Jazz Funeral

mind off. That’s what she’d been doing when the subject of Ham came up; the way she’d taught herself to get through.
    Nick came over and put his hands on her waist, set off so well by the white dress. But it was a tentative gesture. She felt the indecision, perhaps the fear, in his fingertips. He said, “What can I do for you, baby?”
    Come out of your damn shell.
    She wasn’t about to say it aloud. She loved this man; loved him much more than she’d loved Ham, miles more than she’d loved anyone she’d met in her young life, and she desperately wanted to be with him. But he was so different from her. Ti-Belle wanted to be out every night in every joint in New Orleans with every musician for miles around; and all Nick wanted to do was stay home and read and meditate. Was it age? she wondered. Nick really was getting on—maybe he just didn’t have the energy she had. But a person didn’t have to surrender to that. She’d seen other people in their forties who were young and fun; surely that was the healthy way to be.
    He’d probably picked her because she made him feel young. Because she was young, and youth was contagious. She could make it contagious anyway. She could be good for him. She was determined to. She was going to keep him just as young as he wanted her to, even if he only wanted it subconsciously. She knew that was why he wanted her—what else could it be?—and the way to keep him was to accept that and be who she was and help him be all he could be.
    “Sing with me,” she said.
    “Do what?”
    “Do wha’?” she mimicked, and laughed delightedly. He was so cute when he was like this. “You sound like some funny old cartoon character.”
    “You want to sing? Now?” He sounded baffled.
    “Sure? Don’t you ever sing for pleasure? It helps me get out of the dumps.”
    “You’re not mad at me anymore?” He was smiling. He looked ten years younger. Ti-Belle made a silent vow to remember the effect it had when she got mad.
    “Well, I won’t be mad if you’ll tell that big ol’ cop the truth.”
    An odd expression flicked over his face—confusion, perhaps? Ti-Belle couldn’t be sure. He replaced it with a smile, a weak one, but recognizable. “Come on. Let’s sing.”
    They went into the music room and Ti-Belle sat at the Bosendorfer. While he tuned his guitar, she played a couple of his old songs to get him in the mood. Even before he was finished, before the instrument was ready, he couldn’t help it, he started singing along.
    They did his songs and one or two of hers, some old stuff— Beatles and Rolling Stones—and a little Neville Brothers. Ti-Belle had actually had an agenda when she suggested the little sing-along, but she had so much fun, she forgot she’d been plotting and planning. The whole thing just seemed natural.
    “We’re great together!” She was beside herself.
    He gave her another of his almost-smiles. “Not bad, hon.”
    “Oh, come on, Nick, tell me you aren’t having the time of your life.”
    “It’s fun. I’m not sayin’ it’s not exactly fun.”
    Ti-Belle felt disappointed, rejected. “But what?”
    “I’m just so glad I don’t have to do it for a livin’, I could spit.”
    “You don’t miss it? Not even a little bit?”
    “Honey, I don’t miss performin’ and I don’t miss havin’ my teeth drilled without novocaine.”
    “Why don’t I believe that?” Because she didn’t want to, she knew that perfectly well. Ti-Belle had a really great idea to boost her prestige in the music business—she wanted to sing with Nick professionally. And now that they’d sung together just for fun, she wanted it for more reasons than simple greed—she’d never felt more in love in her life, more exhilarated than when they were doing it. And if she’d felt that way, how could he have felt any different? He couldn’t have—nothing else made sense. The whole thing was to get him in touch with his feelings, guide him along, pull him out of this depression he was in—she saw his quietness that way, as depression—and lead him back to living rather than just observing, to having fun again.
    Nick said, “Sweetheart? You with me?” She realized she must have phased out. She had been thinking about her first performance experiences, on the streets, and later in coffeehouses, and of how much her music had meant to her, how it had saved her life when she thought about it, where she’d be now (in jail, probably) if it hadn’t been there