Wading Home

by Rosalyn Story

  The next morning a bright sun sliced across his bedspread, pulling him out of sleep, and even lifting his spirits a little. A new day. He thought to call Velmyra, then realized she probably had appointments all day—her folks, their insurance company, her own house and a plumber who might or might not show. She likely wouldn’t pick up anyway, and honestly, he wasn’t sure what exactly he would say.

  But he dialed her number anyway. Her outgoing message—Hi! This is Vel. Please leave your name and number—had an upbeat lilt: sweet, perky, optimistic. It was an old message, obviously, recorded by a woman who hadn’t yet had her life turned on its head.

  When he heard the “beep” to leave his message, his tongue froze, his heart raced. “Hey, Vel. I…sorry to, uh.” Sigh. “Look… can we talk sometime? Maybe we could…I, uh, I just want to talk. To you. OK? OK. Later.”

  Damn. So lame. Normally, he would have been embarrassed, leaving a stuttering message like that, but he didn’t care now. He was weary of trying to act like he had it all together. He felt raw, and didn’t care if she knew it.

  He called New York. There had been a message on his cell phone from his agent in Manhattan, Morris De Camp of Galaxy Artists, Incorporated. Something about a concert coming up in New York.

  He answered on the second ring. De Camp asked about Julian’s father, and when Julian told him they’d still had no luck in finding him, De Camp quickly offered his condolences. And then he got to the business at hand.

  He knew all about what happened in Tokyo, and had one question for Julian.

  “Can you play now?”

  Apparently the New York City mayor’s office was interested in New Yorkers contributing somehow to the recovery of New Orleans. The mayor’s personal assistant’s mother was born there and though no one in her family still lived there, they had close ties to the neighborhoods destroyed by the flood. A benefit concert somewhere big, maybe the Met or Avery Fisher Hall, featuring a Grammy-winning trumpet player who was from the area, would be a great way to draw attention to the situation and raise money to help out.

  “And after that Tokyo thing, this’d be a great way to get you back on track, career-wise,” De Camp said. “That is, if you think your chops can handle it.”

  De Camp, a native of Queens, was a bottom-line businessman who did not mince his rapid-fire words. It had taken a while for Julian, with his sweet-tea-and-cornbread cordiality, to get used to his bluntness. But the man had been a good manager for four years, always with an eye on the big picture of Julian’s career.

  “I’m not interested in doing a solo concert.”

  “What? Look, Julian, you’ve got to start playing sometime. Your doctor said, or at least you told me, you were in good shape. It would just take—”

  “I can play,” Julian said. “I’m sounding better than ever.”

  “Then what is it? Look, I can get you some decent money for this. Even though it’s a benefit—”

  “It’s not the money.”

  An exasperated sigh that Julian had heard plenty of times came through loud and clear.

  “Julian, talk to me. What is it?”

  Julian paused. “I don’t want to play a solo concert. But I’ve got these friends from home who could use the work. A brass band. Hire them, and you’ve got me too.”

  De Camp didn’t know what a brass band was—What? Some kind of military thing?—and the century-old New Orleans tradition had to be explained to him. But it hadn’t taken De Camp long to warm to the idea. He was certain he could find money for all the men—to cover their expenses, and compensate them well for their work. The funds would go to the rebuilding of the areas hit hardest by the flood. As the plan grew, one benefit concert became three—at Avery Fisher Hall, The Apollo Theater in Harlem, and the Brooklyn Academy of Music, where Julian taught a few students—set for the Christmas holidays. Before the year was out, De Camp promised, Manhattan, Harlem, and Brooklyn would vibrate with foot-stomping, jazz-flavored Christmas tunes—New Orleans style. And Julian’s friends would have a little something to jumpstart their lives.

  Julian didn’t know if Grady had ever been to New York, but Dereek, he was almost certain, had never ventured outside of Louisiana before the flood. Easy Money had always fantasized about the city. He pictured the guys diving into the crisp sheets and soft beds of the Empire Hotel on Broadway, and himself taking them around to his favorite haunts—the Village Vanguard, Birdland, and the Blue Note, where all the great musicians played—and a slight smile came to his face.

  It felt like spitting in the ocean, for all the difference it would make to the enormity of the disaster in their lives. But it was the best he could do.

  He’d started up the drip coffee pot on the bathroom countertop and was brushing his teeth when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  It was Kevin. His voice was a little agitated, but Julian swore he heard in the background the sound of a singing creek. Imagining his friend sitting barefoot on a bank, his fishing line cast in the water, a cigarette or a beer in his hand, Julian halfway wished he could be there with him, away from Baton Rouge and New Orleans and the constant reminders of the flood. He hadn’t forgotten about the family home, but the problems with Vel, the drive down to the Ninth Ward, not to mention the thing with Simon and Parmenter, had certainly taken his mind off it as his thoughts skipped from one brushfire to another.

  Kevin explained that he’d been working on the land situation, still with no luck. But he’d gone over to Genevieve’s cabin and saw something troubling. Somebody had taped an eviction notice to the screen. And they had put a wooden sign in the yard: PRIVATE PROPERTY: KEEP OUT.

  Julian swallowed hard.

  “Nathan’s really pissed, now,” Kevin said. He went on to tell Julian that a judge had turned down his petition to review the case.

  “Nathan probably found a way to pay off somebody, one of his buddies on the bench, I bet. We’re losing ground, man. I’m hating how this is turning out.”

  Julian looked at his watch. “Have you talked to Cousin G yet?”

  “I’m fixin’ to call her now.”

  “Good. I’m on my way. Can you meet me over at the cabin in a couple of hours? Maybe together, we can figure something out.”

  “OK” Kevin cleared his throat. “It’s not looking good right now—I’m sorry.”

  “I know, man. So am I.”

  21

  Late for work again, she stared at the unforgiving clock as she rushed to the nurse’s station on Two West. She had been on time, mostly, the whole week, but today her alarm clock had failed, again, and she was twenty minutes late getting her eight-year-old to school; a car accident clogged the main street of her usual route; and she’d gotten a ticket for speeding when she’d tried to make up the time.

  All good reasons (except for the alarm clock, which had accounted for all the others), but the head nurse had been on her case from day one, and being late three times in the month did not help. The only thing keeping her in good standing at Mercy was the fact that she, more than any of the other newer nurses, was the one every patient seemed to love.

  She checked on all of her patients: the elderly woman in 244 who had had open heart surgery and was improving daily, the young man in 214 who’d had his appendix removed. For each one she said a special silent prayer, and gave them her broadest smile.

  She’d tried not to favor any above the others, they were all equal in God’s eyes. But there was one for whom she’d actually dropped to her knees in prayer, when it became doubtful if he would make it.

  She opened the door to room 242. Peeking into his room, she found him sitting up in bed, a lunch tray before him, smiling at her.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Fortier! How you feeling today?”

  Finally. He’d been waiting all morning for her. First, because she was such a sweet young lady and always made him feel good, and second because now he could tell her, nicely, of course, that the meals here were not fit for a dog you wanted dead.
<
br />   First of all, the stuff had no flavor. Beyond bland, it was like that mess his wife Ladeena used to feed Julian when he was an infant. Second, it was all overcooked. Green beans no longer green but dull gray, cooked so long you could mash them with the back of a spoon. Mashed potatoes out of a box, and not even a very good box. Did they expect him to actually eat this? He was a chef. He knew food, and this was not it.

  But she was smiling, so he smiled back. Later. He’d get to the food later.

  “How you doing yourself, Miss Lady?”

  She reached for the pillows behind his head. He hadn’t realized he’d been uncomfortably slumped in the bed; she always knew just what he needed even before he needed it.

  She was an attractive young thing, probably about twenty-five or so. Mexican maybe. Or from somewhere down there where they speak Spanish. No wedding ring. He’d wanted to tell her that he had a nice-looking son a little older than her who was single, but worried that she might be offended. So he said nothing. For now.

  “Did you bring it?” he looked up at her, eyebrows lifted innocently as she smoothed his lumpy bedspread. She smelled nice. Something with vanilla in it. He’d always been partial to the scent of vanilla.

  She looked around, then dug into her pocket. Pulled out a small bottle of Louisiana Gold hot sauce, and placed it on his tray.

  “I had to go to three markets before I found one that sold this brand,” she said. “I want you to know I would not do that for just anybody.” She winked at him.

  “Bless you child,” he said, giving her his broadest, twinkling smile, and sprinkled the hot sauce on the inedible Salisbury steak. Lord have mercy, it needed the help.

  “You’re looking good today, sir, much better.” She went to the window and opened the blinds to let the afternoon light in.

  “You’re looking very nice yourself,” he told her, his voice a little lighter, lifted by guilt. He’d been a little cantankerous these last couple of days, and had even worried that she would not come back to see him. He had just wanted so badly to get out of there, once he realized he wasn’t going to die.

  It had been a miserable time. He had been so weak, his throat dry as stone, his head dizzy, and sometimes he had trouble breathing. In and out of sleep, never knowing whether it was day or night. Once he swore he saw Julian standing at the foot of the bed, but realized it was one of those machines with the colored lights, beeping. The stuff they gave him, whatever it was, made him dream strange dreams. Took his mind where he didn’t want it to go.

  But as he began to feel better, stronger, more hungry, he might have been a little hard to deal with.

  Especially after the nurse had turned on the TV, at his insistence. He wanted to see what was going on back home. He saw it all, and it made him weep. They had all said someday it would happen, and it had. It looked, he thought, like Judgment Day. Judgment Day in the city he loved.

  He watched, his mouth open, as the camera panned the neighborhoods, the streets beneath the I-10 overpass, St. Claude, South Clairborne Avenue, the Circle Food Store, the sections of eastern New Orleans, the Lower Ninth, all sitting in a vast, dark sea. That was when he had to go home. Somehow he had to find out about his house, his neighbors, his friends.

  But they told him it was impossible. They had evacuated the whole place, and no one could come back to the city until it was drained and the services were restored. And besides, he wasn’t well enough. His blood count was inexplicably low, he was still dehydrated, and there were questions about his prostate. His numbers were not quite right, and he was too weak.

  He had another home, he’d argued, nowhere near the flood. The one where he’d been headed when he’d passed out. Not far away. And he had a cousin there who could look after him.

  I’ll call my son, he said. I got a son, I know he’s looking for me. Or you can call my cousin. Or my lady friend. The numbers are all in my phone.

  Phone? The night nurse had frowned. We didn’t see a phone with your things. Clothes, a Bible, but no phone…

  He sat back, defeated. He hadn’t brought the phone with him. All the numbers he would have committed to memory in the old days before cell phones, were now logged in a phone somewhere more than a hundred miles away, probably floating in five feet of water.

  We have to get you well first, sir, then we’ll worry about your phone. Besides, the last we heard, none of the numbers in the 504 area are working anyway.

  We’re doing everything we can to find your family. It shouldn’t be long, now that we got your name right. As soon as you were able to tell us, we called the Red Cross and put you on the missing persons list, but apparently they got your name wrong. They had you listed as Simon Portier, kind of like that actor, what’s his name, Sidney Poitier? Anyway, it’s all straightened out now. Your family is surely checking the list daily.

  His best smile again, eyes shining. “Darlin.’ Now, I appreciate all what you’ve done, but I need to get out of here. I just need to get over by Silver Creek. That’s where I’m from, over in Pointe Louree Parish? It’s just a few miles away.”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid you’re not able to travel just yet.”

  “But I feel fine,” he said. He grabbed the rail, lifted himself away from the pillow and attempted to get out of the bed on his own for the first time since he arrived, but his legs didn’t seem like they belonged to him; they were weak and wobbly. He fell to his knees three feet away from the bed.

  “Sir!” The young lady had grabbed his arm as he descended to the floor, then had to call for help to get him back in the bed.

  She was none too happy with him after that; he could tell. He sat back against the pillow, silent, brooding.

  “Mr. Fortier, I hope you don’t try anything like that again.” A hint of steel in her voice. “Doctor will see you this afternoon. He’ll tell you when you’re well enough to leave.”

  Smiling pertly, she’d pulled his covers up to his chin and adjusted his pillows. “We just want what’s best for you, Mr. Fortier. The important thing is that we get you well.”

  She turned to leave, then hesitated. “Oh, there’s something else. The couple who brought you in. The ones that found you. Oh, you didn’t know? A very nice couple found you passed out on a bench near the Chevron station right off the highway. Anyway, they’ve called every day. Tomorrow they’ll come and see you!”

  She left the room. He didn’t remember any couple bringing him in. In fact, he didn’t remember much more than the street full of water. The view from his rooftop, the whirl of helicopter blades. He hadn’t been in one of those things since Korea. They’d dropped him off at the Convention Center, said “good luck.” Right away he’d known that was not the answer. A mass of people, thousands, standing around in the brutal sun, looking hopeless. Babies crying, hungry, everybody waiting for somebody to come help them. Silly. Wasn’t nobody coming to help. He had two strong legs and the word of God. He’d sweet-talked an emergency vehicle driver, a woman wearing a military uniform who looked like she could have been his daughter, to give him a ride to the highway. There, he struck out on foot, his Bible in his hand, his thumb in the air. The sun burrowed into the back of his neck, his shoulders. He walked for hours, days, it seemed.

  He’d vaguely remembered the truck driver, a tall, muscular black man in his sixties, balding, with a face like a country preacher’s, his big rig as bulky as a train at the truck stop. A firm handshake, a barreling bass voice. Talking as the truck cruised miles of Louisiana highway. And when they parted, only about fifteen miles from the Fortier cabin at Silver Creek, he’d walked from the highway seven miles toward the nearest gas station.

  That was the last thing he remembered.

  And there was a couple? And they had brought him here in their car? And if they were coming tomorrow…

  “That’ll be fine,” he said, smiling, and doused his steak again in hot sauce.

  He took a bite. Wasn’t as bad as he thought. If they served it again before he left, he’d ask for some ga
rlic powder and a little butter.

  The couple arrived the next morning around 8:30. He was a tall, scholarly looking man with a blond beard flecked with gray, she was olive-toned (fair-skinned black he thought at first, but then decided she was Indian, like the people in India), with hair like blackbirds’ wings and the largest eyes he’d ever seen. They were both dressed the way young folks had dressed back in the seventies: sandals, khaki, loose cotton shirts tie-dyed in bright patterns of color.

  The woman, soft-spoken, smiled broadly, reached over to peck him on the cheek. We’re so happy you’re doing so much better! And the man, her husband, thin, angular, long-necked with a protruding Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke. Both teachers, they said, she a teacher of math at the high school, he a professor of literature at the community college.

  They had watched the news reports of the flood every day, horrified. How awful it must have been. Could they do anything to help him?

  It was not long before he asked them, nicely, but with a spark of desperation. I need to get home, I got a place just up the road a piece, Silver Creek. My son and I planned to meet there in case something like this happened.

  Of course they would take him, as soon as the doctor released him.

  No, I need to go now. My son, he’s probably worried sick. I’ve got to see him. I’ve got to go home.

  But if you’re not well…

  Silence. He tried again. I lost my house when the levees broke. The whole neighborhood’s flooded out. The only house I got now is at Silver Creek. No flood there. My house there is safe.

  I need to go home, you understand. I need to go as soon as I can. They looked at each other, then looked back at him.

  The early morning rain had lifted and thinly parted clouds revealed patches of blue by the time they rounded the last bend of the Creek, and Simon was full.