by Ciji Ware
“Good for you,” Jack chortled, stabbing his fork into a plump, crispy oyster swimming in a blistering mix of butter, garlic, and herbs and sprinkled with Parmesan and Romano cheeses.
Just then, Serena’s cellphone gave its distinctive chime from the bottom of her tote bag. She fished it out and grimaced.
“Golly... it’s a hospital,” she noted with alarm, staring at the phone ID. “I’d better take this.”
She walked outside the noisy restaurant and was gone nearly ten minutes. The joyous look on her face when she returned more than made up for the six oysters Jack had saved for her that were now stone cold.
“This is a miracle!” she exclaimed, slipping into her seat. Raising her voice slightly to be heard above the din, she continued, “that call was from the chairwoman of the big benefit for pediatric care for the poor. She’s putting on a fashion show called ‘Mardi Gras Madness in May’ and wanted to know if the costumes she saw in the T-P article and on WJAZ could be used as the finale for the entire event! She said she saw me on TV and wants me, along with Corlis and a bunch of women in the media, to be the models!”
“Wow, sweetheart... that’s fantastic!”
“And it couldn’t happen at a better time, Jack! All the krewes will be finalizing their plans for next February. We’re bound to get some more last-minute business when word spreads around town about this. I wonder if Corlis waved her magic wand once again to make this happen?”
“I don’t doubt it at all,” Jack replied dryly. “I can’t help but notice that lady is definitely in your corner.” Then he glanced down at his watch and his pleased expression grew grim. “Gotta go, sugar.”
“Can’t you help me eat some of these cold oysters?” she pleaded. “I’m so sorry I interrupted our lunch.”
“For a worthy cause, and anyway, I ate more than my share. Turns out, I’ve got a pretty tough interview this afternoon”
“And you think one more oyster might lay you low?”
Serena didn’t know the half of it, Jack thought as he gave her a buss on the cheek and slipped out the door almost at a dead run. He had left his car in a lot just off Canal Street and drove as fast as he dared to Uncle Jacques’ house for an unannounced visit.
“An ole’ fashioned ambush interview,” he muttered aloud to himself as he pulled in a half block away from a dilapidated house in an un-gentrified section of the Lower Garden District.
A sense of dread dogged every step as he mounted the wooden porch and rang the bell. The early May heat beat down against his back, but sweat had soaked his shirt from the minute he’d set out from Canal Street. He knew his aunt would be playing bridge with his own mother over at his house this afternoon and prayed he would finally have Jacques alone with no easy means of escape. This was one interview that was an absolute must.
His uncle’s startled gaze at the sight of his nephew standing on the other side of the screened door soon became a look of apprehension, followed by one of surprising resignation.
“I figured after that family dinner, you wouldn’t give in.” He heaved a sigh, his shoulders sagging. “Better come in, son. I got some sweet tea in the fridge, or do you want a beer?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Jack replied, following him into a dark front sitting room with only a standing lamp turned on next to a worn, faux suede Barcalounger.
“You need your hands free to write, I ’spect?”
“Why don’t I record our conversation and give you a copy of the tape later, so you’ll know I won’t twist your words.”
His uncle sunk heavily into his big chair and folded his hands in his ample lap.
“I know you won’t do that, son.”
Jack stared from across the couch, taken aback at his uncle’s gentle tone.
“I would do anything not to have to ask you these questions, Uncle J, but once I saw that document where you were one of the engineers that signed off on the specifications for the Seventeenth Street Canal walls in 1982, I-I—well, as a reporter on this particular story, I have no choice.”
“You have to follow up. I understand that.”
“You do?” Jack asked, switching on his tape recorder and identifying the day, time, and subject of his interview. “And do you know what it might mean?”
“That I’ll be the scapegoat. The higher-ups have been looking for one all this time in case certain stuff ever got out.”
“So, do you feel the part you and the other engineers played back in the eighties caused the wall failures?” Jack asked carefully.
“Can’t really say I know for sure, either way. All I know is that it’s long past time I come clean about the part I did play back then... before I kick the bucket, you know what I’m saying?”
“The colonels and various Corps commanders will come in for some tough criticism, too, Jacques, I guarantee it. But your signing that document may hold the key to the entire story of why those walls and levees gave way thirty-three years later.”
“You’re telling me?” Jacques replied, his voice so low, Jack wondered if his uncle’s words had been caught on tape. Jacques looked steadily at his nephew. “Well, we better go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“The Seventeenth Street Canal, right around Fortieth Street.”
Jack felt his blood pressure elevate a few notches. That was the same street where Serena’s brother had lived.
His uncle pushed against the brown arms of the chair whose upholstery was worn in predictable spots from long use. He pulled himself to a standing position with some difficulty. Jacques was only in his late fifties, but early retirement and a sedentary lifestyle had proved risky to his health. The portly figure rarely left the Barcalounger these days and Jack speculated that his uncle was in danger of slipping into Diabetes 2 if he ate many more servings of his wife’s caramel bread pudding.
“Why Fortieth Street?” Jack asked, dreading to go near the spot where Serena’s brother drowned.
“Fortieth is the stretch where I always figured that wall would one day give way.”
A few minutes later, the two men climbed into Jack’s car and drove out to the 17th Street Canal, repaired in the decade since Katrina to withstand “at least a Category Two hurricane, right?” Jack confirmed, pointing to the new wall. He eased his vehicle onto a grassy curb, fished his tape recorder out of his briefcase again, and turned it on. “Tell me why you predicted that the wall would fail... and fail here at around Fortieth Street?” he asked quietly.
“As I said before, at the time we patched it up, I didn’t know for sure how it would behave or if it would ever be truly tested by a storm, but... well... just like you have, son, I read all the reports afterwards. The flood walls back then were built to withstand only seven feet of water, which was half the fourteen feet of water the original design intended.”
“So why wasn’t it built to the proper strength, given the recommendations of the outside consultants back then?”
Jacques shrugged, leaning against the inside of the closed car door. “Some say it was to save money and earn a bunch of ‘atta-boys’ from Congressional budget committees. Others thought it was because the oil and gas guys wanted the allotted money to build the projects that would benefit them and skimp on the others so there’d be enough money.”
“Skimp on what? For what?”
“Oh, changing the flow of the Mississippi for easier access for the tankers to the Gulf... the Mr. GO Canal... stuff like that.”
“With hindsight, what do you think caused the decisions to stint on the original design? Why were the recommendations of that outside consultant firm in 1982 ignored? Why didn’t the Corps do what the consultants said to do: make the canal walls stronger than what the Corps ultimately specified?”
Jacques shook his head.
“A lot of questions, son, and a lot of reasons.” He ticked off on his fingers, “Political pressure. Financial pressure. Certain people trying to grandstand themselves into higher government positions. All of that crap from specia
l interests went into the ultimate decision of what to build and how to build it. All of it!” he spat.
“Did you object at the time?” Jack asked, trying his best to keep his tone neutral.
“Sure I did!” Jacques snapped. Then he shook his head “Well, the truth is, I was twenty-four-years-old, so I made a mild sort of protest, was about all.”
“And what happened?”
“Got a big time push-back.”
“And?”
“I signed the drawings anyway, and so did the other engineers who worked on that part of the project.”
“Why?”
“My bosses made it very clear there was no future for me as a civilian engineer with the Corps if I didn’t sign ’em. We had just bought our house and your cousin Lani was just born. The big boys in Washington, I guess, decided they could cut corners and dumb down the designs, figuring they’d get credit for saving money or please the oil and gas guys, but they sure as hell wanted some New Orleans foot soldiers’ names on those bogus specs.”
Jack pointed to his briefcase full of documents that he’d placed on the seat between them.
“I have a report stashed in there that shows that the Corps finally admitted after Katrina that they’d had a catastrophic failure due to under-engineering. Of course, they didn’t cop to it until several independent investigations proved it without a doubt,” Jack said.
Jacques waved a dismissive hand in the air and scoffed, “Those old levees and floodwalls were a system in name only—incomplete, inconsistent, and with design performance flaws any idiot could have seen. C’mon,” he directed, “let me show you why,” and got out of the car.
While the two men walked toward the post-Katrina rebuilt 17th Street Canal wall, Jack was amazed at how candid his uncle had grown during their conversation. He ventured to voice another shocking bit of history he’d unearthed and watched his uncle’s reaction.
“Another report I’ve seen agreed with you, Jacques, that the Corps—somewhere along the chain-of-command—took short cuts simply to save money, and later it either covered it up or remained silent about what was in the official files.”
“They knew all along that their predecessors had done bad things even before those commissions dug it all up, but they just had to have it drug out of ’em, didn’t they?” Jacques gazed speculatively at his nephew and asked, “Why are you so focused on the Seventeenth? What about the other canal and levee failures? What about the Mr. GO canal and those wetlands and barrier islands you’re always going on about?”
“I’ll write about those, too, but—” He paused, pointing. “Look over there.”
By this time, the two men had slowly made it to a rise that gave a broad view of the canal and the property beyond. Jack pointed out an empty lot in the middle of 40th Street. There was a For Sale sign, and a $14,000 figure on the placard.
“What about it?” Jacques asked, his brow furrowed. “It’s no secret that hundreds of houses were washed away around here and they’re just selling the land, now, dirt cheap.”
“That mammoth storm surge that washed into Fortieth Street matters a lot to me, personally, as it happens,” Jack said, gesturing toward the For Sale sign.
“Who lived there?” Jacques murmured, his eyes now focused in a thousand-yard stare. “Someone you know?”
Jack took a deep breath.
“Now I’m the one not coming clean.”
Startled by his nephew’s confession, Jacques shifted his gaze and waited for the younger man to explain.
“I love the woman whose brother died right over there, where that sign is now,” Jack said, trying to keep his voice steady. “If she learns in my newspaper story that my own uncle was part of the reason that her brother drowned in his own home, she won’t want anything to do with me. Her entire family is still in mourning a decade later and probably will never truly recover.”
Jacques’ chin sunk onto his chest, but Jack kept talking.
“So you see... this thing I have with the Seventeenth Street Canal is partly personal. Sure, it’s pivotal to the public’s right-to-know what really happened, but I had to learn for myself the whys and wherefores of your involvement here,” Jack said, touching his uncle’s sleeve. “And trust me, I hope to God I won’t have to use your name in my story. It’ll be up to the lawyers if I do or don’t.” Despite his best efforts, his voice broke, but he managed to add, “At least, now, you’ll have some company knowing and living with the truth of what happened here ten years ago.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Jack!” his uncle exploded. “And what am I supposed to do, now that you’ve told me this? Go kill myself? ’Cause that’s exactly what I feel like doing—and have, for the longest time.”
“No!” Jack shot back harshly. “Cut the self-pity! You’re not the only star in this little drama. There’s plenty of blame to go around in this town! Those other engineers signed, just like you did.”
“But what happens now?” Jacques insisted with a strangled cry. “You say you love this woman. Do you love her enough that it’s worth exposing my sins to the world and humiliating your whole family like this?”
Jack ignored his uncle’s attempts to induce guilt into the equation. At heart, he felt tremendous empathy for his uncle, but it was time for everyone concerned to be straight with each other.
“I hope to introduce you to Serena one day,” he said. “You’d like her, Uncle J. But for now, you and I both have to suck it up and try to get the truth out to the people of New Orleans and see if they’ll do anything to make things better.”
“Maybe they will; maybe they won’t,” Jacques replied with a heavy sigh. “Probably nothing will change, whatever your story says. Just like the last time you wrote about all this garbage.”
“Well, it’s up to the readers and the voters, not us. Your job, which you’ve just done for me, is to tell me the truth. My job is to tell ’em what I believe actually happened—and try to prove it. Once we’ve done that, you and I have to have the courage to go on living our lives, knowing what we both know.”
A light breeze had come up, ruffling the canal water nearby. Jacques resumed staring at the new wall, unseeing. In the next moment, his uncle’s massive shoulders began to heave. Then, he covered his eyes as sobs tore from his throat.
“Oh, God... oh, God, Jack! I am so sorry. I am—”
To Jack, it seemed as if years of pent-up grief wracked his favorite uncle’s large frame. He put an arm around his shoulder in an awkward gesture of comfort. The sobs continued and Jack sank his forehead against the man’s bulk, fighting a well of emotion that also had him in its grip.
“I know how sorry you are, Uncle J,” he said, his voice low. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve somehow known that you’ve been sorry for something terrible that happened in your life, but I just didn’t know what. This wall collapsing sure as hell wasn’t all your fault.”
“But I could have stood up to them!” he said, his voice choking. “I could have said, ‘Hell, no!’ But I didn’t... and believe me, I’ve been punished, big time, living with this crap all these years. And it just got a whole lot worse, knowing what you told me today. It’s that woman you met in Venice, right? Your mother told us the few things she’s heard from Marielle about her. Told us you’d broken it off with that Hilbert girl. Says she’s never seen you like you are when you even mention the new girl’s name.”
“Her name is Serena Antonelli,” he confirmed.
“Yeah, that’s her,” he said, nodding. “Your ma’s complained that you haven’t even had her to the house. She makes costumes, your sister Sylvie said, right?”
“That’s right.”
Jacques paused as it dawned on him who Serena was and her connection with the place where they were presently standing.
“Her brother was Cosimo the Fourth or Fifth Antonelli, wasn’t he?” Jacques said barely above a whisper. “His wife drowned, too... and their unborn child. I remember when all that was in the papers and on TV after the storm.” T
he senior Durand took a step back and gazed again at the empty lot on 40th Street. “So those collapsing canal walls I signed off on were what killed three family members of the woman you love.”
“Four,” Jack corrected. “Her grandmother died of a heart attack being evacuated from a nursing home.”
“Holy Mother of God! What a nightmare this is.”
“That it is,” Jack agreed bleakly.
Both men remained lost in their own misery for a long moment, until Jacques asked, “Are we through here? I need a drink.”
Jack nodded, and pointed to the car.
“Yeah, let’s go, but I gotta ask you one more question.”
Jacques cast him a wary glance as Jack checked to make sure that the recorder was still rolling.
“You save the worst for last, don’t you, you guys from the Society of Environmental Journalists?”
His last words were faintly mocking.
“How do you know about that group?”
“You were the president a while back, weren’t you? Hey, you’re my namesake,” Jacques said, giving his nephew’s upper arm a gentle fist bump. “Actually, when they elected you president, it made me right proud. I’ve been following your meetings for years now.”
Jack reared back with surprise.
“Well then, let me ask you this, Uncle Jacques. Here’s the question we pose at every convention we’ve held since Katrina: do you think what’s been rebuilt in New Orleans now is good enough?”
Jacques took a few more heavy steps towards the car and spoke over his shoulder.
“Well, the new Storm Surge Risk Reduction System the Corps constructed cost fourteen-and-half billion bucks! They got themselves new pumps, levees, power stations, water gates, and put surge barriers all over New Orleans. And then there’s the fifty billion dollar Master Plan they’ve got going slated for the next fifty years.”
Jack hurried to catch up with him so he could be sure his next words were recorded, and also to observe his uncle’s face when repeated his question.
“But does what’s been constructed in the last ten years solve the problem if we get a bigger storm... say a Category Three?” Jack pressed.