Jazz Funeral

unhappy life, and the emotions hadn’t gone away.
    There wasn’t any choice. Once the fit was upon her there was no stopping. It gnawed at her, chewed at her, wound her up and spun her around, wouldn’t let go until it was done, until it had spent its fury and left her sweaty and breathing hard.
    She needed paper—her napkin? No, she needed lots. Back to Walgreen’s, where she bought a thick notebook and a couple of Bics, the black ones she preferred. She never used pencils, they made ugly gray marks.
    Now what?
    Kaldi’s. There was plenty of light there and she could get coffee. Her head ached from the beer and tears—mostly the tears, she was pretty sure. Kaldi’s meant crossing to the back end of the Quarter, walking nearly to Esplanade, and she was impatient: Phrases were coming, little bits of melody. The first two lines, the ones she got in Mena’s, were hopeless. This was going to be the best song she’d ever written, a classic, like “Jambalaya.” Irma Thomas herself would sing it; so would Charmaine Neville and Marcia Ball—everybody would. It was going to be that good, Melody could feel it; her mind was humming, it was boiling inside her.
    But she had to put it aside for the walk, had to remember to be on the lookout, ready to duck if she ran into anyone she knew.
    The coffeehouse had carrot cake, and to her surprise it looked good to her. She got some, and a cappuccino. Sweet things would go down, it turned out. She ate every crumb of the cake and felt better; it didn’t seem right, but she felt almost okay. As long as she didn’t think about anything.
    She sat there a long time, she didn’t really know how long.
    Maybe an hour, maybe three. She drank two cappuccinos and quite a bit of mineral water. The song started to take shape. Well, sort of. The first ideas she’d had now seemed sophomoric, but she was getting more; they were coming thick and fast. Better ones; more complex imagery. She wrote a couple of versions, three or four verses, then new ones. Her mind wouldn’t stop.
    But suddenly her body gave out. This had happened before, when she practiced with Joel and Doug. She’d be going along great when all of a sudden everything turned to jelly—arms, shoulders, legs—and she felt like throwing up. Once she actually had thrown up, causing both guys to worry that she was pregnant. Right now she felt awful. Her mouth was full of acid coffee taste and her stomach hurt. She went outside to get some air.
    Okay. Better. She wasn’t going to throw up, but what she needed was a shower. Should she go back to the band’s place? They wouldn’t be there, for one thing—it was too early. For another, she didn’t want to. Didn’t know why she didn’t, just didn’t. She started to feel panicky. Where the hell was she going to sleep tonight? Not outside. Not after what had happened with the weird guy who told her to be careful.
    I’ll think of something.
    She started walking, trying not to think, especially about that. She walked toward Jackson Square, toward the cathedral, then turned away. She wanted to see Chris, just eyeball him. If she found the band, they’d want to know why she’d fainted and why she’d run away and shit like that. Even having someone ask how she felt now, was she okay, would be an intrusion she couldn’t handle.
    She didn’t need anybody, she didn’t want anybody. Realizing it, she smiled, threw up her arms in triumph. This felt pretty good. A hell of a lot better than the loneliness of yesterday. As her tiredness seeped away, the cramped, spent feeling she got after hours of focusing, it was replaced with the satisfaction of having done good work. She felt almost exhilarated.
    She stopped to listen to a saxophone player, a black man, middle-aged, kind of round and chubby-cheeked. He was good, and it made her sad that he had to play on the street. Would there be a job for him in her band? Probably not, she probably wouldn’t have horns. She thought of Ham and his dream, Second Line Square, and that made her sad too. But still, it was a good thought. She’d carry on his work, maybe form her own foundation; she’d put that side of him in the song.
    The man came to the end of his song. “Baby, you want to get stoned?”
    Melody nodded, still under the spell of the music.
    “Come on. We’ll go to my place.”
    “I thought you meant here. Maybe by the river.”
    “No, no, I’m stayin’ with a friend. Got some weed back at the place.”
    Melody nodded