The Axeman's Jazz

suddenly, was treating her like his best pal, practically hitting her on the arm like a great old comrade. He happily made a date with her, but didn’t seem the least bit interested in being alone with her. He wanted to go to Di’s party and hit a few others as well. She wondered about that, but he did ask her to meet him at the first stop. That might be a good sign—the Axeman would want to keep his quarry in sight, yet not be seen arriving with her.
    As she drove home, hoping to find something that vaguely resembled a party outfit, she reflected that her rejection of the night before certainly hadn’t seemed to hurt his feelings. She wondered if he had any.

NINETEEN
    DI HADN’T HIRED a whole jazz band, but a single clarinetist was tootling away in an atmosphere oddly subdued, to Skip’s way of thinking.
    When she had helped herself to fruit juice, she realized why—it was the first New Orleans party she’d ever been to at which no liquor was served. She felt as if she were in church.
    So this is how twelve-steppers boogie down.
    She went to the refreshment table. No oysters here—live food though they might be—but there were lots of nice green pepper slices and bits of cauliflower, plenty of chips without salt, and a couple of vegetable dips. Nothing, Skip noticed, containing any dairy products. There was something resembling cheese, but a bite convinced her it was some sort of soy concoction.
    All the crackers and pita were whole wheat. But there was hope—it was apparently a potluck and people were still bringing things.
    A man with hair combed over his bald spot seemed intent on methodically devouring everything on the table. As fast as something was put down, he ate it, peppering the air with staccato, bossy questions. “Does this have wheat in it? Does anybody still eat wheat? Is that hummus ready yet? Who’s that blonde in the miniskirt?”
    She wondered if he was in OA.
    “Skip? I want you to meet somebody.” It was Missy, taking care of the lonely newcomer. “This is Chris.”
    “Hi, Chris.”
    Chris didn’t answer, but Missy said, “Chris is an architect at that firm down on that corner—you know the one. He built half the buildings on the West Bank. And not only that, he teaches yoga and he’s an expert horseback rider. And a gourmet cook. And his sister just moved to town, she’s a lovely girl too, and Chris is a single father with two kids, seven and ten.”
    There was certainly enough conversational material there. “Hi,” said Skip again.
    Again Chris said nothing.
    Sonny was hovering near his lady love, looking rather askance, she thought, at his apple juice.
    “Ich! It’s an animal.” The man with the bald spot spat into his napkin. Apparently somebody’d brought some clam dip.
    She saw Jim Hodges in the kitchen. Moving closer, she heard someone say, “How do you know Di?”
    And he answered, “I don’t. To tell you the truth, I’m a friend of the clarinetist.”
    Who knew? It might even be true.
    Adam Abasolo came in with a huge spray of flowers. Di opened the card, pronounced them from “Ernest,” proclaimed that she didn’t know Ernest, and then fell hook, line, and sinker for whatever brand of flattery Abasolo was handing out.
    Skip saw her take his arm and lead him to the ersatz bar. Out of the comer of her eye, she thought she caught something—an involuntary movement perhaps. But pivoting quickly, she saw only Sonny, staring at the bar as if he wished he could turn water into wine.
    The hum of conversation wasn’t picking up.
Do these people talk, or are they all like Chris?
she wondered.
And if they do, what do they talk about
? She took a tour around the room.
    “Janet Shirley’s the best. Non-force manipulation. You never feel a thing.”
    “But Jenny Walker does X rays. Don’t you think you need X rays?”
    Evidently a conversation about chiropractors.
    “…so I left the workshop three days early. I couldn’t concentrate on Asian medicine with the worst cold in Louisiana history.”
    Workshops. Of course. The speaker wore crystal earrings.
    “What she does then is she takes a piece of your clothing and she can tell you how many husbands you’ve had and which of them were alcoholic.”
    Psychics.
    “I really can’t digest anything but broccoli anymore and sometimes a little bit of rice. My system’s just too sensitive, too finely tuned.”
    Anorexia?
    “No, really. Enlightenment through sex. And it’s a lightning path, too. You can do it