women he’d had—and had children with—and was currently still supporting, some in this very house, from time to time. Sabrina was here now with their daughter Mia; Gillian had left only a week ago. Eric and Scott were here too, the twins from his marriage to Rachel. And then he’d once had a little thing with Caroline.
    He’d been through stages where women hid under his bed and in his closet, bribed people to get near him, tore at his clothes, wrote him tomes rather than letters, and poems and songs galore. Slept with his friends, hoping they’d get to meet him. Followed him from city to city and brought him gifts that creeped him out—nice things, stupid things, ugly things, it didn’t matter, they were bribes. Bribes to get near him, to spend time with him, to get him to notice them, approve them, make them real to themselves.
    He’d had women and he had women. The last thing he needed was a woman. He wanted to live a quiet life, a spiritual and contemplative life, a life more or less alone, which he could do in this vast palace of a house, even with all his house guests and staff members. But he couldn’t even read about death without thinking about Ti-Belle. He couldn’t stand to be without her, couldn’t wait till she came back.
    “Volleyball?”
    It was Proctor, sticking his head in. He was always organizing.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Come on, you think too much.”
    “No, really. I think I’m depressed.”
    “Endorphins, baby! Endorphins.” Proctor was dancing up and down in his shorts and T-shirt, trying to dribble the volleyball, ready for action.
    “Y’all have fun.” He looked back down at his book. He was irritated. Except for the kids, just about no one treated him like that. Proctor could get away with it because they’d been roommates at Auburn. But just barely. Most people—except for Ti-Belle and all the exes—pretty much treated him like royalty, and he’d gotten used to it. He and Caroline were working on it. He wanted humility—it was something he knew he needed—but it was just so damn nice to have everybody hopping when he said rabbit.
    So Caroline thought Proctor was good for him—because he wasn’t even slightly intimidated by Nick’s fame. On the other hand, Proctor was probably going to have to go soon. Because Ti-Belle hated him. Hated him . It was unreasonable the way she raved on about him. And it looked to Nick as if the feeling was mutual. He’d seen Proctor looking at her a curious way—not admiringly, which she wasn’t used to, and with his eyes narrowed a little bit, like he was planning an attack. Or maybe trying to stave one off, Nick wasn’t sure which. These two weren’t going to work out under the same roof. And if he had anything to say about it, Ti-Belle was coming here.
    Yes!
    He closed his book with a bang, realizing he was going to ask her soon, couldn’t help it, was driven to it. He needed her and he wanted her and he was going to have her.
    He could see Proctor and the twins through the open window—it was nice today, too nice for the AC, so the maid had simply flung the windows open. It reminded him of summers back in Alabama, and so did the scene in the yard—adults and kids playing together, shouting, having fun, as if