Hurricane Song

by Paul Volponi

  Sergeant Scobie gave Cyrus’s daughter a paper and pen, and she took her arms from around her kids just long enough to write out her father’s full name and birthday. Then Pop and the preacher followed after Scobie, and I fell right in behind them. Pop didn’t argue about me going along. But he turned to me and asked, “This the first dead man you’ll be seeing, son?”

  “Except for TV,” I said.

  “It takes some gettin’ used to,” said Pop. “Don’t be ashamed to turn your eyes away. You hear me, Miles?”

  I nodded my head and could almost feel Pop’s arms around me.

  And that was all the support I needed right then to keep strong.

  Cyrus’s body was under a white sheet, and some soldiers were carrying it away on a stretcher. Captain Hancock waved them past a whole platoon with their machine guns out. Then Scobie gave those guards a thumbs-up for us to follow through a big metal door.

  It was a giant freezer. We pushed our way through the thick plastic strips hanging down from the ceiling by the door, and it was like walking into another world. It wasn’t cold enough to see your breath, but it was probably forty degrees cooler in there, and the stink was gone, too. The air wasn’t heavy, either. It flowed in and out of your lungs smooth, and breathing was almost easy.

  There were maybe fifty boxes of food stacked up in one corner, and hundreds of empty ones torn open on the floor. The soldiers lined up two of the wooden skids that those boxes had been delivered on, laying the stretcher across them.

  “That’s right. Keep him off the floor,” Hancock told them. “I can’t have any rats getting at him.”

  Then Hancock pulled down his white mask and said, “Who’s it gonna be?”

  He had a scar across his left cheek that made him look like an evil G.I. Joe.

  “I know him the longest,” Pop said, stepping forward.

  “Did he look close to this?” asked Hancock, pulling back the top half of the sheet.

  Cyrus’s neck was all crooked, and his shoulder blade was sticking through his black skin.

  “Yeah, I still recognize him,” said Pop, straight out. “No matter how much of his dignity you try to take.”

  Pop and Hancock stood there, grilling each other.

  “For all those people out there, there’s no more food than this?” asked Culver, breaking the silence.

  But Hancock never answered that question.

  “Is that the deceased’s information?” Hancock sneered, snatching the paper from Scobie’s hand. “Escort these evacuees back to where they belong, Sergeant! ”

  But before we left, Preacher Culver laid his hand on Cyrus’s leg and said a short prayer. And when he was finished, Scobie was the first to say, “Amen.”

  When we got out of Hancock’s earshot, Scobie told us, “Captain’s a professional soldier who’s seen real time in wars. I don’t believe he’s too partial to civilian rescue duty.”

  “How about you?” I asked, without thinking.

  “Me? I’m a high-school science teacher from Irving, Texas,” he answered. “But I got family in Louisiana and Mississippi that’s got to run from this storm, too. So I want you all to be treated the same way I hope somebody’s lookin’ after them.”

  “God will be there for ’em, brother,” Culver said. “You can trust in that.”

  As we stepped back out into the stink and the Superdome crowd, I thought about shaking Sergeant Scobie’s black hand. But they were both glued to his rifle.

  At our seats, Uncle Roy said it might be a long time till Cyrus got any kind of decent burial.

  “They can measure him for a wooden coat, but there ain’t no dry ground to dig a grave,” said Uncle Roy. “I know he was a pain to put up with, but in a way, he was one of our own. He worked at Pharaohs for as long as I can remember—washing dishes underneath you, Doc, while you walked the floor over his head.”

  "His family’s gotta live with him in a freezer?” asked Fess. “That’s no way to mourn proper.”

  Pop stared out at the middle of the football field where the Saints’ helmet, with that flower on the side, was painted. Then he grudgingly said, “Maybe we need to march for him—send him off right, like he deserves. ”

  The three of them agreed, and Uncle Roy went over to talk to Cyrus’s daughter and Preacher Culver about it. I’d seen a jazz funeral once before, when I was visiting Pop during summer vacation and one of his musician buddies passed on. A band marched through the street behind the casket. They played music every step of the way, and by the time it was done, you couldn’t tell if the people were sad the dude had died or having a party over it.

  Cyrus’s daughter wanted the march bad for her father.

  “It was the music he loved at that club, not washin’ those damn dishes,” she said. “I want people to know he’s gone, and how much his family’s gonna miss him.”

  She tore a cardboard beer ad down from the wall and printed on the back, in big letters with a black marker somebody lent her, CYRUS ODELL CAMPBELL, DECEMBER 24, 1934-AUGUST 29, 2005.

  Pop put a serious look on his face. Then him and Roy reached down to the bottom of our duffel bag.

  “Everybody’s gonna know ’bout these horns now,” Pop said.

  “I hear ya, Doc,” Roy said, solemn.

  Cyrus’s daughter stood in the corridor, holding the sign out in front of her, with one of her little girls on each side. Preacher Culver was just a step behind her. After that came Pop, Uncle Roy, and Fess lined up three across with their instruments. I knew it wasn’t about me, but I felt lost, like I didn’t belong anywhere.

  “You gonna get that drum and play?” Pop asked me.

  I grabbed it and went to stand in line behind them. Then Pop moved over a step, making a space for me right next to him.

  “We start off playin’ slow and sad, Miles, like Cyrus passing was the most painful thing in the world,” Pop explained. “When that’s finished, we play with the joy of him going to a better place and never having to suffer again. The slaves who started this in these parts believed when they died their souls went back to Africa. So it’s only right that we got your drum.”

  I looked around the Superdome at all the black faces and remembered Cyrus screaming out how it was another slave ship. Then I forced myself to take a deep breath and stomached the smell.

  “Give me a beat, Miles,” said Pop. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four.”

  My hand hit the drum and we all started forward. We headed down the corridor with Pop’s trumpet crying out a sad tune. He was playing right on top of my drumming. And after all this time, it finally felt like we were together on something. Then Uncle Roy and Fess joined in.

  People all over the stands were watching. I could see in their eyes how much they’d lost, and how they were mourning, too. They were crying real tears, and some of them even started marching behind us.

  The sweat was burning my eyes, but I wouldn’t stop playing to wipe it away. More and more people got up to march. And just when I felt my heart sink as low as it could go, Pop turned it around with his trumpet. He let loose a string of notes that pulled me up from the bottom. It was time to celebrate, and everything inside me started jumping. Uncle Roy and Fess were right on it, too, and my hand was pounding the drum faster and faster on its own.

  “I feel we’re headed some place better, Lord!” Preacher Culver called out. “Maybe we’re not worthy, but let your music lead us anyway!”

  The people behind us were dancing more than marching now. A woman with an open umbrella jumped into line, pretending the wind from the hurricane was pulling her along. In the stands, people were clapping their hands in rhythm as we passed. And when Pop started playing “When the Saints Come Marching In,” plenty of people started singing along.

  We’d made one whole lap around the Superdome and were back where we started. The march was over. Cyrus’s family and Culver turned down the stairs to their seats. Only we kept on playing in front of our section, till everybody dancing behind us di
sappeared down the corridor.

  Pop looked at me like he’d never been prouder to have me for a son. I felt closer to him, too. But deep down I didn’t know how I could trust it. All my life I’d been second-string behind Pop’s playing and grew up hating his music. If banging a drum was going to make Pop see me different, maybe it wasn’t worth it.

  The second we stopped playing, I felt a streak of cold shoot down my spine. I wanted to take off running down that football field till I sprinted out of my skin and into some other family.

  “Cyrus woulda appreciated what your drum had to say ’bout him,” Pop told me. “Anybody woulda.”

  I wanted to scream at Pop that I wasn’t like him. That I didn’t need music to talk for me. The words were spinning through my head, only my tongue couldn’t get a good grip on them. Anyway, I didn’t want to start arguing with him. Not now. So I hit the drum one time as hard as I could, and walked off.

  7

  And when the moon turns red with blood

  When the moon turns red with blood

  Lord, how I want to be in that number

  When the moon turns red with blood

  Monday August 29, 9:48 P.M.

  The later it got, the tighter the stands became packed with people. The lights kept fading lower, and my eyes were constantly trying to adjust. I was just hoping to sleep. The storm outside sounded like it was easing up, and my stomach was howling worse than the wind now. Except for a few candy bars, I hadn’t eaten any real food since before we got to the Superdome on Sunday morning.

  It was closing in on ten o’clock when a fire broke out two sections over. I smelled the smoke before I saw the flames. Then I opened my mouth, but Pop found his tongue first.

  “Fire! Miles, everybody up!” he yelled.

  Pop grabbed his horn with one hand, and me with the other.

  We all shot to our feet, rushing in different directions, and couldn’t get out of each other’s way. Everybody between the fire and us was scrambling, too. Most of them were pushing right towards us, climbing over the rows of seats. We got jammed up hard and couldn’t move. I felt the weight of them pinning me, till I almost couldn’t breathe. It was like fighting to keep my head above water inside of one big black wave.

  I’d never been so scared or felt so small.

  Uncle Roy slipped down, and I stepped square on his back by accident. That’s when I felt that guinea pig go flying past my feet.

  Pop had a death grip on my arm and wouldn’t let go for anything. But I couldn’t tell if he was keeping me up or dragging me down with him. And just when I thought I was going under for sure, that bottleneck busted loose and we finally broke free, spilling out into the aisle.

  Two men beat down the flames with the shirts off their backs.

  When the fire was out, and everything was safe, Pop pried his fingers loose from my arm. I could feel the bruises raising up where his nails had dug into me.

  “You all right?” Pop asked, with his horn still clutched in his other hand.

  Before I could answer, Fess, who was holding his ribs on the left side, said, “This Superdome ’bout to kick me senseless, Doc.”

  So Pop and Uncle Roy helped him back down the steps and left me where I was standing.

  A woman in the corridor started screaming “Rat!” as she tried to stomp that guinea pig dead with the heel of her shoe. It jumped back and even showed its teeth. Then I saw it jet past her and streak down the hall, running for its life.

  People were whispering that thugs had started the fire, trying to shake folks down. But it had happened too far away to know for sure.

  The soldiers never showed up to check on what happened, and after everybody got settled in again, the fire alarm went off.

  ERT! . . . ERT! . . . ERT! . . . ERT!

  The sound pounded my eardrums. I shoved a finger into each ear, but even that couldn’t stop it from getting through. It pierced every nerve I had, till my heartbeat kept the same rhythm as that damn alarm.

  People stood at their seats, turning in every direction. They were looking for the fire, ready to run. Only there weren’t flames anybody could see, just the smell of the last fire mixed with that sickening stench.

  Pop tried to tell me something as loud as he could, but the sound of that alarm swallowed up his voice like it was nothing.

  After five minutes, people started sitting back down, trying to think through that deafening sound. But I couldn’t.

  It kept stabbing at my ears—ERT! . . . ERT! . . . ERT! . . . ERT!

  When it finally stopped, I swear my heart skipped a beat, waiting for it to kick back in. I sank into my seat, exhausted and beat up, like I’d just been gang-tackled by the whole Chicago Bears football team.

  It was just after midnight and into Tuesday morning when the lights died out, and the Superdome went completely dark. People were cursing out loud at anyone they could think of—God, the soldiers, the mayor, their own mother, anybody. All over the stands, people sparked their lighters to see by, and dots of light kept popping up then burning out everywhere.

  “Them soldiers should free us from this joint by sunup,” said Pop in the glow from Uncle Roy’s lighter. “If the levees on the river don’t bust, all that water Fess seen in the streets will go down. Some places gotta be left standin’.”

  “How high was it?” my uncle asked Fess.

  “Tall as a man,” he answered.

  “Some of those shoes I had in my trunk were alligator. Maybe they swam for it.” Uncle Roy grinned, turning it into a joke. “You know tickets for these same seats probably went for five thousand dollars the last Super Bowl they had here. Now we got ’em for nothin’ to see the Shit and Stink Bowl.”

  Only nobody laughed at that one.

  “I’m gonna play the high-school championship game on this field one day,” I said flat out. “I’ll get you all free tickets for that.”

  “I know you will, son,” Pop said, looking me in the eye. “There’s no doubt.”

  And hearing that touched me to the core.

  Screams echoed through the stands—chilling ones. And even in the dark, I wouldn’t close my eyes.

  A flashlight beam came swinging down the corridor. I thought maybe it was the soldiers back on patrol, but then I heard Cain’s miserable voice.

  “Those are ours now—give ’em up!” he barked.

  Dunham and those other guys were with him, too, and they ripped the flashlights away from a doctor and nurse working in the hall behind our section.

  Then Cain and one of his thugs came halfway down the stairs, while Dunham and the heavy dude with the knife—the one who’d pried open the candy machine—stood guard at the top.

  Cain grabbed some skinny guy sitting alone by the collar.

  “You want us to burn your shit?” Cain threatened him as the thug went through his bag.

  "Please! Leave me be! Take what you want!” the guy cried.

  The helpless sound in that guy’s voice pushed me to my feet. Pop and Uncle Roy were up, too.

  I almost couldn’t believe it. But there they were, ready to fight for some guy we hadn’t even noticed before.

  Pop and my uncle had come to the Superdome looking to mind their own business and only care about their own. But somewhere over the last two days, that had changed. Maybe it was Cyrus jumping, or seeing every black face here going through the same thing— stressed out over the thought of losing most of what they ever had—that made them all start to look like family.

  Cain was five or six rows away from us, with lots of people in between. So we stood there like stone statues that wanted to move but couldn’t.

  “We’ll burn out this whole section if we don’t get paid!” Cain screamed.

  Preacher Culver was closer and fought his way into the aisle, hollering at Cain to stop.

  “You Miles’s preacher man,” said Cain, shining his light in Culver’s eyes. “You got in our way before.”

  Cain killed his flashlight, right before him and his t
hug charged at Culver.

  I heard the air leave Culver’s lungs as they crashed into him, and his head crack open on the cement steps.

  Pop, Roy, and me pinballed off each other, trying to get at that bastard in the dark. Then Uncle Roy got out in front of us with his lighter. But Cain was already standing back at the top of the stairs, surrounded by his crew.

  “Where is he?” shouted Cain, pointing his flashlight at us, till my face was the only one in it. “We’ll be back, Miles! I know you’ll take up that collection for us now! Right? Before we smash up those instruments so nobody has to hear that fucked-up music again!”

  “People might even pay us more to do that!” cackled Dunham.

  Preacher Culver was lying at the bottom of the stairs, and his family was trying to sit him up.

  “Don’t worry ’bout me,” he muttered, with everybody sparking up their lighters around him. “I’ll be all right.”

  Then Culver put his hand to the back of his head, and it was covered in blood—the same red color as Cain’s jersey. But he kept on playing it down.

  Before Cain and his crew left, Dunham lit some paper on fire. He tossed it on top of somebody’s stuff, while that whale with the knife kept people back. The plastic garbage bag and everything inside it went up in flames quick.

  "Don’t forget who we are!” screamed Cain, heading down the dark corridor.

  “Nobody better forget!” Dunham echoed after him.

  I watched Pop and my uncle and lots of other people stomp out that fire. Somebody even poured the last of their drinking water on it to make sure it was out.

  "Pay them!” Cyrus’s daughter cried. "Just pay those damn bastards. What if my babies get burned up? I can’t lose no more family here!”

  Then she pulled her front pocket inside out and pushed a handful of singles at me through the shadows.

  But I never moved for them.

  Fess picked up his clarinet and started playing.

  “Blow it loud, brother,” Pop told him. “Nobody threatens our instruments—not the mother-tongue.”