Jazz Funeral

bedding. But she caught only a glimpse; she was fascinated by the sight of Chris’s naked backside, smooth and nearly white in the dark.
    I’ve never seen that before, she thought, and almost keeled over from the pain of it, her first sight of a lover’s butt, yet she couldn’t enjoy it because her brother was dead and she had no family or friends. And the lover was headed toward someone else. The enormity of it, the way it all piled in like that, put her on overload. She miscalculated and fell on her way to the couch. Now she had humiliation to add to the pile. She felt the sobs beginning to rise as she picked herself up and stumbled toward the bathroom, making a racket, bumping into things, unable to cork the deep, ugly sounds from her throat, the sounds of a baby with croup struggling for breath. Yet even so, she heard Randy and Sue Ann fucking in the bedroom.
    That’s it. I’m going to die , she thought, as she turned on the hot water. That was the last thought she had. She tore off her clothes, stood in the shower, sobbing her guts up, standing there till her fingers wrinkled, and then made herself a bed of wet towels and curled up in the tub. Her mind was a perfect blank, aware only of the water and the rhythmic sounds of her grief.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    It was late and everyone had gone when the phone rang. George had fallen asleep fully dressed, on top of the covers, and Patty was applying acupressure to her face. She had learned a system guaranteed to keep her skin youthful to her dying day, and it might be helping, but it wasn’t the answer. The signs were starting—ten more years and she’d have to have her face done; she was resigned to it. Still, she made tiny circles at a dozen pressure points every night.
    People had called all day, of course, but the phone had stopped ringing sometime ago. Surely only one person would call this late. George sat up in bed: “Melody!” But he was groggy with drink and grief, and it was Patty who got to the phone first.
    “Patty? Andy Fike.”
    “Who?”
    “We’ve met. We’ve met several times. Don’t you remember me?”
    Patty was furious. The caller was drunk or otherwise loaded, and had a hell of a nerve. This was a house of mourning. But something, she didn’t know what, told her not to hang up. “I’m afraid I don’t,” she said, unable to keep the frost from her voice.
    “I’m Ham and Ti-Belle’s housecleaner.”
    A dim memory emerged, of someone pale and lanky, a little unhealthy-looking. “I see.”
    “Shit, I don’t know why I’m doing this. A kid needs its mother, I guess that’s why. She’s too damn young to be on the streets.”
    “Melody? You’re calling about Melody?”
    “Look. I read the papers and all.” His voice was lower and suddenly he sounded sober. “I just wanted you to know she’s all right.”
    “Is she with you?” Patty could hear the urgency in her voice. She hadn’t meant to telegraph her terror.
    “No. God, no, she’s not with me. But she came over today. I saw her.”
    “What did she want? Why did she come to you?”
    “She’s a friend of mine.” He was suddenly defensive.
    “Do you know where she is?” Patty was practically yelling.
    “Hell, no, I don’t know where she is. Jesus, try to do some people a favor—” He hung up.
    She simply stood there, holding the phone in her hand, staring at it, and felt George’s arms go around her, supporting her. It was an unaccustomed gesture.
    He said, “You look like you’re about to fall.”
    “She’s okay.”
    “Come on. Let’s sit down and talk about it.” Gently, he led her to the bed. He was so solicitous, so different from his usual self. Dignified in his grief, Patty thought. Suddenly she felt the loss of this George, the one who was present now, yet normally absent from their daily life. Having him now, like this, made her realize once again how much she was missing, and any happiness she might have felt at the news of Melody was dispelled. Nor was the irony of it lost on her.
    I’m crazy, she thought. This is why I’m not happy. Because I’m crazy. I can’t be happy. I don’t know how.
    And yet she knew that was wrong too, that no woman could be happy with the everyday George, the one she lived with. She told the story of the phone call.
    George was excited. “Where does he live? If she came to visit him, that gives us a starting point.”
    “Well, here, I guess—I don’t see how he could have cleaned for Ham if he