Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans (4 page)

He barely got through the ballad, even though he’d written it himself, and he was the first one off the stage, ducking into the small backstage room reserved for the band.

Sitting on the sofa, chest pumping hard as he crossed his legs against the cool black leather, Julian Fortier filled his winded lungs with air and exhaled a ragged sigh, then uncrossed his legs, leaned back, and stared up at the pale gray walls.

One by one the others in the quintet came in, each more deliberately quiet than the next. The pianist gave him a flickering, questioning look, then turned away, and having nothing better to do, pulled out his cell phone and tapped on the keypad. The bass player coughed nervously as he zipped the canvas cover around the rented instrument. The tenor player and drummer, not knowing what else to do after putting horn and drumsticks away, looked at each other, then headed to the table laden with bottles of Perrier and food that the management of the club had graciously supplied.

No one spoke. The tension in the room was as thick as the fog that had rolled in that morning across Tokyo Bay before settling over the downtown of the city. All the men averted their eyes from each other, waiting for their bandleader to explain.

But for the moment, the trumpeter sat smoothing the crease in his pinstriped gray silk pantsleg, his horn beside him, trying to make sense out of what went down in front of all those people, imagining the reviews in the Tokyo press. “Celebrated Jazz Trumpeter Bombs in Premature Comeback.” Something like that. Or worse.

He grabbed his trumpet off the cushion next to him and rapidly fingered the valves. It wasn’t supposed to have happened this way. He’d been OK at the rehearsals. He should have breezed through the set like the pro he was, his jaw sufficiently healed after the accident, his tone rolling sweetly and effortlessly out of his horn, notes flying unconsciously and his mind zooming in a zone where he could do no wrong. Applause should have thundered from the tables, since the Japanese, among the most appreciative of his fans, were the first to hear him after an eleven-month absence from studio and stage. He should have been the hero of the night.

Instead, the applause had been weak—polite, yet confused. He felt like tucking his tail and running, and that’s exactly what he’d done.

He cleared his throat and glanced at his bandsmen across the room, who were now piling their plates. His gaze fell on the wall nearest him, where hung a framed oil painting of a tiny boat on a choppy sea of blues and greens, and wished he could be on that boat, sailing off into…anywhere but here.

He’d have to tell the guys the worst possible news—the gig was over. On top of that, they’d have to take a whopping cut in pay for an incomplete date, and hope the club would let him reschedule when he’d fully recovered—if he ever did. The hottest jazz club in Japan would have to go dark for the rest of the week while he hunted down the nearest orthopedist.

He reached around the sofa for his trumpet case, removed the mouthpiece and put the trumpet in. What would he say to Matsumoto? It was every club manager’s nightmare to have his star tank the first night of a weeklong run. A tall, slender, elegant Japanese around his own age, Matsumoto was an all-around good guy whose angular and slightly pockmarked face belied his gentle speech and natural kindness. The guy had played the trumpet himself for a time; maybe he would understand.

“Hey, don’t sweat this man. You’ll be back.”

Antoine, the short and athletically stocky pianist—a hell of a player at just twenty-five, and a loyal friend—stood over him, his large eyes calm, a sushi roll in one hand, the other extended out to him. The trumpeter grabbed it and clasped it. Then put his hand back on his jaw.

“Feels like it’s on fire. Damn.”

“That sucks, man.”

Julian rolled his eyes, leaned against the sofa, stretching out his long legs. Then he raised himself forward and got up.

“Guess I better talk to everybody. Tell ’em what’s going on.”

He walked over to the refreshment table where the rest of the guys were still loading plates; he remembered from their earliest gigs here how some had balked at the unfamiliar Japanese fare—squid and octopus, soba noodles, the crisp, green vegetables no one seemed to be able to name doused in a fragrant light sauce of ginger—but in time they had all learned to love it.

He rubbed his hands together, not sure what he would say, but began anyway.

“OK, everybody, uh…listen up. I got something to….”

But as he spoke, Jeffrey, the drummer, held up a quieting finger, his head angled up like the other men, their eyes locked on a flat-panel TV screen placed high on the wall in a corner near the door. Across the bottom of the screen broadcasting CNN live, the crawl read: LEVEES BREACHED. EIGHTY PERCENT OF NEW ORLEANS UNDERWATER.

Julian felt a small gasp leave his body and something flip over in his stomach. The band of heat around his neck tightened even more, and crept up to the pained spot on his jaw.

He and the men, each one except him born in the neighborhoods where he now lived in Brooklyn, watched in silence as footage of the flood flashed across the screen and captions told the story of the drowning city. Helicopters like giant steel dragonflies hovered over what looked more like rivers than streets, and boats and makeshift rafts cruised through neighborhoods he recognized as well as his own reflection. And as the camera panned back to a wide shot, all the men, as if on cue, either let out a rush of breath or shook their heads. Most of the city, even its freeways, appeared submerged in inky, shiny blackness.

The thumping he’d felt in his chest as he left the stage now returned. Nothing else mattered now, not the horrible set he’d just played, the guys in the band, Matsumoto, the disappointed audience, or his aching jaw. All that mattered was what was happening to the place where he was born. The place where his father lived.

The camera closed in to show a familiar site. C.W. Peters Elementary, where he’d had his first fight with a squinty-eyed, stuttering kid who had tried to take his turkey and cheese sandwich, and where he’d fallen in love with the sound of the trumpet, was standing in dull brown water up to its windows, the playground swings bobbing like beach toys in the surf.

His mind could barely grasp what was happening; everything he’d known of the city seemed to be sinking as fast as cameras could show it. It was like seeing the face of someone you loved twisted strangely by a sudden and horrible stroke.

Oh, God. What the….?
He rubbed the back of his head as the TV screen showed the Circle Food Store on St. Bernard, the black water skirting high up on its arches, their reflection shimmying in the deep, dark pool. Only a short walk from where he’d grown up, that place had been his father’s favorite market for years. His earliest memory had been of holding his hand as they walked the distance to the neighborhood store, then peering up while his father studied the fresh redfish and shrimp for his Friday night fish fry, or waiting impatiently in the produce area while Simon, ever particular, scrutinized every pepper in search of the plumpest for his red beans.

The Circle Food Store sat in the middle of the “bowl” of the city near the I-10 overpass, a spot rarely known to flood.
If Circle is flooded, then the whole damn city is done.

Two days ago (or was it three? He had trouble keeping the days straight after they’d crossed the International Date Line), he’d called his father and the conversation had not gone well. After a half hour of trying to get Simon Fortier to see his point of view—that staying in town through a hurricane the size of this one was beyond foolhardy—he threw up his hands.

“Daddy,” he’d said, his voice pitched high with exasperation. “Hell. I’m not listening to this.”

Across miles of land and ocean, through the small, static-filled cell phone, the resentment in his father’s heavy breaths came through.

“Say what you want. I’m staying. I stayed for the last one, and I’m staying now.”

His hands shook. His father was the kind of man who lived by his gut, who prided himself on the wisdom of the still, small voice in his head. But this time, Julian believed, the small voice had lied. He’d never been so disrespectful before; despite his acquired ease with the ways of big-city folks, his finely honed manners were southern-bred. In New York his “yes, sirs” and “no, ma’ams” had drawn smiles of condescension more than once; he’d learned to stow those phrases away and unpack them only during visits home. But with his career in doubt, worrying about his father was something he hadn’t figured on, and didn’t need. The stress had sharpened his tone to a cutting edge he had never intended for the man who had been his best friend—his ally, his confidant—since his mother died. Even the thing with Parmenter had brought out a side of himself he barely recognized. So when Simon stubbornly refused to leave the city, Julian opened his mouth and out rolled a fiery litany of admonitions that, later, would make him feel more shame and regret than he’d felt since he was a boy, catching it for having a mouth that sometimes trounced ahead of his brain.

At first he thought the line had gone dead, but then realized that wasn’t the case. His father had simply had enough. It was the first time they’d argued like that since he was grown, the first time either had ever hung up on the other.

At some point, with everyone’s eyes still fixed on the TV screen, Matsumoto entered the room. Julian glanced over to see disappointment darkening his brown eyes.

It had been a sold-out house after all, and the whole set, scheduled to run a full hour, had lasted less than thirty minutes. No doubt, people had complained.

It was all he could do to take his mind off the TV images. His friend Matsumoto had hired him after he’d sworn he was back in good form. He’d always known about the Japanese custom of bowing in apology, and when one felt deep shame, the bow was accordingly deep and long. He hadn’t been ready, clearly. But he’d been desperate to play, and the money was good. A Japanese in his position would now be staring at the floor.

“Mat, I’m so sorry, man.”

Matsumoto nodded solemnly, said nothing. He would have to take the flack for this, explain to the owners. Leaving a week of audiences hanging at a place like the Blue Note Tokyo was no small thing.

Someone pointed to the television screen again; a helicopter shot showed a group of weary, sweating people trudging through water up to their waists. Others hung on for their lives where the water had chased them—the top balconies of apartment houses and rooftops. Then the camera swept over to other parts of the city. The Ninth Ward. New Orleans East. Pontchartrain Park. St. Bernard Parish. All disappearing in a still, reflective ocean.

Bile gathered in his throat.

He wasn’t looking for a convenient out. But even if his chops hadn’t failed him, he would have had to bail anyway, leave the country this minute if he could. He looked again at Matsumoto, then at the men in the band.

“I gotta go,” he said, his voice breaking. “I gotta get home.”

He took the first flight out the next day. By the time he arrived at JFK, sleep deprived, eyes puffy and red-veined, he wasn’t even sure what day it was. He was walking down the concourse of the domestic terminal toward the gate for a flight to Baton Rouge when his cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

The static was interrupting, but he recognized Sylvia’s voice.

“Wait a minute, I can’t hear you too well. Say that again?”

His eyes filled with tears.

“Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

H
e’d not been away all that long, but long enough. Like a sharp flavor fading on the tongue, the memory of the thick, damp heat—the kind that wrapped around you like a vine, weighed you down and slowed your steps to a sluggish stroll—had all but dissolved in the time he’d been gone. But today the recollection came rushing back. The air here was nothing like Japan, where the days had been humid but the winds brought the rains and the rains brought relief; it was not even like Brooklyn, where the sidewalks stored the August midday sun and threw it back at you late at night while you waited for a cool breeze that wouldn’t come until September. And it was not at all like that sunny little part of Spain he liked near the coast, where the nights carried the sweet balm of southerly breezes and the
chicas
on the beach smiled at you when they brought you the umbrella drinks, and you forget all about how damned hot it was. He’d been all over the world, but there was nothing like this crazy Louisiana heat.

As if he didn’t already have enough troubling him, the flat tire on his rented Neon threatened to tip his teetering nerves over the edge. His head throbbed. He peeled off his clingy shirt—something he would never have done in New York. But he was a homeboy, and he was down home; humidity like this meant baring your skin. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his shoulders, his back as he squatted on the loose gravel of the breakdown lane, the only breeze stirred by the eighteen-wheelers that roared by.

Having loosened the lug nuts, he rolled the small spare from the trunk to the front of the car. With his slim, muscled back to the September sun, he knelt and managed to jack up the car and get the tire off without screaming profanity. Once he’d secured the spare, he put his damp T-shirt back on and drove to find the nearest service station. Even in a city not ravaged by flood and strewn with post-storm debris, the tiny donut spare would be too treacherous to drive on. Some of the streets in town had been bad enough even
before
the storm.