Free Jazz Funeral by Julie Smith

ready for it, sure she could take it, anything would be better than stupid, lukewarm pleasantries.
    “What are you, a prima donna? You were great. And you know it too, don’t you?”
    She stared at him, shocked. “You really thought so?”
    He touched her cheek. “Yeah.” He said it so softly she almost missed it.
    Her stomach felt fluttery, a sensation she associated with stage fright. Again she looked ahead and took a sip from the can. She thought of reclaiming her hand, the one he was holding, but she found, on consideration, that she didn’t want to at all. Involuntarily, she squeezed his hand instead, and immediately regretted it, knowing it sent a signal she hadn’t meant to send.
    Not looking at her, staring at the West Bank like she was, he spoke again. “What’s your real name?”
    “I told you. You don’t believe me?”
    “You just don’t look like a Janis.”
    “I don’t? What do I look like?”
    Boldly, she turned to face him again, and he stared at her for a long moment. “Olivia,” he said. “No—something Shakespearean. Viola. Juliet. Better yet, Julianna. Something Mediterranean and complex—and soft as the night.”
    “Desdemona?”
    “Too sophisticated. Something with depth, but innocence.”
    Her cheeks burned. She didn’t like being seen as innocent. “Are you really named Chris? It’s perfect for you.”
    “I know. That’s why I picked it.”
    “Are Sue Ann and Randy their names?”
    He shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t know who they are. But I know you. Your family has money, but they don’t really appreciate you. They treat you like a kid and don’t recognize your talent, maybe they’re violent; maybe not always, but finally—today; yesterday. Maybe it was one violent incident that did it. You couldn’t handle it anymore. So you ran away.”
    Tears welled as he spoke and poured down her cheeks by the time he finished. She wasn’t even embarrassed, just caught up in the incredible, wonderful, unprecedented sensation of being understood. “Did it happen to you?” Of course it had; how else could he know?
    “It happened to you,” he said.
    A sob came out of her, unbidden, unexpected, like vomit. She turned her back to him, covered her mouth with her hands, desperately trying to stem this humiliating uprising of emotion, aware that her back must look as if she had St. Vitus’s Dance. He left her alone for a moment, and then she felt him move closer, turn so that he could hold her whole body tight to his chest, his arms wrapped around her from behind, his face against her cheek. It was so gentle, so thoughtful a gesture, it felt so warm and intimate that the sobs begin to die almost immediately.
    She put her hands on his, which were now crossed on her chest. “I’m afraid they’ll find me,” she said, whispering, though she didn’t know why.
    “What?”
    She spoke more loudly, turned her face to his, or as far toward his as she could, so that she was in profile, their cheeks touching again. “I’m afraid of them,” she said.
    His mouth was at her ear. “I know,” he whispered.
    It didn’t occur to her to question how he knew, only to marvel that he did. She struggled out of the soft embrace, hating to do it, but needing to look at him some more, and turned around to face him. She took both his hands, surprised at her boldness but needing to touch him. “I just ran away today.”
    “Do you want to talk about it?”
    She considered, finally shook her head. “No. A lot of things happened. I feel like I lost everything at once. I mean, my family and friends and…” She paused, suddenly shy. She had been about to say “my boyfriend,” but thought better of it. “I can’t go back. I can never go back.”
    “Your folks live in New Orleans?”
    She nodded.
    He looked at her for a long while, assessing. “Wonder how you’d look as a blonde?”
    She laughed, the sound coming out of her as unexpectedly as the sobs had. She saw suddenly how easy it was going