“Let’s go see,” says Ginia.
We walk up onto the porch, saying, “Hey, Mr. Palmer.” He nods.
Six or seven people are standing around the small TV. No one says much. I recognize Rudy, Mrs. Watson, and some kids from the school. Max is there—but he doesn’t pay me any mind. Everyone stares at the TV.
I press in, too, watching the weatherman with a big head of blond hair. His stick is pointing at lines and names on the screen. There are blue, green, brown colors; all good colors; blue means happiness; green, nature; brown, earth. The Atlantic Ocean is blue. Florida sticks out like a green and brown thumb. But the weatherman keeps scratching at his collar like he can’t get enough air. He makes me nervous. There’s a white circle cloud, too, twisting slowly on the small screen. White is sacred, pure. In the cloud’s center, it’s red. The red glows, contracting, then growing bigger than before. It has already passed over islands. Now it is rushing towards southern Florida.
Mama Ya-Ya says red can mean love or energy. Or blood, danger.
I realize the TV sound isn’t on, but none of us needs to hear the man speak. We can all see. On the bottom of the screen, it says, “Hurricane Katrina, Category One.”
Ginia and I walk to my porch. I don’t want to think about the colors on TV. I want to think about having more fun with Ginia. But the TV pictures have already changed the neighborhood. Grown-ups, their hands shading their eyes, are looking at the sky, worried. Some folks are unloading gallons of water from their cars; others, zombielike, instead of waving or saying hello when we pass by, keep staring at baby TVs or listening to boom box radios.
Ginia sets the milk and water down, and turns to go.
“Don’t you want to come inside?”
“I do, but —”
“Is that your new friend?” Mama Ya-Ya hollers from inside the house. “Is it Ginger? Virginia? Ginia?”
Ginia’s eyes open wide.
“Mama Ya-Ya already knows about you. Like I told you, she sees without seeing.” Through the screen door, I holler back at Mama Ya-Ya, “It’s just a girl from school.”
“No, I’m not. I mean, I am, but I’m not —”
Now, it’s my turn to be bug-eyed.
“I’ll be needed at home, Lanesha. What with the weather and all.”
“Okay,” I say. Then, feeling bold, I say, “See you tomorrow?” (Though I guess if I felt really bold, I wouldn’t have let my voice rise with a question.) I cross my fingers behind my back.
Ginia leaps down onto the sidewalk. Her tennis shoes land, making a big smack. I think I was wrong about something. Ginia doesn’t look cute at all. She looks strong, like she does when she’s racing me. How’d I miss that?
“You’re lucky, Lanesha.” Ginia, her voice bright, hollers over her shoulder, “Tell Mama Ya-Ya she got my name right. I hope I get to meet her next time.”
No one has ever said “lucky” about me before. Butterflies flutter in my chest.
“Bye,” I say. But I’m not sure Ginia hears me. She races down my street towards her house, at least five blocks over. Her tennis shoes kick up dust.
That night, after dinner, I draw bridges. Big ones. Small ones. One as towering as the Golden Gate Bridge. The rug tickles my stomach. The pictures, spread all over the floor, make me happy. I grab my pocket dictionary and look up suspension. SUSPENSION BRIDGE: A BRIDGE HAVING THE ROADWAY SUSPENDED FROM CABLES, ANCHORED AT EITHER END, AND SUPPORTED AT INTERVALS BY TOWERS.
Mama Ya-Ya stands in front of the TV, trying to unravel what the picture means. I’m watching, too. The weatherman’s colors are one big puzzle. There is more blue, showing the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico. The white cloud with the red heart is moving. It looks both pretty and scary. I stop drawing, looking for a sign about what the TV picture means. The weatherman is chattering, pointing at the colors with his stick.
I realize he is talking math—“if, then” problems like I study in school.
“If the wind blows south, then, the hurricane might miss the entire Gulf region.
“If the hurricane loosens, becomes diffuse, then, there might be only a tropical storm for Florida, Mississippi, and Louisiana.
“If Katrina keeps gathering strength, then, depending where she lands, the damage could be great.”
The weatherman doesn’t have the certainty of my math problems. There doesn’t seem to be one right answer. The answer could be a, b, or c.
Mama Ya-Ya keeps standing, leaning on her cane, staring at the TV. I realize she’s looking for meaning, too.
I go to the window and stick my head out. The sky is velvet black and the moon is bright white. The air seems thick, moist, and still. I can’t imagine that elsewhere there is a hurricane. Racing rain and wind. I can’t see it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
People can’t see spirits so they don’t believe they exist, but I know they do.
My stomach starts to ache. I hear hammering. Across the street, someone is nailing planks across their front windows.
Mama Ya-Ya is still watching the TV. Tonight, it seems like the weatherman is the star.
I settle back down on the floor where my pretty bridges are scattered, enjoying how warm and cozy our living room is.
I grab the Encyclopedia Britannica. Volume B.
Mama Ya-Ya paid $3 a week for three years until she’d paid for the entire encyclopedia set. It was my best present ever. The books have their own special shelf. The only other book on the shelf is Mama Ya-Ya’s Bible. She reads it over and over again, and tells me its stories. I like the story of David beating the giant, Goliath. Of baby Moses being rescued from the water.
Atop the bookshelf is a picture of Mama Ya-Ya holding my hand when I was two. I look different now. Mama Ya-Ya looks the same, wise and beautiful.
I sit on the floor, opening the huge book. The cover is getting worn, but the insides are just fine. Like Mama Ya-Ya, the words and pictures keep teaching me.
As it gets darker and darker outside, I ignore the TV and read about bridges, famous builders, and the engineers who imagined the mathematical symbols and signs that people can’t see. I wonder how something that starts off so invisible turns into metal, bolts, and wires, connecting point A to point B.
Thursday
August 25.
Mama Ya-Ya has both the radio and TV on. She’s been up since dawn. Me and Spot are both worried about her. She keeps walking between the two—listening to radio sounds, watching the local news. She mutters, “The storm ain’t the problem. The storm ain’t the problem.” She still has not used the word hurricane.
I watch the TV for a minute. “Katrina is a Category Two hurricane,” says the weatherman, “quickly becoming a Category Three.” What does Category Two or Three mean? The white spirals of storm have gotten bigger on the TV map. The storm is spinning over the Gulf, heading towards Mississippi and Louisiana. I see a dot on the map and the words NEW ORLEANS. I realize that the colors are not so important after all; it’s the dot and the growing size and faster spin of the clouds.
The TV shows pictures from Florida: a man unable to stand because of wind, cars abandoned, trees lying on the ground. The weatherman says: “In Florida, several are reported missing and the damages are in the millions. While Katrina was just a Category One, she was slow moving, causing greater than normal damage. Now she’s two, on her way to becoming three times more powerful. When she lands again, the destruction will be unfathomable.”
Unfathomable. I need to look it up. I can guess what it means, but I want to know exactly.
Mama Ya-Ya is touching the TV screen as if her palm can stop the storm.
Every year, we have hurricane season. Hurricanes hit Florida. Texas. Mississippi. I’ve seen storm troubles in New Orleans, too—flooding, a fallen tree, a roof blown off. Every year, folks say, “Hurricane season is going to be bad.” But it never is. I think Katrina will die before she lands. She’s already messed up Florida. Shown how bad she is. What else could she want?
Ma
ma Ya-Ya taught me hurricanes are Mother Nature’s fits. “We don’t expect people to be quiet all the time,” she likes to say. “Why nature?” Two sides to everything, everyone. Good and bad. Quiet and loud. Calm, stormy.
Still. Unfathomable. The word bothers me. So does Mama Ya-Ya this morning. I know she’s really worried because she hasn’t fixed me breakfast or café au lait. She is swaying side to side like a windblown tree. The house doesn’t smell of food. And Mama Ya-Ya doesn’t smell sharply sweet, coolly warm. She’s forgotten her Vicks Rub and Evening in Paris perfume.
“I’m off to school.”
“Sure, baby,” Mama Ya-Ya answers.
I stoop and rub Spot’s ears. He is lying on the rug, his tongue hanging out. “Take care of her.”
Spot licks my ear.
I don’t say “Bye,” ’cause I don’t think Mama Ya-Ya will hear me.
From the living room, I walk across the hall, ignoring the front door, and walk through the kitchen. I’m used to leaving through the back door.
“Hey, Lanesha.” The shadow and light through the screen make squares on TaShon’s face. “I came over to see Spot.”
Spot, who hears everything, races to the screen door.
“TaShon, you gonna be late for school.”
“Ain’t no school.”
“You lie.”
“No, I don’t,” says TaShon, opening the door and leaning down to rub his nose on Spot’s fur. “You’re my good dog.”
I wince. TaShon is silly. I’m feeling irritated. Exasperated. “You should take your good dog home.”
I don’t like to see Spot loving him with the same licks he gives me. And TaShon, who didn’t say “boo” to me for years, is acting like I invited him in to stay.
“Go on, now. Both of you.”
TaShon sits back on his heels, biting his bottom lip. Even Spot’s tail droops. “For real, Lanesha? You know my momma won’t let me keep him. She’ll say, ‘We can’t afford another mouth to feed.’ She’ll call animal control. Have him jailed. Please, Lanesha. You’ve got to keep him.”
“I’m just foolin’,” I say, starting to feel guilty. TaShon smiles like it’s Christmas. He falls backward, rumpling Spot. I can’t help but smile, too.
I step onto the back porch. The sun is warm and the sky is cloudless.
“There’s got to be school,” I say. It’s hard enough that there’s a Saturday and Sunday. I’m less lonely at school with my teachers and books.
“There’s not.”
“I’ll see for myself.”
“The mayor says folks ought to think about leaving New Orleans. People are packing up.”
“You going?”
TaShon shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then, he pretend growls and soon, him and Spot, like big babies, are leaping off the porch and rolling in the crabgrass.
I walk out the door.
TaShon was right. School’s been canceled and the empty hallways are filling with ghosts. Usually they stay away when us kids are loud, playing in the hallways. But the hurricane warning has emptied people out and ghosts, from when our school used to be a convent, are filling the halls. Mainly nuns. Sisters of Charity. A priest or two.
The ghost nuns in their black robes look like they’re gliding on ice. One of them waves at me. Sister Margaret. She likes school, too. Especially English when we’re discussing stories, instead of diagramming sentences.
The ghosts look distracted by the silence, the empty halls. Mostly, they keep their heads bowed low.
I walk the halls, looking for Miss Johnson. She is my favorite teacher by far.
Miss Johnson is packing a box. The classroom is empty, and she’s packing her pictures of her momma and poppa and sisters and nieces. She’s packing the cardboard signs she bought with her own money: EVERYTHING IS MATH; WITH NUMBERS, YOU CAN DO ANYTHING; DISCOVER X, THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
“You leaving?” I say, stupid, ’cause I already know the answer.
“Soon as I’m packed up here, I’m getting on the road. My folks were in Betsy. I don’t mess with hurricanes.”
I don’t know what comes over me because I start to cry. Miss Johnson pretends not to see.
I haven’t cried in a long time. I’m angry at myself. Can’t think why I’m crying. Except too much is happening. Both good and bad. I don’t like to see Mama Ya-Ya worried. The thought of Ginia, TaShon, and Spot makes me happy. But it’s all too fast. What if Ginia and TaShon decide not to like me? What if the storm does come? Should Mama Ya-Ya and I leave, too? I don’t have time to puzzle it out. Fit these tiny new pieces together to see what picture it might make.
“I’ll be back,” Miss Johnson says. “Are you all right, Lanesha?”
“What?” I say, my voice cracking a little.
“Leaving probably means nothing much is going to happen. We’ll have school on Monday. Just think of this as a holiday. Like a surprise long weekend.”
“I don’t want a holiday.”
“Well, I do. I’m tired. School just started and I could use a rest. I’m going to visit my folks in Baton Rouge.” She comes over to me. “Surely you don’t mind me getting rest?”
“No, ma’am,” I say, though I know she’s only twenty-two. I wipe my cheeks.
“Is your family leaving?”
I tilt my head, wondering what family she means. Uptown or Mama Ya-Ya?
“You should leave,” she says, looking at me directly. “Just in case.”
Miss Johnson, I realize, is really not that much older than me. Studying her face, I can see I could one day be her. Educated. A schoolteacher.
I blurt, “I could be you.”
“No, you can’t,” she says, making me hurt inside. “You’re you. Lanesha. You’re much smarter than me. Better with numbers than me at your age. What about being an engineer?”
I smile. “And I’ll build bridges like the Golden Gate Bridge. The Bridge of Sighs in Venice. The London Tower Bridge.”
“I see you’ve been studying.”
“Yes, ma’am. The encyclopedia has dozens of pictures of bridges and waterways. New Orleans has the Crescent City Bridge and the Huey P. Long Bridge,” I say, remembering all those steel puzzles reaching towards the sky.
“Or Lanesha’s Bridge? You could build a bridge and name it after you.”
This is why I like this new school. Teachers fill my head with pictures and thoughts about what I can do. “I’ll name it after you. Evelyn,” I say. “Evelyn’s Bridge.”
Miss Johnson smiles. “Got to go, Lanesha. You be safe.”
I start to walk away but turn back. “Miss Johnson, can you give me a problem to work on?”
Miss Johnson smiles; she understands. A problem will keep my mind off the hurricane.
She looks at me. Then, she turns and unlocks her desk and pulls out a book. “Take this. It’s the teacher’s edition.”
“Really? You think I’m ready?”
“Most def’,” says Miss Johnson, trying to sound cool. I laugh.
It is a nice blue copy of pre-algebra. Not tattered and marked like the student workbooks. The book smells new, fresh with ink. This is a seventh-grade book.
“I know you won’t cheat. There are tons of problems.”
“And I can check my answers?”
“Yes. Just start at the beginning. Read careful. Take it slow.”
I’m so happy, stroking the slick pages, seeing hundreds of squiggly marks.
“See you on Monday, Lanesha.”
“See you on Monday, Miss Johnson.” I look down at the book. Then, back at her. “Thank you.”
“Who knows,” she says, turning back to her boxes, “if the storm gets worse, you may even finish the whole book.”
“If the storm gets worse…If the storm gets worse…” These words echo in my head as I walk out the door.
Friday
Mama Ya-Ya will not go to bed.
And now, there are ghosts in the living room. I’m used to seeing a random one every now and again, but tonight i
t feels crowded. A thin man dressed like a Confederate soldier. A little girl with braids and pink pajamas with padded feet. I wonder if they lived here. In Mama Ya-Ya’s house? Or in the neighborhood? Maybe the soldier just marched by and decided to stay. New Orleans has all kinds of people who arrived and never left.
Me and the ghosts keep watching the TV.
TaShon has taken Spot for a walk. Mama Ya-Ya is outside using her senses: sniffing for sea salt, feeling hot wind, listening for the roar of water. I don’t know if she can taste a hurricane. What would it taste like? Like cold, fishy, salty cotton candy?
The TV says the governor has asked the president to declare a state of emergency. The National Guard has been called up. Now the breathless weatherman is saying the hurricane will hit Mississippi and Louisiana. Both.
I’m feeling ANXIOUS: FULL OF ANXIETY. GREATLY CONCERNED, ESPECIALLY ABOUT SOMETHING IN THE FUTURE OR UNKNOWN.
I’m feeling more anxious because I looked up unfathomable in my pocket dictionary. UNFATHOMABLE: BEYOND UNDERSTANDING, IMPOSSIBLE TO MEASURE.
In math, I learned everything can be measured. Air, water, wind. Volume. Velocity. Depth.
So why not a hurricane? There, I’ve said it.
Hurricane Katrina. Two words. Three syllables each.
The TV shows folks partying in the French Quarter. Dancing, laughing. Music playing. Everybody’s having a good time. A reporter in a navy blue dress, with cool earrings dangling from her ears, asks a man and woman: “What do you think of the hurricane?” The man answers, holding up a glass that looks like he has a strawberry slush. He swallows and says, “The weather’s just fine.” Then, him and the woman start twirling around.
Another reporter shows a family across town. A father and son, both red haired, are locking white shutters over their windows. Then, the father speaks in a gruff voice into the microphone: “We’re staying right here. I’ve survived many hurricane seasons. Like the Boy Scouts say, ‘Be prepared.’ See.” He points inside his garage. “I’ve got gallons of water. Canned goods. Extra fuel. Candles. Matches. A flashlight. Behind back, I have a generator.” The man smiles, proud of himself. Then, he yells, “Sean, come over here. Say hi.”
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