Jazz Funeral

simply looked alien. This one wore khakis and a madras button-down shirt, not filthy but limp, as if they’d been worn a few times. He had a beard and glasses, slightly greasy hair. He was fat and probably tall too, and staring at her. She gasped; her whole body twitched. She sat up, ready to defend herself.
    “You could have gotten hurt,” he said, “lying out here like that.”
    She was afraid of him, didn’t know what to say. She started to slide away on her butt.
    “I had to run off a group of black guys talking about what they’d like to do to you. Young lady, this is New Orleans—you can’t just go sleeping in public.”
    Melody was sober or at least beginning to be—sober enough to have a dull, thudding headache. Whereas before, she had thought she would look like a happy tourist who lay down after an enormous lunch and happened to doze off, now she thought she must have looked like a junkie, probably a junkie prostitute, some sort of street flotsam who’d be treated as such, preyed on by criminals, rousted by cops—or worse, arrested. She must look that way to this man.
    “Thank you,” she said, and started to get up, looking around to see if they were alone.
    He stood also. “I told ‘em I was your father. After I sat down, you were okay, but don’t you do that again. You’re not going to be so lucky next time.”
    It sounded like a threat. She tried to smile. There were people around but she still wasn’t sure how to extract herself. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be careful.”
    He held out his hand to shake, but she thought, What if I step closer and he takes my hand and grabs me? And then tells people he’s my father?
    She had to shake, there wasn’t any choice. She started to step forward, but at the last minute changed her mind. Turned and ran. But before she ran, reluctant entirely to abandon the manners she’d had drummed into her every day of her life, she said, “Bye.”
    She ran down the Moonwalk, past it, and at first it was fun. There was a banjoist there, a white man playing “Ol’ Man River,” but he started talking as she ran past:
    “You know, folks, when you go to Disneyland, you expect to see Mickey Mouse—come to New Orleans, you get to see me.”
    It was funny, though she knew it wouldn’t have been in any other circumstance. But running by like that, just getting a glimpse, it had a life-in-the-city feel to it. She was of the city herself, of its sidewalks and pavement. She had winged feet, like Mercury, would probably lift off, she was going so fast.
    She ran through Woldenberg Park almost to the aquarium, across the streetcar tracks, down Bienville Street and to the corner of North Peters. She had a choice now—she could go to Canal or double back. But toward Canal the street was nearly deserted. She doubled back, still flying, but flying slower now, past the aquarium parking lot …
    Why wasn’t there a goddess with winged feet? There was Diana of the Hunt, surely she had to run fast …
    I am Diana!
    But if I’m a goddess, why do I feel like throwing up?
    She slowed down, looked behind her. No sign of the man. And she did throw up, in the gutter.
    She looked behind her again, and, pretty sure she wasn’t being followed, ducked into Tower Records to catch her breath. Her throat hurt from vomiting and she wondered if she stank. She examined her clothing. It seemed okay, but her breath must be something else. She went out to Walgreen’s and got some mints.
    She was aware, once again, of the need to eat; Not hunger, just an empty feeling that told her she’d better do it if she intended to drink some more. She knew a cheap place, and there was just time to get there before it closed. She got some red beans and rice at Mena’s, thinking soft and squishy food would be easy to get down, but it wasn’t. She had no appetite at all, and she kept thinking of Ham, which made her throat close. She could only get down a bite or two.
    She really needed to eat. She kept telling this to herself. Two lines came to her that rhymed: I lost my brother today. I miss my brother the worst kind of way.
    And she knew what she had to do. She would write a song. Blues for a Brother . It would be her tribute to Ham. But even as she thought that, she knew that wasn’t the main thing. She had to have a way to grapple with this agony, to get it out of her, to be done with it. It wouldn’t work, she knew that; she’d written plenty of songs about lesser pains in her young