Jazz Funeral

somehow; it wasn’t pure. She didn’t feel like a protective mother animal, didn’t know why her mother’s comment made her so mad. She pretty much agreed with her. Melody did like small things—Ashley, and animals, and babies, but she hated her own parents, certainly Patty. Once, Patty had thought the girl had a bond with George, but after she reached puberty and started hating the whole adult structure of the universe, she turned against George as well.
    “She’s not a bad child,” said her mother. “I don’t really think she’s bad.”
    She’s just a selfish little bitch.
    “She just needs some guidance.”
    “Well, how’re y’all feeling. Mama and Frannie?” she said instead, making her tone light, canary-like, taking charge, changing the subject.
    “I feel fine,” said Frannie. “I b’lieve I’m gon’ be the first person with this thing to get better.”
    Her mother said: “Nobody gets better with this thing.” She cackled like it was funny.
    Patty put a hand on the blanket, feeling mushy flesh; useless flesh. But even so, her mother’s leg felt smaller than it had, she thought. All of a sudden she knew Lorraine wasn’t going to live much longer—the doctors had been predicting her death for years. Des always said she was too mean to die, and her mama liked that, had taken it on as her special slogan and had lived ten years longer than anyone thought she would, declaring her meanness nearly every day, if anyone would listen. But she was going to go soon.
    “I mean it, Mama,” Patty said. “How are you?”
    “Well, I get the spasms a lot.”
    Patty cocked her head like a parakeet.
    “Most times I can’t feel a thing in my legs—haven’t for years, but when the spasms come, it hurts me so bad I holler; Des has to bring warm towels in to make it stop. You know how you can scratch an old dog’s chest and his hind foot’ll jump around? Tha’s what the spasms are like—jus’ like a dog’s hind leg. We’re runnin’ out of towels too—ours are so threadbare you can almost see through ‘em.”
    “Oh, Mama! I’ll get you some towels. You know you don’t have to want for anything if you’ll just tell me what you need. I want to get you a house so bad! You suffer so much, you and Frannie. Wouldn’t you like to have a bigger place, something with some nice big windows and ceiling fans?”
    Her mother made a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a snort, something like “harrumph,” but more explosive. “You couldn’t buy us anything like that.”
    “Well, George could. You know he could, and he’d be glad to. He wants to, Mama. You know that.”
    “I know y’all are talking through your hats,” said Frannie. “You’re not gon’ do anything of the kind. You’ve been sayin’ you would for years and you’re not gon’ do it.”
    “But Mama always says she won’t move!”
    “I’m not takin’ any your ill-gotten gains, Miss Patty Big Shot. I know why you married George Brocato, and it sure wasn’t for love. You can just forget it if you think I’m touching one floorboard of any house that man buys for me.”
    The room went out of focus. Patty felt her head tilt, spinning, out of her control. She always offered the house, they always refused. But this was new.
    “Mama!” said Martin.
    Des said quickly, “She’s overtired.” Hustling Patty out, tiptoeing, she whispered, “The medicine does her this way. Sometimes, anymore, she just isn’t herself.”
    Patty’s throat had closed. Patty and George had supported the Fournots from the beginning of their marriage; George had insisted. A hammer thudded in the back of Patty’s head. The tears wanted to come out, but she couldn’t let them, couldn’t drive home if she got started.
    George had been on a similar errand, had looked for Melody at the homes of his brothers and nieces and nephews, even the ones who’d been so nasty earlier that day. Nasty was a way of life with the Brocatos; you lived with it.
    He’d never noticed it that much before. But today, with the weight of his son’s death heavy on him, he couldn’t stand it, felt as if walls were closing on him. His brother Phil and Phil’s wife, Nan, didn’t even ask him in, just kept him standing at the door, Phil saying, “Hell, no, she’s not here, why the hell would she come here?”
    Nan had said, “Be nice to your brother,” and Phil said, “Why should I be nice to him?”
    “Because he’s your brother.”
    “Hell, you’re my