Jazz Funeral

upending the hamper.
    “Watch out!” It was her brother, Martin, catching things, taking them from her, but sounding angry.
    “I’ve got more stuff in the car,” she said, and went to get the turkey and some lasagna, trailed by Ashley. No one else followed.
    The two of them muscled the stuff into the kitchen, where Desiree was chopping onions and crying.
    “Des, for heaven’s sake. Let me do it.”
    It was like old times. While she was still in high school, Patty had saved enough money for contacts, which meant she could chop onions without crying. When she’d lived in this house, it had always been her chore.
    Gladly, her sister handed over the knife and stared at Patty, a vision in the chic little cream-colored outfit, whimsical lemon flats on her feet, white-blond hair falling to her shoulders.
    Ashley came and caught the sheet of hair in her hands: “Aunt Patty, your hair’s so pretty.”
    “Yours too, sweetness,” said Patty absently. Ashley’s was thin, mouse-colored, and badly in need of shampoo. Patty looked up at her sister, caught her staring. “What is it, Des?”
    “You do that so well. Like a professional.”
    Patty was embarrassed. She probably hadn’t chopped an onion since she married George. “How’s Mama?”
    “The same.”
    “And Frannie?”
    “Lively this week for some reason. They know you’re coming—I’ve brushed their hair.” And she clomped off to the last room, the one where they lived, in the two hospital beds Patty had bought for them. “Mama! Frannie! Patty’s here.”
    “Well, where is she?”
    “I’m coming, Mama.”
    She finished the onions, washed her hands, and went in, feeling a little lift at the prospect of seeing her mother. But she didn’t look well, looked even less well than usual, smaller somehow.
    Just about all she could do now was chew and swallow—and click the remote control for her television. She could talk, but she sounded as if she were drunk. Her limbs were limp, soggy logs. And Frannie was nearly as bad.
    They were both diapered, didn’t even know when they excreted. Their limbs were rolled in sheets and cushions. They had to sleep on egg-crate mattresses to prevent bedsores. They were prisoners, but at least they could speak, they could eat. Patty thought how much worse it would be if they couldn’t communicate.
    Frannie’s hair was almost completely gray now; she was younger than Patty and looked nearly as old as Mama. The television blathered, as always in this room. The blinds—not even miniblinds, ancient Venetian blinds, were closed. Patty had never seen them open. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live in one room, a dark one, and had begged Des to open the blinds every day, but Des said the patients wouldn’t permit it, they wanted nothing except to watch television, and who was to deny them their one pleasure? As if Patty meant them ill.
    Martin had come to fix something, but now he brought chairs for Patty and himself and Des, so they could visit in the sickroom. It was stuffy and hot and it smelled of urine.
    “We heard about Ham on the TV, Patty.” Her mother’s voice was barely a quaver. “We were worried sick about you.”
    “I’m sorry, Mama. I phoned and told Des to tell you not to worry.”
    “Couldn’t help worryin’.”
    “Well, I know. That’s why I came. I wish I could have come yesterday, but I was so busy with George …”
    “That’s how it always is.”
    “Yes.” Patty couldn’t tell whether her mother meant to let her off the hook, merely meant that was how it was with husbands and family deaths, or meant that Patty always put her and Frannie second. “I brought you some cakes and things.”
    “Don’t have much appetite lately.”
    But Frannie said, “Chocolate?”
    “Lemon. With white icing.”
    “Oh.” There was a silence, and finally her mother said, “I’m sorry about Ham, Patty.”
    “Thank you, Mama.”
    “Who killed him. Melody?”
    “Mama! Why would you say a thing like that?” Did her mother think she’d done that bad a job of raising Melody? That she’d raised a killer?
    “Well, it just seems natural, don’t it? Melody bein’ missin’ and all.”
    “Kidnapped,” said Martin. “That poor child’s … Ashley, you go play now. Don’t listen to this.”
    “I just can’t believe this is happenin’ in my own family,” said Patty’s mother. “I want to cry my eyes out every time I think about it.”
    Desiree nodded. “It’s been real hard