All That Jazz

by Hope Alexis Milam

  The lights of the City played across the panes of glass as the photographer raised the window. She took a seat on the ledge and leaned back, unconcerned for the moment with her nudity. The glass was tinted and reflective. No one would be able to see in, if there were a building close enough to add voyeurism to its advertisements.

  Surprisingly, she was not as sore as she was when she woke up that morning. She chuckled softly as she thought about the activities the two had engaged in so far. This was her three-day weekend. She did not have to work again until Tuesday. That was the day she planned to make it official, but it was getting harder to keep that in mind. Laurel seemed aware that something was off kilter. While the bassist agreed to discuss the future after they returned to Hattiesburg, Nicole knew that her lover had been hurt by the delay. In fact, Laurel sulked throughout the afternoon until their pinball game.

  The thought of that game caused heat to flow freely from her stomach to her toes. It was almost overpowering. She had to fight herself for several long moments. Her body wanted to return to bed and wake the sleeping woman. Her mind wanted to think things through once more. She obeyed her head.

  She decided to take stock of herself, of her life. She was twenty-seven years old. There were days when that felt like forty, but Laurel made it feel like seventeen. At least how she imagined most seventeen year olds felt. Nicole was an adult at four. Coincidently, that was the age she had been when her parents had died. Adia Hebert did not encourage her grandchildren to waste their time with games. As soon as she had been taken into her grandparents’ home, Nicole had been enrolled in dance lessons, music lessons, and gymnastics. She was also taught to read and write, a year before she was enrolled in kindergarten.

  She envied her brother. At least he had a more normal childhood. Linda and Martin, her mother’s sister and brother-in-law, raised Michael with their own children. After a disagreement between his foster parents and his grandparents, Michael’s visits to New Orleans stopped. He had only been eight. As a result, she saw him rarely, and missed him terribly. She was glad that he wanted to transfer from California to New Orleans. Though they were as close as they could be with the physical distance between them, she knew they would be able to cultivate an actual brother/sister relationship as soon as he moved near.

  Adia ruled her family with an iron hand. The formidable woman also raised Cassandra, another of Nicole’s cousins. She had been like a sister to the photographer, but Cassie escaped by going up north to college. She accepted a full scholarship and left without looking back. The photographer’s own sister, Margot, ran away from home after getting kicked out of college. She had only lasted one semester. Margie had been buried next to their parents almost two years ago after overdosing on heroin.

  Only Nicole was left and she had been disowned after an argument with Adia. The argument had taken place after the doctors released Margie from the hospital. Nicole made Laurel accompany her to the family house. Adia took exception to their relationship and forced the photographer to make a choice. It took more courage than she was aware of possessing, but Nicole left with her lover. She had not spoken to her grandmother since. As a result, the funeral had been tense, but with the support of her lover, family and friends, she made it through.

  She missed her parents, though she did not remember them well. She missed her grandmother despite the older woman’s attitudes. She even missed her sister. Twenty-seven years, and Nicole had lost a lot. What she wanted to know was: could she stand losing her lover?

  The City’s lights barely illuminated the room. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could see the slim form curled under the sheets on the bed. She felt the tears start. She was not looking forward to Tuesday. However, she knew what she was planning was important. She would miss the bassist, but she had recovered from losses before.

  Maybe that was why she felt so insatiable. She was two days from returning to her solitary existence. No one would ever be able to replace the bassist. She knew that intuitively. She knew that as well as she knew her own name. She wanted all the memories she could gather to keep her company on those cold, lonely nights. There would be no one else for her. Ever. That was a given. She could not stand letting someone else into her life just to watch her leave. It was a sobering thought when she realized that Mozart was her only constant.

  "Something wrong?" Suddenly Laurel was there, wiping the tears away.

  "No, I was just thinking."

  "About?" The bassist claimed a cigarette from the pack on the photographer’s knee. She leaned in and lit hers off of Nicole’s.

  "I had a bad dream. That’s all."

  "Anything you want to talk about?" The bassist’s voice was soft.

  "No, there’s nothing to talk about, really. I don’t remember much of it." After all her deep thinking, Nicole just wanted to be held. She leaned her head on the bassist’s shoulder. Laurel took the hint and wrapped her arm around her.

  "Come back to bed?" Laurel put her cigarette out in the ashtray she acquired during Mardi Gras.

  "Yeah, that’s a good idea." Nicole allowed herself to be pulled to the bed. The bassist lay down, allowing the photographer to take her time. She curled against her lover, allowing Laurel to hold her. She fell asleep with her head pillowed on a very comfortable shoulder.

  ***

  "You know, we have an entire city full of choices, but we always end up back here." Laurel indicated the building in front of them with a nod of her head.

  "Did you want to go somewhere else?" Nicole asked.

  "No, I love this place. I just thought it was funny that we seem to have a routine. Four for the courtyard please." She told the hostess. "Where’d the other two go?"

  "They were right behind us." Nicole turned to look. Stan and Michael were just entering The Napoleon House. "Took you long enough."

  "Had to stop at the ATM." Michael told them. "We knew where you were going."

  "Follow me please." The hostess grabbed four menus and headed for the courtyard. They obeyed.

  "Ingenious." Michael was staring at the fans placed throughout the courtyard. They were all aimed high enough to keep from blowing items off the table, but low enough to actually provide relief from the heat.

  "You should see what they do in winter." Stan told him as they sat down at a round table. "They replace the fans with heaters. Most of the places around here do."

  "There’s a bar in the ‘Burg that does the same thing." Laurel remembered. It was not a place she went often. It was usually overpriced.

  "I’ve been there a few times." Nicole joined the conversation. The bassist was really starting to become concerned. The photographer seemed very withdrawn.

  "Maybe we can eat there tonight?" It was a desperate offer. Laurel hated the food there, but was willing to stomach it for one night.

  "I don’t think we’ll want to eat out tonight. We’ve done that more than usual already."

  "True. There’s something about being down here that makes us eat." She glared at Stan. He was overtaken by the giggles.

  "I’ll be right back." The photographer stood. They all watched as she made her way to the restroom.

  "Ok, what’s up?" Laurel demanded. She knew Nicole would have at least said something to Michael.

  "What do you mean?" Michael did not meet her gaze.

  "Something is up with Nicole, and you have two minutes to tell me before she comes back."

  "You know, I was wondering the same thing." Stan also turned to gaze at the photographer’s brother.

  "I think the honeymoon is over and that’s about it." He seemed reluctant to reveal even that much.

  "What’s that supposed to mean?" She grinned as Stan asked the same thing.

  "What I mean is that first bloom is gone and now it needs to be reawakened. Maybe you should just ride it out. See what happens as it goes." He trailed off as Nicole returned to the table.

  "What are we talking about?" The photographer asked. "Have we ordered yet?"

/>   "Nope. We haven’t even seen a waiter yet." Stan answered.

  "We were discussing surfing." Laurel improvised a subject. "Michael was telling us what to do when a wave goes bad."

  "Yeah. When you’re up there sometimes all you can do it let it take you back to shore before going back out and trying again." He directed his words to the bassist. She had no clue as to what he meant.

  "Interesting. Thinking of trying it are you?" The photographer turned to her lover.

  "If I’m ever out in sunny California." It was on her list of things to do, but not so high up that she would go out of her way to try it.

  "Maybe you’ll get your chance soon." Nicole’s tone was offhand.

  "Really?" She was intrigued.

  "We could always go out and visit Michael." The photographer shrugged.

  "Have you decided what you want?" The surfer asked. He placed his menu on the table.

  "Same thing as always." Stan commented. "I know. I’m predictable."

  "That’s ok. I was actually thinking of going with what I had here last time." Laurel grinned. "You?"

  "The jambalaya sounds good. I haven’t had that in a while." For the first time that day, Nicole smiled.

  "Wonder why." The bassist laughed.

  "Do I wanna know?" Stan looked as if he were about to be embarrassed again.

  "Someone we know kept pestering me while I was trying to make it about a week ago. I ended up burning it and we had pizza instead."

  "If you wouldn’t have been so secretive, maybe I wouldn’t have pestered you." Laurel teased and stuck her tongue out at her lover.

  "Can I take your order?" The waiter finally arrived. He saved the photographer from having to make a retort.

  They placed their drink and their food order at the same time. They did not know when they would see the waiter again. All four of them were too hungry to wait. After he disappeared to wherever it is waiters go, Stan took over the conversation. Laurel was grateful for that. He showed a remarkable sense of humor and great philosophical depth. She privately felt that his talents were wasted selling antiques, but he seemed happy. He should be. He had helped her find a nice surprise for the photographer during Mardi Gras.

  "Ah, now this looks great." Nicole seemed pleased with her plate. The jambalaya did indeed look excellent.

  "Smells good too," Michael looked greedily at his sister’s plate.

  "Back off bro, enjoy your po-boy and leave my food alone."

  "Alright. Can I at least try some gumbo, Laurel?"

  "If I have any left." She grinned at him. Stan seemed content with his grilled shrimp Caesar salad. "How’s the salad?" She asked to make sure.

  "Perfect." He carefully swallowed before answering.

  "Are you on a diet or something?" Nicole asked.

  "Why do you ask that?" He seemed confused.

  "Because you’ve ordered a salad here, a veggie burger Friday night, and boiled fish last night." The photographer itemized his recent choices.

  "Not really. I’m just bored with most food. I really should learn how to cook." He used his knife to cut a large piece of lettuce.

  "I’ve learned how to make spaghetti." Laurel was proud of that.

  "Opening the can?" Michael asked.

  "Yep. Is there another way?" She grinned.

  "Well, you could make it from scratch." Nicole suggested.

  "Sorry, Nicky, but not everyone had Melba teach them how to cook." Stan laughed.

  "True."

  "So that’s how you learned to cook so well." Laurel solved one mystery. Melba was the Heberts’ housekeeper.

  "It was a way to escape sometimes." The photographer shrugged. The bassist knew her lover looked for ways to escape her sometimes-confining upbringing.

  "Understandable." Stan nodded gravely.

  "So, when are you guys heading back?" Michael asked as he tossed his napkin on the table.

  "As soon as we pack." Nicole told him.

  "Yeah I have rehearsal tonight." Laurel did not know why she was going. It was just habit.

  "Well, I need to prepare for my meetings tomorrow. I fly out on Tuesday, so I’ll have to catch you both on the next trip." Michael pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "Lunch is on me."

  "That’s not necessary." Laurel protested.

  "Let me indulge. I’ll let you make it up to me next time." He compromised.

  "Alright." She gave in to his reasoning. She did notice that neither Stan nor Nicole joined her protest. "Are we ready?"

  "Yep. It shouldn’t take us too long to pack." Nicole commented as she stood.

  "Well, I need to go check at things at the store." Stan stretched. "Let me say goodbye here." He pulled first one and then the other into a hug. "Have a safe trip and I’ll see you both soon."

  "Take it easy, Stan."

  "Later, cuz."

  "Guess it’s up to me to escort you back to the Warehouse." Michael offered his arm to his sister as they left the building. Laurel followed slightly behind them.

  Chapter Six

  "You didn’t bring back your football jersey." Nicole commented as she sorted their clothes. She planned on visiting the Laundromat while the bassist went to band practice.

  "I left it there for next time." Laurel stretched out on the couch. "I didn’t see the point in bringing it home."

  "Thought you liked sleeping in it?"

  "I do, but we don’t seem to wear pajamas much, so I figured why bother." The bassist opened a new packet of strings. "Speaking of why bother, it doesn’t look as if I need to change these strings."

  "Then why were you going to do so?" Nicole never changed the stings on her violin. She took it to the store and made them do it.

  "Something to do I guess. It’s one of those lazy Sunday afternoons." The bassist shrugged. "I don’t have a time to play a game, and I’m really a bit too sore for anything else at the moment."

  "At least you aren’t itching." The photographer was suffering from extreme discomfort.

  "Poor baby. I’ll kiss it and make it better later. Just don’t scratch too much. It’ll make it worse."

  "And you know this how?"

  "Not from personal experience really. That’s one good thing about being blonde." The bassist laughed. "Anyway, I’m going to head out. I think they wanted to call a meeting."

  "Are you still going to tell them no?"

  "Yep. I don’t want to go to New York. I have no desire to cross the Mason-Dixon line."

  "When did you get the offer?" Nicole finally asked one of the questions that had been pestering her for a week.

  "About a month ago. I turned it down then, and I’ll turn it down now."

  "You could have at least discussed it with me." She added a load of clothes from the bathroom hamper to the load she was preparing to take to the Laundromat.

  "I guess, but since I turned it down, I didn’t really think about discussing it." Surprisingly, Laurel was not defensive.

  "Why exactly did you turn it down? The truth." She could not stop the questions.

  "I want to go to law school. That would be a little hard to do if I were touring the country or something." The bassist shrugged. "Do you want me to go?"

  "I want you to do whatever you want to do." Nicole paused before answering. She decided to keep her answer noncommittal.

  "I’m going to be late. I’ll be back later and we can discuss this ok?" Laurel placed her bass into its case.

  "Yeah. I want to get these loads done before it gets too dark." She added her detergent to the pile.

  "Let me take that outside for you." The bassist hefted the basket and took it out to the car. "You know I could not go to rehearsal. There’s no point in it really since the rest of the band is going to New York. Well, BJ isn’t."

  "That’s up to you. You should at least go talk to them though." Nicole advised as she locked the door.

  "Yeah I guess. I should at least tell them I quit." The bassist looked around. "And ask BJ about your car." The red car
was not in the driveway.

  "That would be nice." Nicole smiled. "No go off to rehearsal. I’ll see you when you get back."

  "Ok. Be careful." Laurel leaned in and kissed the photographer’s cheek. "Love you."

  "And I, you." Nicole pushed her lover to the truck. "Go."

  "Yes, ma’am." The bassist laughed as she hefted her bass.

  The photographer watched as her lover pulled out of the driveway. As soon as the old truck was out of sight, Nicole started her car. She eased the convertible out of the driveway. Using her cellular phone, she called Sheryl. Nicole hated doing laundry alone. Unfortunately, the critic was not home. Resigning herself to the situation, the photographer disconnected the call as she pulled into the gravel parking lot.

  ***

  The Laundromat was deserted. Nicole unwrapped her roll of quarters and claimed three machines. Lately, she always washed any clothes the bassist left at the house. Laurel had accompanied her once on a laundry trip, but the bassist had absolutely no talent when it came to washing clothes. Nicole thought it was because no one had ever taken the time to teach the bassist. She felt the same thing about her lover’s lack of cooking skills. Laurel had never been required to cook, so she never learned.

  Nicole grew up in a home with a housekeeper. She learned how to cook and how to wash clothes out of a desire to escape. Melba knew that and encouraged the young girl to learn. Laurel never had that opportunity. As much as Mandy did for the bassist, she never took the time to teach Laurel how to live on her own. No one had.

  Some kind soul had left a magazine sitting on a chair near the washing machines. Nicole decided to use that to distract herself. She was tired of thinking things over. The magazine was an entertainment one. She found the movie and music reviews interesting, but not as good as Sheryl’s. Sheryl could easily work for a larger paper but chose to remain in Hattiesburg, writing the entertainment reviews and covering a few stories on weekends. The paper’s publisher, Max Pinket, had been so impressed with the way Nicole and her friend covered the recent tax related suicides, the two were made a permanent weekend team. As a result, they had the same schedules on weekends. Nicole counted Sheryl in with Mozart as a constant in her life. She knew that she would never lose her friendship with the critic.