Wading Home_ A Novel Of New Orleans Part 22

"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 G.o.d'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?"

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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.

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 eat this? He was a chef. He knew food, and this was not it. 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 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 overpa.s.s, 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 had to go home. Somehow he had to find out about his house, his neighbors, his friends. 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 pa.s.sed 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. 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. The night nurse had frowned. We didn't see a phone with your things. Clothes, a Bible, but no phone... 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.s 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 n.o.body coming to help. He had two strong legs and the word of G.o.d. 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 ba.s.s 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 garlic powder and a little b.u.t.ter.

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! 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. 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. 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 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. They looked at each other, then looked back at him.

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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.

The fullness began deep inside him, climbed up from his heart to thicken his throat and then the back of his tongue before it climbed higher to spill over, a pool of joy, from his eyes. He was almost home.

Sitting in the back seat of the couple's car, he grabbed the cuff of his sleeve into his fist and rubbed the water from his eyes the way he had done as a boy on the day his father, Jacob, died. It may have been the knowledge that the New Orleans house his father had built was ruined that brought on the flood of emotion. Well, that house may be gone but Silver Creek, his father's true love, was right here before his misting eyes. The sixty years that had pa.s.sed since he was a boy here, swimming in the creek, plowing the land, cooking in Auntie Maree's kitchen, had done nothing to whittle down his child-wonder at its magic beauty. As they rambled down the packed-dirt road, a shallow breeze stirred the pine needles into a perfume he knew so well; the branches of willows bowed to greet him and the egrets lifted their wings in salute. Sunlight danced on the wave-tips of the creek water as they pa.s.sed, and the woman in the front seat brushed black hair from her eyes as she turned around to speak.

"This is quite beautiful. Are we near?"

Simon suppressed the giddy joy in his voice. "Be just another mile or so."

When they reached the ruins of the old stone church in the open meadow and the old cemetery that held his wife's remains, and where Jacob, Moses and all the others slept, Simon placed two fingers on his lips, floated a kiss on the breeze.

The road narrowed to a path shaded by majestic pines and the tunneling arms of cypress trees. When they pa.s.sed the barn, he pointed ahead. "There, right there."

It had taken a while to figure out that the couple would not take him, without a doctor's release, to his home. When they had finally agreed to at least talk to Dr. Singh, Simon's young Indian physician, Simon listened with his heart in his throat. The young doctor insisted, in an accent similar to the young woman's in the front seat: You're still a little weak, you were out of it a long time. I'm going to prescribe another transfusion- You're still a little weak, you were out of it a long time. I'm going to prescribe another transfusion- Simon had said, a little too loudly. I told you, I feel fine. I'll feel better if I can just get out of here, get back to my own cooking. I told you, I feel fine. I'll feel better if I can just get out of here, get back to my own cooking.

He regretted saying that. Insulting the hospital's kitchen did nothing to help his case. Besides, he knew the folks down there sweating over those hot gas stoves were probably doing their best, and underpaid to boot.

Still, he had to make his point. I promise I'll come back. Just let me go and see my home. I promise I'll come back. Just let me go and see my home.

A compromise. The doctor agreed to let him go if he would come back as an outpatient in three days. So after a complicated rigmarole involving Medicare forms, written prescriptions, and future outpatient appointment dates, the Letinskys agreed to drive Simon to Silver Creek.

When they pulled up to the yard of the cabin, Simon wanted to open the door and run. He believed he could, he felt so young now, as young as he did when his father, tall and thick-muscled with arms like steel, had picked him up and tossed him into the creek so he could learn to swim. As young as when he plowed these very fields after his father had taken ill. There was something in this air, he thought, that gave a man back years of his life.

He did not run. Rather, he opened the door gingerly and reached back for his Bible, the white bag containing three plastic bottles of pills, and the cane they had given him at the hospital. He thought about the beautiful, hand-carved cane Julian had brought back from Africa, still in the house, no doubt ruined by water with all the rest of his things. The thought of Julian forced an uneasy feeling; things had not been left well between him and his son. The boy had told him not to stay, to get out of the city, and the disrespect in his tone had bristled like barbed wire against Simon's thin skin. But the boy had been right. No question now, the boy had been right.

Out of the car, Simon arched his back fully to stand upright. When Stanley Letinsky tried to help him to the steps, he shooed him away. Oh, I'm all right now, Oh, I'm all right now, he said, smiling broadly. he said, smiling broadly. Y'all can go on. I'm home now. Thank you. And G.o.d bless you. Y'all can go on. I'm home now. Thank you. And G.o.d bless you.

He made it to the steps slowly, then looked back as the car pulled back onto the gravelly road. Waved his hand in the air. Thank you, thank you so much. Thank you, thank you so much.

He peered into the screen door of the cabin, too dark to see inside. He pulled one of the rockers away from the window, and sat, his spindly knees popping as he lowered his body into the chair. Put the cane down next to him on the cedar floor, rocked, and smiled.

A cooling breeze swept up and soundlessly stirred the leaves of the closest magnolia tree. Quiet here. So quiet. Sweet air, good to breathe. Genevieve would be so surprised, he thought, and wondered where she was. That old Buick she tooled around in was nowhere in sight. The woman never stayed at home anymore. Church, work, and whatnot, and didn't she say she was seeing somebody? A younger man, ain't that something. He smiled and clicked his tongue. Her husband Jack had been a good twenty years older. And now she had herself a young thing-probably five, six years younger. Maybe even ten, knowing Genevieve. He couldn't wait to tease her when he saw her.

When he gathered himself and felt fairly rested, he got up to go inside. But something stopped his steps. A note pasted to the window. Not a note, a notice of some sort.

He read the yellow slip of paper as best he could. His gla.s.ses didn't work so well-got to get a new prescription.

Eviction?

This was some kind of mistake. He'd straighten it out, now that he was here. He opened the door, looked inside. Some of the furniture lay under white sheets, like large stone ghosts. He went back outside onto the porch.

He sat in the rocker, his heart racing, his head a little light. Something was wrong. Genevieve was not staying here. Something had happened. He took off his gla.s.ses, rubbed his hand along the back of his head.

Aw, Daddy. No. This can't be.

Tears burned his eyes. Genevieve had tried to warn him what was going on. They had lost Silver Creek. It was somebody else's place now.

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When he awoke an hour later from a bone-deep and weary sleep, still sitting in the rocker, the sun was high above the cabin. He looked out over the tall pine trees, behind which lay the meadow and the cemetery. He wondered if he could walk that far. He needed to talk to Ladeena, to Jacob, needed their counsel and the comfort of their company. But he felt weak now. Weaker than before.

The notice was still in his lap. He wondered if there was anything he could do. He hadn't talked to Genevieve since the night of the storm. She'd been talking about the Parettes. Had she known this could happen? She must have suspected something. Something had happened since that night of the storm.

Well, he would just have to fight to get his land back. Hire a lawyer. Genevieve and he would put their heads together. And maybe Julian could...

Julian. He heaved a deep sigh. Julian did not want this land, and had produced no children who, someday, might. And it occurred to Simon that no matter what he did now, eventually his son would let the land go anyway. Of that he was certain. And how many more years would he, Simon, be on this earth? There was no reason to fight.

He got up from the rocker, reeling a little as he stood on his feet.

He was hungry. He had barely picked at that hospital breakfast of hard dry toast, hard dry egg, runny oatmeal, and lukewarm tea. They had to be joking, calling that a breakfast for a grown man. Surely Genevieve would have left some food in her freezer he could heat up and eat. She always did. Whoever this house belonged to now would just have to wait for it until after he'd eaten.

He was about to go back inside the house when the distant sound of a car engine broke the quiet.

He turned to see a small car making the bend from the main road. Genevieve? No, it wasn't big enough, Genevieve always had to have herself a big car. This looked like one of those little rental jobs the tourists in New Orleans would cruise around in.

The car didn't turn at the bend like most cars did, headed down to Local. It seemed to be coming right towards the cabin, but it stopped in the middle of the road. A young man got out. Darn these gla.s.ses; they just didn't work the way they ought to. He strained to see better.

The young man stood in the road for a moment looking his way, shading his eyes with his hand, then broke out into a run, legs kicking high, right toward him. And in that moment, Simon recognized the same gangly stretch of his own legs when he was a young man, and the tilt of head that had always reminded him of his own father, and the long, ropey arms that had marked every man in his family, as he walked to the edge of the porch, smiling, heart thumping wildly, to meet his son.