"No kidding,” said Ernest, glad that the jewelry he'd stolen was stashed under a flap of his bedroom carpet.
"What else I heard, they saw a rubber raft tied up in front of another house and found a guy inside taking stuff. Know what they did? Punched holes in the raft. Sank it. Stranded him.” The man laughed.
"How'd they know he wasn't the owner?"
"They knew. Don't you worry. Served him right."
This was good information to have. When Ernest got to Wartburg's he'd be sure to hide the canoe well out of sight.
"I'm hoping to meet up with those Coast Guard boats. Maybe they'll take us out of here. It's not good being around this water. They're talking hepatitis, say the water's full of toxins.” The man's expression had initially been bright, but now he looked melancholy. “All our picture albums were on the first floor. I forgot to bring them upstairs. My wife's gonna kill me. I mean, is this the pits or what? I have a pool-cleaning business. Who's coming back after this? Who'll need a pool cleaned? My business is flooded. Might have to declare bankruptcy."
"Jeez,” said Ernest, “the whole place is a pool now."
"I heard this water's going to stand for weeks, maybe months. They can't get the pumps going."
"That so.” Ernest nodded in woeful sympathy while feeling none of this information had any relation to him ... Though, come to think of it, how had his uncle's grocery made out? That's where Ernest worked, stocking shelves. If the grocery flooded, would his uncle close down?
Another thought hit him. What if the owner of his apartment complex decided to bulldoze the place?
Ernest blinked hard. No point worrying about it now. He wasn't going to be a crybaby like this guy with the pool-cleaning business.
"Well, good luck, man,” said Ernest. “I gotta go pass by my mama's."
"Hey, look at that!” said the boy.
Ernest turned around to see what that brainiac kid was pointing at. His heart thumped. Thirty yards off, claws gripping the broken-off stump of a creosote telephone pole, was the big black bird. He didn't perch like a normal bird, but held his huge wings out wide, like Dracula showing off his cape. His bumpy bald head looked like a chunk of red gristle.
The father whistled. “He's a big one. Turkey vulture. See the red head? I'll bet that's a six-foot wingspan."
Roy's eyes bugged out. “Is he ever ugly. Let's shoot him, Dad.” The boy bent down to grab something. When he came up, Ernest saw he was shouldering a rifle.
"No, son,” said the father. “He ain't pretty, but that bird performs an important service. Scavengers are good. The bird kind, anyway."
Ernest didn't know what surprised him more, the vulture or the sobering sight of the rifle.
The father eased the gun back down in the boat. “This here's for the human kind.” He laughed. “I swear, anybody tries to loot my house, I'll blow his head off."
"I didn't know they had vultures in New Orleans,” said Ernest, ready to drop the subject of looters. “I never seen one before."
"Can't say I've seen one in town, but they're all over, on the outskirts. These birds have an impressive range. Could be it's attracted by—you know—dead animals floating around. You might have noticed. I try not to look."
Ernest nodded. He'd seen a cat, all wet and drowned.
"They don't usually eat dog or cat carcasses, though. They don't eat carnivores. Most folks don't know that. They like veggie eaters.” The man winked. “Cows and such."
"No cows around here."
"Something's attracting him. Did you know, vultures are the only birds with a sense of smell? See how he holds his wings out? That's how he disperses body heat. Know why their heads are bald? When they stick ‘em up in a carcass, if they had feathers, all that blood and tissue would cling all over. But since they're bald, that crap just crusts up in the sun and flakes off."
Mr. Encyclopedia, Ernest thought. “I'm hearing everything I never wanted to know about them animals.” He sailed a clipped wave and began paddling. “Good luck, man. Gotta go."
"Name's Jeff. Look, one other thing. Clean forgot. There's an older couple—Memphis Street—just a few blocks, the way you're going. They have the windows open on the second floor, on the lookout for help. They need water. I gave them two gallons, but I only have so much. If you could spare one of those bottles, drop it off, it would be great."
"Sure,” Ernest called over his shoulder. “Will do.” As if. He'd steer clear of those morons. If they were dumb enough to stay behind, they should have stocked up on water.
He pulled hard, eager to get out of sight of the green canoe and that bird with the gristly red noggin. He wet a handkerchief with the drinking water and slapped it on his head to ward off the sun. Dumb, not to have brought along one of Mike's caps. His destination was less than a half mile away, but he felt weak.
He neared a crepe myrtle that had fallen across the street, put out a hand, and grabbed one of its smooth branches. He pulled the canoe under its canopying leaves and retrieved from the canoe's bottom a PowerBar he'd taken from Mike's pantry. Resting in the shade, he munched the bar, mulling over what Jeff had said.
Ernest hadn't seen any of the orange X's Jeff claimed the Coast Guard was painting on houses. He doubted there could be many. This time, though the hurricane had come up fast, people had taken the warnings seriously. Anyone with a car skipped town when the mayor said to. The only ones left behind were poor folks who had no wheels. Most of them were at the Superdome. And then there were people like himself, and this Jeff guy. Jeff had stayed to protect his property. As for himself, he just hadn't given it much thought one way or another.
"Oblivious,” his mother used to say. “A bomb could go off on your head."
Ernest laughed, proud of that trait. But he'd never been as clueless as his mother thought. He just paid attention to different things. Like back when he was eleven and started the paper route he kept until his late teens. He knew the neighborhood better than the mailman, knew everyone's routine. He didn't break into homes often, and he didn't steal a lot. He never got caught: He got even.
At age ten, once the braces came off his legs, his life took a turn for the better. Ten. Best year of his life. He found he had no trouble pedaling a bike. Ernest felt liberated, on top of the world. Trouble was, the kids at school went right on treating him as if his legs were still encased in steel. Getting the paper route made a difference. He earned some money, and he felt like he had power. So he trespassed.
"Time to resume our little cruise,” Ernest said to the boat. He pushed off from the crepe myrtle and wielded the paddle. “Time to resume our journey of discovery.” He paused and tried to remember some words: “Come my friends, ‘tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off—uh—it may be we shall touch the Happy Isles.” That was Ulysses, setting out to get his share of the world's treasures one last time. Neat, that he still remembered that bit from high school.
Quiet. Weird. No car motors, leaf blowers, not even a wimpy breeze. Nothing but the steady plunk of the paddle. And then—wow—before he expected it, there was Marsha Creel's house. Only its top half was visible. Marsha thought she was hot stuff. Two years older than Ernest, she'd sit on her front stoop and flirt with him—pretend flirt, since no way would she ever go out with him. She always had a book open in her lap. Later on, she went to Newcomb, the girls’ part of Tulane. Her senior year she got a Phi Beta Kappa key. Her mother went and told everyone that Marsha'd been “elected” to Phi Beta Kappa. Like, what did that mean? Had she run for office?
In one of her slumming moods, Marsha showed it to him, herself. She was sitting on her front stoop reading a fat book, the squarish key dangling from a gold chain around her neck when he rode up on his bike.
"Neat,” Ernest said, and asked why the key had an imprint of a hand on one side that pointed to three stars.
"It's for scholastic excellence,” she said. “I wish I could wear it out.” She threaded her fingers through the chain with an air of proud ownership.
“But I can't. People say it's tacky to show off.” She sighed. “I guess I have to hide my light under a basket."
Ernest relieved her of that moral quandary two weeks later. The Creels went to A&G cafeteria every Friday night. Ernest entered their house through an unlocked window, made it in and out in ten minutes. Marsha's Phi Beta Kappa key had rested in a white box on her dresser. The box had cupids on top that looked like they were made of wedding cake icing. Like a good girl who knew her etiquette, she hadn't worn it to the A&G.
Weeks later, Marsha sported a new Phi Beta Kappa key. “I lost the first one,” she told him. “Don't know how that happened. The people at PBK were so nice. They sent me another, but I had to pay forty dollars! The first one was free. I'm wearing it when I go out too. I earned it."
Yeah, sure. If getting one was so hard, how come they mailed her another so fast? He could probably get one mail order, himself. But he had hers. He was Phi Beta Kappa without even going to college. Marsha wouldn't have gone out with him in a million years, even if they were the same age, but he'd listened to her self-promoting drivel for years. For that alone, he figured he'd earned his key.
Ernest smiled at the memory, but then the paddle plunked the water and sent up a drop that hit his cheek. His cheek immediately began to itch.
The next house he took notice of was his own. The water came up to the middle of the windows. Ernest floated just above the living room, then glided around to his old bedroom. Hunching over, through the narrow window he could just make out a mattress in there, floating. Did some other kid call this room “jail” now? Well, no more.
He felt an ache come to his throat. The room in which he'd taken the leg braces on and off so many times was rotting in this putrid water. Maybe the house would be torn down. Nothing would be left.
"Get a grip, girl,” Ernest said to the yellow canoe. He smirked. His legs were strong now, if fifty-two years old and knotted with varicose veins. “So long, you old hellhole,” he said to the house as he shoved off and paddled down the street to Mr. Wartburg's, on the corner.
Not smart to tie up out front, he reminded himself. As if he'd been invited over one last time, the gate in the rear was propped open. Ernest glided through its posts and backed the canoe up beneath the branches of a magnolia tree that had fallen in front of the back door. One huge branch had bashed the door down. Convenient. If the tree hadn't performed that little service, breaking in might have been a pain.
The one-story house was raised on piers a bit higher than the others in the neighborhood. Inside the water would probably come up to his chest. He yanked Mike's waders to him. Tired and sweaty as he was, how would he ever be able to get his legs into them and pull the rubber pants and bib up without tipping the canoe? He leaned back and, slowly, laboriously, worked his way into the waders, shooting a hand out to grab a magnolia branch whenever he sensed the canoe might roll.
He snapped the suspenders up and over his shoulders. The waders reached just below his armpits. He slipped a flashlight into a front pocket. Thinking again, he stooped and picked up the second flashlight, slipped it into a lower pocket on the other side. Backup, just in case he dropped the first one.
He took a last long swig of drinking water, and then looped the canoe's tether line around a branch.
How to get out without tipping over? He grabbed a branch above his head and swung above the boat Tarzan style. Just as his arms were giving out, his feet found a foothold on a branch deeper down, just under the water. He eased his weight onto it and inched out, closer and closer to the threshold of Wartburg's house. Soon, he found himself standing on the collapsed door, hands wedged against the jamb on either side, peering in.
His plan was to get in and out as fast as possible. That wouldn't be easy. It was dark inside, and it smelled bad. This back room, the den, was stacked with obstacles. Chairs and end tables had floated in front of the door. He pulled out Mike's flashlight and waved it across the interior. To his right, he could see the opening to the kitchen. There, on its side, door flung open, was what his mother still called the icebox—in this case, a huge white Moby Dick of a refrigerator. Its liberated contents had floated into the den. Plastic containers with yellow and green matter fermenting inside bobbed before him, as did packs of ground meat, grayish-brown and mushy. Ernest winced at the smell. Too bad Wartburg wasn't a veggie eater.
The coin room should smell better than in here. If he remembered right, its door was directly ahead, in line with the back door. When Ernest and his father visited the Wartburgs, they'd been ushered in through the back into the den, as if they weren't good enough to come in the front way. At least that visit helped him to get his bearings today.
Ernest tightened his stomach muscles and held his arms high. He stepped off the door into the room and pushed a package of rotting chicken wings out of his sight. He bobbled, nearly fell. The floor was slippery. If he did fall in, just touching any unprotected part of his body to this polluted water would be horrible enough to make him want to croak on the spot. He balanced between a table that was none too steady and a huge sofa, then he moved forward. The waders felt silly, as the pressure of the water pushed in against his torso and bare legs. The water came to just below the waders’ top edge at mid chest. If he moved too quickly it would pour in. That must not happen. He had to concentrate hard to move forward into the den, flashlight in one hand. This was work, tough work. He would surely be earning the coins he meant to take.
As he moved away from the back door toward the paneled wall, the house grew darker. A second sofa blocked his way. Black, furry mold was already growing on the brocaded upholstery that showed above the waterline. He stepped around the sofa, glad it hadn't landed against the wall, sealing off his entry to the coin room. He shined the light around, and was happy to find that the paneled door was open, if only wide enough to let him in. He hadn't even had to search for it.
Arms still held high, Ernest sucked in his stomach and slid sideways into Wartburg's inner sanctum. It was the same, coin books crawling up the walls, desk to his right, big magnifying glass clamped to its top. He guessed the heavy swivel chair he remembered must be tipped on its side behind it.
Realizing that he'd been holding his stomach muscles tight, Ernest relaxed and took in deep breaths. The air smelled no better in here, maybe worse; but he'd made it in. The canoe was hidden out back under the downed magnolia, though now he sensed that precaution had been unnecessary. He felt no need to rush; he had time to select the treasures he coveted and stick them in the waders’ zippered pockets. Or at least he had as long as he could stand the heat and smell. He could always come back tomorrow, clean the whole collection out if he wanted. Ernest could make a nice chunk of money off these coins. And he'd have plenty of dough without even having to sell his favorite, the three-legged buffalo nickel.
Now, to find it. He stepped forward, too quickly. A trickle of water slid along his right leg, clear down to his socked foot. Slowly, slowly, standing on his toes, he inched ahead, finally reaching the back wall and the long narrow drawers there. The topmost drawers were above water, chest high, the others hidden in the depths. The buffalo nickel had been in the center, top drawer. Had Wartburg changed the arrangement since then? If so, Ernest would have to search every drawer. He closed his eyes, made a wish. Taking care not to make waves, he pulled the drawer out.
Ahh. There it was, neatly sandwiched in its glass display square next to other nickels of outstanding value. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, Ernest lifted the 1937 D three-legged buffalo nickel. He brought the flashlight up with his right hand and let its trembling beam shine on the treasure he'd pined for for over forty years. If he dropped it in this black, foul water, he'd never find it again. The very idea made him stiffen with resolve.
He stuck the flashlight under his left arm, then with his right hand unzipped a slanty pocket in the waders over his heart. He transferred the coin in its holder from his left hand to his right, and with his thumb tamped the thing
down in the little pocket, then pulled the zipper closed.
Eureka. The three-legged buffalo, after all these years, was his.
He was panting. So hot, so hot. He'd collect a few more coins, then get out of this freaking room. This was coin collecting, real coin collecting. More strenuous than prospecting for gold. He opened another drawer, and there, gleaming before him were all the Seated Liberties he'd ever hoped to see. He grabbed a handful. Some sank into the water. Didn't matter. He pulled the spongy neck of his T-shirt open and stuffed what he could down there; he could feel them falling to where the waistband of his cutoffs kept them from falling further.
He'd been holding his arms above water for so long now, he couldn't stand it anymore. He could have stuffed those gold coins into the open pockets of his waders, about thigh high, but that would entail getting his hands and arms wet. Every touch of that water made him shiver and itch. He couldn't hold his arms up much longer.
Why hadn't he brought a bag along, a simple bag? Well, he'd get what he'd collected to his apartment now, then come back with a big plastic bag tomorrow.
A noise sounded—a faint creak. He whipped his head around. Since everything was so quiet, he was extra sensitive to the least sound. Was it the Coast Guard going house to house? Had they landed, this very minute?
Slowly, carefully, to prevent any more water from invading his waders—a plausible story already forming in his mind to feed the Coast Guard, in case those heroes really did show—Ernest moved to the funny paneled door that had stood open just wide enough to let him in. He stuck his head through the opening and craned around.
Directly ahead, through the den to the back door, was the opening that showed Mr. Wartburg's backyard, but the bright light pouring in was blocked by the bulky form of an immense black bird.
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 16