Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans (28 page)

“She told me to call her when I came to my senses,” Grady said. “I told her to call me when she came to hers.
Dallas
, man. Can you believe that? Where am I gonna play in Dallas?”

Grady went on to tell Julian about his aunts, elderly uncle, cousins, three sisters and three brother’s kids who’d just come back from Atlanta. With their Ninth Ward houses washed away, all thirty-eight had crowded into an aunt’s four-bedroom two-story on the edge of Uptown, where the water had only reached the bottom porch step.

“Everybody living on top of each other, man. Crazy. But what are they gonna do?”

Julian listened quietly, taking a swig from his beer now and then.

“So you wouldn’t move here, I guess.” Julian figured Grady had already considered Baton Rouge, but it was the only solution that came to mind.

Grady took another bite, put his barbecued chicken wing down. “Here? Baton Rouge? Baton Rouge ain’t New Orleans, man, you know that. Besides this place is crawling with musicians looking for work. Manager at this club wants to spread the wealth, so my gig is up at the end of next week. So now I gotta figure out how to get a gig, find a place to live,
and
get my wife back.”

Julian had an idea for one third of Grady’s problems, and this seemed like the perfect time to mention the funeral for Matthew Parmenter. “There’s only one thing,” he said. “We need the whole band. I don’t know where everybody is. And I don’t know if anybody wants to play with me, after the way I left.”

When Julian told Grady how much the gig paid, he let out a long slow whistle. “For that kinda money? They’ll play with Humpty Dumpty. Let me handle it. I know where they are.”

Grady turned up the end of his beer. “Who is this cat, man? He must ain’t got nothin’
but
money.”

His father’s best friend, Julian explained.

“Your daddy?”

Julian’s gaze lowered to his beer as he took a long, slow drink. When he told Grady what he believed to be true about his father, his old friend clapped a hand solidly on his back.

“Man, I’m real sorry.” He lowered his head a moment, pursed his lips, and looked thoughtfully at his mug. Then he lifted it.

“Here’s to your daddy, man. Here’s to Brother Simon,” he said, and they both drank.

They talked on about each other’s lives, how Grady had been doing great, playing almost every night of the week until the flood happened. And Julian told him about running into his ex-fiancé, and their excursion to look for his father, and the situation with his father’s land. And how, even though he didn’t believe his father had survived, he was determined to find out what happened to him, no matter how long it took.

When the thirty-minute break ended, Grady looked at his watch, then signaled to his trio; the pianist was just coming out of the men’s room, and the bass player and drummer were at a nearby table talking with two dark-haired women who looked like identical twins.

Grady clapped his hands together. “All right, man, let’s go. Go get your horn. I know you got it with you. It’ll be like old times.”

Julian swallowed hard, took another drink, then put the glass down and stared into it. “Look man, there’s something I gotta tell you.”

Julian had felt humbled by his friend’s soul-baring, and in turn, wanted to hold nothing back. The embarrassment he thought he’d feel simply wasn’t there. And when Julian poured out all the details of the accident, the long depressing months of surgery, recovery, canceled gigs, and the Tokyo disaster, Grady nodded in true sympathy. Nobody understood what he was going through like another musician, and as they talked, all the years that had passed since they were young boys melted away. Julian felt like he was talking to a brother.

Grady turned up the last of his beer, set it back on the counter, and frowned thoughtfully.

“How long’s it been since Tokyo?”

“Six weeks maybe. Right after the storm.”

“You had any pain since then?”

“None to speak of.”

Grady got up and slapped his credit card down on the counter for the waitress. He looked at Julian. “If anybody can get through this, you can, man. You know, I always knew you were the best. Between us, I mean.”

Julian’s eyebrows flew up.
Was he serious?

“What do you mean?”

Grady put two dollars in the waitress’ tip bowl. “Well, you know, you always had mad technique, man. You were the cleanest player I knew. I had to bust my chops to keep up with you.”

Julian felt his face flush. “Oh, I think it was the other way around.”

“You kidding.” Grady laughed sardonically. “Whatever, man. Bottom line, though, you just got to get back up on that horse. Get your juice back. You’re a trumpet player, man. You know how we do.”

Julian had to laugh. It was a line from their youth.
You know how we do! Fake it ’til you make it.
Even Mr. Martrel had told them that, sometimes teasing and joking with them about the trumpet player’s colossal ego, and how sometimes a little BS—bravado, he called it—was just…necessary.
Act like you know what you’re doing. Get everybody to believe it, and eventually, you will.

Grady grabbed Julian’s hand and shook it. “Go get your ax, man. I’ma give you five minutes.”

Grady went to the bandstand and Julian went to his car. The black asphalt of the parking lot shined like patent leather from the light shower that had just ended, as the semi-dark sky held the pale, gray wash of high, formless clouds. Water hung in the muggy air, the dampness coating his skin like dew. He looked up at the sky and thought about just driving back to his room, but opened the trunk and pulled out the horn instead. He took it out of the case, felt the cool brass in his warm hands. By the time he got back to the bar, Grady was just finishing up “Round Midnight.”

Applause and whistles filled the room, and then Grady spotted Julian at the door. “Y’all are in for a treat this evenin’!” Grady told the dozen or so people sitting at the tables and the bar. “Tonight, I want y’all to welcome my homeboy from New Orleans, Blue Note recording artist, Julian Fortier!”

More applause and a few more whistles from the surprised patrons accompanied Julian’s slow stride to the bandstand, and as soon as he stepped up, the drummer and the piano player kicked off a lightning quick tempo to “Seven Steps to Heaven
.
” A four bar intro of block chords in syncopated staccato, and it was on.

Julian’s nerves tightened as he listened to Grady, an old pro working that rhythm, riffing a rush of sixteenths flying like confetti in a strong wind, so fast Julian could only hold his horn and admire. But when Grady left him a wide opening, Julian jumped in, swimming in the flow. And in a moment it was old times, two friends taking turns, first leading, then supporting, dovetailing, weaving in and out, playing quick hand-off and snatch-and-grab and catch-me-if-you-can.

As the set wore on, a larger crowd of patrons gathered, some dressed in Saints jerseys, clearly from New Orleans and hungry for the music. They yelled out their traditional favorites and the band obliged them—“St. James Infirmary” in a down-tempo groove, “Basin Street Blues” with Grady crooning in a gravelly Satchmo voice, and “Little Liza Jane,” with the whole audience, now in full party mode, singing along on the chorus.

His pulse racing, Julian felt high, lightheaded, drunk in the groove. And all the while he felt Grady beneath him, above him, all around him egging him on, holding him up. When he felt himself flagging, there was a solid hand pushing at his back;
go, go.
And he felt he couldn’t fail.

When it was over, Julian felt his whole body relax, his face fixed in a smile of relief.
He could have buried me
, Julian thought.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t know whether his old friend had felt pity, or if everybody’s ego-fire burned a little cooler these days. His forehead dripped sweat, but he never once thought about his jaw. Grady’s face was wide open in a huge smile as he bumped Julian’s fist with his own.

Not his best playing, Julian thought, but he’d more than kept up. He felt good. Damn good. If he wasn’t all the way back, he was almost there.

The next morning, lying across the bed with his clothes still on and his horn in his hand (something he hadn’t done since he was eleven), Julian woke from murky dreams to a phone screaming like a siren. Kevin calling. He’d just been contacted by a man named David John Wilder, a lawyer for N&L Associates, Nathan Larouchette’s company. Kevin had called Wilder earlier and left a message that he was representing Silver Creek owners in a planned suit against the sale of the land.

“Can you get back to Local by noon? The First Bank building?” Kevin asked. “They want to have a meeting with us. They want to talk about a deal.”

What kind of a deal?” Julian sat up on the bed and wiped sleep from his eyes.

“He didn’t say. Just said he might have figured out a way everybody could walk away happy.”

Julian frowned. He couldn’t imagine being pleased by any deal that would make Nathan Larouchette happy. But he was curious to hear what the man had to say.

“OK, I’ll be there.”

Kevin was silent a moment. “Well, this may not be everything we want, but we should at least hear what they got to say. I’ve studied all the land dispute cases I can find around here, I’ve gone over the contract four times. It’s tight. Nathan’s boys have gotten sharper. They didn’t leave anything to chance.”

He paused a moment, then added, “This might be our best shot.”

Julian looked at the clock, then got up from the bed. “OK, I’m leaving now.”

But as soon as he hung up, there was another call—Sylvia, her voice sounding tired and strained.

“Good morning, baby.”

“Sylvia.”

She took a breath, and sighed. “Well, I got some news. Matthew Parmenter. He’s gone.”

T
he news about Matthew Parmenter managed to stun Julian. A surprising sadness swept over him, and now that the old man was gone, he wished he’d been more forgiving about the business deal with Simon, if only for his father’s sake. And even more, he wondered what it was that Parmenter claimed his father “owed” him, and what Parmenter would have given him—the gift he wouldn’t have been able to refuse—had both men been able to meet again. But as he steered the Neon under a blue sky to Local to meet Kevin and Larouchette’s lawyers, there was little room in his crowded mind for thoughts of his father’s friendship with the man who had just died.

Before he left, he’d tried to call Velmyra. He wanted to tell her about Parmenter dying and how he felt about it. And about seeing Grady and how good it was to play with him, and how he’d been practicing a little every day and could feel his chops coming back. And about the dreams he’d had about his father. And about Kevin calling and the meeting, and... He wanted to tell her every single thing that had happened to him and every thought he’d had since the last time he’d been with her. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been depending on her for support until the rock he’d been leaning on had slipped from beneath him. Now all he could feel was the soft, shifting ground.

She left him a text message—
Things r crazy, will call u later
—but after waiting a while, then leaving two more messages on her cell phone, he’d decided to pull back. Maybe she was telling him something.
Let things be, for now.
And so he’d told himself,
Give the woman some space.
He reminded himself that she had her own worries. Her parents had lost everything. They surely needed her now.

He told himself that was the reason she hadn’t returned his calls. But their history gnawed at him. Maybe whatever it was that caused her to leave him the first time had reared up again in her mind.

If he’d been paying attention back then, he might have seen it coming. The uncertain tone of her voice that one night when he’d talked to her on the phone, when an awkward silence that had never been there before dug into the space between them like a fallen ax. The way she’d complained about leaving her beloved students, and the way she joked about what she could possibly find to do in New York that would occupy her while he was busy becoming famous.

But it was on a spring night, right before his gig at Donna’s, that the whole thing had fallen apart.

He’d arrived a little early to pick her up. She wasn’t ready. But instead of rushing around like she usually did—slipping on her jacket, finding her comb and makeup mirror and tossing her keys in her purse—she invited him in. Her eyes red, teary, her face flushed.

She pulled at the ends of her hair.

Could he sit down a minute?

She sat opposite him on the ottoman, and all he saw was her hands, busy fingers intertwining and releasing.

A deep breath. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to move to New York ever, it was just that she wasn’t ready, not now. She loved her job. Her students needed her. She hadn’t realized what it would mean, leaving New Orleans, leaving everything behind for something totally unknown.

His face grew warm, his voice cool. He’d already made plans for them for the fall, set things up.