Jazz Funeral

The way she stood, that defiant don’t-fuck-with-me way—it was intriguing. This was a woman who really didn’t give a shit whether he noticed her or not.
    It was not only intriguing, it was scary.
    Steve was lying on Skip’s brand new, light gray and white striped sofa, a long-neck Dixie balanced on his bare chest. He wore a pair of khaki shorts and nothing else. The AC was off, the windows open, and the ceiling fan spun lazily. It was just twilight, but he had turned on one or two lamps, so that the whole room, with its cantaloupe walls, glowed invitingly. Coming in, key still in the door, Skip felt a great surge rise up from her chest and, to her horror, fall out of her eyes. She shut the door and turned around quickly, jerking off her suit jacket, so Steve wouldn’t see the tears.
    “Hard day catching felons?”
    She kept taking off clothes, the sudden rush of tears gone, but the rush of soft feeling remaining—love, gratitude, whatever it was. Perhaps, she thought, it was simple aesthetic pleasure.
    She was down to bra and panties now. She walked over and plopped down beside him, bending over for a big beery kiss. He could hold her with only one arm, the other being occupied with the beer. He circled her waist and let his fingers brush her back like feathers, coming to rest down around the dimples. She said, “What’d you do all day?” She didn’t think she’d ever felt so completely at peace.
    “My job,” he said. “It turns out just because Ham’s dead doesn’t mean Second Line Square is. I’ve got a contract with the foundation, and they said go ahead and fulfill it.” He sat up so that they were nearly eye to eye.
    “Who did?”
    “The board of directors.”
    “So you’ve been out at the fairgrounds.”
    “Yep. Saw Taj Mahal and Marcia Ball. And some local bands.”
    “Good stuff?”
    “Uh-huh. Hungry?”
    “Exhausted, mostly. But we could have gumbo. I made some and froze it.”
    “But did you thaw it?”
    “Well, no, but—”
    “Let’s go out.”
    She was about to protest that she was too tired, but how often did Steve Steinman come to town? You gotta get it while you can , she thought. “Okay. But low-key.”
    “The Gumbo Shop.”
    “Done. A shower first, though.”
    “I think I might drink me a beer and listen to some tunes.”
    She slipped into the shower as he was putting on an Alan Toussaint tape. She was loving the sense of easy domesticity.
    He’d picked up all his clothes and things. And all hers.
    That’s why it seems so nice in there—because he’s made it nice .
    She hadn’t expected that.
    Jesus, he wants to go out, we’ll go out. He wants my right arm, he can have that too.
    The crowded feeling was starting to wane. This contented feeling was probably dangerous as hell. Couldn’t last—had to turn ugly. Or just disappear, along with Steve.
    All the more reason to go with it.
    Laissez les bon temps roulez.
    It was a phrase for tourists, or so she’d thought till it popped into her head.
    Well, hell, I’m a tourist in this country .
    Being in love was a new thing for her. She didn’t know what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t this softness, this unaccustomed sweetness, as if life was a pillow, a pillow trimmed with meringue lace that you could eat at will, and it would miraculously form itself again, always as delicate and intricate as it had been before.
    She put on off-white shorts and last year’s JazzFest T-shirt, a black one dotted with musical instruments, horns mostly.
    Emerging, she saw that Steve had likewise covered his chest, and had slipped on sandals. His T-shirt was from Disneyland.
    “I forgot to tell you. Jimmy Dee called.”
    She grinned evilly. “Should we ask him to join us?”
    “How about if we muddle along by ourselves?”
    But as they walked to the Gumbo Shop, he said, “Jimmy Dee said he needed to talk to you.”
    “He did?” That was unlike Dee-Dee. To call instead of dropping by.
    “He sounded a little upset.” That was very unlike him. To show weakness in front of Steve; in front of her, for that matter. But maybe it was nothing. Maybe she’d forgotten the rent.
    “I’ll call him when we get back.”
    Steve patted her backside. “Did the little woman have a good day?”
    Skip sighed. It was a gentler lead-in than usual, and he’d waited longer—a lot longer—but there was no getting around it: He remained fascinated with her work. Would pump her avidly for details. Though now that she thought of it,