Ninth Ward

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

Spot scrambles through. TaShon grabs him by his furry neck. Then, it’s my turn. I look back at the attic overflowing, filled with floating wood and memories. The only home I’ve ever known.

  The moon glows high. I reach for it and escape up and out to the roof.

  Tuesday

  No land. Only sky and dirty water.

  TaShon has his head buried in Spot’s fur. He’s crying full-out—sobbing like the world has ended and Noah hasn’t landed his ark.

  I want to sit and cry, too. But it’s almost dawn, and I think when there’s light, someone will surely find us. I also think, still dark, I’ve got to make sure TaShon doesn’t fall off the roof into the water.

  I feel tired, sad. Even though I expect to see her as a ghost, I know I’ll still miss the flesh and blood Mama Ya-Ya. The warm hands. Her making breakfast. And me resting my head upon her shoulder. I’ll miss talking to her. Listening to her stories.

  TaShon lifts his head and wipes his eyes. He looks far-off. For a minute, I think he’s going to be his quiet old self, and pretend to disappear. Then, he says softly, “Fortitude.”

  “Strength to endure.”

  “That’s right. We’re going to show fortitude.”

  TaShon and I scoot closer, our arms and legs touching. I put my arms around him; he puts his arms around me. Neither of us moves. I know we are both thinking, murmuring in our minds, over and over again, “Fortitude. Fortitude. Fortitude.”

  Sunrise. As far as my eye can see, there is water.

  The Mississippi is brown, filled with leaves, branches, and pieces of folks’ lives. I see a plastic three-wheeler tangled in algae. I see a picture frame with a gap-toothed boy smiling in black and white. I see a red car, a Ford, floating.

  Overhead, I hear a helicopter. It sounds like a lawn mower in the sky.

  Me and TaShon start yelling, waving our hands. “Here, over here.” The helicopter doesn’t seem to see us. It keeps flying south. Its big bird wings circling and the roar of its engine getting softer.

  TaShon is cursing now. I haven’t the heart to say, “Watch your mouth.” I’m positive the ’copter man saw us. How come he didn’t stop? Lift us in the air with rope?

  I start trembling and look around my neighborhood. The horizon is like none I’ve seen before. Just tips of houses. Tops or halves of trees. Lampposts hacked off by water. Rooftops—some flat, some angular—most, empty.

  Far left, I see a man and woman sitting on a roof, their feet in the water. Two blocks east, I see what I think is an entire family. Five, six people, all different sizes, waving white sheets. I hear them screaming, calling for help.

  Where are the others? At the Superdome? Safe in Baton Rouge?

  TaShon says softly, “At least we made it out of the attic, didn’t we, Lanesha?”

  I look at TaShon. I should’ve known better. Should’ve known that there was more to see about TaShon than he ever let show. He’s a butterfly, too.

  “Yes, we did,” I say. “We made it out.”

  No one is coming. All day and all night, we waited. Spot panted, slept. TaShon swatted at mosquitoes and his feet turned itchy red after he left them in the water to cool off. We are both sunburned. Funny, I didn’t think black folks sunburned. But all day in the sun, no shade, has made me and TaShon red faced. My cheeks and shoulders hurt like someone touched them with a hot iron.

  I keep focused on the horizon. Above it, I search for helicopters. Below it, I search for signs of my neighbors.

  I used to think the Mississippi was beautiful. Not anymore. Up close, it is filled with garbage, clothes and furniture, ugly catfish and eels.

  My lips are cracked. I’m hungry. Thirsty. Tired. I tell TaShon a hundred different Bible stories—all about hope. I tell him about Moses, David and Goliath, and Noah’s ark. “Someone’s coming,” I insist. “People know we’re here.” But I feel Spot, if he could talk, would say, “That’s a lie,” then blink his big brown eyes.

  The moon is high. TaShon is feverish and asleep. His legs, up to his knees, are bright red. His face is peeling.

  I haven’t seen any ghosts either. Are they scared?

  I murmur, “Mama Ya-Ya, help me. Momma, help me.” But the night doesn’t answer. Nothing shimmers. There’s no message from another world.

  Day two since the flood. Day three since the hurricane.

  No one has come to our rescue. There’s no TV. No radio. No news from anywhere. The family that has been hollering for help is quiet now.

  I can’t make the Mississippi disappear. I can’t make food and water appear. But we’re going to go stir-crazy, get more and more miserable.

  I press my head to my hand. I feel dizzy.

  TaShon’s itching, rubbing his left foot against his right leg. “Look. A rowboat.”

  I exhale. “Mr. Henri’s! He liked catfish. He always gave some to Mama Ya-Ya.”

  TaShon’s eyes are bright.

  I move to the left—careful not to slip in the water, my feet angling on the roof. It’s slippery. Water is in my tennis shoes. The shingles are slick with oil and gunk.

  I can barely see the house next door. Most of it is covered with water. But a rowboat is floating, caught between our two houses and a bigger willow tree that kept it from floating down the street. It is maybe six, seven feet away. It’s south, perpendicular to both our houses. “A sharp right angle.” If it’d been parallel, it might’ve floated out—at least on the north side. But the angle kept it safe.

  “Do you think we can reach it?” asks TaShon. “The boat?”

  I squint. The boat’s rope must be floating deep, loose inside the water.

  My arms aren’t long enough to push the boat free and I’m not sure I can doggy-paddle to it.

  “The angle’s all wrong.”

  Well, right and wrong, I think. Right, ’cause being perpendicular, it didn’t get swept away in the storm. Wrong, ’cause being perpendicular, it needs to be unstuck.

  I see TaShon’s shoulders sagging. Giving up.

  How can I rescue a rowboat?

  EVERYTHING IS MATH. Think, Lanesha.

  I look about. There are all kinds of pieces of wood, trees floating in the water. I see a long, thin trunk floating.

  “TaShon. We’ve got to catch that tree.” It looks like a young willow. Just a few years old.

  I’m sure my hands can fit around its trunk. With effort, I can hold it like a stick.

  I lie down on my stomach, shouting, “Come on, come on!” like a lunatic to the tree. It bobs left, then right. Then turns sideways.

  “We got to grab it, TaShon!”

  TaShon lies beside me on his stomach, too. We flap our hands in the water, trying to make it draw near. Trying to create another current in the muddy tide.

  “It’s coming,” hollers TaShon. “It’s coming.”

  “Brace yourself.” Though the tree is moving slow, it’ll be heavy. “Don’t fall! Don’t fall in.”

  I stretch my arms wide, clawing at the water, trying to move the trunk closer. I strain, feeling the pull in my shoulders. Water is lapping, almost to my chin.

  I clutch bark. A piece cracks away in my hand.

  “Get it, get it,” TaShon screams. His arms are too short. The trunk is floating by.

  I inch my body further, my hips and legs still touching the roof. Inhaling, I plunge forward. My arms are around the tree.

  “Grab my legs, TaShon.” I don’t want to float down this new river.

  TaShon grabs my leg, and pulls, and pulls.

  If the trunk were heavier, bigger, I wouldn’t be able to hold on. But as TaShon pulls me, I pull the thin trunk onto our roof. Like a seesaw, the triangle of the roof keeps it balanced, straight.

  “Now what?”

  “We’ve got to knock the boat free.”

  TaShon looks at me, his eyes wide. I start laughing. Can’t stop. TaShon starts laughing, too.

  “It’s like playing pool. See. The boat is stuck; if we can knock it free, it’ll float right past us.”
/>   “How do you know?”

  I shrug and sigh. The sun is too hot on my neck. I want to give up. Just lie on the roof, space out, and not think about being wet, hungry.

  “How do you know?” TaShon insists again.

  “I don’t know. But I want to. ’Sides, what else we going to do? Try or not try?”

  “Try,” says TaShon. Then, his nose scrunches. “I want to see my parents.”

  I shiver, suddenly cold. I’ve no one left to see. Then, I say, “I want to see Miss Johnson. Go back to school.”

  “I want to go back to school, too. I want ice cream.”

  “Bacon.”

  “Grits.”

  “Apple pie.”

  “Stop, Lanesha. I can’t take it no more. My stomach’s growling.”

  “Come on. Let’s do it.” I’m shouting like a cheerleader. “You hold the trunk’s end, TaShon, and I’ll try to punch the boat. Make sure you don’t fall off the roof! Brace your feet strong.”

  I hold the trunk in my arms and pull it around like a lance. I wonder how knights moved their huge poles on horses?

  The trunk wants to tilt up; I push it down with all my might. But I can’t figure out how to jut it forward. There’s another foot before the tree will touch the boat.

  “Move forward, TaShon. We’ve got to get to the very edge.”

  We inch like baby caterpillars along the roof.

  TaShon’s foot slips. He stumbles. I lose balance and start to slide. The trunk hits my chin and I see stars. I taste blood in my mouth.

  My feet catch on the gutters. Water splashes up to my waist. One hand holds on to the roof; the other holds the trunk, bobbing, sliding through my arm. Tilting deeper into the water.

  TaShon’s legs are dangling, his hands holding tight to the roof. The tree trunk is bobbing beside our roof.

  “TaShon, help me,” I cry. “Grab the end of the tree.”

  TaShon grabs the trunk with all his might. I see muscles in his arms, neck, face clench. I pull, steady myself, crawl to the roof edge, then lie on my belly, grabbing the end of the trunk. Together, me and TaShon inch the long, slim trunk out of the water, balancing it with our hands and bodies.

  I think: Thank goodness, the tree trunk isn’t bigger. Thank goodness, I have TaShon.

  “Okay, let’s try again. Rise.” We both stand, the trunk in our hands, our feet angled on either side of the rooftop.

  But now TaShon is in front of me, rather than behind.

  “We need to change places,” I say.

  “I don’t think I can,” says TaShon, glancing back, his face strained. “I’m afraid I’ll fall in. I can’t swim.”

  Spot is behind me, panting.

  “Don’t you want ice cream?”

  TaShon looks back at me. His arms are trembling from holding the heavy tree. He smiles. Then, face grim, he starts to inch backward.

  When he’s almost to my chest, I say, “Stop. I’ll step around you.”

  “Okay.” He gasps. Sweat is dripping from his shoulder blades.

  I study the problem. If I let go of the trunk, TaShon will be unbalanced, unable to hold it. I need to be stronger than I’ve ever been. Need to be quick.

  “TaShon, I’m going to let go one hand. Throw it around you and catch the trunk. You’ll need to keep still. Let me circle around you. ’Kay? Okay?”

  TaShon, quiet, just nods.

  “I’ll count to three.”

  “Okay.”

  “One. Two. Three.” My hand brushes past him, clutches the trunk. TaShon is drawn tight to my chest and I hop left, wobble. Then slide my right foot towards my left, release my right hand, then reach around TaShon. The trunk tilts forwards. It’s going to fall. TaShon can’t hold it!

  Like lightning, I grab it with both hands. I feel TaShon’s breath on my neck. He dips his knees and gets a tighter grip.

  The trunk is balanced between us.

  “We did it,” I shout.

  TaShon murmurs, “I can’t hold it much longer.”

  The trunk is maybe five feet long; it is bigger, heavier than TaShon. As big as me. “Yes, you can, TaShon. You like sundaes? I like milk shakes best.”

  TaShon tightens his grip. The trunk is better balanced.

  “Good,” I say. “Move forward. Careful. Be careful.”

  We inch until I am as far as I can go without my feet being in water. We both are balanced on the roof. Spot is just behind us, studying us two. I wish Spot had hands.

  “Pretend we’re playing pool. We got to punch the rowboat free. Hit its back end, so the front pokes free. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “One. Two. Three. Punch.”

  We punch with the trunk. The trunk end misses the boat, falls forward into the water.

  “Lean back,” I yell.

  Me and TaShon lean back, offsetting the tree’s drop into the water. But we counterbalance too much. The trunk points towards the clouds. We’re losing our balance.

  “Level,” I shout. “We need to level it.”

  “Pull,” says TaShon.

  “Yes, pull.” We pull the trunk back and down. Parallel to the roof.

  My hands are red, scratchy. I don’t dare release the trunk. I don’t dare see how tired TaShon is.

  I look at the rowboat bobbing. “Again,” I cry. “Aim. One. Two. Three. Punch.” A hit. The boat bobs and moves forward.

  TaShon yells, “We did it.”

  “No, we didn’t.” Not enough to get the rowboat unstuck.

  “We can’t do this,” says TaShon, dropping his end of the trunk.

  I almost fall backwards.

  “We’ve got to,” I say. “Mama Ya-Ya wouldn’t want us to give up. Pick up the trunk, TaShon. Pick it up. I can’t do this without you.”

  TaShon picks up the trunk.

  I stare at the boat caught between houses and a tree. What if I’ve made a mistake? What if the rope isn’t free? What if it’s caught on something hiding beneath the water? What if it’ll never be free?

  I won’t think about it.

  The blue boat needs to be rocked. Unsettled. Freed from its mooring. From being trapped.

  “Let’s sit for a minute,” I say. “Together. One. Two. Three.” We sit, slowly inching our butts onto the roof, cradling the trunk against our chests and on our laps.

  Spot inches forward and smells the wood. He’s hoping for magic, too.

  Anyone coming by would think we were crazy. A dog. Two kids sitting on a roof, just above water, holding a piece of a tree.

  But that’s the point. No one is coming. At least, not yet. I blink. Maybe never. Naw, I think. Then, think again, Maybe never.

  I look out at the expanse of water. My neighborhood is buried as surely as my mother is buried in St. Louis Cemetery. As Mama Ya-Ya is buried inside in the water.

  “TaShon, I’ve got to get in the water.” I look at the water. It’s nasty. But what choice do I have?

  “You’ll drown, Lanesha.”

  “No, I won’t,” I say firmly. “Together, we’ll push the trunk and I’ll leap at the end. Off the roof. Try to hit the rowboat. Use my body’s motion to set it free.

  “Let’s stand.” I start standing, feeling TaShon rising with me, wobbling a bit.

  “We need to do this, TaShon. I’ll say, ‘One. Two. Three. Push.’ Got it?” I don’t look back to see if TaShon agrees. I somehow know that he won’t disappoint me. We’ll be a team.

  I scream, “One, two, three! Push!”

  We push, a huge effort, and I run right off the roof, and splash in the dirty water.

  I hold my breath, grunt as I push. Then, I sink down. Down into a darkness darker than night. Darker than the attic without lights.

  My eyes sting. I kick. Hard.

  I cough out the awful water and try to swim. Try to knock the boat free with the trunk. Me and TaShon have got the boat’s tip facing more north. Angling into the water, instead of towards the house.

  I am strong. Not scared. I think this in a blink of
a butterfly’s eye.

  I think: Pretend the water is land. Water is heavy. It’ll hold me. “Run, Lanesha,” I scream, and I can’t hear anything except water lapping in my ears and I push with all my might.

  The boat moves, rocks against the house and tree. It tips more north. I scream again, and it’s me, pushing the tree trunk into the boat.

  The boat bobbles, side to side. Up and down. Then, it’s free. The current moving the blue rowboat, bobbing it towards me.

  “Yes.” I pump my arms. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” TaShon echoes.

  I kick my legs, pull water back with my arms, and I’m swimming, like a dog, not caring about the things touching my legs, bumping into me.

  “Help!” Something has grabbed me. A branch, a twisted scarf, I don’t know. My right leg is stuck, being pulled down, beneath the water. My hands flail and splash, trying to keep my head above water. My head is tipped back, parallel to the sky. I’m panicking. Puckering like a fish.

  Wood hits my chin. Scrapes against my ears. It hurts bad. I’m tired. Way too tired. I don’t know why I thought I could solve things. Give up, Lanesha, I think. Just give up. Soon as I think it, I become weak like a baby. I hear TaShon yelling for me. Spot barking, crazy wild.

  But I sink slowly into the muddy, pitch-black water. The Mississippi is making me a new home.

  My clothes and shoes are getting heavier and heavier. My head can’t stay above water. I flail my arms, and kick.

  In the water, which used to be my street, it’s like a new country. I can’t see stop signs, fences, or sidewalks that I know must be there. I make myself close my burning eyes—I can’t see anyway!

  Then, I think: Fight, Lanesha. I kick, flap my arms, but I don’t move up. Something—I don’t know what—is still holding me. I try not to think what it might be—a tree branch, slimy algae, wood, or something dead.

  It’s quiet in the dark. I can’t hear TaShon or Spot, just water rushing against and in and out of my ears. The water feels more and more like a thick stew. I’m confused. Where’s up? I kick. My lungs ache. I’m going nowhere.

  Then, I feel a kiss. I open my eyes. My mother is shining—a bright, radiant light, and I can see. See her long black hair, brown skin, and lips that seem pink with lipstick. But it’s her eyes that make all the difference. They aren’t dull and blank. They’re seeing me.