Part 3 (1/2)

4.

On St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District, the grand houses still shone in the metallic wash of the sun like prim, white-haired matrons, as if nothing had happened. Sweeping turfs of green fronted the century-old, wrought-iron-gated mansions, their spines erect, their clapboard unstained, the giant bathtub ring that roped most of the low-lying city having faded with the rising, higher ground. But the St. Charles trees remembered. The nightmare music of the killing winds had stunned them, and the panicked trunks of the cypresses and live oaks still leaned against the memory, the way children flinch away from the hand of pain.

Julian steered the Neon down the avenue, cutting a slalom path around severed limbs and trash. Along the neutral ground of the town's wealthiest street, where the untraveled streetcar tracks lay rusting in the shadows of overgrow gra.s.s, the signs of chaos were few; a spotted hound loped along the rails in search of food, and from further down the street an electric saw hacked away at the broken limbs of a battered oak. Spanish-speaking workmen tossed damaged s.h.i.+ngles from rooftops while a utilities truck fitted with a cherry picker crawled alongside the loosened telephone lines.

Like the French Quarter and Uptown, the Garden District's flooding had been measured in inches, not feet: no weeks of waiting for head-high water to drain and muddied rooms to dry. Not like his father's neighborhood, where two centuries of history marinated for weeks in four or five feet of brackish muck, or the Ninth Ward, where all life not washed away completely was suspended indefinitely. Wasn't it always this way? Wasn't it always this way? he thought. he thought. The peasants struggling down in the valley, the rich safe on higher ground. The peasants struggling down in the valley, the rich safe on higher ground.

He parked across from the Catholic church, dug into his gym bag for a clean T-s.h.i.+rt, and put it on. Getting out of the car, he swabbed at his forehead with an overused handkerchief and stared at the bra.s.s numbers 1924, the clean white columns of Matthew Parmenter's Victorian-style house, the gate that fenced in a yard of only slightly overgrown juniper gra.s.s. The house looked even more impressive than he remembered. He turned up his bottled water for a last swig, tossed the empty onto the car seat, and tried to brush back a nagging thought: If things had worked the way they should have, Daddy could have lived on this street. Daddy would be safe. If things had worked the way they should have, Daddy could have lived on this street. Daddy would be safe.

Simon's double shotgun was comfortable enough, a st.u.r.dy, hand-made house of cedar, maple, and cypress erected by a grandfather Julian never knew. But Julian opened the latch of the ma.s.sive gate of 1924-a hand-forged system of wrought iron posts in an elaborate crisscross pattern, built by the father of one of Simon's oldest friends in his Social Aid and Pleasure Club-and remembered years ago watching his father's best friend's enormous house being renovated as he rode by on the streetcar. Steps of marble, a huge wrap-around porch, French doors leading to eighteen rooms. Even then he wondered-his father and Parmenter, best friends, business partners. Equals. Except somehow, they weren't.

He climbed the steps to the gallery, glancing into the darkened windows of leaded, beveled gla.s.s. Austere and private, the St. Charles houses had never offered visible clues of life inside even before before the storm, but Julian guessed the old man was inside. Older than his father and many years retired, the former restaurateur rarely left the house. Like two stubborn and embattled sea captains, neither man would have jumped s.h.i.+p for a mere storm. the storm, but Julian guessed the old man was inside. Older than his father and many years retired, the former restaurateur rarely left the house. Like two stubborn and embattled sea captains, neither man would have jumped s.h.i.+p for a mere storm.

This would not be easy; his father's horrible business deal-all that lost money-still smarted like a glancing wound. But he pulled the mold-stained note from his pocket and read it again, then tucked it back. Matthew Parmenter is Daddy's friend. Matthew Parmenter is Daddy's friend. For Simon's sake, he rang the bell, sighed deeply, and waited. For Simon's sake, he rang the bell, sighed deeply, and waited.

An hour earlier, he had met with Sylvia at Ondine's Oysters, a little dive at the edge of the French Quarter not far from the French Market-a bar, really, with a cardboard sign outside that had boasted, throughout the entire storm and evacuation, WE NEVER CLOSED! A narrow, red brick-fronted place at the end of a shady courtyard, it sat wedged between a touristy T-s.h.i.+rt shop and a used bookstore, both vacant. In the mostly dark, windowless room, a long, bra.s.s-railed bar skirted the west wall and generatorpowered pendant lamps swagged from the tin ceiling, lighting the square, laminate tables.

He took a seat in the back and ordered a coffee, then another as he waited. The dark interior seemed normal; the only sign of post-catastrophe afterlife was the clump of National Guardsmen gathered around the bar in severe haircuts and khaki fatigues, some sitting on backless swivel stools turning up gla.s.ses of warmish beer and mugs of tepid coffee.

He stood and waved when Sylvia entered, the opened door allowing a momentary flush of rectangular sunlight into the room.

”Morning.” He held out her chair as she sat. With no makeup, her hair tied in a scarf, she looked, for the first time since he'd seen her that first Sunday afternoon in town after the storm, close to her age. Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed by worry and insomnia.

”Morning, baby,” she said wearily, untying her scarf and patting her curl-less, gray-rooted hair. ”You drinking coffee? Shoot. I need me something stronger than that that.”

Julian smiled. When his father had introduced him to Sylvia, one sunny Labor Day after he and his buddies in The Elegant Gents had second-lined through Treme, a seldom-seen sparkle had seemed to backlight Simon's eyes. Clearly, it had been Sylvia who, after Ladeena had died, lifted Simon out of his quicksand of grief and got him interested, once again, in living. There was a natural kindness about her, Julian had noticed, and from then on, her bluesy, motherly warmth and nurturing nature had spilled over onto him, helping to fill the gap in Julian's life that his mother's pa.s.sing had left.

”Stronger? I'm sure they can help you with that.” He nodded toward the bar. ”If you're hungry, somebody brought a whole box of m.u.f.falettas for the National Guard and the cops and the volunteers. They're telling everybody to help themselves.”

Sylvia glanced toward the bar where the guardsmen and volunteers stood, a big cardboard box on the counter between them.

”They deserve a lot more than that for trying to clean up this mess of a city,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. ”Lord, have mercy. I tell you I haven't had a decent night's sleep since all this happened. I'll split a sandwich with you. But, baby, I got something to show you.”

Julian went to the bar and returned with a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary for Sylvia, a plastic cup of water for himself, and a ridiculously large m.u.f.faletta sandwich sliced in half on a paper plate.

Sylvia ignored the sandwich and the drink and reached into her purse. The folded paper she handed Julian was wrinkled and stained the color of tea.

She exhaled a huff of air. ”Well, I went back to Simon's,” she said, leaning forward with her eyebrows arched up and her eyes bright and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with something he hoped was hope. ”I just felt like we missed something. So I took my nephew with me, Rashad. You know him.”

Julian remembered the gangly six-foot-six kid, a star forward at one of the high schools in the city. He unfolded the paper. The handwriting was unmistakable-the dramatic, forward-leaning slant, the longish serifs. It was Simon's.

Julian's heart jumped. He looked up, his eyes wide. ”Where'd you...?”

”Rashad climbed up to the attic through a little door in the ceiling of the bedroom closet. Simon must have been up there for hours. Days, maybe.”

”This note was wedged in between the beams in the attic ceiling.” Sylvia reached for his arm and squeezed it. ”This is it, baby. Simon got out! He's safe somewhere.”

Julian flinched at the thought of his seventy-six year old father having to climb up into a hole in the ceiling. He read the note slowly, his eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g.

Julian, I don't know where I'm going but I got to get out of here. I don't know if I will make it because there is so much water out there. Find me if you can or what's left of me. If something bad happens then take me back home to Silver Creek and lay me down besides your mama.

I love you son no matter what.

Your dad.

Julian looked up from the letter, his eyes glazed, his throat tight. The last two lines sank and burned like a sharp knife pressed to his chest, and would have hurt even if he hadn't wasted his last conversation with his father being disrespectful.

Julian rubbed his temple and looked down at the letter again. This didn't necessarily mean his father was alive. ”He could be anywhere. He could have...anything could have happened after he wrote this.”

”But this tells us that he tried to get out. He tried tried, baby.”

Julian cleared his throat, took a long drink of the coffee, and stared at the sandwich, the spicy olive salad over sliced salami on the huge, thick roll. He tapped his knuckles on the table. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry. As a child, and then more proficiently as a young man, he'd learned to freeze his mind-block out every thought-to steel himself against erupting emotions that might trigger tears. He did that now.

Sylvia went on, telling Julian about the hole Rashad had found in the roof, probably made with a pickax. Simon must have gotten out onto the roof and waited for help from one of the helicopters or good Samaritans in makes.h.i.+ft boats, who'd trolled the murky waters looking for people in distress.

”Did your father ever talk to you about Silver Creek?” Sylvia took a long sip from her b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, then put it down.

He almost laughed. When had Simon missed a chance to burn Julian's ears about Silver Creek? ”There was five feet of water in the street.” Julian said. ”Silver Creek's farther than Baton Rouge. No way he could have gotten there without his car. And his car is still at the house. Rusting away.”

”He could have gotten a ride there.”

”You know I tried to call Cousin Genevieve at Silver Creek. Bunch of times. n.o.body there, Sylvia.”

He'd also continued his daily check of the Red Cross list of the missing online at the hotel, and gotten a list of twenty-eight more hospitals in every parish between New Orleans and Silver Creek. Nothing.

Sylvia pondered this, took a small bite out of her sandwich, then another sip of the b.l.o.o.d.y Mary. She stirred the drink with the stalk of limp, brown-edged celery the bartender had placed in it.

Finally she reached into her purse, pulled out a thick fold of papers, each one with hand-written names and phone numbers. She waved them in the air. ”I don't know what else to do. Between the two of us, we must have made four hundred calls all over the state. I think we need some help now if we're ever going to find out what happened to your father.”

In her next breath came the words, Matthew Parmenter Matthew Parmenter. The man had wealth, and therefore, power. Like a lot of restaurant owners in the Quarter, he'd been friendly with the police for years.

”Remember, the man's got connections, and he's your father's best friend.” She leveled her gaze at him. ”No matter what what you think about him.” you think about him.”

How did she know? Simon must have told her. Or had he given away his feelings at the mere mention of the man's name? Julian had often wondered whether if he saw Matthew Parmenter lying on his back in the street, how much time would pa.s.s between spotting him there and reaching out a helping hand? Well, he'd been raised right, so not that long. But he probably wouldn't lift a hand until the scolding fire in his father's eyes filled up the back of his mind.

It was nearly noon, and the door continued to open and close intermittently, sending flashes of light against the dark interior like a slow-motion strobe. Someone had brought in a CD player, and from the front of the bar upbeat music streamed. The cheap speakers blasted the ba.s.sy beat of Koko Taylor's ”w.a.n.g Dang Doodle,” lightening the mood. Three of the guardsmen lifted their gla.s.ses for a drink, and whoops of laughter went up after one of the men yelled out a loud punchline to a joke, ”And he wasn't even wearing any!”

There was so little laughter in town these days that even those beyond earshot of the joke laughed along-its sound bubbling like a tonic, a much-needed bromide everybody in town seemed to crave. The door opened again. More volunteers, Red Cross employees, government workers-three young college-age women in baseball caps, two young men in faded cutoff jeans, and a man with silver hair and shorts poured into the room, along with another long shaft of hard, white light.

The intruding sun glowed on Sylvia's face, outlining her sharply angled bones, the deep hard crease between her brows.

”Will you go see him?”

A heavy sigh forced from Julian's chest. ”I'll do it today.”

”Good.” She took another drink and her face tightened into a serious frown again as she leaned over to pat Julian's arm.

”You know, your daddy was so proud of you, baby,” she said. ”He told me about your accident, your not being able to play and everything.”