Another Kind of Hurricane
Page 18
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“Henry,” Zavion said quietly, looking over the cliff, “it wasn’t your fault.”
The clouds were making a wider circle around the sun. Its rays filtered down through the trees and lit up the ground like it was singing its own sun-rendition of “This Little Light of Mine.”
“You wanna hear something weird?” said Henry. Zavion nodded. “I felt more at home in New Orleans than I have felt anywhere else since Wayne died.”
“I feel that way about this mountain.” Zavion paused for a moment. “I sort of wish my mother had climbed it. I wish her face was carved across the pinnacle….”
The boys stood still. The woods seemed to stand still too. No rain falling. No wind blowing. Brae was on the ground between Henry and Zavion. He crossed one of his paws in front of the other and licked the mud from between his toes. His licking became the only sound.
—
Henry unclipped the leash. “Wanna climb to the top?” he said.
Zavion touched the marble in his pocket, tightened his scarf around his neck, and nodded.
chapter 81
ZAVION AND HENRY
They made it to the top.
The shiny white rock was jagged. It wasn’t slippery like the gray rock had been.
“What is that?” asked Zavion.
“Quartz,” said Henry.
A thick fog had rolled in and it was hard to see very far ahead, but the boys could place the heels of their shoes against raised pieces of quartz to keep their balance as they climbed up the last bit of the mountain.
A bird sang from a nearby shrub.
“What is that?” asked Zavion.
“A white-throated sparrow,” said Henry. “They sound like chickadees underwater.”
“You’re kidding.”
“They do, though, don’t they?”
The bird sang again.
“Wow, yeah. They’d feel at home in New Orleans right about now.”
They came around a bend and into a clearing. Instantly the trees became shrubs and the dirt gave way to long sheets of rock. The wind whipped through the air. Brae chased it, his ears perked up and his tail held high.
“What is that?” Zavion asked, pointing at the dense, low shrubs off to the side of the trail.
“Tundra,” said Henry. “Cool, huh?”
“That’s how high we are?”
“That’s how high.”
Henry wished they could see farther than a few feet in front of them. Zavion had come all this way and Henry wanted to show him the view.
Zavion walked closer to what he thought was the edge of the mountain, but then he stopped because he couldn’t see far enough in front of his face and he was afraid of falling. He looked down at the ground instead.
“It looks like a marble,” he said.
“What does?” asked Henry.
“The rock. Look at it.”
The rock was swirls of gray and white and even green. It did. It looked like a giant marble.
Henry walked to the center of the largest sheet of rock. He got down on his hands and knees and ran his fingers along its swirling lines.
How had he never noticed that before?
Brae stopped chasing the wind and stood still, his ears perked up high, and then he tore off into the tundra. Zavion took the marble out of his pocket and held it up to the sky. Its blue oceans and green mountains and its very own blazing sun broke through the fog and glowed.
Henry leaned over to look at the marble.
“Maybe this is Louisiana right here,” he said, pointing to a spot of green.
“And this is North Carolina,” said Zavion pointing too.
“So then maybe this is Grandmother Mountain,” said Henry.
“And this is Vermont,” said Zavion.
“And this is Mount Mansfield.”
“And this is its peak.”
“And this is—” Brae barked and Henry turned his head. “Jeezum Crow—”
“What?” said Zavion, turning to look where Henry was staring.
“Tiger,” Henry whispered. Brae lay in the tundra, and walking back and forth under his chin was a small striped cat. Henry stared at Tiger, who finally saw him and stared back, his yellow eyes piercing Henry’s. He sauntered over to Henry and Zavion. Henry dropped to his knees as if the whole sky had just pushed against his shoulders.
“Nopie was right,” Henry whispered. “Tiger’s been looking for Wayne.”
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ZAVION AND HENRY
The wind blew the fog away, and the boys could see down into the valley.
“I haven’t seen color in so long,” said Zavion.
“Yeah, New Orleans was gray,” said Henry. “I mean literally gray.”
Zavion laughed. “True,” he said.
After they stood silent for a while, Zavion offered the marble to Henry. “Do you want this back?”
Henry took the marble in his hand. He stared at it. Then he pulled his arm back like he was getting ready to pitch a baseball.
“I could just throw it over the edge,” he said. But then he dropped his arm. “Nah, I can’t.” He tossed it into the air and caught it again. Then he handed it back to Zavion. “I think you should have it,” he said.
Zavion turned the marble over and over in his hand. “You’re sure you want to give it to me?” he said.
Henry felt his boots standing firm on the rock. He felt the wind biting the edges of his ears. He peered into the valley, saw a break in the trees, and wondered if that was his dirt road, wondered if he could see his house. He glanced down. Brae and Tiger lay curled together on the tundra, their fur soaking up the sun.
“I’m sure,” he said.
“Maybe Papa can help us paint a mural on that wall,” said Zavion. “The one under the ledge. You know, where we waited out the storm? We could paint a face—”
“A few faces, maybe. That would be cool,” said Henry. “Maybe we can ask Nopie to help.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I just said that.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh! Cockroach!”
“Nopie?”
“Huh? Oh no, no. The answer is cockroach. The name of an insect that can live for a few weeks with its head cut off. Cockroach.” Henry reached down to give Tiger a pat on the head. “Knowing Nopie, he probably can too.” He and Zavion laughed. “Tell Skeet for me, okay?”
Zavion felt his sneakers standing firm on the rock. He felt the wind stinging the inside of his nose. He peered into the valley, saw a break in the trees, and wondered if that was the dirt road that led to Jake’s house. He had done it. He had climbed to the top of the mountain.
“Maybe you can tell Skeet yourself. When you visit me in New Orleans…,” Zavion said.
“You think you’re going back?”
“I think so,” said Zavion. “I think Papa wants to stay there. I think I want to too.”
“I’d like that,” said Henry. “To visit you there.”
“I could give you the marble when you come.”
“I might want it by then.”
“Until you come,” said Zavion, unwinding the scarf from around his neck, “keep this, okay?”
marble journey part VI
ZAVION AND HENRY
It wasn’t about luck. It never had been. The marble practically had a string attached to it. Henry saw that clearly now. Zavion saw it. The marble had a sort of magic. Back and forth. Back and forth, weaving between them. And it wasn’t just in the marble. It was in the whole world. The magic was in the space between. In all the pieces connecting.
In all the pieces connecting, falling apart, and connecting again.
The wind blew and the fog rolled right back in, covering everything. It was as if the valley had never been there. But it was there. Henry had seen it. Zavion had seen it. Like their joy and even like their fear, it would seem to come and go, but it didn’t change the fact that the valley was there all the time.
The wind blew a third time, and the fog disappeared once again.
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“Does that happen often up here?” said Zavion.
“Yup,” said Henry. “All you have to do is wait a few seconds, and things change.”
—
Henry and Zavion stood on the edge of the mountain, on the edge of the earth, where the sun and the moon shine over rivers and valleys, oceans and forests, cities and farmland. They breathed in and out, in and out, a spiral of mountain and river and air, a spiral of dog and cat and bird, a spiral of boy and boy and a marble traveling between them.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Five years ago my life changed. Tropical Storm Irene swept through my state of Vermont, my town, my street, and my home—and all of a sudden I was inside Another Kind of Hurricane in a way I had never, ever imagined.
I know, now, how floodwater smells. How heavy flood mud is, and how it sticks to everything it touches. I know what it feels like to walk down a block lined with more refrigerators than trees and more garbage than grass. Facing cleanup is lonely—deep-in-the-bones lonely—and it’s also a lesson in losing control. Part of that loss of control means surrendering to the awful thing that has happened, but another part means accepting help—from friends and from strangers. And that’s why I also know what it feels like to have a stranger walk up my front steps and ask if she can take the pile of muddy, wet laundry from my yard and wash it for me—and to not know what to say—and to finally say yes—and to have my life change forever because of that one word.
Put simply, that stranger and I—we became friends.
And this is just what happens between Henry and Zavion.
I got the idea for Another Kind of Hurricane from my oldest son, who, when he was four, asked the question, “Who exactly is going to get my blue jeans?” as we dropped off a bag of food and clothing for the Hurricane Katrina Relief Drive at the Vermont State Police barracks in September of 2005.
I read many articles and blogs and books as research for this story. I interviewed people. I watched countless documentaries. Hurricane Katrina was the largest and third-strongest hurricane to touch the United States, ever. It reached Category 5 proportions, with wind speeds up to 175 miles per hour and a storm surge—the rising of the sea based on atmospheric pressure and wind speed—of 20 feet high. About 80 percent of New Orleans was underwater during Katrina, and almost one million families in the Gulf Coast region were forced to live outside of their homes for at least a while. The list of incredible facts goes on and on.
But the facts don’t describe the amazing people who were affected by Katrina. People like:
• Caleb and Thelma Emery, who, with their kids, took as many as twenty-five people at a time—mostly family, but not all—into their three-bedroom, two-bathroom home in Baton Rouge just after Katrina hit. Despite the chaos and loss, they were able to find joy and fun and a sense of community. These are the people after whom Skeet and his home are modeled.
• Donna Powell, who had only just begun her 911 Parrot Alert website when Katrina left thousands of birds homeless or trapped in homes. She immediately became the bird-rescue guru, traveling into New Orleans to search for birds and bring them back to her home in Baton Rouge, where she cared for them and tried to reunite them with their owners. Diana is based on Donna.
• Chris Cressionnie, a painter, who, after Katrina struck New Orleans, would drop his son off at school and drive his 1994 Chevy Blazer up and down the streets, looking for magnets on abandoned refrigerators, which he would then put on his car. My magnet artist is a tribute to Chris.
• Marco St. John, the artist turned house painter who inspired Skeet’s business idea.
• And Ellen Montgomery, the woman whose practice of using roof tiles as canvases I borrowed.
That list goes on and on too.
After all of that research, I felt as though I knew—as best I could—what it had been like during those harrowing days of the hurricane. I felt emotionally connected to the incredible people who had survived such a tragic disaster. And it was from this place that I wrote Another Kind of Hurricane. I hope Henry and Zavion’s story does justice to the resilient, beautiful people of New Orleans, but I recognize, after Tropical Storm Irene, that I can’t ever know someone else’s perspective exactly. What I’ve come to realize is that striving for knowledge and empathy, while accepting that we might not be able to totally get it, is truly the best we can do.
There is magic within the pages of Another Kind of Hurricane: how one boy in Vermont and another boy in New Orleans can come together in such a strange and stunning way. And I wonder, now, if my experience with Tropical Storm Irene is a part of that magic. Regardless, it has become an accidental author’s gift—a window into the truth of my characters’ lives. I am eternally grateful for that.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A marble has magic when it is passed back and forth. This is the truth. And this book passed between the most amazing and generous hands, making extraordinary magic in the process.
My appreciation goes to Sarah Bertucci, Pat Bertucci, Leslie Helakoski, Alice Fothergill, Katie Speck, the volunteers at 911 Parrot Alert, Mark Waller, John McCusker, and Kenneth John Rayes, who kindly answered my questions about Hurricane Katrina. Thanks to Sarah DeBacher. Thanks to Laura Paul and the wonderful lowernine.org, and to Phil Bildner for leading me to them both.
Vital research materials informed this book, and I am grateful to their writers. Any logistical or factual errors are mine alone. Particularly significant were articles in the Times-Picayune, the book Unfathomable City: A New Orleans Atlas by Rebecca Solnit and Rebecca Snedeker, and the films Trouble the Water, produced and directed by Tia Lessin and Carl Deal, and The Axe in the Attic, produced and directed by Ed Pincus and Lucia Small. Chris Rose’s 1 Dead in Attic: After Katrina was invaluable. Many details in my book were adapted from his experience. I thank Chris for his generosity.
Thanks to the wonderful people at Vermont College of Fine Arts, especially Sharon Darrow, Julie Larios, David Gifaldi, and Margaret Bechard. To Uma Krishnaswami and Kathi Appelt: Henry and Zavion wouldn’t have their story without you.
To the Unreliable Narrators, who are anything but unreliable, you rock. To Kelly Bennett, Trinity Peacock-Broyles, Erin Moulton, Kerry Castano, Katie Mather, Sarah Tomp, Cindy Faughnan, and Sharry Phelan Wright: An I couldn’t have done this without you that stretches from Vermont to Louisiana.
In 2008, SCBWI awarded me a runner-up Work-in-Progress grant for this book and PEN New England gave me a runner-up Discovery Award. Thanks to both incredible organizations for believing in my work.
A bucketful of gratitude to Jo Knowles, Adam Sherman, Lisa Condon, Kara Wires, Cody, Rebecca Roose, Hannah Rabin, Stef and Guthrie Hartsfield, and Alice Pollvogt. Thanks to Lee Rosen, Jean Kelly, Maryanne MacKenzie, Carole Coggio, Molly Dugan, Ellen Kraft, Amy Adams, Jen Heney, Sydney Long, Scott Kalter, and Dave Sobel. To Rae Barone, Ben Bush, and the On The Rise family: I could not have written this anywhere else.
I am deeply humbled by Jeannie Mobley, Liz Garton Scanlon, Audrey Vernick, Cynthia Levison, Jean Reidy, Laura Resau, Ruth McNally Barshaw, and C. G. Watson. You helped light this story’s path. Thank you, Conrad Wesselhoeft, Mary Lyn Ray, and Mary Hershey too.
Erin Murphy, remember digging up that marble in your garden? You thought it was a good sign. Me too. How do I express just how much growing stories with you in the dirt means to me?
And, Annie Kelley, how did I get so lucky? Your grace, passion, and wisdom are as high and wide as Mount Mansfield. My respect and gratitude for you are the same. I adore collaborating with you. Thank you, too, to Anne Schwartz, Lee Wade, Rachael Cole, Colleen Fellingham, Christine Ma, and Christopher Silas Neal.
Huge hugs to my siblings and their children—Callie Smith; Dan and Jess Smith; Mia, Henry, and Cameron Smith; Rebekah Smith; Jordan Allard; and Tobin Calder—and to my parents, Hank and Kathy Smith.
Finally, unending love to Derek Miodownik and our children, Lucaiah, Zoran, Tavia, and Jafeth. The first draft of this story was called A Marble
Looks Like Home. For me, home looks like you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tamara Ellis Smith earned her MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She lives in Richmond, Vermont, with her family. This is her first novel. Visit her on the Web at tamaraellissmith.com.