Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

“I’m just telling you what he says.”

  “Oh, fuck. You mean I gave up an hour’s sleep for this? I thought you had something.”

  “She absolutely couldn’t be Lacey Longtree?”

  “No way in hell.”

  She hadn’t known about Proctor at the time, or she would have asked about him.

  Ti-Belle was saying, “I just don’t know what happened.” She stared at her hands as if they were foreign objects. “I’ve never done anything like that in my life.”

  “The sheriff of Pine County, Alabama, says you have.”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  Her attorney, Barnes Naismith, hastily called by Anglime, was trying to shush her, had been trying for half an half, but Ti-Belle apparently had things in her that wanted out. Tears for sure and maybe words, if Skip got lucky.

  Ti-Belle got a quizzical look. “You’ve talked to the sheriff already?”

  “He says you killed your dad, Ti-Belle. With one blow; with a kitchen knife; in the kitchen. Just like you lulled Ham.”

  “You bitch.” She was half out of her chair before Naismith could stop her.

  He got her back down but couldn’t shut her up. “I didn’t kill Ham. I swear to God I didn’t kill him. I didn’t love him, I wish I had, but I didn’t kill him. I didn’t have any reason to kill him. Why in hell would I kill Ham?”

  Skip kept her voice low, almost sleepy. “He wanted you to stop seeing Anglime. You fought, he said the wrong thing, it made you furious. What was it he said, Ti-Belle?” She was doing the questioning alone because it was Saturday, and because Cappello wasn’t there. She would have loved to work with Cappello on this one. She needed someone to play the good cop.

  “It wasn’t me. Can’t you leave me alone, goddammit?”

  Naismith turned to Skip as if she were beating babies up.

  “Can’t you?”

  She ignored him.

  Ti-Belle maundered, a woman in a dream: “I didn’t hurt Ham. I could never hurt Ham. His problem was he was too nice. How could you hurt a guy like that?”

  “Sleep with another guy?”

  That brought on more tears. “I did wrong, I know I did wrong. But I didn’t kill him. Don’t you see the difference?”

  “Tell me about your dad.”

  She bent her head, laced her fingers behind her neck and stayed that way for a long while. When she straightened up, she said, “My dad was a drunk and a sadist. He started drinking the minute he came home from work, and the minute he started drinking was the minute he started picking on people.”

  “What people? How?”

  “Oh, my mother. My little brother. Me. He did it all the usual ways. Physically. Verbally.”

  “Sexually?”

  Ti-Belle looked surprised. “I don’t really know. I don’t remember it.” She shrugged. “But hell, he did everything else.”

  Naismith said, “Miss Thiebaud, I really must advise you—”

  “Would you just shut up?”

  Skip thought: Maybe it’s a good thing there’s only me today. Maybe it’s less threatening this way.

  “What did he do?” she said.

  “He tried to kill my baby brother.”

  “I thought your brother was thirteen.”

  “Prentiss was small for his age. Anyway, I was seventeen—I practically raised him.” She smiled, and Skip wondered what she remembered. Rocking him to sleep, maybe, the smell of baby powder soft and reassuring. “He used to call me Sissy,” she said.

  “My mother was sick; always, always sick. She couldn’t take care of us, really. Couldn’t even take care of herself.” She started to cry again. “It wasn’t so bad when he beat me. I always felt every time he did it, it saved them getting hit. He never hit me with the bat.”

  “The bat?”

  “Prentiss’s baseball bat.”

  Involuntarily, Skip found herself making a face to ward off the evil. “He hit you with a baseball bat?”

  “No! He hit with my mother with a baseball bat. He hit my little brother with it. But just once.” Her eyes turned lynxlike. “He only did it once.”

  Naismith said, “Miss Thiebaud, I beg you!”

  She turned on him: “Oh, what difference does it make? Somebody had to recognize me eventually. Better now than when I really have something to give up.” But her face was sad. Obviously she felt she was giving up a lot.

  “Listen to me carefully, Miss Thiebaud. They mean it when they say ‘what you say can and will be used against you.’ If you say any more, you’re going to hear it again in court.”

  “I want to talk to Skip. Could you leave us alone for a minute?”

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  What Ti-Belle was doing was wildly self-destructive, and yet Skip had seen it a hundred times—there was something in the human animal that wanted to confess.

  Ti-Belle said, “Skip, I can trust you, can’t I?”

  They hadn’t been on a first-name basis before. For a moment Skip had thought she’d gotten to her. But it wasn’t that. She thought Skip could be manipulated.

  “Trust me to do what?” she said.

  “I don’t know.” Ti-Belle spread her arms, looking helpless, as if she really didn’t know. “I just want to tell you something.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I yelled at him to stop; stop hitting Prentiss. And he said, ‘who’s gonna stop me?’ I had the knife already—I was making dinner. So I just held it up, like I was going to stab him. And I said ‘Me.’ He laughed like it was the funniest thing he ever heard, and then he tried to hit me with the bat. He was coming at me.” She stopped and gathered her resources. “I lost my temper. I just lost my temper.”

  “You stabbed him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, if you didn’t, who did?”

  “Not my mama; you can just forget that idea. And not my little brother.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “I think I should shut up now.”

  “Ti-Belle, you’re in a lot of trouble. You lost your temper then, you did it again with Ham, and you did it today at Nick’s.”

  “I didn’t kill Ham! I swear to God I didn’t.”

  “You’ve got a real bad temper, Ti-Belle.”

  “I’m famous for my fucking temper!” She was getting mad. “I used to yell at Ham all the time. And today I got madder at Proctor than I’ve ever been at anybody in my life, except one person. He tried to destroy everything I’ve worked for. You’d be mad too, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know if I would have tried to kill him.”

  “I didn’t try to kill him.”

  “Did you try to kill your dad?”

  “Of course not! I just … I don’t even remember anymore.”

  “Look, it sounds to me as if it was self-defense. Why did you leave town?”

  Her eyes filled with despair. Her mouth turned down and twisted. Her face fell in on itself. Through her tears, she said, “Mama made me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Melody had hardly slept at all after the music stopped and so couldn’t have been more surprised when she found herself awakened by yelling. Two things about it were surprising: first, she didn’t know she’d been to sleep, couldn’t believe she’d actually dropped off, considering the circumstances; and second, she wasn’t at home. Brocatos yelled, not Boucrees; surely not Boucrees.

  Yet it was the Boucrees’ studio and yelling was occurring right now, before breakfast.

  “Goddammit, Tyrone, what’s wrong with you? Couldn’t you even make it to the bed we put in here?”

  “I got tired. I curled up on the rug. You got a problem with that?”

  Oh, no. If he’s been here all night, he’ll come in to use the bathroom in about two minutes. Suddenly, she got up and made the bed; rolled under it, holding her crotch, scratching it. She’d gotten up in the night to investigate the funny little itch she’d felt. There were red spots there. The itching wasn’t
so bad, was hardly any worse, but the fear was making her sweat.

  “Motherfucker, you got a problem. Alicia’s been up all night worryin’ about you, not knowing if you were dead or in some woman’s bed. Why you do her like this?” It was a third voice. The sleeper was being ganged up on.

  “Hey, I got an idea. Know that transition we been havin’ so much trouble with? I think I got it figured out.”

  “Oh, man, you’re out of your mind. Your wife and four kids want to know where the fuck you are, that’s all you can talk about? Why you think we’re here, man? Alicia’s been callin’ all over everywhere.”

  “She call Mama?”

  “Hell, yes, she called Mama. Mama’s ‘bout to have a stroke, thinks you’re prob’ly lyin’ in a ditch. It wouldn’t occur to Mama you’re just a lazy, inconsiderate fucker, can’t even let his own wife know where he is.”

  “Hey, there’s a phone here. Is there a phone here?” The sleeper was getting mad. “You see that phone over there? Alicia might have called all of y’all, but she didn’t call me.”

  Melody heard someone stomp across the room. “Phone’s unplugged,” a fourth voice said. How many of them were out there?

  “Well, I didn’t unplug it!” the sleeper hollered. “Why don’t you assholes get out of my face. What the fuck’s going on here?”

  “Tyrone, you’re messin’ up everything. You’re the only one that ever fucks up, you ever notice that?”

  “Hey, I been up all night trying to trying to save y’all’s sorry asses. We’re gonna look like a bunch of jerks up there tomorrow if y’all don’t get it together.”

  “Sucker!” The word had a lifetime of venom behind it. Melody heard a crack, and a noise like someone stumbling, crashing into the piano. The speaker had hit Tyrone.

  Someone else said, “Mark, goddammit, what you want to hit him for? You always been that way—hit, hit, hit! You think that’s the way to solve everything.”

  She hated the way they were attacking each other, accusing each other, humiliating each other, more than she hated the hitting. Her father did that to her mother. The Brocatos did it to her father. Her mother even did it to her sometimes, mildly: “Melody, you never clean your room. You always leave your clothes on the floor.”

  Did her father do it to her? It was so familiar. Oh, yes: “You’re making your mother sick. Why can’t you do what she says and quit giving her trouble?”

  Without even asking her version. He didn’t know anything; he was never around.

  She lay under the bed, holding her contaminated crotch, feeling sorry for herself. Feeling hope drain away. Just when something good happened, three bad things happened next.

  It’s the physical thing. I’m sick, that’s what it is. Shit, I wonder what I’ve got? AIDS doesn’t start this way, does it? It could be herpes. Maybe it’s herpes. Syphilis! That starts with a bump. Or the clap. Can you still get that?

  She had read accounts of people having gonorrhea, and it seemed to her burning had been one of the symptoms. When they urinated, was that it? She broke out in a fresh sweat. Was it going to hurt to go to the bathroom? She had to go now.

  “Joel, my man, what you doing here?” There was a break in the din outside. Melody had let her mind wander for a while, partly out of depression, partly fear. She could be dying. Almost certainly she had a sexually transmitted disease—nothing could have been clearer to her. And yet—there was something funny; Chris had used a condom. Wasn’t that supposed to protect you? She felt betrayed by one more thing.

  “Hey, how y’all?” said Joel. “Hey, Daddy. Mama’s waitin’ on you.”

  “Mornin’, Joel,” said the one named Tyrone. “Your uncles act like it’s the end of the world I fell asleep over here.”

  “Well, Mama’s a little bent out of shape.”

  “Ah, hell, how’s that different from usual?”

  Melody couldn’t believe the sleeper was Joel’s father. Joel Boucree had a father as imperfect as hers. She just couldn’t believe it.

  “I better get back to the old lady,” he said. “Joel, you coming?”

  “Naah. I think I might practice awhile.”

  “All by yourself?” said Mark.

  “Where y’all goin’?”

  “Back home awhile. We were over by Mama’s, heard about Tyrone, came over to see was he here.”

  “Hell, you knew I would be,” Tyrone grumbled, and then Melody heard a lot of exit sounds. She came out from under the bed and sat on top, wishing she could fix her hair, but she was afraid to move around any more than necessary.

  Joel knocked. “Hey, Mel?”

  “Come in.”

  “You okay?”

  Great, except for the clap. She nodded, unable to speak.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “I was kind of upset about hearing that fight.”

  He laughed. “Hell, don’t let that bother you. They’re always like that.”

  “I thought they’d be nice.”

  “They’re just a family, that’s all. You think they’d give Daddy such a hard time if they didn’t care about him?”

  She didn’t answer. It seemed to her a weird way to express affection.

  “See, he likes to get out of the house when Mama’s drinking and yelling. So he goes, and then she falls asleep and wakes up sober enough so she doesn’t slur her words and forgets where he’s gone and starts calling people. They don’t catch on she’s drunk and Daddy won’t tell ‘em. They just think he’s out screwin’ around or something.”

  “Why don’t you tell them?”

  “Oh, man, I stay out of that shit. Here.” He thrust a greasy paper package at her—napkins wrapped around a couple of pieces of toast. “Sorry—this was all I could get away with. I’ll get something better later. Listen, will you be okay for a while?”

  She nodded, feeling somewhat deserted, but also relieved— she needed to be alone, to figure out what to do.

  When he was gone, she went to the bathroom, and was hugely relieved to find it didn’t hurt at all. She ate the toast and felt her energy coming back. She sat and sifted things in her mind. Was there a way to avoid seeing a doctor? She closed her eyes and squeezed, trying to figure a way. But her crotch itched and burned like poison ivy.

  Two things she had to do: she had to get to a doctor, and she had to do it now, before the Boucrees came back and trapped her. There was a tiny triumphant thought at the back of her brain—possibly, just possibly, there was a doctor she could trust. It wasn’t likely, but it was worth a try. And face it, there was no other choice.

  Madeleine Richard, her therapist, was a psychiatrist, which meant she could treat medical problems. Richard might very well turn her in. But it was take the chance or die of crotch rot. Would that be better?

  In a way she thought it would, but voices hammered away in her skull: You have no choice. This is the end of the line. You have no choice. You have no choice. You have no choice.

  Her brain wouldn’t get off it. She hoped it wasn’t a death wish finally getting the upper hand.

  Getting out of Joel’s neighborhood was much easier than he’d indicated it would be. No one cursed at her, or even stared very much. She said “Mornin’” to everyone she saw, so maybe they’d think she was comfortable there, and they answered courteously.

  She was careful to note the address, to watch which streets she walked down. She asked someone for directions and eventually got a bus.

  She didn’t know what reaction she’d expected, but it wasn’t the one she got. Richard took one look at her, did a double-take when she figured out the disguise, flashed a smile of utter delight, and folded the girl to her chest. Melody had never been held like that, had no idea what a bosom felt like; how warm and soft; how comforting. “Come in. Come in, baby. You look terrible.”

  She couldn’t believe Dr. Richard had called her “baby.” She thought only black people did that. Had little nicknames, little pet names for people. When Richard did it, Melody felt a fu
nny warmth in her solar plexus, a new sensation, as if… she didn’t quite know. If you were loved, was it something like this? Did your mom hug you … hold you? She didn’t dare dwell on the subject.

  “You hungry?”

  “I’m sick.”

  Richard let her in, stroking her hair, patting her, something she’d never done before. They hadn’t touched at all—why would they? Richard was just somebody her mother had hired because she thought she ought to. It wasn’t like she was a relative or anything.

  “What’s wrong?”

  All of a sudden Melody was shy. “I’ve got this itching. And red spots.”

  “Where?”

  “Uh—well, I guess I better tell you. I slept with someone.”

  “You slept with someone?” Richard looked utterly astounded. “Someone other than Flip?”

  “Flip and I broke up. It was—” She hesitated, ashamed to admit it was a stranger. “It was someone I never told you about.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “It was Thursday.”

  “Mmm. Today’s Saturday. Does it hurt to urinate?”

  Melody shook her head.

  “Any discharge?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t really look. But anyway, it doesn’t feel like it’s inside. I mean, it’s all around.”

  “How closely have you examined the area?”

  Melody was surprised. “Well, I haven’t, I guess. I mean I saw the spots and that was so gross—”

  “Okay, go in the bathroom and take a look. See if there’s any discharge. And use a mirror. I want to know what it looks like down there.”

  Melody was grateful Richard didn’t ask to look. She went in the bathroom and followed orders. And was so horrified at what she saw that she screamed.

  “What is it?” yelled Richard. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh my God! Things! Little black things! All over the place.”

  “That’s pubic lice, honey. Come on out and we’ll see what we can do about it.”

  “Lice! Omigod. I’ve never even heard of anyone having lice.”

  “Melody, just one thing—get one on your finger and let me have a look at it.”

  Gross! “I can’t do that!”

  “Okay, I’ll come in and look.”