The Axeman's Jazz

house. He’d seemed terrified he was going to be accused of something.
    Come to think of it, she’d spent her childhood in a similar state.

SEVENTEEN
    “DRESS ME, DEE-DEE.”
    It was a ritual they’d played out repeatedly—Jimmy Dee smoking a joint while Skip got ready to go out, picking out her outfit as he had when she went out with Abe. The conceit was that although she was a woman and supposed to be born to it, she didn’t know the first thing about clothes; the truth was, it was more than a conceit.
    He delved into her closet. “Hmm. No leather.”
    “Too hot for it, anyway.”
    “Oh, hell. Jeans and a T-shirt. What else can you wear on a motorcycle in August?”
    “You disappoint me.”
    “Not half as much as your wardrobe disappoints me.”
    Casually, she flipped him off and went into the bathroom to pull on her jeans.
    This was part of the ritual also—her dressing in the bathroom, both of them hollering through the door. “I’ve decided to have an Axeman party.”
    “Oh, Jimmy Dee, give me a break.”
    “What are you complaining about? Having parties assures no violence, or haven’t you grasped that?”
    “Oh, great. No violence. Sure. Like there’s never any violence at Mardi Gras.”
    “Come on. This is your opportunity to flush this animal out.”
    She came back in.
    “No,” he said. “Definitely not. Not baby pink.” He meant her T-shirt.
    “You’re always saying my clothes aren’t feminine enough.”
    “I am not. I’m always saying they aren’t chic enough. And baby pink is definitely not chic.”
    “Rats. Steve gave me this.”
    “Dump him. He’ll only crush your little baby bones.”
    She sighed. “I think he’s dumped me. He didn’t call all weekend.”
    “Oh, do let me console you with large bottles of spirits and boxes of chocolates.”
    She pawed through her T-shirt drawer. “How about a little red convertible?”
    “Anything.”
    “How about this?” She was holding up a purple T-shirt from last year’s JazzFest.
    “Perfect. How many Axeman parties are you going to?”
    “None, I expect. I’m working.”
    “Well, how many are you invited to?”
    “One—Allison Gaillard’s. Oh, wait—did you invite me to yours?” She went back into the bathroom.
    “Not yet, but you’ll only find out about it and get your dainty feelings hurt. So I guess you can come.”
    “Two then.”
    “Pathetic. Surely you jest.”
    “How many are you invited to?”
    “Seven. Excluding my own.”
    “Well, here’s the thing. You’re popular and I’m not.” She spoke the casual words, but she was starting to feel panicky, and it wasn’t about her social status.
    “We’ve got to get you launched socially.”
    She returned wearing the purple shirt. “Dee-Dee, are you really going to seven parties?”
    “Certainly not. I said I was invited, not going.”
    “Oh, God. It’s going to be a living nightmare.”
    Her landlord left her in a cloud of marijuana smoke. She’d refused to toke on his joint (since she was working), but she breathed deeply, hoping for a tiny high or at least an imaginary one. And then she went out to meet her date, once again at the Monteleone. Again, she detected Abasolo in the background. And again she drew praise for her outfit. “Oh, good,” said Alex, “you’re dressed correctly.”
    “I knew you’d bring the Rolls. Where are we going?”
    “It’s a surprise.” She hoped Abasolo could keep up.
    When they had drunk their obligatory drink (Perrier for both of them), and mounted the hog, she spaced out the danger for a moment. The all-too-human truth was she quite enjoyed having her arms around Alex’s waist, her crotch against his butt. She thought how odd it was that a man and woman who hardly knew each other should be so entwined publicly, with society’s sanction.
    A block or two later she reprimanded herself for her crudeness, imagining that most people would focus on the wind in their faces. So she turned her attention to that and found it almost as sensual. They were nearly on the causeway before she realized that was where they were going.
    “What’s going on? Are we going across the lake?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Why? What’s over there?”
    “Surprise.”
    Her scalp prickled, though she knew Abasolo was covering her. And the weight of the gun in her backpack was comforting. But she still felt helpless heading out of the city. She couldn’t have said why, she just had a feeling.
    The nearly twenty-four miles of the