Recovering Charles

by Jason F. Wright

  “I’m such an idiot. I apologize.”

  “Don’t. We’re all out of our element right now. Get some rest. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall at the club. No shower, but a sink and a toilet. And don’t drink the water. There’s plenty of bottled water downstairs. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  The woman I’d met only a few hours ago smiled and entered her building.

  The streetlight above me went dark.

  I didn’t so much walk back as I jogged. Fast.

  The bottles of water were easy to find, and I also helped myself to a package of beef jerky and some saltines. I used the restroom, kicked off my shoes, pulled my hand sanitizer from my bag, and stretched out on the couch in my clothes. I wondered when I’d shower again, when I’d eat a full meal, how long it would take to find my father, and how I’d feel if and when I stood over his body and said, “That’s him.”

  Then I realized I’d forgotten to call Jordan since the

  McDonald’s in Knoxville.

  Chapter

  18

  Jezebel was cursing like a sailor.

  “Get out! We’re not interested. We—are—not—interested.”

  I sat up on the couch and checked my watch: 9:18. I

  couldn’t believe I’d slept so late. I rubbed my eyes, remembered the time- zone difference, and moved my watch back an hour.

  “Listen, boys,” Jez continued loudly from downstairs. “You’ve got about ten seconds before I stand on the street and scream for my life. Dare me?”

  I hopped off the sofa and walked down the stairs. A camera crew of three stood just inside the door. They mumbled something to one another in French, swore at Jez using two words that translated perfectly, and walked out.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Hey, Luke.” Jez shut the door behind the Frenchmen. “Some clowns wanted to shoot footage inside the club, interview me, whatever. We’re not interested.”

  I stretched my arms high above my head and yawned.

  “You sleep all right?”

  “Sure, considering. I’m actually surprised I slept so late.”

  “Remember, the city is a dead zone, especially with no electricity all night.” She walked back behind the bar. “It’s back on now. You hungry?”

  “I’m OK.”

  “Quit that fibbing, you must be starving. I’ve got Pop-Tarts, MREs, toast, Spam.”

  “Door number one sounds delicious.”

  Jez reached under the bar and retrieved a package of S’more’s-flavored Pop-Tarts. “Enjoy.” She slid them to me. “Follow me.” She led me to one of the tables in a back room. We sat across from one another.

  “People were eating dinner here not ten days ago.” She didn’t seem to be talking to me.

  “They’ll come back, right?”

  “Maybe.” She twisted her diamond engagement ring.

  I opened my Pop-Tarts and broke one in half. “S’more?”

  Jez smiled. “No, thanks, I ate a bagel already. Got a stash hidden.”

  I put the bite in my mouth. Surprisingly delicious, I thought. While I was savoring my second bite, Jez stood and brought me back a bottle of water. “Thanks,” I said sincerely, though I’d had enough water the last twenty-four hours to fill a small pond. I was instantly grateful I’d kept that to myself.

  “So tell me, Jezebel. What’s the next step?”

  “It’s Jez,” she said. “Always Jez.”

  “Understood.”

  “Tater and Hamp are back with the Auxiliaries going house to house.”

  “Coast Guard Auxiliaries?”

  “That’s them. About the best thing going down here.”

  “Are they still finding people?”

  “Alive or dead?” Jez asked.

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Lots of dead. Not many alive anymore, though another team did find a man and his wife up in an attic. He was alive; she wasn’t.”

  “What must it be like to watch your wife die?” I mused quietly.

  She looked at me and continued. “Jerome and the cousins are feeding some pets.”

  “Pets?”

  “That’s right. Pets. Most people had to leave their dogs, cats, whatever, behind. Wouldn’t let them on the buses. Some of the guys have been risking a lot to get back in the neighborhoods to get the critters food.”

  “All for nothing?”

  “Not exactly. They do it in exchange for batteries, cigarettes, whatever food isn’t spoiled, you know.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “You could call it that. But I can tell you firsthand that Jerome would be out there helping these people with their animals whether he got something for it or not. That’s Jerome. He loves helping—whatever, whoever, two legs, four paws, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Is that how he met my father?”

  She reached over and broke off a corner of my second Pop-Tart. “Now that, Luke Millward, is a segue.” She popped the piece in her mouth. “That’s one way to think of it, but your dad wasn’t a charity case, Luke.”

  “No?”

  “No. He came here looking for work, but he could play. Played piano, sax, guitar, some trumpet. He could play.” Unlike the day before, this time I saw the tears for myself.

  “You loved him.”

  “I sure did. I sure did.” She pulled a balled-up napkin from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “Your dad was a good soul. And, oh, oh, when he played . . . I never heard music like that before.”

  I broke the rest of my second Pop-Tart in half and handed it to her. This time she accepted.

  “Your dad showed up here one night at closing time. I was running around trying to account for some missing cash. But I remember your Charlie was carrying his sax case—I’ll never forget that. So he asks to see the owner or manager. It was really quiet in here for some reason that night. Maybe there was a football game going on—I don’t recall. But it was slow. Someone got Jerome from the back and he told your dad the owner was out of town. Truth is, Mr. Hunt is always out of town. Has a place up north on the other side of the lake—probably dry as the desert right now—but he’s hardly in it. Travels all over. Says he likes to see things. I think he’s just bored. Lonely.”

  I twisted the cap off my water and washed down my breakfast.

  “Jerome says he’s the closest thing to a manager working and asks Charlie what he needs. Your dad shakes his hand, tells him he had a premonition—”

  “A dream.”

  “No, he said premonition. He’d had a premonition that he was supposed to come here looking for work. Wanted to play with the boys, but offered to work in the kitchen, sweep floors, whatever. My brother told him they didn’t have much to offer, but he’d let him work that night cleaning up the place in exchange for a meal and a drink. . . . Oh, Luke, your dad looked hurt. Looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. He said no thanks to the meal and the drink and started to leave. But when Jerome turned around, walking back behind the bar, your dad stopped and pulled that sax out. He played music, Luke, such music. Music like I’ve always imagined the Lord listens to on Friday nights when He gathers His children who have already returned home.” Jez wiped her nose again. “I don’t know why I’m surprised to be crying now; I cried that night too. I’m telling you, your dad bled his heart through that saxophone.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. I’d heard Dad play like that before, get into his rhythm and play so effortlessly you wondered where the music was really coming from.

  “Jerome and the others came out. Michael, Schubert, Heath, even my niece Angela who was working that night, too. They all came out with their jaws hanging open. Now remember, Luke, these people live in Louisiana. They know good music like no one you’ve ever met. Then Jerome started asking questions. How long had he been playing? Did he write? Where was he from? Your dad told him everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “If by ‘everything’ you’re meaning everything about you, your mot
her, his problems, then yes. Everything.”

  “Sounds like Dad, leaving nothing to the imagination. That’s his typical first impression.”

  “I fell for your dad that night. Crazy, I know. White guy walks in, probably two inches shorter than me, hasn’t shaved for a couple weeks. Everything about him said, ‘Run, Jez! Get on your Jackie Joyners and run from this man!’”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I was spinning my wheels before your dad walked through that door. I’d been praying for traction, for change. Your dad was it. He was my pivot point.”

  That sounded like something Larry Gorton would say.

  “I’m telling you, the first time our eyes met, I knew he had a heart of gold.” She looked at me. “You knew that, too, didn’t you?”

  Undeniable, I thought. “I guess he did. He was always good to me growing up. But he was never the same after my mother died.”

  “That was difficult on him.”

  “And me.”

  Jez looked up and said hello to two men who came in and walked behind the bar. They poured themselves whiskeys. “Regulars,” Jez said to me. “Holdouts like us. They’re not leaving unless they’re tied up and dragged out of town.”

  I was still thinking about my mother.

  “Sugar, I know. Hard to be a kid and see your mother give up like that. How many times had you heard her say, ‘Don’t give up, son, don’t give up.’”

  A million.

  “Plenty I bet. That’s what mothers do. Dads, too, if they’re around. Then sometimes—and it’s tragic for everyone—sometimes they can’t follow their own advice.”

  I took another drink of water. “Did you know I played tennis my freshman year of high school?”

  Jez looked as surprised at hearing me say it as I was for actually saying it. “No,” she said simply.

  “I wasn’t officially on the team, but we’d play after school and I was always looking for a match. My best friend back then was Jon, and he and I played doubles. He was better than I was, but we played together anyway. I don’t know why, but I let him talk me into signing up for a city-wide tournament.”

  Jezebel listened to me like this was the most important story she’d ever heard.

  “I remember when the bracket was posted on the community bulletin board outside the courts. We practically jumped up and down at our first-round matchup: Millward and Swinson versus Hyatt and Dysart. Really? Hyatt and Dysart? We knew those guys. We knew we could take them. In fact I recall thinking, ‘At least we’ll get out of the first round. We won’t be embarrassed. And I won’t let my partner down.’”

  I saw Jez grab the napkin again and wipe her eyes.

  “Match day came. We won the first set, lost the second, went to a third-set tiebreaker. I was playing net during the first game of that final set. Dysart ripped a forehand to my right, and I reached out to stab at it and biffed it on the court.”

  Jez put her hand to her mouth.

  “I laid there on the court. I could feel my right knee bleeding. I was so embarrassed. I could tell my partner had somehow reached the ball behind me and hit it back over the net. Then I heard my dad yell, ‘Get up!’ So I did. . . . The ball came back to me a couple shots later and I hit a nifty drop shot. We won the point.”

  “Ha! Wonderful! And then you won the match.”

  “No. We got beat.”

  She giggled. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry those two boys beat you after all that inspiration.”

  “They weren’t boys.”

  “Men?”

  “Girls.”

  She wasn’t giggling anymore. She was laughing so hard I thought she’d need an oxygen tank.

  “Great story, Luke. You tell them like your dad.”

  With that the door opened again.

  Bela.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Jez said.

  “Morning. Hi, Luke.”

  “Hey,” I said, and remembered with a pang that I still needed to call Jordan.

  “What’s up this morning?” Bela asked. “Any news?”

  “Jerome’s out on pet duty. I expect him back soon. Jason and Chad are out looking for more MREs.” Jez turned to me as if knowing I was curious. “Those MREs are being left around. The guys have been collecting the ones that obviously don’t belong to anyone and bringing them back here. We’ve sort of become a general store. All barter.”

  She looked back at Bela. “How about you?”

  “I’m here for whatever you need. Actually, could I talk to you for a minute?”

  Jez stood and followed Bela out onto the street. I was curious, but saw the opportunity to head upstairs and get ready for the day. I changed my clothes, watered down my hair and brushed my teeth with leftover bottled water. My cell phone was where I’d left it last night and I stuck it in my front pocket, silently pledging to call Jordan when I knew where my day would take me.

  I grabbed my camera bag and returned downstairs. Bela and Jez were back inside. Bela was holding three packs of cigarettes.

  “Luke, Bela met a police officer from Tennessee who said he’d help drive you around this morning in exchange for cigarettes.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “General store,” she replied with a smile. “Sound good?”

  “Excellent. I’m looking forward to finding some answers.”

  Jez looked at Bela. “We know. We all are. Be safe, you two.”

  Safety never seemed so relative.

  Chapter

  19

  The light outside was blinding. The heat was worse.

  After the darkness of Verses, it felt like we’d stepped onto the surface of the sun. It had to have been ninety degrees already.

  “It’s been like this since the storm cleared,” Bela said as we walked down the sidewalk toward Canal.

  “I thought it was always this hot down here. Sure was growing up in Dallas.”

  “It’s hot, yes, but not like this. This has been brutal on us. I bet the city lost more people from the heat than the water.” She hesitated. “Who knows. I have no idea if that’s true. I hate to speculate.”

  I pictured the two dead men under the bridge.

  The image was forced from my mind by the vibrating cell phone in my pocket. I removed it and checked the caller ID:

  Jordan cell.

  “You’re lucky that rang,” Bela said. “Calls are sparse coming in, almost none are getting out anymore.” She looked at my face. “We can stop so you can answer it. I’d hate to have the signal fade.”

  “Thanks.” I flipped the phone open. “Hi, this is Luke.”

  “Luke. You OK? You make it?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Made it yesterday late.”

  Bela took a few steps away to read a menu posted in a glass case for a restaurant that wasn’t open.

  “You didn’t call. I started to worry.” Jordan took a deep breath. “Bad time?”

  “Not at all. What’s new up there?”

  “One closing fell through. The wife wasn’t a citizen and their bank dumped the loan. Back to square one.”

  “That’s lousy.”

  “Yeah, but I got another listing, place over on Bleaker. What goes around—”

  “Comes around,” I finished.

  “Karma.”

  A man approached Bela on the sidewalk.

  “How about your dad? I didn’t really call to talk real estate.”

  “No news. We’re going out right now to see what we can find.”

  A beat passed.

  “What’s it like?”

  “The city?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A war zone.”

  “That’s definitely what it looks like on TV.”

  “It’s even worse on the ground,” I said and noticed the man Bela had been talking to walking away.

  “You met the guy who called?”

  “Jerome.” Bela looked my way at the mention of his name.

  “Good guy?”

  “The best.”
/>
  “Oh, good. . . . So how long do you think it will be before you know something?”

  “I wish I knew. Communication is horrible. I’m told cell phones aren’t reliable at all and calls out are impossible. Incoming are hit-and-miss.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “I’ve been trying all morning.”

  “I’m sorry. Keep trying when you need to reach me. Don’t give up.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I better get going. My guide is standing here waiting for me.”

  “They got you a guide?”

  “Sort of. Someone I met at the club.”

  “Please be safe.”

  “We will.”

  “Try to call?”

  “I will, but if you don’t hear from me, try my cell anytime. Hopefully you’ll get through.”

  “All right then. I miss you, Luke.”

  “You too.” I did.

  “Be safe.”

  “Thanks, we’ll talk soon.”

  I hung up and tucked the phone back in my pocket.

  “Girlfriend?” Bela asked as we began walking again.

  “How did you know it wasn’t my wife?”

  “Your dad said you never married.”

  “I see. What else did he tell you?” It sounded much more playful than I meant it to. I was genuinely curious.

  Bela shrugged. “Your dad liked to talk.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure he did. You just had to listen.”

  Ouch. I wondered if he’d told her about his last call from Austin.

  We walked quietly until we reached Canal Street. She looked left then right. According to Bela, Canal was the widest roadway in America that was called a street and not a highway, boulevard, or avenue. That day it could accurately be called a sea of news trucks, military vehicles, and trash. A police officer to our right waved and caught Bela’s attention.

  “Here we go,” she said. We jogged across the street and Bela introduced me to Officer Rostron of Memphis, Tennessee. He was also, apparently, a bodybuilder. His arms were bigger than the telephone pole he leaned against.

  “Pleasure,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. Very firmly.

  Bela handed him the cigarettes. He slid one pack into his shirt pocket and the others into the left and right pockets of his pants. “The funny thing? I don’t even smoke”—he smiled—“but these will get me something good. Maybe even a night off to catch some sleep. I’m doggin’ it.”