Ninth Ward

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Spot is barking in the hall. Whining and barking. Running back into the bedroom, then back out again into the hall. I get up. Groggy.

  I look down the stairwell and scream. Water is rising. It’s halfway up the stairs. Black, nasty, swirling water.

  “Mama Ya-Ya! Mama Ya-Ya, the house is flooding.”

  TaShon is now wide awake. Seeing the water lapping the stairs, he starts yelling. “I can’t swim,” he says. “I can’t swim.”

  Spot howls.

  I shake Mama Ya-Ya. She’s breathing hard.

  “We got to go,” I scream.

  Mama Ya-Ya sighs.

  I want to cry. But I can’t. We’ve got to go upstairs. “TaShon! Come on. The attic.”

  “I can’t swim, Lanesha. I can’t swim.”

  I scream at him, “We need to get to the attic. Help me, TaShon.” I can’t move Mama Ya-Ya by myself. On the left, my arms are holding her up; TaShon is on her right. Mama Ya-Ya is heavy; her feet drag. We all stumble forward.

  Mama Ya-Ya’s skin is cool. Her face looks lopsided. “Come on,” I say. “Try to walk, Mama Ya-Ya.”

  Mama Ya-Ya places her foot on the attic stair. Me and TaShon hold on. Move up, clippity-clop. Me, now pulling Mama Ya-Ya; TaShon, pushing.

  Water is slowly climbing the stairs.

  Me and TaShon slip Mama Ya-Ya into a corner in the attic. She groans.

  I go back to the doorway. Look down the rickety stairs. The water has risen another step. I don’t get it. The hurricane’s gone. Then, I remember geography. The Mississippi. I sniff. It smells like the Mississippi. Where else would water come from? Did the hurricane make it happen? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter.

  TaShon is crying. I turn around and shake his shoulder hard. “I need you, TaShon.”

  “I can’t swim, Lanesha.”

  “Neither can I. You don’t see me crying.” Why cry? I don’t know too many Ninth Ward folks that can swim. No one has a pool, not even the city.

  TaShon is watching me. His nose is red and his fingers are curled around Spot’s collar.

  “Look. The water is rising slowly. I think we’ll be fine.”

  “What if the water gets in the attic?”

  I don’t think it will. But I say, “Doggy-paddle. If Spot can do it, you can, too.” I show him the movements as best I remember. “Pretend you’re a dog, walking like a dog, walking in the water.”

  TaShon moves his hands like prancing paws. “Like this?”

  I nod my head yes. This seems to calm him. “We’re going to be fine,” I say. “Make a bed for you and Spot.”

  TaShon attacks the blankets and sheets. Making them float in the air before straightening them on the floor.

  I sit on the floor beside Mama Ya-Ya and think about the problem. How to make sure the four of us survive? Someone will come. What if no one comes?

  The water will stop rising. What if the water doesn’t stop rising?

  Sweat is beading on my head. It’s hot. TaShon has already taken off his shirt, and Spot seems listless. I undo the buttons around Mama Ya-Ya’s throat.

  I hold the gallon of water to her lips. She doesn’t drink. So I just wet her lips.

  I pour water in my hand for Spot. TaShon drinks, too. I don’t drink. The water has to last.

  Night isn’t good. We are afraid of the dark. But the flashlights have to last. The candles, too. We can’t burn them all night. So Mama Ya-Ya, TaShon, Spot, and me sit close. The room is like thick black velvet wrapped around us. My head hurts from the heat, from the musty smell.

  TaShon is chattering about when his parents get home. I don’t listen, just say, “Hunh-huh.” Then, I hear, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  I turn on the flashlight and look at TaShon. Around our small room. There’s no privacy. Or toilet or bucket. I grab a cup and hand it to him. “Use this.”

  “Ugh,” says TaShon.

  “It’s all we have.”

  I hear TaShon making a kinda choking sound. I think he’s crying. But he’s laughing. I laugh a little, too.

  “Here, TaShon. Take a flashlight. I’ll go sit on the steps.”

  I close the attic door and sit down. I flash my second light down the stairs. I cover my mouth. Mama Ya-Ya’s angel statues are floating, tossing, and turning in the water. Seeing them should make me sad, I think, but instead, I feel calmed. Mama Ya-Ya has told me everything is a sign. The floating statues remind me of God’s promise. Tomorrow, I think, there will be rainbows. We’ll be rescued. Maybe TaShon’s parents will come. “The universe shines down with love,” I say, repeating Mama Ya-Ya’s words.

  Everything is going to be okay. I might build bridges that can cross any ocean, river, or stream. I might study butterflies, how they grow from a gray-white cocoon into something colorful and beautiful. I might study words and create my own dictionary. I might do anything when I grow up.

  I knock on the door, poke my head in. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” says TaShon. “Spot, too.”

  Spot is wagging his tail. Happier. The attic smells but I don’t say anything. I feel dizzy. I take a swallow of water. Can’t help thinking, what goes in must come out.

  I flash the light at Mama Ya-Ya. Sweat is draining from her face. She’s too hot. There’s nothing I can do. She’s lying on her side, her eyes wide like she can see things that aren’t there.

  I want to talk with her but I’m not sure she can hear me. Or, if she can, she gives no sign.

  I turn off the flashlight. One night. Just one night in the attic, I tell myself.

  I don’t tell TaShon the water is still rising. Instead, I ask him, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “A golfer.”

  I almost laugh. The Ninth Ward doesn’t have golf courses either. No one I know has ever hit a white ball. Certainly not TaShon. “Good,” I say. “I’ll bet you’ll be a great player one day.”

  “What about you, Lanesha?”

  “Engineer.” I think this is right. I like how the word sounds. How I could draw signs on a page that might become a bridge.

  “You’ll be a good engineer.”

  “Thanks, TaShon.” We’re both quiet in the dark, listening to each other breathing. It feels good to have TaShon with me.

  “Were you always this normal, TaShon? I mean, you were so quiet, I never knew. You’re”—I lick my lips—“nice.”

  TaShon doesn’t say anything. I can’t see his face and I worry that he thinks I’m being mean.

  “I think I’m normal,” he says softly.

  I can barely hear him, but I don’t say anything. I keep extra quiet.

  “I just figure if I keep quiet, they won’t see me. Won’t make fun of me for being so short.”

  “I thought that was the reason.”

  “For real?” TaShon asks, surprised.

  “For real.” Then, it is my turn to say softly, “Sometimes I see what others don’t.”

  “You’re like Mama Ya-Ya,” says TaShon. “Special.”

  “Really?” I swallow hard. “I mean, you really think so, TaShon?”

  “Naw. Any day of the week, boys are more special than girls.”

  “TaShon!”

  He laughs and the sound sparkles in the hot, dark attic. I hate it when kids tease me. TaShon’s teasing, though, feels good. I laugh, too.

  “Lanesha, you asleep?” TaShon asks in the dark.

  I wonder what time it is—eleven? Two in the morning? I feel like it’s many hours before dawn. I’m tired. But I’m keeping watch. Even though I can’t see nothing in the dark.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Here,” I say. “Light this candle and read.” It is a white candle in a glass jar. One of Mama Ya-Ya’s altar candles.

  TaShon strikes the match and I see his dirty, sweaty face. The candle makes a little circle of light.

  “You should sleep, Lanesha. I’ll stay awake in case Mama Ya-Ya needs anything. That’s why you’re awake, isn’t it?”

  “Ye
s.” But Mama Ya-Ya isn’t the only reason. I don’t want to tell TaShon about the rising water.

  “Try to sleep, Lanesha. I’ll keep watch.”

  “That’s okay, TaShon.”

  “No, please. I can look out for you and Mama Ya-Ya.”

  TaShon’s words feel like a cool breeze. No one has looked out for me and Mama Ya-Ya, except me and Mama Ya-Ya.

  “I’ll sleep,” I say. But I know I won’t. Just in case…just in case… Don’t think it, I tell myself. But I think it anyway. Just in case the water keeps rising.

  “Good,” says TaShon, and I can tell by his voice that he’s feeling proud. “I’m on duty,” he says. “Spot’s second-in-command.” Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s smiling.

  In the attic, TaShon is a dark lump, with a flickering light, curled up reading. The other dark spot I know is Spot. I hear pages turning.

  I keep still, letting TaShon think I’m sleeping.

  I wish I could sleep. Then, I wouldn’t feel I’m suffocating in the dark heat, hear Mama Ya-Ya’s breathing ragged and slow, or smell the Mississippi living in our house.

  I hold Mama Ya-Ya’s hand—and I let myself think what I know—Mama Ya-Ya’s dying.

  Eight means the start of something new. Two means kindness, quiet power. Mama Ya-Ya is eighty-two. She has wound down. Her spirit is ready for something new. I smile but my heart hurts. I can imagine Mama Ya-Ya telling Mr. Death stories. Telling him that 8 + 2 = 10. Ten means everything’s complete. Perfect. Done.

  I never thought I could love Mama Ya-Ya more than I already do, but somehow, in this moment, I do. I have never felt so grateful in my life.

  I curl myself up, right next to Mama Ya-Ya. Her skin feels so soft and still smells sweet. My breathing matches hers. I think of how Mama Ya-Ya taught me to talk, walk, and see. How every birthday, she spent time with me, showering me with love. How every birthday, we cooked, ate cake, washed dishes, and stayed close like a real family.

  I whisper in her ear: “I loved being yours, Mama Ya-Ya.” I feel her squeeze my hand. “We’re all in the attic.” She squeezes my hand again. I kiss her forehead. “We’ll be fine,” I say. “We’ll be fine. Me and TaShon.”

  I squeeze her hand.

  Part of me is glad I can’t clearly see her face. That she can’t clearly see mine.

  I tell TaShon, “I’m awake now. You should sleep.”

  TaShon blows out his candle. He hasn’t read a page in a while.

  I can hear Spot, panting. He must be so hot.

  I curl back up to Mama Ya-Ya. I don’t know if she can hear me but I tell her I’m going to remember everything she taught me. I’m going to raise butterflies, and keep looking for signs that others don’t see.

  I tell Mama Ya-Ya, “We’re all okay.” I hold her hand until her hand slips out of mine. I put my head to her chest, listening for breathing. Feeling for her lungs to rise. It’s only then I cry. My hand covering my mouth, though no sound is coming out. Spot comes over and licks my face. I put a blanket over Mama Ya-Ya.

  I sit, in the dark, touching the necklace, feeling the love inside it heating my skin, warming my heart.

  As time slips by, as the water rises, I try to think about what’s next, about what Mama Ya-Ya would want me to do.

  8 + 4 = 12. Spiritual strength. Real strength, Lanesha. Like butterflies.

  I get up, tiptoe so I won’t wake TaShon; I open the door, and shine the flashlight down the steps. The water is halfway up the staircase. I want to curl up and cry. But I won’t. Mama Ya-Ya wouldn’t want me to give up.

  Solve problems. Think, Lanesha. Time. It’s sometimes a variable in math.

  That’s it! Time. I can measure the rate of water rising over time.

  I sit and count, “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand…” I count until my mouth cracks dry. I watch the black liquid crawling up the steps. Sixty-one one thousands equals a minute. I count six hundred minutes. That’s ten minutes for the water to rise halfway up a step. Another ten to cover a new step. Twenty minutes for each whole step. There are twelve steps to the attic floor.

  Twenty minutes times twelve. We’ve got two hours left.

  Survive.

  Monday Isn’t Over

  TaShon is snoring. Spot, too.

  I shine the flashlight at the door. Water is trickling into the attic. It’s a thin stream getting wider and wider.

  Soon Mama Ya-Ya’s body will be floating.

  I don’t wake TaShon.

  I push, drag the highest furniture over to the window. It’s in the middle of the attic, the highest point where the roof planes meet.

  I stare out the window. No breeze. Or wind. The hurricane is surely gone.

  Outside, I can see water, covering one-story houses, almost to their rooftops. Cars are completely covered. Lamps and electric poles look half their size. Treetops seem like bushes growing out of water.

  I start, back and forth, carrying our water and food atop a tall chest. I put the pre-algebra book up high, too. The encyclopedia is too heavy. The dictionary is in my pocket. But I don’t know what happened to my sparkly pens.

  I shiver. I’m too hot. Sweaty. Hungry. I think I may faint.

  “TaShon, get up.” I shake him. Then, I move the flashlight away from his face and shine the light on the dark water coming for us. It’s slipping underneath the attic door.

  “We need to get higher,” I say. Soon, the water will touch our feet, our bodies, our clothes.

  TaShon whispers, “You think my parents are all right?”

  “Sure,” I say. Even though I have no idea.

  TaShon grabs my arm. “Where’s Mama Ya-Ya?”

  “She’s dead.” I can’t see his face. “It’s all right.” I almost say, “I’ll see her soon. As a ghost.” But I don’t. Thinking these words, I feel happier, stronger. Never before did I see any good side to seeing ghosts. But the thought of being able to see Mama Ya-Ya again comforts me.

  TaShon seems stunned.

  “Come on,” I say. “We’ve got to survive.”

  “Wait,” says TaShon.

  I can’t help it, but I feel irritated with him again. We need to get safe.

  “Where is it?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “The axe.”

  I exhale. TaShon’s right. We need the axe. I shine the flashlight over the floor. “Near the door,” I shout.

  TaShon runs. The axe is wet with stinky water.

  “Like a hatchet,” TaShon says. Then, before I can say anything, he’s climbing awkwardly with the axe. With the flashlight, I shine the way. TaShon tilts, almost throws the axe on top of the high box.

  “Now, let’s get Spot,” he says, climbing back down.

  The water keeps steadily rising. Together, we climb high on the boxes, the old furniture, trying to reach the tallest height, a flattop chifforo chest. We pass Spot between the two of us, as we climb higher and higher. There’s barely enough room for the three of us atop the chifforo. The axe, thanks to TaShon, is in reach. But the food and water are on another chest, maybe three feet away. If the water rises too high, I might not be able to get to it.

  I tell TaShon and Spot, “Be still. I’m going to get across to some water, food. We’ll have to hold it on our lap.”

  “Be careful.”

  I try to walk across dirty tarp-covered furniture. My steps are uneven. My foot slips and a chair rattles and hits the floor. Water splashes. I grab a gallon of water and a bowl of beans and rice. I want to grab the pre-algebra book but it’ll be too heavy and I don’t have enough hands. Already, I have to put the flashlight in my other pocket. I can barely see.

  My ankle twists and I almost fall. I hold tight to the water jug, but the beans and rice tilts and half of it falls into the stinky water below. Strange, the water seems like it’s rising faster. It is maybe two, three feet high? If I was standing in it, I’m sure it would be higher than my knees.

  I move more carefully. TaShon grabs my hand a
nd I sit beside him. Sweat all over me. My shirt is sticking to my back.

  “Here. Eat.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “No, you’ve got to eat, too.” TaShon holds out the plate. “Eat.”

  I don’t have a spoon or fork. So I use my fingers.

  TaShon eats, too. “Wish I had some bread.”

  “With butter,” I say.

  “To slop up the beans and rice, Lanesha. Like gravy.”

  We crouch like bugs on top of the chest. Our feet can’t hang free—else our legs and pants will get wet. I know in an hour, our limbs will fall asleep and hurt to move. We won’t last long this way.

  We’ve got to get out of the attic. If I stood in the water, I think it would cover me past my waist.

  “TaShon, hand me the axe.”

  “Let me,” he says.

  “No. I’m bigger. You know it’s true.”

  TaShon bites his lip, then nods. “Okay.” He hands me the axe.

  I stand, stooping, my back curled, and swing the axe at the window. Glass breaks. The frame splinters, just a bit. There’s not enough space. I can’t stand tall enough and put my weight into the swing.

  TaShon mutters, “We’re going to drown.”

  “Sit down,” I shout. My back hurts. I tightly grab the handle and twist my body. I hit hard. Harder and harder at the window frame. All my fear lets loose…all my hurt…even anger that Mama Ya-Ya is dead. Bam. The power is in my arms. I swing and swing ’til there’s a ragged hole around the window. A hole big enough to climb through.

  “You go first, TaShon.”

  “I wish I had six fingers now. I could hold on better.”

  “True,” I say, pushing him a bit up and through the hole. I can see stars above his head. I shout, “You okay?”

  “It’s another world up here. Fresh air.”

  “Go on, Spot.”