Jazz Funeral

(In memory of Baptiste "Bat" Giles, keeper of the flame, rest in peace.)

A Jazz Funeral, New Orleans Style

- by Bikem Ekberzade

Mary Jane danced at her husband's funeral. She danced for the last time she baked him some beans over rice. When someone from the second line would break down and cry, she got more determined. She smiled with her bright dentures at the tourists taking pictures of the procession. Baptiste, her husband, had bought those dentures for her birthday last year. He had to save up for years, putting aside from his retirement checks. But he was a man that would do anything to see his Mary Jane smiling again.

Baptiste Giles, "Bat" his friends called him had been a respectable man. He had worked hard for most of his life and given Mary Jane and himself a decent

Jazz Funeral, New Orleans, La. -- In tribute to Baptiste, "Bat" Giles, who passed on Sunday, June 7, a member of the second line cheers during the high note of the funeral on Saturday, June 13 (Photo by Bikem Ekberzade /AP)

life. He had been a good father. They had been through bad times, but hasn't everyone? So Mary Jane danced on.

Earlier she had almost fainted when they were lowering the lid on Baptiste's coffin. Now she was telling everyone she was fine. She wouldn't let anyone support her while she led the procession along Magnolia street. She danced for the time they bought their house on Magnolia. It was a rough neighbourhood, but everyone loved Baptiste. Even the pushers from the projects around the corner didn't bother them. They respected him, and stayed their distance like wolves at the sight of a bonefire. It was their bloodshed eyes that had scared Mary Jane when they first moved in, but Baptiste assured her that it was love that would keep away those drug dealers who held the key to the destruction of lonely souls.

Mary Jane thought she would always have Baptiste, so no harm would come to her. What would happen now that he had left her? But she couldn't have thoughts like that worry her. She had to celebrate. That is what Baptiste wanted. A jazz funeral where everyone would rejoice. Just like the children that would fill their tiny living room after Baptiste retired. They would cheer in delight over the stories he told them. They were children from the projects whose mothers had to work during the day. He would tell them stories of Creole healers, plantation lives and a powerful woman named Marie Luavue. If they behaved themselves and were good, he told them, Marie Luavue would leave them alone. But if they had been bad....

That is when little Tyronne had started telling him about her mother's new friend who would scrape white powder into his nose with a stick from on top of their living room table. Tyronne had seen him through the crack in the door one night, when he couldn't sleep from the loud music vibrating in the small apartment. He had asked Baptiste whether or not that was a magic powder like the ones Marie Luavue used. Next week police found Tyronne's mother in the bathtub, her throat slashed. They said she was raped. Would Baptiste identify the body? Later that night Mary Jane heard her husband weep for the first time. She stayed in bed and let her tears make little puddles on her pillow. The next morning when Baptiste went to work she had already made up her mind. She would see to it that they adopt Tyronne.

Now it was Tyronne carrying his father on his shoulder. The poll bearers had changed turns. But he didn't give up his place. He didn't even wipe the sweat from his face that was mixed with the tears that were streaming down his handsome face. You could no longer tell which was what. So Mary Jane danced on.

At the wake, men in crisp expensive suits had visited the coffin. They were drug lords who ruled the projects, employers for those who could find no work, suppliers for the weak. They had come back, to pay last respects. The wolves were finally descending into the delta, they could smell the bonfire was put out. Or was it? She could see the ambers ready to jump back to life in Trevor's eyes. She had seen the blaze when he looked at them. It was there even now as he carried his father's coffin. He looked ahead with pride. Magnolia street was safe when Baptiste was alive, and now she knew that it would be safe still. So Mary Jane danced on. For Baptiste was alive and the more she danced for his soul, the further he would reach and clear out all the evil that lurked around here at night with the light of his bonfire.

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