That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  After rifling through the various paper folders on his desk, he selected the ones he would need this day and filed them into his reporter’s bag. At noon, he locked his door and headed for an inevitable confrontation that had the potential for ruining the rest of his life.

  When Jack arrived at his family’s house, his father, George Durand, Jr., was busy pulling out extra folding chairs from the storage shed at the back of the property that abutted Gallier Street. The small wooden structure stood to the rear of his parents’ jaunty royal blue bungalow, built in the 1940s, with its white trim and bright blue concrete steps leading to the front door.

  For as long as his son could remember, “G Junior”—as his dad was known—was the one member of the large, extended family that was counted upon to solve a mechanical problem, or simply get things done, and had earned the reputation as Mr. Reliable. His professional life as a hydraulic engineer was spent overseeing the health of the various French Quarter pumping stations. Even during Katrina, he and his colleagues had kept the tropical downpours from flooding this particular region beyond one or two feet deep.

  Over the years as the older generations had passed away, most Durand family dinners tended to be hosted by him and Jack’s mother, the former Sylvie Toinard, at the rambling wooden bungalow that had amply housed their three children while they were growing up. The house still provided a home for Jack’s youngest sister Sylvia. The twenty-six-year-old, now two months out of rehab, appeared to be holding her own, as his mother had whispered in his ear before he’d wandered out of her kitchen with a beer in hand to find his uncles sitting on the screen porch.

  Before any of the guests sat down at the family table, Jack was determined to corner his father’s brothers, Jacques and Vincent, alone. He found them nursing their bourbons and talking about the previous football season while the women scurried about in the kitchen, preparing the two o’clock Sunday meal.

  “Hey, there... how y’all doing?” Jack ventured, pulling up a straight-backed wooden chair.

  After a few perfunctory pleasantries were exchanged, Jack casually brought up the fact he’d recently been assigned some stories that would probably run during the tenth anniversary of Katrina, in late August.

  “You know, I’m curious, Uncle J,” he began what he’d known for some time, now, would be a difficult conversation. “What do you remember about the improvements that supposedly were made on the Seventeenth Street Canal back in the early nineteen eighties?”

  Jacques took a slow sip from his highball glass.

  “Nothing, really,” he grunted. “Just that we were supposed to shore up what was already there.”

  “Did they ever ask you to sign off on any of the plans?” Jack asked, knowing full well that his uncle had put his signature on the fateful documents that allowed pilings to be under-engineered, rather than sunk to a far greater depth which the outside consulting engineers had mandated back then.

  “God, Almighty!” Jacques replied, shooting his nephew a hard look. “That’s more than thirty years ago! What’re you asking about that again, for? How can you expect an ole’ man like me to remember what I did back then?”

  “You’re not old, Uncle J,” Jack replied. “You’re in your late fifties.”

  “Well, I feel old! I’ve been retired since the last time y’all wrote about the storm, remember? As far as I’m concerned, it’s ancient history.”

  “Well, what about you, Uncle Vincent?” Jack pressed, turning to address Jacques’ older brother. “You served on the Levee Board all those years. Did your inspections set off any alarm bells before Katrina?”

  Vincent gazed speculatively at his nephew.

  “Am I being officially interviewed, here, son?” he asked. “Is this a set-up for another of your ex-po-zays? ’Cause if it is, no comment!”

  Jack could feel his heart speed up. He bent over in his chair and opened the briefcase he’d stowed at his feet and pulled out a copy of the document he’d located that contained Jacques Durand’s signature okaying the design specs for the 1982 retrofit of the 17th Street Canal. He handed it to his uncle.

  “Good God, where did you dig this up?” Vince exclaimed, peering over his younger brother’s shoulder.

  “Through the Freedom of Information Act.”

  Jack noted that Jacques’ hands shook slightly as he squinted and bent over to gain a closer look at the piece of paper with his signature at the bottom, clear as day.

  “I was twenty-four-years-old when I signed that,” he murmured, staring at it as if it were some ghost, come back to haunt him.

  “This don’t mean nothing!” Vincent scoffed. “Jacques, here, didn’t have a clue what it was all about back then, did you Jacques? Nobody did.”

  Jack shrugged. “Well, I found some stuff that said there were some outside consultants back then who strongly recommended sinking those pilings another twenty-thirty feet or so beyond the ten feet that the Army Corps ultimately decided upon. Did either of you know about their findings?”

  He handed over a page of the consultant’s report with the ignored references highlighted in yellow.

  Vince glared at his nephew.

  “Why the hell are you rehashing all this stuff?” he demanded. “Why put your nose in where it doesn’t belong?” He scowled at the offending documents. “Trying to make a bigger name for yourself, are you, now that that paper of yours is on the ropes? Think another Pu-lit-zer Prize for a bunch of lies and innuendoes will do the trick?” Vince shook his head, making no effort to disguise his disgust. “I bet you’re just trying to line up your next job at the expense of your own family. You should hang your head in shame, boy!”

  “I’m just doing the job I have now,” Jack replied evenly.

  Vincent Durand had never had one good word to say about the environmental movement that Jack had reported on for years. He often commented that he thought the notion of climate change was cooked up “by those California yahoos trying to sell us solar panels!”

  To Jacques, Jack said, “These documents here are part of the public record. I wanted to give you both a chance to explain. The anniversary series is trying to put all the pieces together as to why Katrina hit the city so hard when it was only a Category One the hour it actually made landfall near here. We’re trying to evaluate if it could happen again.”

  “There’s nothing I want to say about this,” Jacques mumbled, handing the papers back.

  “Well, I have something to say to you, boy!” Vincent exclaimed heatedly. “You just let sleeping dogs lie, you hear me?”

  With a mounting sense of dread, Jack pulled from his reporter’s bag several documents chronicling Levee Board meetings that showed the supposed watchdog group that Vincent Durand had served on for years clocked more time eating on the taxpayers’ dime at fancy New Orleans restaurants than inspecting the levees they were charged with overseeing.

  “That’s an old story, full of lies!” Vincent sneered. “The T-P tried to stir that pot right after Katrina, and you might have noticed, the Orleans Levee Board doesn’t even exist anymore, as of 2007!”

  “That’s because it was vilified, dissolved, and then replaced by new regional flood protection authorities,” Jack corrected his uncle in a level tone.

  “And not a single one of us serving on those boards went to jail!”

  “True,” Jack agreed. He pointed to the papers in his hand that outlined various conflicts-of-interest that arose because the old levee district generated its revenues from the Lakefront Airport, a marina, and a casino—enterprises that had little to do with flood control. One report characterized the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers as having been “forced to partner” with politically appointed officials like former barge captain, Vincent Durand, who had no hydraulic engineering experience, nor had ever been engaged in any aspect of the business of flood protection.

  “The levees you oversaw back then, Uncle Vince, are the very levees that failed the worst during Katrina. I wondered if you could explain how this.
.. this way of conducting the levee board’s business came about over the years. Believe it or not, I’m actually trying to understand—with the hindsight of ten years—how all the aspects of the disaster fit together.”

  “I thought you were a swamp-loving environmental reporter,” Vince jeered, “not some ambulance-chasing self-appointed investigator!”

  Jack was getting angry now.

  “This is probably one of the biggest environmental stories in the history of the country!” he retorted. “Even you can’t dispute the fact that the conduct of the Levee Board and the Army Corps are a huge part of what happened to New Orleans as a result of Katrina.”

  “Now look here, boy,” Vincent replied, his voice so low it was close to a growl. “I’m going say this once and then I hope you understand that you’d better shut the fuck up about all this ancient history! Nobody wants to hear it. Katrina happened a decade ago. Worry about the next hurricane, will ya?”

  “That’s exactly what I am worried about,” Jack countered, sensing that his grip on his own temper was slipping. “I’m very worried. Some experts say the new levees and walls weren’t rebuilt strong enough—and for the same kinds of corruption and conflicts-of-interest we had before.”

  “You calling me corrupt?” Vincent demanded, his voice rising.

  “I’m just asking you questions!” Jack retorted. “Ten years later, I’m still trying to answer questions for the families of the eighteen hundred citizens who died—and for everyone else who saw this city wrecked!”

  A deadly silence invaded the back screen porch. Jack could hear the traffic rattling by on Royal and Gallier streets.

  Jacques’ shoulders slumped and he took another large sip of bourbon, avoiding Jack’s gaze. Meanwhile, Vincent’s eyes had narrowed to slits in his fleshy face and his fists were curled like a pugilist, ready to throw a punch. Jack suddenly wondered what it had been like for his younger cousins Mary Lou and Michael to grow up in combative Uncle Vince’s household across Lake Pontchartrain in the nearly all-white town of Covington.

  Vincent raised his index finger and began shaking it at Jack.

  “Katrina or no Katrina, there are alligators out there in the swamp who could eat you alive, you know what I’m saying, boy? They could do our family great harm, you hear me? I’m telling you: ignore all this crap! No one will thank you for digging up this shit! No one!”

  Jack’s heart felt like a stone in his chest as he stared at his two uncles—one silent, the other red-faced and appearing he might be close to having a stroke. However, before he could ask any further questions, Jack’s younger sister, Sylvia, poked her head through the door and called them all to dinner.

  “Mama says everyone’s to come to the table, now.”

  Jacques and Vincent barely grumbled a reply, but Jack managed to summon a smile, saying, “Thanks, sweetheart. We’re coming right in.”

  “Sit next to me?” Sylvia offered, her eyes darting from her brother to their uncles who remained silent and hadn’t made a move to rise from their wooden chairs.

  “You betcha,” Jack replied, glad for an excuse to follow her out the door and avoid any additional conversation. “And I wonder if I could interest you in helping me out a little bit to find a present for our sister’s birthday this week. Marielle’s coming up on the Big Three-Eight, you know...”

  Sylvia happily linked her arm through his and replied, “Easy-Louisey! Just get her anything that has to do with animals.”

  “Well... that’s always a possibility,” he allowed, “but I was thinking about something strictly for her. Give it some thought, will you? A new dress? A piece of nice jewelry? Tickets to the Saints’ game? For instance, what would you like? That might give us some ideas.”

  Sylvia’s startled gaze told Jack the sad fact that she’d probably seldom been asked what she’d like. She offered him the sweetest look and squeezed his arm.

  “I will think some... and call you on your cell.”

  “Great. Then we can go shopping together, and maybe grab lunch?”

  Jack thought how wonderful it would be to bring along Serena on such a venture. She’d probably have some great ideas as well, though after his recent exchange with his uncles, his worries about the links between their two families came back like floodwaters roaring down the Mississippi.

  “It’ll be fun,” Sylvia whispered, bringing his thoughts back to the Durand dining room. She nodded in the direction of Marielle and her husband who were already seated at the big, oval table where guests sat elbow-to-elbow. She squeezed his arm again. “It’s great having you home, bro. Sometime, I want you to tell me all about Venice. I’d love to visit there someday.”

  It was the most enthusiasm on any subject he’d heard from Sylvia in an age. What would his little sister say if she knew how much her big brother loved Venice and the woman he’d met there?

  As soon as the stragglers sat down, large bowls of gumbo and rice were passed around and the conversation was lively—with the noticeable exception of Jacques and Vincent Durand who, immediately following the main meal, refused the offer of dessert. In their next breath, both made excuses to their startled wives and off-spring, explaining to the puzzled faces looking at them from around the dining table that they had a poker game starting in ten minutes at the VFW.

  Two days later, Jack met his younger sister Sylvia for lunch at Herbsaint on St. Charles Avenue after purchasing a hand blown glass heart for Marielle’s up-coming birthday that Sylvia had found at New Orleans Glassblowers on Magazine Street.

  “It’s perfect as a paperweight to hold down all those files on rescued animals that pile up on Marielle’s desk,” he congratulated her, and then put a second gift-wrapped box on the table between them.

  “What’s this?” Sylvia asked, looking pleased.

  “Open it,” Jack said with a smile.

  His sister carefully picked off the ribbon and removed the top of the box.

  “For me?” she squealed. “A pink heart like M’s red one? I love it!”

  “I bought it behind your back when you were looking at the glass candle sticks,” he revealed smugly. “I expect if you’re back helping out at the shelter, you have a few files on your own desk, right? I figured if you liked the paperweight well enough to give it to your sister for her birthday, you might want one for yourself.”

  Sylvia’s eyes were luminous and she clasped her present to her chest.

  “Thank you so much, Jackie. This is so nice of you.”

  “It’s just a little symbol to remind you how happy I am to have you home and looking so well.”

  Sylvia dropped her eyes to the table and said in a low voice, “Me too, you.”

  “Look, Syl, I know it’s been a struggle, but you are strong and brave and I’m so proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  Sylvia looked up, her eyes full of gratitude. “It’s nice to have you back in New Orleans, Jack. I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you too, sweetheart,” he answered, thinking how much he’d worried when he’d heard from his mother she was back in rehab. “Just don’t take your glass heart to work before we give the red one to Marielle tomorrow, deal?” he added with a grin. “And thanks for helping me out with this.”

  The waitress came and Sylvia ordered dessert, the banana brown butter tart with salted caramel ice cream.

  “I’ll share,” she announced with a contented smile. Then she said shyly, “Marielle said she bet that you saw Serena Antonelli a few times while you were in Venice. Did you?”

  “A few times,” Jack murmured noncommittally, taking a sip of coffee.

  “M told me how you two were taking the same flights all the way to Venice. I remember meeting Serena when Sis was in college and I visited their dorm. Serena’s really a nice person.”

  Startled, Jack gazed across the table, imagining what sisterly gossip the two had exchanged.

  “Yes, she’s a very nice, very talented lady.”

  “Are you going to see her again
now that you’re home?”

  Jack paused. “She’s still working over there for a costumer.”

  “But when she gets back?” Sylvia persisted.

  Jack gave her one of his brotherly smiles of exasperation.

  “We’ll see.” And then, making a quick decision, he added. “Sure... probably.”

  “Does that mean you’re breaking up with Lauren?”

  Jack almost laughed out loud, but forced a solemn expression on his face. Trust the women in his family to get down to basics, fast. He was on the verge of offering one of his opaque answers when he said, “Can you keep a secret for a while? Even from your mother and sister?”

  Sylvia reacted with surprise, as if she were astounded her older brother would honor her with such a confidence.

  “I promise! I won’t say a word to anyone. What?”

  “I’ve told Lauren that we shouldn’t see each other anymore... as a couple, I mean. Our paths have just veered off in very different directions. It was time we faced it. I wish her well, but it’s over.”

  “Good!” Sylvia said emphatically just as the waitress arrived with dessert. “Lauren got so mean since the storm... to you and... well... everybody else.”

  Jack looked closely at his sister whose opinions were so often disregarded by the entire family and asked sharply, “Was she ever not nice to you?”

  “Basically, she just ignored me, except once she asked if I was still doing drugs.” Sylvia gave him a crooked smile. “I was... doing drugs, I mean, but she said it just to put me down. She also said that a lot of doctors and nurses she knew got hooked like I was.”

  Jack could barely restrain himself from pounding a fist on the table. Sylvia was so vulnerable. What kind of bedside manner did they teach in Med school, he wondered, seething with anger. But to his youngest sister he merely said, “Well, you won’t have to put up with that stuff anymore,” adding, “and I’m really so happy to see you’re... taking things one day at a time. That takes courage, and I want you to let me know if... well, if I can ever do anything... or you need a friendly ear, sweetheart.”