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 shingles 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-shirt, 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 ship 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 ship 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-shirt 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 makeshift 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."

Julian blinked, turned up his plastic cup of water, and swallowed long and slow.

"Sometimes when things aren't going so well, it can make you, you know, a little uptight. Your dad wasn't mad at you, baby. Just a little..." she shrugged. "He knew you were going through a hard time. He understood."

Julian looked toward the door, counted people huddled around the bar. There were eleven now.

"Yeah. I know."

"I know you had some words..."

Julian shifted in his seat, held up a hand. "You know. I really don't want to talk about this."

A quick wave of disappointment shadowed Sylvia's face as she sat back.

"I...I'm sorry." His shoulders arched up apologetically; he hadn't thought about the fight with Simon, the accident, or the sad condition of his chops for almost a whole day. But now, something made of iron twisted inside him. Now he was treating Sylvia as rudely as he had his father.

"Look," he said, his voice fainter. "I didn't mean...I just can't think about all that right now, Sylvia."

Sylvia sighed, placed a firm hand on Julian's and looked toward him, her eyes softening in the lamplight.

"Julian, I don't know if your daddy told you, he proposed to me. Six months ago."

Now it was Julian's turn to be stunned. "No, I don't think he..."

Sylvia rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, exhaled heavily, then looked back into Julian's eyes. "Well, I said no. I didn't see any reason to change things. I thought we were doing just fine like we were. But your daddy, he's the marrying kind. He seemed all right about it after a while. But I felt guilty."

"Why?"

Sylvia considered the chipped glaze of Cherries Jubilee polish on her fingernails. Resignation and regret clouded her eyes. "Well, I guess this city girl just couldn't see herself ending up one day at Silver Creek. You know how much your daddy loves that place."

Fleeting sadness turned down the edges of her smile. "The way things turned out, I think it wouldn't have been such a bad idea."

A wave of relief, unbidden, swept over Julian. Regret, like misery, loves company. He patted the top of her hand.

She looked up again toward the slow-whirling ceiling fan.

"You know, me and your daddy, we always had so much fun. He has to be the youngest seventy-six year old man I've ever seen. Did he ever tell you about when he started the conga line at Jazz Fest? The Preservation Hall band was playing and decided to go salsa on us. Now you know your daddy-that man loves to dance! So he jumps up, grabs my hand, and off we go! Everybody in the tent joined in." Sylvia shimmied her shoulders, counting out the syncopated beat-one, two, three-four! "Child, that tent was "Child, that tent was shaking! shaking! After a few minutes my feet were cryin', 'cause baby you know I was tryin' to be cute in my little high-heeled sandals and whatnot. I wanted to sit down so bad, but we kept going for a good twenty minutes! There had to be a hundred people following your daddy and me." After a few minutes my feet were cryin', 'cause baby you know I was tryin' to be cute in my little high-heeled sandals and whatnot. I wanted to sit down so bad, but we kept going for a good twenty minutes! There had to be a hundred people following your daddy and me."

Julian smiled at the image of Simon leading a conga line. That was his daddy, for sure. He remembered his mother insisting that her husband learn to ballroom dance, and his father insisting later, after demonstrating precocious smoothness on the dance floor, that the whole thing had been his idea.

And as if Sylvia had read his mind, she said, "You know, he used to talk about your mama all the time. Ladeena. His eyes lit all up when he said her name. Lots of women wouldn't have that, their man always talking about his deceased wife. But I didn't mind. I liked it that he thought so much of her. It told me what kind of man he was. Sometimes he'd just go on about her, respectful, like he was so proud of her, you know, and I'd just say to myself, Sylvia, this is a good good man." man."

She paused, her eyes wet. "Julian, I don't know what I'd do without him."

He leaned forward, patting her arm again. "We're going to find him. They're finding people every day. We'll find him and we'll bring him home."

They half-finished their half-sandwiches and stood up to leave. The back door of the dark bar swung open onto a blinding shock of noon sunlight on Esplanade Avenue, where banana trees, bright red hibiscus blooms, and palmettos-once resplendent with tropical beauty-now looked battered and beaten, their heads drooping in the sun. The streets were empty, absent the normal traffic sounds, but now and then a single car or utility vehicle or construction truck motored by.

They were both getting into their cars, parked illegally at the curb, when Sylvia raised her finger to Julian.

"Oh! I almost forgot. There's something else I got for you."

She reached inside her car through the window and picked up an object lying on the seat.

"Rashad and I found this. I couldn't believe it was in such good condition. I thought you'd like to have it."

It was a cardboard sleeve, the kind that housed 78 rpm recordings. The cover was faded and water-rippled, but when Julian reached inside, a pristine vinyl disc slid out. It was a 1955 pressing of Louis Armstrong's "West End Blues." Simon had bought it at a little shop off Pirate's Alley.

Somebody told me you might like this. The man gave me a good deal...

He had just turned sixteen, and music was the elixir he lived and breathed. Louis Armstrong, his father's favorite, had become Julian's idol too. His father was so excited his wide eyes blazed above a smile that erased years from his weathered face. It was as if he was presenting his son with the keys to a castle.

He'd never taken the record to New York with him, choosing to listen to it on visits home. His turntable didn't work anyway, and he'd believed that the valuable recording would be safer at his father's house.

The things that survive. If he'd wished for anything from the ruined house, it would have been this.

"Wow," he said, blinking back tears. His voice cracked, tamped down to a whisper. "Thank you, Sylvia."

"I don't know how it made it. None of the other records did. Your daddy's jazz collection, your mama's opera records, all messed up."

There was a wistful look on her face as Sylvia fished in her purse for her keys. "Oh, listen," she said, "why don't you come by my house tonight, 'round six? I figure people coming back to town to see all this mess need something decent to eat. Just a few folks from church; I'm celebrating my electricity coming back on."

A feeling of clarity, like a cooling breeze, swept his skin. He knew he was home, now. When people here were happy, they cooked, and when they wanted to celebrate something, they cooked.

And when they were frustrated and angry, and their lives were uncertain, and their hearts were torn with worry and grief, they cooked.

"OK."

"Nothing fancy, you know. Just a big pot of red beans. And don't be expecting them to be as good as your daddy's."

He sighed and blew a slow stream of air through his lips, scratched at the itchy bristle of his unshaved cheek. Sometimes he wondered what in h.e.l.l was keeping him going. Days went by in a haze of lists: Get up. Shave (or not). Eat. Meet Sylvia. Call hospitals, churches, insurance agents. Listen to the news. Eat. Make more calls. By evening, his mind was a swamp where thoughts trudged along in hip boots, each step heavier than the one before until his brain stopped, bogged down in muck. Misery lolled alongside the notion that the next few days or even weeks could not be anything but hard, or even heart-breaking, if he did (or did not) find Simon.

All this-not to mention his career, his band, the draining of his cash, and figuring out when, if ever, he could play again.

But here was Sylvia, a hand stretched out from the fog. Seeing Sylvia was like coming home. Simon was the spine that joined them, him and Sylvia, front and back covers of the same book, and if he needed to, he could reach around that spine to cling to the other side.

She reached up to give him a hug, and he almost resisted, thinking about the way he must smell. But she pulled his shoulders down into hers, her hand on the back of his head.

"We're in this together, baby, you and me," she said. "You're not alone."

From outside on the gallery, Julian could hear the shuffle of slippers against hardwood.

The French door opened with a groan, and from the room floated the smell of Ben-Gay ointment and Old Spice. Matthew Parmenter, in powder-blue pajamas and a burgundy robe, stood a little shorter than the last time he'd seen him. He used a cane now, his big frame marked with an arthritic stoop.

Parmenter had always looked to him like a cross between a tall Santa Claus and an avuncular Confederate general. A thick mop of unruly snow-white hair flopped in his faded blue eyes, and his skin, ghostly pale, seemed as if it repelled sun. At eighty-five he stood about six-three, a good two inches taller than Julian, and probably fifty pounds heavier. The pale eyes glistened with a kindness Julian hadn't remembered.

"Oh, my G.o.d! Julian?" Parmenter's face opened into an exultant smile.