So much is different here. Everyone should be able to leave all their doors open. What a beautiful world it would be. Ed stops on his porch, watches an anole lizard bob on the railing, and gives thanks for what freedom already exists, for everything that is not threatened by crime. The little green lizard inflates the translucent sac beneath its chin, the skin glowing pink. A showy, brave thing, Ed thinks. He’s reminded of the Harris boy.
Ed thinks he could have been a Michael in another life, or an anole. He understands their bravado at a gut level he can’t analyze no matter how long he meditates on it. He crosses the street to that noisy, messy, chaotic house of the Harrises’. He hopes they’ll give him news about the boy. If Ed were Michael, he might zoom around on a tiny motorcycle, too.
Something is not right with Ariel, Ed knows, once again, as he steps onto the Harrises’ porch. He pulls open the screen door and knocks. Their window AC units blast in a line along the side of their house. Inside, one of the four grandchildren is crying. A My Little Pony missing its tail has been stuffed between the cushions of the old sofa propped up on cinder blocks on the porch. Inside, Klameisha, or maybe Debutanté, screams, “Somebody at the door!”
Ed waits. The baby continues crying. “The door!” one of the daughters yells again. Thinking about the universe, Ed waits. He sees a flattened cardboard paper towel roll, a fork, a sooty black pot missing the handle, three pizza boxes, bright plastic blocks. He waits. The baby’s crying moves farther away.
Ed closes the screen door and leaves. He steps down to the sidewalk to go to the Browns’ house next door. If any of the Harrises watch him through the windows, Ed wants them to see he respects their property, no matter how thin their lawn. He should volunteer to help them reseed it. If he bought seed for his own lawn, it would only be a friendly gesture to offer the extra to a neighbor.
Inside Cerise and Roy’s, the air is warm but fresh-smelling. Ed picks up two flyers from the floor beneath the mail slot and lays them on the nearby table. The house surprises him. Spare, very clean. No clutter anywhere. He’s not sure what he expected, but this isn’t it. He moves to the mantel and looks at the lone black and white framed photograph resting in its center. Ed studies the grinning young couple, the woman thin and well dressed, the man handsome as Denzel Washington. It’s Cerise and Roy, Ed realizes. And he realizes what the photo says. Volumes and volumes. Obviously Cerise would have risked her own life to save Roy. Obviously all Roy had wanted to do this morning when Ed and the Guptas visited was see Cerise.
Ed walks toward the back of the house, a double shotgun converted to a single home even before the Browns bought it, Philomenia told him once. An indulgent move, she said, considering the times. To absorb the half of a house that brought in rent, half that probably came near to paying the note each month, was a step very few people would make after the Depression.
Ed steps lightly. Again he’s surprised by the order to the rooms, the sense of peace. Two covered pots sit on the cold stove. Under the lids, perfect greens and black-eyed peas wait. Who had the sense to turn off the burners? He opens the refrigerator door. Nothing in plastic. He grins at the old glass-lidded containers of leftovers. Those containers are collectible these days, he knows, expensive at garage sales and antique centers. He reaches inside and pulls one out. It’s full of tomatoey corn and okra. Ed should know the name, but he can’t remember it. He looks around for a microwave. Even cold, the food smells good.
On the countertop, Cerise and Roy have a stainless steel convection-microwave. A spectacular appliance, actually. The simplicity and quality of what must be their lives again impress Ed. He removes the glass lid, cocks it at a forty-five-degree angle, and places the container inside the appliance. How does Cerise or Roy negotiate this thing? The buttons seem almost cryptic, too simple to be simple. He pushes a couple. There. It’s on. He can just open the door when the food’s hot.
Ed goes back to the refrigerator. More containers. Everything seems to have the consistency of stew or thick soup, but each one intrigues him.
Half an hour later, Ed’s full belly gurgles, the dregs of leftovers scattered around the counters and table. Good God, what amazing food. He’s been to their neighborhood barbeques and knows that Cerise—or Roy?—can cook, but he had no idea what he’s been missing on a day-today level. He needs some lessons. Or a better cookbook.
Ed looks around. What has he done? Now what? He feels spice in his stomach, wipes the sweat from his forehead. He’ll do the dishes when he gets up from the table, tell them that he cleaned out their fridge to keep food from rotting, that he took care of the pots on the stove.
Ariel isn’t right. He just knows it. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, something there that feels like lint. Or a fuzzy cable connection. His favorite channels hiding behind snow. She’s not happy with him. But what can he do? Ed glances down at his distended belly.
He will try to visit Cerise again this afternoon after the grocery store. Or maybe he should go first and ask her for advice. Hurricane Ivan spins and spins and collects colors. Ed wonders how close to hot it will get. Red is the worst color, isn’t it?
Save-A-Center crawls with people. The shelves have been scavenged. Ed pushes his cart to the soup aisle and finds what must be the least desirable ones left: lentil, vegetable broth, organic expensive options. He needs matches, candles, batteries, what else? He came here in a glucose-glutted panic after his feast, having skipped going to the hospital again, his original plan. In the car on the way, he discovered that all the radio stations had converted to coverage of the hurricane. No more classical music from the campus of the University of New Orleans.
If he knows one thing about this entity looming on the horizon, it’s that he needs to show his family that he can lead them away from it. They will know he will keep them safe. He called the school this morning. The kids stay till the end of the regular day. Tomorrow is indefinite.
Ed scans the shelves and loads his cart with abandon. Smoked clams, an under-ripe pineapple. The toilet paper’s gone but for a few stacks of individually wrapped rolls, over a dollar apiece. He takes six. What else, what else?
5
Philomenia Beauregard de Bruges stares at the door of her husband Joe’s new bedroom. His care worker individual has departed for lunch. Now it is Philomenia’s duty. Never did she guess she would be burdened with such a difficulty, with such a man under such terrible circumstances. She determines she will go into his room for a conversation. She owes him as much. Of course, he is not leaving for Hurricane Ivan. She has not decided if she will depart or not. Likely she will not be able to desert him when the time comes. She survived Camille. She will survive Ivan. Joe and she will make it through, although Joe unquestionably will not see next year.
She turns the knob. “Joe,” Philomenia says from the doorway.
“Philomenia,” he says. His mouth cracks into a weak smile. He amazes her with his continued show of out-of-character stoicism under duress. They have removed one-third of his colon so far. There seems to be little hope that the rest will survive intact. Prancie has prepared herself for his demise. She has determined she needs clarity.
“Hello,” she says to the withering man. “How are you feeling today?” Joe has sustained three rounds of chemotherapy in quick succession. Philomenia does not believe the man who spent the bulk of his unencumbered life yabbering at long lunches in the French Quarter to be one to survive his trials. She imagines a life without him. She can smell it. Prancie can smell it.
“My mouth tastes like metal,” Joe says. He lifts his hands into the air from the surface of his hospital bed.
“Yes,” Philomenia says. It could taste like chalk, she guesses, or excrement, for that matter.
Joe looks at her as if she needs to give him a better answer, but how else can she respond to somebody telling her that his mouth tastes like metal? He makes less sense since his pain medication dosages have increased. Philomenia thinks about her journals, happy for the time his medication has
afforded her.
“You’re staring,” Joe says.
Philomenia blinks. She had no idea.
“Will you be leaving for the hurricane?” he asks.
His predilection for CNN has not abated. He is staying abreast of the local situation. “Shall I?” she asks.
“The house withstood Camille,” he tells her. They weathered the storm together as newlyweds. He knows this. She knows this. He tells her nothing new.
“What would you like me to do?” Philomenia does not relish the thought of driving alone to the airport. Flying to some city or another, to a random Hilton or an Intercontinental, brings a chill. She could make a proper trip of it and book a stay at a spa. Lord knows she is in dire need of some tender loving care. Prancie needs some time to herself. The home caregivers have provided such slim relief these last weeks that she has considered doing away with them altogether, but then she would be left bathing him, bathing Joe like his mother must have when he was a child, and this she could not manage.
She knows what Joe will say. She knows what he would have her do.
“You should evacuate,” he says.
Of course. “I’ll stay,” she says. Of course. Philomenia wonders why they even choose to open their mouths for one another. They say exactly what the other already knows will be said. It is all so exhausting.
Joe smiles at her response, and Philomenia hides a cringe. A few days being massaged and attended to would be delightful. She steps to his bedside, determined to touch him somewhere. His hand? His arm? His hair looks far too unclean to finger. Philomenia makes a mental note to contact the service yet again about the inadequate treatment her husband is getting. His hair, what is left, should be washed regularly. She settles on his hand.
“Sit with me awhile,” Joe says, and Philomenia cannot help but hear it as a command. Since his tribulations began, he has taken to commanding her. Philomenia feels like an emotional slave. If she refuses any of his commands, she is unsympathetic. If she refuses any of his commands, she is less than a proper wife.
There were years in the past when Philomenia resisted her husband in all the ways a proper Uptown wife might have. In turn, she carried his shirts to the cleaners without commenting on the unfamiliar perfume. She ignored his return to the gym, and she ignored his oddly timed showers. She dressed perfectly for the firm’s biannual dinners and thanked him for each year’s diamond. These concessions Philomenia chose for herself. Now, though, she has no means of determining protocol. What is she allowed? What must she tolerate?
Philomenia pats Joe’s hand, sighs, and perches her skirted bottom on the edge of the mattress. Often in the last number of weeks she has been tempted to share a journal entry or two with him. Likely, however, he would not understand.
“May I turn up the television?” she asks.
Fearius stare at Muzzle in the hospital bed. His leg be in a cast, dangling like a big catfish on a line.
Alphonse pass Muzzle his take from the day. Muzzles eyes go big. “Baby bro play the game good,” Alphonse say.
“When you can go home?” Fearius ask.
“Cant,” Muzzle say. “You know Moms.”
Pops be worse, Fearius think, but yeah, he know Moms. Fearius think maybe she gone get over it an let Muzzle come back after he done take his ride in the ambulance. “When you get out?” Fearius try.
Muzzle nod at his fish leg. “Leg got to stay up.”
“We keep you, nigga,” Alphonse say. “You say what you need, we get it.”
“You get me some pussy you doin awright,” Muzzle say and laugh his good ol laugh. They all laugh. Fearius know the not funny part be Muzzle get laid so much they aint no question he gone get pussy. He get it on his own or Alphonse buy him some. Fearius think about gettin some Westbank Vietnamese pussy some time soon. It aint cheap, he hear, but it tight. He quick think about cat pee help keep his dick down. He think about the banana truck junkie. He think about rotten meat.
Muzzle stop laughing and look at the curtain dividing the room. A white girl got her head wrapped up behind the curtain, her eyes wrapped up too, bulging like fly eyes. Muzzle dont know what wrong with her. He say he dont know if she awake or not, maybe she got her ears stuffed up too. Fearius imagine what it like not to see or hear. Maybe it be peaceful. Nice with everything soft and puffy. And then he think about a pillow, and smashing a pillow on his face, and then it not so peaceful. “We talk business,” Muzzle say low.
Only Muzzle can get away with tellin Alphonse what they gone talk about, Fearius think.
“They toll me I strung up six weeks shortest,” Muzzle say. “Could be up two three months.”
Alphonse shake his head. “Damn, Shorty,” he tell Muzzle. Muzzle no shorty. It just what they say.
Fearius excited by the news but have to pretend not. He gone work hard when Muzzle away and make hisself not disposable. What they say? Undisposable. He like the word. It sound like money. Undisposable. Fearius got a good chance he gone be better off than the normal wardie. That word around a long time now, a keeper. Wardie from what ward you come up in, like the Ninth Ward, whatever. Moms and Pops in the Sixteen now but theys both from the Seven. Fearius think he be good at new words, remind hisself to freestyle on some tomorrow when he workin. “Fo sho, Muzzle,” Fearius say. “That be fucked up.”
“Tell me true,” Muzzle say to Alphonse. “How long you wait fore you cut me loose?”
Alphonse a good bossman. He and Muzzle be tight. Fearius jumpin outta his skin he so bad wanna hear what Alphonse gone say.
“We see,” Alphonse say. “We see, nigga.”
It be the fairest thing, Fearius understand. Fearius know patient, he remind hisself. He gone watch Alphonse and learn. Alphonse still alive, after all, and Alphonse still outside. It mean he be way smart. Alphonse turn and nod at Fearius, just a little. Fearius think he know what that nod mean.
Alphonse walk around the curtain then like he own the room and stare at the white girl. She skinny. “Hey,” Alphonse say to her. “Hey, beanpole.”
Fearius step up a few behind Alphonse. The white girl don’t do nothing.
“Hey, slim,” Alphonse say. “You awake?”
She still dont do nothing. Alphonse ask, “Think she ticklish?”
Fearius suck his teeth. He dont think they ought be bothering the girl, but he be way under Alphonse now, down by the bottom of the pyramid. He just a little block. He need to try not be a blockhead.
Fearius go up and look where he might could tickle the white girl with her head wrapped up. She sort of a mummy, only she breathing. She gots baby titties like his sisters back when they in junior high. He poke her in the stomach when Muzzle call out the other side the curtain, “Yo!”
A braided bitch in pink scrubs come in. Fearius pull his hand back.
“Hey,” Alphonse say.
“Dont hey me,” she say. “Get the hell outta here.”
“What happen to her?” Alphonse ask.
“She not awake,” Fearius say.
“You tell me how you got that bling round your neck,” she say to Alphonse, “an maybe I tell you about her. Get. Now.” She be a bitch with no patience, Fearius think. Cold and straight. She need to do time in juvey. That or get her smoke on, chill. She way too tight. And she old, but her ass high. Long legs make a nice ass. Cat pee, he think. Maggots.
“Fear,” Alphonse say. He be the only one that don’t call Fearius in full. But Fear aint a bad nickname. Alphonse backhand Fearius arm and nod they go back round the curtain. The nurse stare hard at them. She hold a bag with something clear in it. Maybe it liquid to keep the white girl out cold. Fearius guess she be burnt. He got burnt on his brain, what with old man Roy and the grill. Moms toll him. Moms hollered it at Fearius when he done come in last night, hollered bout what his brother do.
They go back and stare at Muzzle with his eyes close.
Fearius heard if you be burnt it better you stay unconscious. That or you wake up screaming, like your skin peeling off your
body, like how it really done be with a fire, like no more skin left. It just gone. If you lucky, the skin kinda grow back, but different, or they patch it on like Moms did with their trouser knees when they little. Only skin dont make good patches. Him and Muzzles uncle on the Moms side, Uncle Terrence, he pulled down a pot a oil off the stove when he a baby, gots scars look like monster skin, like fake skin it so hard and not really move no more. When Fearius and Muzzle be kids, they gave Uncle Terrence a nickel and he took his shirt off and showed them the rest, monster skin all over his front. He done got but one nipple, the other one gone. And he gots just one place, Fearius remember, with three curls a hair on his chest. The monster skin stop right at his trouser line where Uncle Terrence diaper done be once. He lucky he lived, they say.
Now Uncle Terrence get hot real easy. His burnt up skin cant sweat no more. Uncle Terrence get drunk and sleep in his lawn chair at the reunions and make all the women worry if he too hot.
Muzzle start humming. He on the good meds. Alphonse toll him get scripts for more when he leave Charity. Their street worth be large. Alphonse say, “Shorty sho as shit celebratin in town.”
“What?” Fearius ask.
“They be a hurricane party at Touro, yo.”
Fearius nod. Their family aint going nowhere, but Moms hollered at all of em last night, inbetween when she hollered about what happen with old man Roy and Muzzle, that they gots to pack bags for the Hurricane Ivan. Fearius wanted to tell Moms it dont make no sense if they not going anywhere noways, but he know better. Fearius hangin on one spider thread, dont wanna hafta leave the house like Muzzle, go stay by some somebody all fucked up, stanky, sleep on the floor. So he keep his mouth shut and make a show of packing his bag. Klameisha shake her baby and shake her head at the same time, like Fearius a suck up, but what do he care what his sister think? He gone keep his bed for now.
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