Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans (27 page)

“Mr., uh—“

“Cole. But call me Cedric.”

“Right. I…I’m honored that Mr. Parmenter would want me to play. I don’t know if I—”

“I know about some of the things you’re dealing with,” Cole assured him. “Your father missing—Mr. Parmenter told me. I know how highly he regarded him. He’s also instructed me to furnish you with as much money as you need to find him. I’m prepared to write you a check today, to hire an investigator, if that’s what you need. Or if you’d like me to hire someone for you, I have a few contacts.”

He reached in his pocket, pulled out his business card, and handed it to Julian.

“There’s very little time, I’m afraid. The doctors say things could change very quickly, given Mr. Parmenter’s deteriorating condition. But he’s asked me to tell you that if your father is found well and healthy while Mr. Parmenter is still alive, he would very much like to see him, to talk to him. He says he has something very important to say to him.”

Julian stroked the back of his neck with his palm, and took a long, tired breath.

Why was the man so insistent about seeing Simon? What could he possibly do or say that would make any difference now? Julian strained his memory, calling up his last conversations with his father for some hint of what Parmenter could possibly want. But Simon and Julian hadn’t talked about Matthew in months. It had been such a thorny issue with them, since Julian hadn’t exactly tried to hide his resentment for the man. And accordingly, Simon had simply stopped mentioning his name.

Parmenter was dying now, and Julian was sorry about that, but he could only think of his father, who had loved this undeserving man like a brother. Whatever Parmenter had in mind now, it was too little too late. Too late to make the past right, too late for deathbed amends.

And now the guy wants a jazz funeral.
What was he supposed to do, put together a band with players he might not be able to find, and who probably wouldn’t speak to him?

Six years had passed since the last time he’d seen any of them, and it had been the worst night of his professional career. It was the last weekend of Jazz Fest, a balmy evening in early May, and he and the band were about to perform their last set, a tribute to New Orleans trumpet players—Bunk Johnson, Joe “King” Oliver, Louis Armstrong—in the WWOZ jazz tent. A half hour before they went onstage, Julian had surprised them with an announcement that he was leaving for New York—not in the fall, as he had told them earlier, but in the next few days. He’d lined up a meeting with a recording company executive. And a pianist buddy from Tulane was saving a spot on his couch, and promised him all the freelance jobs he could handle.

Onstage, the music had been cool, stiff, the men unyielding. The silence afterwards still rang in his ears, the cold stares still frozen in his brain. They had a right to be upset, and he’d wanted to explain, tell them that he
had
to leave—now—while his heart was still in one piece. But the words would not come. After the last chord, the other players clustered together backstage, and no one spoke to him as he cased his horn and started the walk back to his car. Eventually, it was his old friend and trumpet-playing rival, Grady Casey, who came around. “Good luck man,” he’d said, when he came by Julian’s place the next day. “Knock’em dead, up there.”

They went out for a drink that night at Sorrelle’s Hibiscus Lounge at the far edge of the French Quarter near the Market, and under a half moon casting silken light on the river Julian had confessed about his troubles with Velmyra and how it had ended. Grady lowered his eyes in sympathy, saying, “That’s rough, man, I’m so sorry.” And without dropping a beat, added, “So you don’t mind if I call her?” After a deadpan moment, they both broke into outrageous laughter. The rest of the evening, they had drank themselves as silly as rookie tourists, starting at one end of the Quarter—plastic go-cups in hand, loaded with high-octane daiquiris—and stumbling all the way to the other.

He put three quarters in the machine. The ice clanked into the cup, then the liquid. Julian could feel Cole’s eyes on him as he took a swig of the cold Coke. The coffee was lousy, it was hot in the waiting room, and the memory of the daiquiris put him in mind of something to take the edge off his thirst. He turned up the cup and swallowed, long and slow.

He wondered if the man knew he was stalling.

Finally he said, “I don’t know if I can even find them, the guys I played with. I wouldn’t know where to even look for them.”

Cedric nodded. “I understand. But Mr. Parmenter realizes that your friends might need a little financial help at this time. He’s offering a very generous fee for the musicians. Fifteen hundred dollars each. And in addition, he will cover travel expenses from wherever they’ve evacuated to back to New Orleans, if needed, and lodging.”

Fifteen hundred for a funeral? Outrageous cash had a way of smoothing the blunt edges of hard feelings. Nobody in New Orleans made that kind of money for a one-day gig. The guys could use the money, no question. Hell, he’d hardly worked in almost a year; he needed the money himself.

One more thought sealed the deal: if Simon were here, he’d want him to play—no doubt.

Julian nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Cole’s serious face relaxed into the smile of a man who did so rarely, showing two rows of perfect teeth.

“Great. And, ah, there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a CD, its cover showing a chest-cropped photo of Julian with trumpet in hand, looking out over the Left Bank of the Seine in Paris, the cathedral of Notre Dame looming in the backdrop. A closed-mouth, confident smile, eyes in a slight squint from the brilliant sun. Titled “Boplicitude,” the CD was the last he’d made three years ago after his first European tour, and it had gotten him the Grammy. He looked at his image on the cover, self-assured, happy, even cocky, and barely recognized himself. In his air-brushed face, there was no hint of the uncertainty his life held now.

The man on that cover had no idea what was coming for him.

“I’m a big fan,” Cole said. “Maybe you could sign this for me?”

He pulled out a black felt-tip pen. Julian nodded politely, took the pen and the CD, and scrawled his name illegibly across the image of his face on the booklet cover.

“Thanks,” Cole said. “By the way, caught your spot on Leno. Nice.”

They shook hands, and Julian strode away, wondering if his chops would hold up long enough to get through the gig.

Back in the motel, he flopped on the bed and picked up the remote control. But the TV news was all about what the mayor had called “Look and Leave” and the papers had called “Look and Grieve”—the residents of New Orleans coming back temporarily to their city to find, in so many cases, complete chaos: shattered homes, drowned possessions, remnants of what had been normal lives. The local news stations in Baton Rouge covered the influx of the displaced filling up the hotel rooms, grocery stores, shelters, church basements, and the extra bedrooms of every neighborhood in town. Exhausted, Julian remembered how the day had begun so long ago, and didn’t want to hear another word about life gone wrong, about things he couldn’t control.

Sitting up in bed, he reached for his cell phone, wondering what Velmyra was doing, and looked at his watch. The thought of not being with her tonight sank his spirits deeper than the news had, but when he thought of calling her, he rejected the idea. There was a serious conversation in their future requiring thought and energy, and he didn’t have the capacity for either. The truth was, he had no idea what to say to her. After what had happened between them, and given their history, there should be some kind of plan. But he had none. If she were to fit into the weird puzzle of his life at this point, he wasn’t at all sure how it would happen. Or even if it should.

He turned the TV off and tossed the remote onto the nightstand. He needed to talk to someone, and he could use a beer. Within a few minutes, he was back in the car.

The bar and grill in the atrium of the Embassy Suites in Baton Rouge was decorated in a lush, tropical theme, with tall palmettos, yuccas, and elephant ears situated between tiered waterfalls, and sun fed through an enormous skylight six stories high. Julian could hear the sound of the trumpet from the reservations desk, and by the time he entered the bar, sat down on one of the five, leather-topped barstools, and ordered a beer, Grady Casey had caught his eye.

It was just a quartet tonight, apparently; his wife, Cindy, a bluesy, dreamy eyed singer, was not around. A young male pianist sat at a shiny black seven-foot grand, a bushy haired man of sixty or so hugged a deep brown upright bass, and a red-haired drummer, the only white guy in the group, kept time with wire brushes swirled against a snare head to the muted tones of Grady’s version of Miles Davis’s “Blue in Green
.
”

When Grady nodded toward the bar where Julian sat, he gave a quick salute in the direction of the bandstand. The bartender, a smiling young blonde with frosted brown lipstick and a sunflower tattooed on her bare shoulder, poured a light ale into the huge frosted mug before him. Julian closed his eyes as the icy brew slid down his dry throat, and felt as if he could drink this beer until the end of time. If it wasn’t the best beer he’d ever tasted, it was surely the most appreciated one. There were only a few people in the bar; the quiet, relaxed scene was a comfort, almost as if the world were a normal place, as if it hadn’t tilted so far from upright that everyone within a sixty-mile radius of New Orleans (or even much further) was not walking uphill, pushing and bowing against a strong wind.

Julian closed his eyes and listened to the trumpet’s fat, lazy tones, his head nodding as the misty ballad floated around him. It had been a while since he’d done this—actually listen to somebody else play. He’d never really been jealous of Casey before, but after seeing Cole with a copy of his CD, and hearing Grady’s sweet tone filling the air in the bar, he was reminded of his stalled career and a cool sadness enveloped him. The guy sounded better than ever, his tone crisp and clean, as pure a sound as he had ever heard. His head bobbing on the beat, fingers dancing on the valves, carving out melodies and runs as if they were soft clay beneath his nimble hands.
This guy
, he thought,
is the guy who should be known all over the world
.

When the set ended, Grady nodded to Julian, laid his trumpet down in the open case on the bandstand, and headed toward the bar. Up close, Grady looked tired, worn. It had only been a couple of days since Julian had last seen him, but he swore he looked older now. Half moons of loose skin bagged beneath his eyes, and the whites were red-veined. His white shirt, though clean and pressed, looked two sizes too big, and gray stubble flecked his gaunt cheeks and chin.

The bar stool next to Julian whined as Grady sat down and leaned against the counter. He caught the waitress’s eye, held up a finger and pointed to Julian. “Bring this man another one of whatever he’s drinking. His money ain’t no good here.”

He and Julian shook hands. Grady took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up. “What’s up, Homes? You ready to play?”

The waitress sat another beer in front of Julian and he took a drink. “Naw, I’m just listening. Sounding good, man.”

Grady let out a long stream of smoke, then put the cigarette out in a glass ashtray. “Kinda slow tonight, but thanks.”

When the waitress turned the volume dial on the flat screen TV above them, both men looked up. The headline news station showed a T-shirted reporter standing in Jackson Square with the spires of the Saint Louis Cathedral glinting in the backdrop, dispensing the latest in a series of reports on the current situation of the flood-ruined city downriver as its residents returned. The state of Louisiana, he said, had just declared the tap water in most of New Orleans drinkable, except in the Ninth Ward and the East. And, he added, the first wave of government trailers had rolled into town to house the thousands displaced by the flood.

Grady waved his hand dismissively. “Like that’s gonna fix anything. This whole thing, man. It’s bullshit. The whole thing. You know what they called us down here?
Refugees
, man. Like people who ain’t got a home. They act like this thing is our fault, like we did something wrong. Act like they don’t want us here, man. You hear about the levees? Now they’re saying maybe they wasn’t built right. Like we didn’t know
that
. I been hearing about those damn levees for years.”

Grady ordered a brew and a plate of hot wings, and when they arrived, he took a bite out of a drummette and followed it with a long gulp of Bud Light. It didn’t take Julian long to figure out what had gotten into Grady’s craw: he and his wife had been arguing about where to live. Since Julian had last seen him, Grady’s wife had gone back to Dallas to be with her relatives, and had given in to their gentle coaxing to “look at a few apartments, just in case
.
” Now she wanted to move there permanently, while Grady, who’d never considered living anywhere but New Orleans, wasn’t having it. But when he tried to find lodging in the unharmed parts of the city, all the rents were sky-high, in some cases double what they’d cost before the flood.