I sampled my eggs and found them to be soft, moist, rich, and creamy, possibly the best I had ever eaten. I never got them to come out this way. If he prepared them from powder, Billy Joe was more than a chef, he was a magician.
My tablemate gave me something of a smile. “Hi. I'm Brenda.”
“I'm Juneiffer,” I replied.
“Are you from Port A?”
“Yes, and you?”
“Yes. Did you have much damage?”
“Could be worse, I guess. How about you?”
She rolled her eyes. “My house got red-tagged.”
My eggs went tasteless. The poor woman's home had been declared uninhabitable and likely fated for demolition. I'm sorry didn't seem to be enough.
Further down the table sat the coordinator of the city’s Parks and Recreation community programs. I recognized her from seeing her picture so often in the local paper.
“I think we could all use a break,” she announced. “We’re organizing a get together, just something informal.”
“I thought the Parks and Rec building got demolished,” remarked the man next to her.
“It did, but we’re working from our mobiles.” She waved her cell phone. “I think we’ll be able to fire up the grills at the Pavilion and offer hamburgers and hot dogs. Soft drinks too. Just a chance for everyone to step away from all the stress for a bit, catch their breath.”
“When’s it going to be?”
“Mid to late afternoon, just for a few hours. Of course we want to be done early enough so everyone can get home before curfew. I don’t know the date yet,” she said. “Check the paper. We’ll also post details on Facebook when we’ve got them.”
The chef himself emerged from the kitchen. A big man with an equally big beard, he looked part Viking, part Highlander, and part teddy bear. His sweat-soaked bandana and tee-shirt raised to new heights the adage about not working in the kitchen if you can't stand the heat. He came over to hug my shoulders. Port Aransans lacked for many things during this disaster recovery but hugs were plentiful.
“You're OK?” he asked in his booming voice. “Did you have much damage?”
“Could be worse.” I hardly knew what to say in the light of Brenda's predicament. At least I could live in my house. “And you? You reopened?”
“Well, not officially. The building needs repairs. Still waiting to hear from the landlord about what's going to happen.”
“Is that what the donations are for? Repairs?”
Chef shook his head. “It's to pay my guys and gals. If I'm out of business, they're out of a job.” He glanced over my head at the diners. “I can't hammer or nail or do plumbing or electrical but I can cook, so that's what I'm doing to help.” He clapped me on the back. “Enjoy,” he said, and glad-handed his way back to the kitchen.
I can't hammer or nail or do plumbing or electrical either, I thought. I couldn't even man a relief station for very long with my bum knee. I was useless.
On my way out, I added another bill to the Donations pickle jar.
I left my car where it was and walked to the Community Center. Mosquitoes swarmed my ankles and a pervasive odor of decaying foliage, rusting metal, and rotting wood filled my nostrils. By the time I arrived my blouse was damp with sweat and my knee ached.
A generator huffed at the far end of the porch running the length of the Community Center building. Several people occupied the porch. Some paced, others leaned against the wall, smoking. A young mother sat with her child on the steps, her head between hunched shoulders. I thought she was crying.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
She sniffed. “I ... I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I was almost afraid to ask. “Did you get much damage?”
“We were living in the trailer park. Ours got turned over and it landed on my car.”
“Where are you staying now?”
“We're kinda living in my boyfriend's car. I was hoping for a voucher for a FEMA motel.” The young woman clutched her child tighter. I could see the mother’s stress reflected in the worry lines etched around the little girl’s eyes and in her forehead. Her tee shirt was dingy from being worn too many days in a row and rinsed in a public restroom sink.
I didn't know how to tell the woman the nearest FEMA-approved motel was in Victoria, hours away. I had been unaware of the “transitional shelter assistance” until I had been in the San Antonio-area motel for a few days. Had I stayed in an approved facility, FEMA would have picked up the cost of the room and taxes. Instead, I paid for it out of my pocket. At least the state suspended the hotel/motel tax for the emergency, which shaved almost ten percent off my bill. Now I was comfortably back in my home while this young woman and her child and her boyfriend were living in a car. I hoped the three of them, not to mention the relationship, would survive it. “Did you get assistance?”
“Denied.”
“Denied? How can that be?”
“I didn't have insurance.”
I sat next to her. “But that doesn't make any sense. I can imagine if you did have insurance, you would be denied.” It’s what I assumed that I would be told.” “Did you tell them you're living in a car?”
She nodded and sniffed.
I rummaged in my purse for a tissue. My hand found the magic wand first. I wrapped my fingers around it and pictured the young woman and her daughter not on the Community Center steps, but relaxing poolside, the mother sitting in a white patio chair while nearby, the little girl played.
I’m sorry didn’t seem enough but I said it anyway as I handed her the tissue.
Chapter Eight
I tugged open the Community Center door.
When not set with rows of stack chairs for meetings or with tables and seats for parties, the Center was one big white-walled wood-floored room. Restrooms took up one end, a kitchen with a pass through faced the entrance, and a podium stood at the south end.
Not today. A labyrinth of movable dividers cordoned off workstations. Office equipment and in-boxes crowded folding tables. Staffers in jeans and patriotic-blue polo shirts embroidered with FEMA, SBA, and TWIA logos sat talking with applicants wearing sweat-stained tee shirts and shorts grimed from a morning spent laboring in the dirt and hot sun. Phones rang, fax machines whined, and printers chugged. That wheezing generator kept the room’s temperature a degree below steamy.
A young woman wearing an ID badge on a lanyard approached. “Who are you here to see?”
“Did I ... was I supposed to make an appointment?”
“No, I just need to know which agency.”
“FEMA,” I replied and wondered why I sounded dubious. Or was it apologetic?
The young woman held a pen to a clipboard. “Your name?”
“Juneiffer Cosco.”
“J E N—” the young woman began.
“No, not Jennifer. Juneiffer. June like the month. I, double F, E R.”
“Got it. Do you need a water?” the woman asked, reaching for a bottle from a crate.
“No, thank you.”
“Ok, sit over there and we'll be calling your name.”
I settled in one of the few empty chairs in a long row facing a string of work tables and glanced at my fellow applicants. Young and old, the strain of the last few weeks showed in their drawn faces and blank stares.
I hadn't been this anxious since the last time I applied for a job and that was almost half a lifetime ago. Would my status as a widowed senior woman living alone on a fixed income gain me sympathy? Or would I be regarded as not especially needy since I had no dependents and my pension and Social Security checks arrived in my checking account by direct deposit every month?
“Juneiffer?” the receptionist called, and escorted me to a workstation.
The middle-aged FEMA representative looked as frazzled as I felt. The frontier setting of the temporary office cobbled together with collapsible furniture heightened my anxiety.
“Hi, I'm Stuart,” he said. “How are you doing?�
��
“Better than most,” I said, thinking of the young mother.
He tapped a plastic bottle on the tabletop. “Do you need a water?”
“No, thank you. I'm good.” Lots and lots and lots of plastic bottles were getting emptied and thrown away, as if the city didn't already have a mind-boggling garbage-disposal problem. With recycling suspended, I wondered what was happening to them all.
“Do you have ID?”
I reached into my purse. My fingers found the magic wand. I tucked it into my left hand and took out my wallet.
Stuart noted my driver’s license. “What's your account number?”
I gulped. “I don't know.” How stupid of me, I thought. I should have brought it with me. “I guess I'm not prepared. I'm sorry, I'm just not thinking these days. My brain didn't make it back from evacuation.”
Stuart gave me a weak smile. “Try to remember it the next time you come. I can look it up using your name and tell me the city and county of your affected property.”
I supplied the information. He typed and frowned. “I'm not finding it. You said Jennifer Cosco.”
“No, Juneiffer. June like the month. I, double F, E R.”
“Oh, right. I saw that on the log and I thought she had written it down wrong.”
He typed some more. “Ah, found it. Your record shows you already had an inspection.”
“Right.”
“So you are back in your house, correct?”
“That's correct.”
“So you don't need temporary housing.”
“No, I don't.” Now I did feel apologetic. I was tempted to put in a good word for the young mother who was living in the boyfriend's car. If anyone needed housing, she did. I clutched the magic wand in my fist tighter.
He studied the display. “Your account is ‘Open.’”
“I knew that. What does that mean?”
“It hasn't been denied. I will tell you that if it is denied, you can appeal. Just remember that. Now you say you were displaced.”
“Yes, for two weeks. And before you ask, no, the motel I was at was not on the FEMA list. Once we were ordered to evacuate, everyone scrambled for some place out of the danger zone. I was so grateful for a vacancy, any vacancy, not to mention a pet-friendly one,” I said, defensive about my choice for lodging. “I wasn't going to leave Gunsmoke behind.”
“Gunsmoke?”
“My cat.”
Stuart's eyebrows went up. “Your cat's name is Gunsmoke? Does he get in lots of street fights?”
I shook my head. “I got him as a kitten from our animal shelter. I thought I was adopting a female so I named it Miss Kitty. But it developed anatomical features that clearly indicated she was a he, so ...” Now it was my turn to give a feeble smile.
I was rewarded with a little chuckle. “Clever. But you were displaced. You had expenses, right? Like, for meals.”
“Well, yes,” I stammered. Should I tell Stuart that a continental breakfast had been included in the motel fee? In recognition of the fact that Hurricane Harvey refugees filled the motel, management left the buffet out long after the published breakfast hours. I did pay for snacks in a nearby 7-Eleven, lunches in a café within walking distance, and had driven up the road to restaurants for dinner. “I kept receipts.” I had taken to heart the advice to keep records of all expenditures.
“You should have already received reimbursement in your bank account. Direct deposit. You supplied a routing number when you applied for assistance, didn't you?”
“I didn't know the number.” In the tizzy of packing for evacuation, I grabbed my “hurricane cash” but forgot my checkbook. “I could have called the bank and gotten the number, I guess ...” I wondered why I didn't. He must think I'm a complete dolt. Note to self: the next time you evacuate for a hurricane, remember to take your checks with you. And a litter scoop. In my haste I had packed plenty of kitty kibble and disposable litter boxes but had forgotten the scoop.
“Then we mailed you a check. You should have already received it.”
Mail? What about mail? I had checked the mail in the subdivision's cluster box on my way out to evacuation mere hours before the hurricane hit. I hadn't given it a thought since I returned. Was the box still standing? Had mail been delivered? I passed the Post Office situated on the highway on my way into town and the US flag was absent. Roof damage was evident and walls were missing brick siding. Was it open? Would mail be delivered? If not, what about bills? I couldn't pay a bill I didn't receive. Would I be penalized? Would my accounts be closed for non-payment? Were my creditors aware of the hurricane? Surely the electric utility knew; every other truck I saw was one of their maintenance vehicles. The city water and waste management offices might not be operational, much less keeping up with their accounting. Maybe I didn't need to worry about that but I should try to contact other creditors. That would be difficult without an Internet connection. I should dig out the last bills I had paid to find customer service numbers to call. I felt lightheaded and told myself to breathe.
Stuart angled his laptop to show me the display. “Your claim's status has been updated and there are the amounts you'll receive as reimbursement for your evacuation expenses.”
I forcibly closed my gaping mouth. The reimbursement would almost cover what I had spent for lodging and meals. I hadn't even had to supply my diligently hoarded receipts. I didn't have to dread the coming credit card bill.
“What about repairs?” he asked.
“The house is livable but the exterior was damaged.”
“You're insured, right?”
“Yes, windstorm and flood.” Was that a good thing, I wondered. Since I was insured, FEMA might decide that I didn't need help. What if the insurance companies denied my claims?
As if reading my mind, he said, “If your insurance settlement proves inadequate for your needs you can file an appeal with us.”
“Good to know.”
“Is there anything else we can help you with today?”
“No, thank you.” My neighbor Elmore was right. I had benefited from this visit. I stood and so did Stuart.
“Come back if you have more questions. We'll be here every day,” he said.
“Every day? For how long?”
He shrugged. “At this point we don't know. As long as we're needed.” He gave me another tired smile.
I wondered if he was local, or if he lived nearby. If he was from another state, this job meant that he was away from his family for an indeterminate amount of time. Where was he staying? Not in Port Aransas, obviously. There was no room at the inn. There was no inn. He must drive in every day from lodging in Corpus Christi, if there was any to be found. With their homes decimated, a good portion of Port Aransas's population, not to mention the hurricane-hammered cities all along the coast, kept those rooms full.
“It must be hard, being away from home, living out of a suitcase.”
“Comes with the territory,” he said, and I realized why his smile was so feeble. The man must be bone tired.
“Where are you staying?
“George West.”
“You're driving to George West and back every day?”
He nodded.
That must get old, I thought. I hoped the rigors of his job wouldn't negatively impact his decisions.
I glanced around the room at the dozens of agency employees, all of them having to be housed and fed. No wonder there were so many volunteer relief stations. They not only had to address the needs of displaced residents but also those of the visitors that Hurricane Harvey had brought: government agency representatives, inspectors, insurance agency adjusters, highway department employees, supplemental law enforcement, heavy equipment operators, tradesmen, and the volunteers themselves. It was daunting.
As I exited, I spotted the young mother still sitting on the Community Center's steps. Her little girl explored the Center’s small exhibition garden. Maintained under normal circumstances by Garden Club members, its plants suffere
d from neglect, the gardeners having more pressing priorities.
“You're still here,” I said to the young woman.
“Waiting for my boyfriend to come pick us up.” Her eyes were red and she looked wrung out.
“You can appeal their decision. The rep told me if insurance settlements were denied or were inadequate I could appeal, and they would help.”
“They told me that too.” She sighed. “I guess I'll start all over again.”
“Tomorrow,” I said and patted her on the knee. I fumbled for my wallet and pressed some bills into her hand.
She gaped at the money. “I can't accept this.”
“Oh sure you can. I've got a roof over my head. You don't.” The unexpected reimbursement for my displacement expenses would give my bank account a little breathing room. “Kind of paying it forward.”
Tears in her eyes, the young woman sniffed. “I am so embarrassed to find myself this desperate. If it weren't for Tina—” She looked at the child. I could see her distress reflected in the worry lines etched around Tina’s eyes and in her forehead.
“Take tonight off,” I said. “Find a motel to stay for the night. Take a long bath. Watch something fun on HBO. Rest. Then you might feel more like tackling it.”
“I'll see if I can find one. I hear they're all booked.”
“Try inland, like Robstown. Or, George West. That’s where the FEMA guy is staying. I know it's hard. You'll get through it. We’ll all get through it. One day at a time.”
The woman gave me a tearful smile. “Thanks. For the help.”
“I'm glad I could do it,” I said, grateful that I was headed home to a cool, dry house with only a cat to feed.
The Magical Book of Wands Page 24
