by Tony Dunbar
“Go! go!” Jones commanded. The policeman was upset. The woman was in shock.
“The Superdome?” Tubby asked.
“Just go, now!”
Tubby got behind the wheel and away they went. As he passed the Blue Plate Mayonnaise factory, he saw an island much closer than the Superdome; it was the Broad Street overpass, and he could see that there were people and buses on the bridge.
It took just a few minutes to get there. The people on the overpass drew back as if afraid when the Lost Lady motored up and idled at the edge of the flood. Then, when they saw the police T-shirt, they crowded around.
“Find out if there are any more cops here!” Jones instructed Tubby. He stayed in the boat with his woman and baby. Tubby climbed out, got his land legs back, and worked through the crowd.
“Have you got food?” the people asked. “Where are the helicopters?” “When are they coming for us?” The lawyer just shook his head. He hoped Jones could protect the boat. The buses at the top of the bridge had “Orleans Parish Prison” written on the side. He rapped on the door of the first one, but it was a man sitting on top of the bus with a shotgun on his lap who responded.
“Who are you?” the guard demanded.
“My name is Dubonnet. I’m with the policeman over there in the boat. Are there any cops around? What’s going on?”
“No, there ain’t no cops around. I’ve got forty-two prisoners in this bus and forty-four in the other one. You want them?” Some of the guys in the bus started beating on the glass.
“No food!” they yelled. “No water!” The bus started to rock. Tubby stepped back.
“Get us out of here!” the prisoners cried.
A woman grabbed his arm.
“There’s a sick one there,” the woman said, pulling Tubby toward a heap of clothes lying on the pavement. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but she needs a doctor now.”
Tubby looked, and indeed it was a woman, a fairly young one, hair streaked with dirt, eyes closed, sweating. Her legs looked lifeless on the paving, and her head was supported uncomfortably by the curb.
“Is no one helping you here?” he asked.
The old woman shook her head. “Take this one with you before she dies. Please.”
Tubby carried the woman off the bridge, parting the crowd as he went. She wasn’t light. Her skin was soft but cold. Some of the refugees were too tired to get out of their way, and the lawyer had to step over them. Others cursed him for leaving them behind.
Officer Jones initially looked like he wouldn’t let another passenger on board, but Tubby handed him the woman, and he took her anyway. The captain got aboard, regained the wheel, and motored back into the flood.
“We’ll go to the Convention Center,” Jones stated firmly. “That’s where we’ll find the buses.”
10
Bonner awoke on the leather sofa and took in his new surroundings. A framed Jazz Fest poster, a quiet room. Sunlight came through the windows in the back. He got to his feet and went looking for water. There was a combination kitchen and copy machine room in the law office. Water trickled thinly into the sink, but there was also a Kentwood dispenser with a nearly full five-gallon bottle. He lifted the jug out and washed his face, letting the water splash onto the floor.
A splendid sunrise poured into Tubby’s office. Bonner liked it here. He could see all over New Orleans. Toward the west, rooftops poked out of the silvery glittering soup of lake water. Below him the French Quarter appeared to be high and dry. Other office towers were close by. Curtains flapped from blown-out windows in the Sheraton Hotel.
It was very quiet this high up. No sirens or anything.
He went to work snooping around Tubby’s desk. There was a framed photograph of three girls. They were cute. Here was a calendar, and on the first page were some handwritten birthdays, for Collette, Christine, and Debbie. That would make Debbie twenty-two. Christine would be nineteen. She must be the middle one on the picture. Debbie was the one he liked the best. In a Rolodex he found everybody’s phone number.
How could he play this to his advantage? He took some time with the question while he explored the other offices. He had just about everything one might need except food. It struck him that the best way to get something to eat would be to have somebody bring it to him.
The phone had a dial tone. Bonner cocked his head quizzically as he played with the buttons until he figured out it didn’t matter which line he picked. He tried Debbie’s number first. It rang once then turned into static. Frowning he looked for the middle child, Christine. She might do. There were two numbers. The first one he tried also produced a busy signal, but the second one rang. It rang and rang, and then a voice message came on.
“Hello, if you would like to leave me a message, wait for the tone.”
He hung up. It was a pretty voice, but he wasn’t ready to talk into a recording device.
The third number belonged to the youngest. She was barely a teenager. Excited, he tried it but was rewarded with nothing except electronic beeps. He stared angrily at the phone and put it softly back in its cradle.
Bonner hadn’t really thought out what he would do after he escaped. He had just reacted to events and opportunities. He stole street clothes when he had the chance. He came to this office building because he had the address and had a hunch he might find it empty, but if the building had been a pile of rubble he would have thought of something else. Bonner’s mind was good in that respect.
Mental integrity was important. His sister had gone into high school wild as a bobcat but she had discarded her principles and got religion. She turned proper and bought new clothes and began going to church all the time. When she took up with the preacher, on the sly, they started praying for Bonner’s soul, even after he told them to quit it. He knew when they were doing it because their prayers invaded his thoughts. It was nothing but pure betrayal, the way his sister treated him. It boiled over when she and the preacher tried to wrestle him into his sister’s station wagon to take him to some holy-roller revival. They would de-Satanize him, they screamed. That scared Bonner. Big mistake. “Satan has nothing to do with me,” he shrieked, and in a burst of unplanned violence he carved them up like he was field-dressing a couple of deer.
Rivette figured he could stay in the lawyer’s office for at least another day or two without anybody noticing him, considering the degree of social disorder below. But he thought through his other alternatives as well. He remembered the typical mayhem of the French Quarter from his earlier time here, before he had been busted for the senseless charge of attempted rape. He hadn’t planned sex. But she slapped him on the jaw and he got mad. He remembered the bars, the girlie joints, the appealing confusion. He also remembered the lack of sympathy for a man without cash, a bum, and that is what he looked like. He could spend some time here in this building getting dressed up. Maybe there was some money around. His stomach growled. The phone rang.
Bonner started at the plastic box on Tubby’s desk while it rang three times. Then his hand shot forward and grabbed the phone.
“Hello,” he said coughing, disguising his voice.
There was a pause “Did someone call me from this number?” It was a nice girl’s voice.
“Is this the lawyer’s daughter, Mr. Dew-bonnet?”
“Yes,” he heard her almost laugh. “That would be Dew-bone-ay.”
Bonner cursed himself for the mistake. He was afraid he might have blown it.
“Sorry, miss. He’s had an accident. Are you here in New Orleans?”
“Yes, I’m here,” concern in her voice. “What kind of accident? You’re calling from Daddy’s office, right?”
“He fell on the stairs,” Bonner improvised. “How far away do you live?”
“Live? Right now I’m in Fauberg Marigny.”
Bonner didn’t know where that was.
“Can you come here?” he asked.
“What’s wrong with my father? Who are you?”
; Bonner was afraid he might have screwed everything up. She knew where he was, but he didn’t know where she was or what she might do. Still, this was fun.
“This is Joe, building security. Mr. Dubonnet”—he got it right this time—“slipped and fell on the stairs. He’s hurt bad. He probably should go to the hospital, but I don’t think there’s one open. He told me to call you. Then he passed out.”
“Oh goodness,” Christine wept.
“So, is it possible for you to get over here and take a look at him?”
“Yes. I’m all by myself, but I can come.”
Bonner grinned. “Listen,” he said. “I think part of your father’s problem may be that he needs food. Could you bring some?”
“Like what?” she was getting hysterical.
“I don’t know. Cold cuts, ham. A loaf of bread. Cheese maybe. And hurry if you can.”
“I will.”
“I’ll let you in at the freight entrance beside the building. All the front doors are locked.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You’d better hurry,” Bonner said, and he hung up.
Christine was indeed alone. She had decided to stay in New Orleans instead of evacuating with her Tulane classmates. The allure of remaining behind with her boyfriend had been too great, even if they were going to stay at his mother’s apartment near the French Quarter. But the mother had started to go nuts after the power went out. She had screamed at both her son and at Christine, accusing them of not understanding that they were all going to die. She wanted to go to Montreal, where her brother lived. Canada was immune to hurricanes. She wanted to go now!
Christine and her boyfriend got into a big fight, too, made worse because this was all taking place in a one-bedroom apartment and the mother kept jumping in and adding her own comments. Christine got exasperated and ultimately refused to go anywhere with these people. The mother refused to stay. Christine said she would sleep on the streets and take care of herself. The boyfriend slammed the apartment keys in the dinette and said she should at least stay where it was dry. He drove his mom away in her 2003 Volvo, packed to the roof with her macramé dolls.
So Christine had the place to herself. The street outside was littered with debris but dry. The whole neighborhood, built three hundred years before along the banks of the Mississippi River, had escaped the flood. She had no car, but she did have a bicycle.
Yes, there was a mandatory evacuation, but she had not seen a vehicle or a policeman for at least twenty-four hours. She dragged the bike outside and, cotton blouse flapping in the breeze, she peddled down Chartres Street into the French Quarter headed for the Place Palais. In her school backpack she carried French bread, olives, Brie cheese, a tomato, and a hunk of aging roast beef.
Tubby got his motor boat, the policeman, the baby-in-the-ice-chest, and two women as far as St. Charles Avenue before he ran aground. They were still about ten blocks short of the Convention Center, but the streets looked friendlier. There was a police car parked where the water stopped. Tubby tied the Lost Lady to a traffic light pole.
Officer Jones clambered out and got his comrades’ attention, and he and his family got into the squad car and drove away. Tubby got another officer who was pacing around trying to get his phone to work to take a look at the sick woman Tubby had brought along, who was now conscious and sitting up. Some color had returned to her face, possibly as a result of the psychological lift of getting off the bridge. The policeman offered her a bottle of water.
He said if they waited here someone eventually might drive them to the Convention Center where medical attention might be available.
“Can I leave my boat where it is?” Tubby asked.
“We’re going to have to requisition that, sir.”
“Yes, well it’s already been requisitioned. But who should I turn the keys over to?”
“Leave them in the switch. Your boat has been taken by the First District Police.” The officer became engaged in conversation with a troupe of muddy hikers who wanted to know where they might find a dry bed.
“Perhaps you could give me some sort of receipt for the boat,” Tubby suggested hopefully. The officer ignored him. In truth Tubby felt guilty saying anything about it. After all, this was a national disaster.
He and the woman he had saved sat on the curb. Tubby twisted the cap off his plastic bottle of Evian.
“Name’s Tubby Dubonnet,” he said
“Hope Lestella,” she replied. “Thanks for getting me this far.” She brushed the hair from her forehead. And took a swig of water. Tubby admired the muscles in her throat. She wasn’t as old as he had thought, and she might even be pretty when she wiped the mud off her oval face with the prominent chin and big nose. He liked big noses.
Though spared the full brunt of the flood, the block had obviously been struck by a catastrophe. The poles which carried the juice for the streetcars were down on the ground. So was the sign advertising the Great Free Will Mission Pentecostal Apostolic Church, lots of roofing slates, and plenty of trash. The street also smelled.
Two policemen jumped into Tubby’s boat. He stood up to say something like, Be careful with her, she’s a great… but they pushed off into the water and took off before he could make his contribution.
“I guess I’m stuck here,” he said to the world.
“I’m stuck, too,” Hope Lestella said.
“What was the problem you were having?” Tubby asked her, meaning her health problem.
“Nothing but my house washed away and everything I own is gone. I haven’t had a bath or a meal in two days. Or is it three. Other than that…”
“Is that why you passed out, is what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m a diabetic, too. See any Coca-Colas around here?”
Tubby went to look. There was a Sewell Cadillac stretch limousine serving as a sort of community center. But the driver, who looked like a cop, didn’t have any sodas. He did have some grape drink powder from an MRE, and Tubby could mix that in a bottle of water, which the cop provided. For Cokes, they recommended the Convention Center and laughed.
Tubby didn’t get the joke, but he said thanks and took the drink back to his new friend. They mixed up the concoction, using the whole flavor packet, and Hope chugged about half of it.
“That’s swell,” she gasped and made a polite burp.
“You think you could walk a few blocks?” he asked.
“I guess.”
“They’re telling all of us to go to the Ernest Morial Convention Center. They say there’s food there, and it’s dry.”
“Just as long as it’s air conditioned.” She got up and dusted her behind.
Tubby took her arm and they embarked on their journey under the Pontchartrain Expressway. Why had the limousine driver laughed?
A young man carrying a desktop computer and another carrying a monitor and keyboard crossed their path, nodded and kept going.
“Maybe they’re looting Office Depot,” Tubby suggested.
Hope shivered. “The police are just a few feet away.”
“Doesn’t seem to bother those guys.” He tightened his grip on his green bag. Two more youths ran from pillar to pillar under the expressway ahead of them. Tubby worked loose the Velcro flap on the bag and slipped his fingers inside. He found the comfort of the metal grip. The boys laughed and scampered away. A woman sitting in the damp shadow of an overpass pillar surprised them, but she was not aggressive. She was just minding a pile of acquired merchandise, a microwave, a vacuum cleaner, a table lamp.
“This is a dangerous place to be,” Tubby whispered.
Boys on battery-powered scooters zipped up the street, hands clutching plastic bags full of booty.
“Let’s hurry,” Hope suggested.
And they did, as fast as her legs and his dignity would permit. Tubby took out his pistol and carried it by his thigh.
“Hard to believe this is 2005,” he said. “Feels like the Wild freakin’ West.”
The Convention Center was visible, three long empty blocks away.
“I need to rest,” Hope sighed, and she sagged onto the sidewalk. “You can go ahead without me.”
Tubby hacked out a miserable chuckle. Then he started laughing out loud. Then he was overcome with mirth. He sat down beside his new companion. “Whoo, whee,” he exhaled, recovering himself.
“It wasn’t that funny,” she said. “I’m taking a little nap.”
She put her head on Tubby’s shoulder, and he rested his head on hers. He had an outdated handgun in his lap, and his rump was getting cold and wet from the pebbly pavement. Displaced urbanites were circling the neighborhood in search of carrion. Bolivia had never looked so sweet. Laughter kept bubbling up. His body shook, but he tried not to disturb his partner. “Now I know what it means,” he crooned, “to miss New Orleans.”
11
Christine’s bike ride through the French Quarter was a brand new experience. She had never seen the place empty of people. She had never imagined Bourbon Street still, littered not with beer cups but with smashed neon signs and roof slates. Antoine’s restaurant seemed to have fallen in on itself. A lost dog ran purposefully down the street, pretending to know where it was going. There were no cops around. It was eerie. She pedaled faster.
Well, a couple of men sat high above the street behind the ornate cast iron rail of a balcony, sipping drinks. That looked normal. And there were some policemen guarding the parking lot under the Marriott Hotel. She pedaled past. Canal Street was empty of cars except those abandoned at the curb. She had to swerve around downed street lamps and streetcar wires, but unless all the glass on the pavement popped her tires she was going through.
