The Axeman's Jazz

You weren’t supposed to do that, but it didn’t matter—a few others chuckled indulgently, laughing with, not at, because that was the way it was done here. She threw back her head, tossing the blond hair out of her face, and laughed with the others. She was flushed, maybe embarrassed.
    “My mother died when I was twelve; there were three kids in my family younger than me, and I was all the mom they had till my dad remarried a few years ago. I’ve been a mother all my life. How am I supposed to stop now?”
    The inevitable tear or two spilled.
    “But I know I have to, because it’s inappropriate to act as the parent to another adult. He doesn’t need that and he doesn’t want that. And neither do I.”
    She paused to blow her nose.
    “Except I do.” Laughter again. “Well, that’s what I’m fighting. I guess that’s all I have to say.”
    The leader said it was time to stop. This was the part Abe hated. The group stood and joined hands. Someone volunteered to lead the prayer. Then there was the ritual wagging of joined hands that accompanied the chant.
    At first he hadn’t said the chant, but it got easier every time; he said it now as heartily as anyone else, his gorge rising hardly at all.

FOUR
    SONNY WATCHED HER as she slept, pale hair falling away from her face. He was hectored by guilt over his adventure of the night before. He hadn’t intended to see her, in fact had told her he couldn’t, but his encounter with the gypsy-like Di had left him too restless to sleep alone. He’d phoned Missy and told her he was lonely.
    That she would see him hadn’t been in doubt. Missy was Missy—always ready to help no matter how shabbily she was treated. She was such a lovely person, a truly good person—a near-perfect person, to Sonny’s way of thinking, and he wanted to treat her like a princess. She was the perfect woman to marry, and when he’d asked her, she’d accepted as if she couldn’t believe her good fortune. But he knew he was getting the better part of the deal. And even so, sometimes he couldn’t imagine himself married.
    Sleepily she stirred and reached for his penis. It came alive in her hand and he felt guilty about even that. He didn’t want to make love to her. But he caressed her as if she were the greatest treasure of some forgotten empire, till her cheeks were flushed and she writhed like a lure on the end of a line, and then he entered her as gently as if she’d break. Her body shuddered and she seized his buttocks, eyes open, fiery with passion. He could at least give her this much.
    He closed his own eyes, rocking her, and the woman under him was Di, lush tendrils like corkscrews round her olive face. He felt his cheeks go hot with his shame, opened his eyes, and said Missy’s name. She smiled and said she loved him. He said it back to her and hated himself.
    When it was over, she said, “I don’t think you know how beautiful you are.”
    “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful.” He disliked compliments.
    “You’re the sort of person who deserves a wife who’ll make love to him three times a day for the rest of his life.”
    “How about one who cooks?”
    “Cooks too.”
    “Cooks what?”
    “Oh, maybe Oysters Rockefeller for breakfast. How would that be? Exotic, unexpected things. I’m going to work twenty-four hours a day at making you happy.”
    “Stop. I’m getting embarrassed.”
    “I know.”
    Blue eyes looked into blue eyes. “You know?”
    “You don’t think you deserve it, do you? A woman who’ll love you and take care of you?”
    He shook his head. “No.” It came out a whisper.
    “Oh, Sonny, you do, you do. You’re a wonderful person, do you know that?”
    He sat up, turning away from her. “Oh, Missy!”
    “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up.” She touched her lips to each of his vertebrae in turn, opened her legs, wound them around his body, and simply sat that way, arms around his chest, kissing his neck.
    The breasts against his shoulder blades were small and round, as firm as only the breasts of women under twenty-five are firm. Diamara’s would be much larger, not round at all anymore, as soft as down pillows.
    He shook his head to clear it, forgetting Missy at his neck.
    “Ow.”
    “What?”
    “Bit my tongue.”
    “I’m sorry, Missy. God, I’m such a fuck-up!”
    “You are not, Sonny Gerard! Don’t even think that. You’re the pride of your goddamn stuck-up family, and you’ve earned it, precious. Do you realize how hard