Rescue Me

by Rochon, Farrah

  Chapter Three

  “It’s a good thing I’m not vain,” Renee Moore said after the shower of plaster rained down on her head, sending up another cloud of white dust when it landed at her feet.

  “Well, I am,” her aunt Lorna complained, shaking bits of crushed Sheetrock out of her peppered gray and black hair. “I’m going to get a bottle of water. You want one?”

  “In a minute. I want to finish tearing down this section first.” Renee heaved the bulky sledgehammer over her shoulder, cringing at the ping of pain that shot through her arm as the tool connected with the drywall. She and Aunt Lorna deserved a massage after the work they’d done today.

  Renee mentally reviewed the bank statement she’d pulled up online earlier this morning. There had been enough money for a couple of massages, but not nearly enough to pay for a demolition team to come in and finish tearing down these walls. Of course, the forty thousand dollars her aunt had given the man who’d promised to demolish her house would have gotten the job done. Too bad the lowlife had run off with the money without unscrewing a single lightbulb.

  Of course, if she were wishing for things she could not change, she’d just as well wish that Hurricane Katrina had not blown in and wreaked all this havoc in the first place. It had been three years since the storm and eventual levee breach had flooded her aunt Lorna’s house, and this entire neighborhood still looked like a ghost town. The closest living soul was more than three blocks away.

  Renee had tried to convince her aunt to pack up and move with her to Florida. She winced just thinking about how Aunt Lorna had cursed her out over the phone for suggesting she leave. Renee should have known better than to utter such nonsense.

  Her aunt adored New Orleans. Renee felt the same way. She’d spent every summer here since she was nine years old. Wonderful, glorious summers lived without fear of her father’s belt leaving lash marks on her arms and legs, or hearing her mother scream as that maniacal bastard pounded her with his fists.

  Renee pulled in a deep breath, sucking in the paper mask covering her mouth. Even after all this time, those memories still had the power to panic her.

  “Renee, come on out of there,” she heard Aunt Lorna’s voice call from the front of the house. Renee propped the sledgehammer’s handle against the wall and traipsed over the pile of broken Sheetrock littering the floor. She found her aunt on the porch fishing through a small Styrofoam ice chest.

  “You’ve been in there since you came home from work. Here.” Aunt Lorna shoved a bottle of water at Renee. “It’s time to take a break.”

  Renee pulled the dust mask from her mouth and let it hang just under her chin. “I was going to stop in a minute, anyway,” Renee said. She took a drink from the water bottle, her body sighing in relief as the cold liquid cascaded down her parched throat. Maybe she had gone a little longer than she should have without resting, but it was hard to justify taking a break. There was just so much to do.

  Renee geared up for another battle, already aware of the response she would receive. But the pain in her right arm prompted her to try at least one more time to talk a little sense into her aunt’s head.

  “You do realize we can’t do this on our own, don’t you?” she asked, lowering herself onto the step next to her aunt.

  “I can’t afford to pay anybody to do it for me and I am not taking out a loan on a house that is already paid for.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “And don’t you even suggest that you take out the loan.”

  Renee gripped the water bottle tighter to stop herself from grabbing her aunt’s shoulders and shaking some sense into her.

  “Do you want to be in this house before the year 2020?” Renee asked. “Because at the rate we’re going, that’s how long it will take to get it back into livable condition.”

  “We’re doing just fine on our own.” Lorna sipped her water.

  “I hate to break the news to you, but we are in way over our heads.”

  Her aunt stared straight ahead. She brought the water bottle to her mouth and took a deep, long pull. “You have to go to work tomorrow,” Lorna finally said. “Go on in the trailer. I’ll finish up for today.”

  Renee rolled her eyes at Lorna’s obstinance. She glanced over at the small pop up camper sitting in the front right corner of her aunt’s huge front yard. The trailer, issued by the Federal Emergency Management Agency to the thousands of people who’d lost their homes during Katrina, had been her home since she’d moved to New Orleans. She was tired of living in the cramped quarters, and she knew Aunt Lorna was fed up with living in there, too. But Lorna’s stubbornness trumped comfort every day of the week. She would not take a cent from Renee, even though no amount of money in the world would suffice in paying Lorna back for all she’d done over the years.

  Renee looked over at her aunt, sitting beside her on the dilapidated house’s front step, her shoulders erect with mulish pride. She could talk until she was blue in the face, and it would not do one bit of good where Aunt Lorna was concerned.

  “Come on,” Renee said. She pushed herself up from the step and held her hand out for her aunt. “I can handle another hour. Maybe we can finish tearing down the kitchen today.”

  So this was what being called to the principal’s office felt like.

  Alex tapped a nervous rhythm on his thigh as he waited for Principal Green to enter her office. The only time he had ever been called to the principal’s office was to receive a certificate for having the highest grade point average in the tenth grade. He had never been a troublemaker. But, apparently, he was raising one.

  “Mr. Holmes?”

  Alex jumped out of his seat. “Mrs. Green.” He nodded.

  “Thanks for coming. Is everything okay?” she asked, motioning to his bandaged shoulder.

  Alex waved off her concern. “I had an accident on the job a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Recovery is going well. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Please, have a seat,” she said as she rounded her desk. “Would you like any water? Coffee?”

  “I’m fine,” Alex declined her offer. He took the seat he’d occupied for the past ten minutes.

  “Give me just a moment to jot down a few things before I forget them,” she said as she made notes on a desk calendar like the one on his desk at Holmes Construction.

  Principal Green was probably in her late fifties. From the numerous awards and certificates on the wall behind her, she was dedicated to educating children, and had been for a very long time. Alex had only met her briefly at the parent/teacher conference that kicked off the new school year last month.

  She capped her pen and returned it to the Teachers Deserve an A+ coffee mug that held a dozen or so writing utensils. She folded her hands on the desk and smiled.

  “So, we’re here to discuss ways we can help Jasmine,” Principal Green opened.

  “I need to know exactly what she needs help with,” Alex answered. “What’s been going on?”

  “Mrs. Overland will be joining us in just a few minutes,” the principal said. “Her preparation hour starts at the next bell.”

  Almost as if she’d planned it, a high pitched whirling sounded throughout the office.

  The principal pulled out a folder. Jasmine Holmes was printed in bold letters on the label. Principal Green flipped through a few sheets, then stopped at a yellow carbon copy.

  “This incident happened this past Wednesday,” she said. “It’s what prompted her teacher to call this conference.” She handed the paper to Alex.

  As he read over the report, Alex was convinced the teacher had mistakenly called in the wrong parent. There was no way his daughter had engaged in such behavior.

  As Alex continued his study of the incident report, disbelief mingled with growing anger at the thought of Jasmine calling her teacher a fat cow and throwing a chalkboard eraser across the classroom. If this turned out to be true, she was punished until next year.
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  There was a knock on the door. Jasmine’s teacher, Mrs. Overland, entered the office.

  Alex rose again and awkwardly offered up his left hand to shake. He’d met the slightly plump woman with gray sprinkled throughout her red hair at the parent/teacher conference, too. Alex had meant to make the first PTO meeting of the year and the other meeting that was held to discuss the first grade class’s scheduled field trips, but something had come up at work both times.

  A sour taste settled in his mouth as he swallowed the familiar excuse. He was falling back into the same behavior that had cost him so much already, putting the business before his family. It had been Chantal’s biggest complaint. She’d constantly accused Alex of paying more attention to Holmes Construction than he did to her. She’d told him, point blank, that the time he spent at Holmes Construction was the reason she’d gone out and found herself someone who appreciated her as a woman.

  But, damn it, she and Jasmine were the reasons he worked so hard in the first place. It was a catch-22. How else could he provide for his family if he didn’t work so hard?

  “I see Principal Green shared what happened on Wednesday.” Mrs. Overland pointed to the incident report as she took the other seat that faced the principal’s desk.

  “I’m sorry she said those things,” Alex apologized.

  “It wasn’t what she said. She’s said those things before. It was throwing the eraser that I could not tolerate. Another student could have been injured.”

  “Wait, what do you mean she’s said those things before?” Alex asked.

  “Jasmine has said quite a few mean things during her outbursts.”

  Alex turned his full attention to Mrs. Overland. “How often has this happened?”

  “Several times over the past couple of weeks,” the teacher answered.

  “How many times is several?”

  The principal pulled three more yellow carbon copies out of the file. “These document what has occurred since the end of the month.”

  Alex flipped through the pages, his anger escalating by the millisecond. “Why am I just hearing about this?”

  “In most disciplinary situations, we encourage our teachers to handle as much as they can without resorting to parental involvement,” Principal Green began. “It’s part of our conflict resolution initiative. Students are taught how to manage disagreements on their own instead of constantly running to mommy and daddy. We find it fosters a sense of independence in the students.”

  “We also want to be sensitive to your current circumstances,” Mrs. Overland interjected. “We know you’ve been dealing with your wife’s death as well.”

  “I do not use my wife’s death as an excuse and Jasmine is not allowed to do so, either.”

  “Jasmine is not alone in her behavior. So many of our students have been under added mental stress dealing with the aftereffects of Hurricane Katrina.”

  “Jasmine didn’t lose her home or any of her millions of possessions in Katrina. There’s no excuse for this.”

  Principal Green clasped her hands together over her desk. “Mr. Holmes, we’d like permission to send Jasmine to the school psychologist. That’s the customary first step when we suspect a child is undergoing some type of mental trauma.”

  She would undergo some serious mental trauma when she got home and found the television and computer off limits.

  “When would she meet with the psychologist?” Alex asked.

  “Actually, two of the students who were set up to meet with him are absent, so Dr. Powell would be able to see Jasmine this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Alex said. “Should I join them?”

  “No, the initial meeting will be with Jasmine and Dr. Powell. If he feels there should be further counseling, he will write a referral to an outside mental health professional, and you would be included in that dialogue.”

  “Okay, so she meets with the psychologist today. Does she have detention or something for throwing the eraser?”

  “No, no, we don’t send first graders to detention,” Mrs. Overland said.

  “Maybe you should, that would nip the bad behavior in the bud,” Alex suggested.

  “We know this is frustrating, Mr. Holmes,” the principal continued. “Once Jasmine is done with Dr. Powell, we’ll call you in to discuss what came out in her session.”

  Alex nodded. “You should have contacted me as soon as she began acting up. You can always call if something is happening with Jasmine, no matter how small. If I’m not available, my mother is always there.”

  “Well, I’m happy we were able to get you in today,” Mrs. Overland said. To the principal she said, “I need to get some things done for my next class period.”

  “Of course,” Principal Green said. “This is about all we can discuss at this stage, anyway.” She rose from the chair behind the desk. Alex and Mrs. Overland followed suit.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Holmes,” Principal Green said. “I’ll give you a call later this afternoon.”

  “Thanks for letting me know about all of this,” Alex said. “I’m sorry Jasmine has been causing so many problems.”

  “It really isn’t anything we haven’t seen before,” she assured him. “My main concern is finding out what is at the root of her behavior.”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Alex said.

  “Don’t worry yourself too much over this, Mr. Holmes.”

  Why did everyone keep telling him that? As if he wouldn’t worry about his daughter turning into a menace. “I just want to make sure Jasmine is okay,” Alex said.

  After all, she was all he had.

  This was not his cup of tea. Not at all.

  Seated on a high stool at the curved bar that occupied the left wall of the Hard Court, Alex studied the social scene before him. Things had changed since the days when he used to go out. Not that he’d ever been big into clubs, but he’d visited a few back in the day. Back then, couples actually danced together. Here, the women danced in groups of five or six while most of the men in the club stood to the side and ogled. A few young bucks were brave enough to step up to the women; the lucky ones actually got to join in on the dancing.

  The Hard Court was the brainchild of Toby’s former college basketball teammate Jonathan Campbell. In the six months since its doors first opened, the Hard Court had become one of the most popular nightclubs in New Orleans. Alex had to admit, the place was class with a capital C, and its clientele were the type of people he would probably choose to hang out with—if he ever had the time or the inclination to hang out. Personally, at the end of the day, Alex preferred to wind down on his couch with a banana smoothie and the History Channel.

  Damn. Secrets of the Egyptian Pyramids was on to night. He’d forgotten all about it.

  Alex spotted Eli as he entered the club. He caught his brother’s attention and waved him over.

  “What’s up, man?” Eli said, patting Alex on his uninjured shoulder. “You want to go upstairs and get a bite to eat?”

  The Hard Court’s second level sported a full service bistro that had just received top honors in a local restaurant guide, and had added to the club’s astonishing success.

  “Nah, I’m good,” Alex answered. “They’ll bring us an appetizer to the booth down here, right?”

  “That’s if we can get a booth,” Eli said, his eyes roaming over the steadily thickening crowd.

  “Jonathan said we could have the one over there.” Alex pointed to the corner. “He said he’d join us a little later.” He motioned Eli to follow him. “I’ll signal for one of the waitresses to bring some of those breaded cheese sticks I had the last time I was here.”

  “That sounds good,” Eli said. “And I think the correct term is hostess, not waitress.”

  The twelve booths that rimmed the interior wall of the Hard Court’s bottom floor were partially curtained, allowing occupants a mea sure of privacy, yet still a view of the dance floor and raised stage where they could take in perf
ormances by some of New Orleans’s hottest acts. A hostess came up to their booth less than a minute after they had taken their seats.

  “Hi there, Eli,” she said.

  “Tamika, how’s it going?” Eli scooted from the booth and stood, giving the hostess a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  “Where’s Monica?”

  “Work. I dragged my brother here to night instead.”

  “Oh, this is your brother?” The woman’s eyes glistened with instant interest, and Alex’s guard went on full alert. “I’d heard there were three of you.” She smiled.

  “This is Alex,” Eli introduced him. “He’s the oldest.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hello.” Alex nodded. “We want some of those cheese sticks. They still serve those?”

  “The breaded mozzarella sticks? We sure do.” She inclined her head, still smiling.

  “Yeah, and can we have an extra cup of sauce?”

  “Mozzarella sticks with an extra side of marinara. Anything else?” she asked, that smile even wider. Alex turned his attention to the glossy card advertising the Hard Court’s upcoming music acts.

  “We’ll order drinks a little later,” Eli said. Alex’s head rose at the irritation he heard in his brother’s voice.

  The hostess mumbled something into the microphone extending from her headset. “I just put in your order. It should be out in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, Tamika,” Eli said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Alex said.

  As soon as she left their table, Eli fired at him, “What in the hell is wrong with you, man?”

  “You didn’t want the cheese sticks?” Alex asked.

  “Forget the cheese sticks,” Eli spat. “Alex, can’t you tell when a woman is flirting with you?”

  “Who?”

  “Who?” Eli’s eyes bucked. “Weren’t you sitting right here? You didn’t realize Tamika was flirting with you?”

  “She took our order, E, that’s all. Why are you always reading more into stuff than you should?”

  “She couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d ripped her clothes off and sat in your lap.”

  “She wasn’t flirting,” Alex stated.