Jazz Moon by Joe Okonkwo Page A

the quarter-full room. The absence of the riotous hostess made the place a cave. Fanny—the hourglass-shaped waitress—worked the room solo. But the band was there. Baby Back was there. They played a popular tune, something hummable, not as untamed or low-down as their Saturday night fare.
    Ben sat right up front so Baby Back couldn’t miss him. He ordered bourbon and watched the band, antsy for the break between sets when the trumpeter would step down to schmooze. He thought about the effeminate men at the poetry reading. If he wasn’t like them, then he couldn’t have the desires they did. He would test himself when the trumpeter approached.
    But he couldn’t suppress the memory of another time when he tried—and failed—to prove that this thing was gone.
    One morning, Ben’s ma came into the barn and shoved a crate at him.
    â€œTake this over to Miz Hutchison,” she said, her eyes swollen and wet and red.
    The thought of seeing Willful petrified Ben.
    â€œWhat you waiting for, boy? Get yonder and get on back here. There’s a lot of work to do.”
    Wildflowers—white shooting stars, orange butterfly weeds, and purple ironweeds—poked out of the grass bordering the dirt road. The grooves of wagon wheels and the indentations of horses’ hooves pockmarked the path along with the occasional impression of an automobile’s tire treads. On his way up the path, he peeked inside the crate. It was full of little girl’s clothes: bonnets and shoes; a pretty white Easter dress with pink lace hand-stitched around the collar and sleeves. Emma Jane’s clothes. His sister who died of pneumonia a year earlier. Ol’ Doc Cullen never left her side, but he hadn’t had enough medicine and there had been no point in beseeching the town’s white doctor.
    Emma Jane. His baby sister whom he had loved and, sometimes, loathed. Loved because she was pretty and she was dear and she was bubbly and she was blood. She’d giggle and he couldn’t help but giggle, too. She’d hold his hand and something protective flitted up inside him. But Emma Jane was their ma’s precious baby, Pa’s too, and she’d monopolized their attention and their love, leaving Ben with scraps.
    He continued up the path, intentionally taking his time. Another hot day. Summer never let up. It got under your skin so that you felt hot from the inside out and from top to bottom. He needed a swim. It was the only relief: to take off all his clothes and dive into cool water. Just the vision brought a semblance of relief. But he kept it at bay. Because every vision of Sugarfish Pond also contained Willful Hutchison. He couldn’t control it. What would happen when he saw him? In a town as tiny as Dogwood, permanently eluding another person wasn’t an option. This afternoon would be a useful test.
    The Hutchisons’ deserted yard and fields surprised him. “Anyone home?”
    The only answer was the high-pitched, insect-like call of a grasshopper sparrow.
    The barn walls were pimpled with holes. Fences foundered. A laundry line hosted a few bedraggled dresses that flapped in the wind. But the fields mostly thrived with leafy stalks. A small garden abounded with tomatoes, carrots, corn. Inside the barn were a gaunt mule, an ancient horse, and Willful asleep in a chair. Head furled back. Mouth open. Legs spread into his signature capital V . Ben lowered the crate to the floor noiselessly, then tiptoed back to the door.
    â€œPlease don’t go yet.”
    Not the bullish voice you’d expect from a strapping male. Not childlike, but not quite adult. A half voice. “Don’t go.”
    Ben stopped and turned, then wished he hadn’t. Willful’s legs were still amply spread and his eyes were aimed at him.
    â€œYou ain’t meet me at the pond like I told you,” he said, part disappointment, part rebuke.
    â€œMy ma gave me a whole mess of