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Chapter 27
September, 2004
The last major hurricane
to strike the city of New Orleans was a slow-moving killer named
Betsy. The Category 3 storm was running up the east coast of
Florida in September of 1965 when it executed a perfect 270-degree
loop, crossed over the Florida Keys, reenergized in the Gulf
of Mexico, and crawled up Bayou Lafourche during the night of
September 9.
The wet, powerful
monster took eight hours to move up the Bayou Lafourche, spawning
countless tornados and dumping huge amounts of rain. While Betsy's
forty-mile-wide eye passed west of New Orleans, the city was
in the powerful northeast quadrant, the worst sector of any storm.
The Mississippi River itself rose by ten feet. The storm surge
overpowered the levees of Lake Pontchartrain, the Mississippi
River Gulf Outlet, and the Industrial Canal. These levee breaches
flooded parts of Gentilly, the Upper and the Lower Ninth Wards
of New Orleans, as well as Arabi and Chalmette in neighboring
St. Bernard Parish. The flood water reached the eaves of houses
in some places and over some one-story roofs in the Lower Ninth
Ward. Some residents drowned in their attics trying to escape
the rising waters. In all, 164,000 homes were flooded.
All in all, seventy-six
people died in Louisiana and Appalachia, where the remnants of
the killer caused terrible floods. Adjusted for inflation, the
economic cost was between ten to twelve billion dollars.
It was ten days
or more before the water level in New Orleans went down enough
for people to return to their homes. Weeks would pass before
power and running water could be restored to parishes like Lafourche,
St. Mary, and Terrebonne. It took even longer than that to restore
flooded houses in Orleans, St. Bernard, and Plaquemines to a
livable condition.
The federal government
was concerned, and President Lyndon B. Johnson himself, taking
time from running the Vietnam War, flew down to see the damage
and promise aid. LBJ and the Congress swore that such a disaster
would never happen again. The US Army Corps of Engineers would
not only repair the levees but build newer, better ones, guaranteed
to withstand a Category 3 storm.
Of course, it was
easy for the Congress to promise to do something. Funding it
was another matter. Priorities changed, don't you know, elections
had to be won, and the Corps never got anywhere near the appropriations
needed in the next forty years, either from Democrats or Republicans.
By 2004, a major part of the project, the levees of southern
Jefferson Parish, was yet to be constructed.
In the nearly forty
years since Betsy, the city had had some nears misses, notably
1969's Camille and 1992's Andrew. Much weaker storms would occasionally
roll in. The citizens of the Crescent City, like most in the
Gulf region, took storms as a part of life, the price one paid
for living in paradise. It wasn't that they were stupid or foolhardy.
They all knew, just as the people living near San Francisco knew,
that the "Big One" was only a matter of time.
But neither earthquakes
nor hurricanes would dispel the human spirit. The Louisianans
went on with their lives, but always with one eye on the Gulf.
~*~*~
Lizzy Boudreaux
called her boss at his home at six-thirty on Sunday night. "Carl,
I really don't like that Ivan out there. If it's okay with you,
I'll like to take off and not come in tomorrow."
"Where're
you going?"
"Chackbay with
my family. It's high ground there. Is that okay?"
"Tell you
what. You go on. If the mayor calls for an evacuation tomorrow,
I'll send everybody home. Otherwise, we'll count it as a vacation
day. How's that?"
"Carl, you're
the best!"
"Drive safe,
Lizzy."
An hour later, a
bag packed and refrigerator empty, Lizzy pulled out of her Metairie
apartment to make the ninety-minute drive to Chackbay.
~*~*~
It could not be
said that Mondays were Chuck Bingley's favorite day of the week.
He much preferred Fridays, for that meant he would be spending
the next two full days with Jane, two-year old daughter, Hailey,
baby son, Brett and the dog, Rufus. He knew his contemporaries
considered him a homebody. Hell, some said he was well and truly
pussy-whipped. He only smiled and nodded. It was Chuck's firm
opinion that a man would be a damn fool not to be happily p-whipped
by someone as wonderful as his angel.
But this Monday
was worse than most. There was a big storm in the Gulf, the forecasters
were going nuts warning everybody about "Ivan the Terrible."
It could be here in two days, and Chuck's asshole of a manager
insisted on the regular Monday 9:30 a.m. meeting with his lenders.
At least traffic
on the Causeway was light. That's because the other people's
bosses weren't insane!
In record time,
Chuck pulled into his reserved space in the Gallic National Bank's
parking garage. The number of cars was low for a Monday, which
only further aggravated him. The garage elevator took him to
the bank's lobby, and Chuck saw that just about everybody was
on-deck. It made sense, since anyone evacuating would need some
cash.
But, isn't that
why we have ATM machines?
Minutes later, Chuck
was behind his desk, coffee on the credenza, polishing his weekly
report. After killing twenty minutes doing that, he wandered
to the break room where he discussed Ivan with a couple of the
other lenders. At 9:20, they began to congregate in one of the
bank's meeting rooms.
The bottom of the
hour came and went. Most of the chairs were filled as the commercial
lending team awaited their leader. Ten minutes later, the manager's
secretary walked in.
"Hey, where's
Manwaring?" the secretary was asked.
The embarrassed
secretary looked at her papers. "He…umm…called
in. He won't be coming in today."
The room exploded.
"But…but,"
she continued, trying to restore order, "he wanted the quarter-to-date
figures to be reviewed, and I have them right here."
More protests ensued.
"The mayor's supposed to have a press conference at ten
to talk about evacuation, and we're sitting around here talking
numbers?" one lender cried.
"This is bullshit!"
Chuck spoke up.
"Hey, everybody, it isn't her fault. Let's just get this
over with so we can hear the press conference."
There was grumbling,
but the work was quickly done.
~*~*~
It was estimated
that in 2004 there were one million people living in the four-parish
area of Orleans, Jefferson, St. Bernard, and Plaquemines. The
question always was how to evacuate that many people with only
four ways out.
In 1998, the near-miss
of Hurricane Fredrick showed that the evacuation routes were
inadequate. The solution the highway people came up with was
to re-direct traffic onto the opposite lanes of the Interstate.
That way, the arteries could handle twice the traffic. The plan
was called Contraflow.
Contraflow was not
as easy as it sounds. One problem was how to get the traffic
re-directed. Having cars go the wrong-way up the exit ramps was
impractical. Instead, millions were spent making cross-over lanes
on the interstates, blocking them with removable barricades.
This took time.
There was also the
problem of clearing traffic from the incoming lanes. It would
not do to re-direct hundreds of vehicles into the path of an
oncoming semi. State Police and other law enforcement personnel
would have to physically block all entrances to the interstates
and clear the traffic before the barricades at the cross-over
lanes were removed. This ate up enormous manpower, which was
one reason the State Police hated Contraflow.
The troopers in
blue pointed out that, with Contraflow, it would be difficult
to impossible to respond to an emergency on the interstates,
especially on the elevated portions. Their concerns were noted,
but the engineers observed that the shoulders were still available,
and Contraflow would only remain in effect for a limited period
during the height of the evacuation. Chances would have to be
taken.
The concept of Contraflow
was very popular with the citizens, so the politicians made the
project the highest priority. The last part of the project was
completed just before the 2004 hurricane season. It had never
before been used. Everyone expected some bugs, but the idea was
so simple, what could go wrong?
~*~*~
At EDNO, every eye
was on the TV set in the boardroom. Mayor Nagin's press conference
got going at 10:30, delayed by an address by the governor. He
announced a voluntary evacuation of the city at 6:00 p.m., in
accordance with the evacuation plan with the surrounding parishes
ironed out since 1998's scare with Hurricane Fredrick.
The plan directed
that coastal areas such as Grand Isle, Lafitte, and lower Plaquemines
would get a head start, as those communities were closer to the
Gulf and more prone to high water cutting off escape routes.
St. Bernard and the rest of Plaquemines would be next, as well
as low-lying areas in New Orleans East. Finally, Orleans and
Jefferson would evacuate.
Carl Eden turned
to his troops and dismissed them immediately. "Get home,"
he told them, "and those of you that are getting out, get
packing. Make sure we've got your cell numbers, in case we've
got to get in touch with you."
Everyone dashed
back to their desks, except Kaywanda Johnson, who went to talk
to Jan Hill.
"What's up,
K?"
"Jan, you know
how my momma is - she won't wanna leave. What'll I do? I can't
leave her." The unmarried Kaywanda lived in Mid City with
her divorced mother.
"Oh, babygirl,
you sure you can't talk her into it?" Jan had taken the
younger woman under her wing as if they were related.
"Oh, no. She
lived through Betsy, an' she thinks nothin' could be worse than
that."
Jan thought. "The
mayor said the Dome will be available."
"But he said
it was for special needs. Momma ain't no cripple." When
she got stressed, Kaywanda's speech patterns and vocabulary reverted
back to the neighborhood slang she grew up with and had worked
so hard to suppress.
"Look, K, if
that storm hits and there's no power, they won't turn you away.
They'll have AC, food and water. You take her there if you lose
your lights."
"You leaving?"
"My husband's
got people in Donaldsonville."
"Okay. I better
get home to Momma."
"You take care,
babygirl."
~*~*~
Chris had picked
up Marianne at six a.m. to drive to Lafayette. He was not needed
at the hospital, and Mari's firm had sent recorded phone messages
to staff, advising them not to report for work. Chris figured
that I-10 would be jammed solid with the evacuees from Florida,
Alabama, and Mississippi added to the fleeing Louisianans. He
crossed over the Mississippi River on the Huey P. Long Bridge
to jump onto US-90 and was making good time until he got to Lafourche
Parish. The evacuation from Grand Isle and lower Lafourche Parish
was in full force and only got heaver as they crawled into Terrebonne
Parish near Houma. There was nothing for it, because they had
to cross the Atchafalaya River at Morgan City. So the two tried
to relax in his GMC Envoy and sang show tunes to while away the
time.
Once the barrier
of the state's second largest river was overcome, Chris could
escape the mind-numbing traffic and jump off US-90. He made up
time going cross-country, using his knowledge of the local roads
to work his way to the Breaux homestead south of Lafayette. They
got there a little after eleven.
"Oh, bless
me! I've been so worried about you two," cried Mrs. Breaux
as she greeted the two refugees with hugs and kisses. "Did
you have anything to eat? Of course not! You must be hungry!
Now, Mari, you just sit yourself down right there while I fix
you both a nice sandwich. Ham and cheese all right?"
Chris grinned as
he kissed his mother's cheek. "I'll just get our bags out
of the truck, Mom."
"No hurry,
Chris. You can do that later."
"May I help,
Mrs. Breaux?" asked Marianne.
"Why, certainly,
dear. The bread's in the pantry right over there."
"No mayo on
mine, Mom," came a voice out of the den.
Chris turned to
his mother, an eyebrow raised. "Mike isn't working today?"
he asked in a low voice.
Mrs. Breaux's face
colored as she admitted, "He was laid off."
"Again?"
Chris whispered. Mortified, she shrugged her shoulders as she
turned to retrieve the sandwich fixings from the refrigerator.
Mike Breaux, Chris'
younger brother, wandered in barefoot, a dirty ZZ Top t-shirt
worn un-tucked over his jeans. "Hey, Mom, grab me a beer
outta the icebox while you're there, huh? Hey ya, Chris. I see
ya got away from the city okay."
It was obvious Mike
hadn't been up long. "Morning, Mike. Yeah, it took us a
while, but we made it."
"An' you brought
some company. Woo-hoo, Mari, you're lookin' go-od!"
Mari was in a t-shirt
and shorts, no make-up, and her hair in a ponytail. "Thank
you, Mike."
"Why you wastin'
your time with a stick in th' mud like my brother, huh?"
She smiled sweetly.
"Just lucky, I guess."
Mike laughed. "I
see y'all both got it bad," he said as he opened the Bud
his mother had placed on the counter. "I only hope it lasts.
It don't, sometimes. Take it from me. I oughta know." He
took a long pull.
Chris had a neutral
expression. "Where's Jimmy?" he asked about his nephew.
Mike belched lightly.
"With his momma."
"And where
are they?"
Mike grunted. "Margie's
got herself a boyfriend. She said they were gonna stay with his
people up in Opelousas."
"They're safe,
then."
"I guess so.
Hell, the judge gave her custody - that's her job. That an' spendin'
my money." He took another drink of beer. "Ya think
if she marries again, the judge'll reduce my child support?"
"Here's your
sandwich, Mike," his mother said in a clipped tone.
"Thanks, Mom,"
he mumbled as he took a bite and walked back into the den.
Chris looked at
his mother. He could see she was both mortified and angry. Since
Margie divorced Mike two years ago, he had been living in his
old bedroom. He had lost the job he had when he was married and
two others, besides. Unemployed, he sat on his parent's couch
and drank their beer. The Breauxs didn't approve, but they just
couldn't find it in their hearts to throw him out on the street.
Unspoken among the
rest of the Breaux clan was the relief they felt when his former
wife won full custody of little Jimmy Breaux. It was very painful
to have a divorce in their very Catholic household, but they
knew Margie was right to do so. They might love Mike because
he was family, but they weren't blind to his faults. The older
Breauxs worked hard to maintain a relationship with their only
grandson and former daughter-in-law. Fortunately, Margie had
always loved Mr. and Mrs. Breaux and was very cooperative, as
long as Mike wasn't around when Jimmy or she visited.
It was Chris who
had lost touch with Margie and Jimmy. It was hard enough to play
uncle from a hundred miles away; having a divorce thrown in made
it nearly impossible.
After lunch, Chris
retrieved the luggage from the SUV. Mari was to stay in Chris'
old bedroom, while he would bunk out on the couch. It was an
arrangement that didn't sit well with the lady in question.
"Chris,"
she said after Mrs. Breaux had shown them to the bedroom, "I
feel bad about kicking you out of your room."
"It's okay,
Mari, I'll manage," he said as he kissed her nose.
She toyed with his
shirt. "I was thinking…you don't have to leave."
"What - have
you sleep on the couch? No way!" The embarrassed yet incredulous
expression on Mari's face told him he had gotten it wrong. With
dawning realization, he said, "Honey…here, in
my parents' house?"
Mortified, Mari
responded, "We don't have to…do it. We could just share
the bed."
"It's a twin."
"I don't take
up that much room. Or you could sleep on the floor. I just want
to be close to you."
Chris gave his love
a long, sweet kiss. "Oh, my Marianne. The sweetest, loveliest
girl in the world."
Mari was confused.
"All right, separate beds, but Chris, don't you want to
- you know, be with me?"
"Don't tempt
me, babe," he whispered as he looked deeply into her eyes.
"If you knew how very much I want to be with you - my good
god. Believe me, I want you very much. Mari, I love you, but
I want our first time to be as special as you are. And it won't
be while trying to be quiet in my parents' house."
Mari almost demanded
to know just when he figured the time would be right, but she
demurred. "All right, Chris. But I'll hold you to that."
She kissed him lightly. "Now, let me put my things away,
okay?"
"All right,"
he grinned as he left for the den. But Mari did not start to
unpack. She was tried of waiting. A seduction needed to be planned.
If Cajun-man wasn't going to get off the stick, it was time to
see what Mississippi-girl could do.
Mari had to admit
that Chris was right - the Breaux house was not the right place
or the right time. But, she had plenty of opportunities back
in New Orleans.
It has to be
something good. I'm not letting him get away. No, sir.
~*~*~
After the meeting
and press conference, there was no announcement from the Gallic
management, until a terse email came in at 11:30.
All non-essential
personnel are dismissed. Tellers and operations personnel shall
leave after their shift is over.
---GNB Management
It took Chuck ten
minutes to shut down his computer and gather his papers. As he
was walking to the elevators, he came across the VP of Operations.
"Hey Chuck,"
said Ted Bennet. "Getting out of here?"
"Yeah. It took
the guys upstairs long enough to dismiss us."
Bennet looked around.
"Just between you and me, the CEO's right pissed at Manwaring
calling you guys in and not showing up himself. I don't think
he knew y'all were here until a half-hour ago."
"When are you
leaving?"
Bennet rubbed his
neck. "Not for a long time. Not until my people go home
and everything on the computers is backed up to the reserve servers
in Dallas. Maybe nine tonight, if I'm lucky."
"You getting
out?"
"My wife is
packing up right now."
The elevator doors
opened, and as Chuck entered, he said, "All right, take
it easy, Ted."
"You, too,"
answered Bennet as the doors closed.
Chuck was soon walking
to his car, dodging the vehicles leaving the structure. He closed
the car door, switched on WWL-AM 870 on the radio, and made his
way towards the street. Chuck figured that most people in Downtown
wouldn't wait until six to leave and that most of them would
use I-10 to get out. He decided to use Tulane Avenue/Airline
Drive to run parallel to the interstate before getting on Causeway
Boulevard for the run to the bridge and the North Shore.
In times of emergency,
everybody turned to the "Big Eight-Seventy," one of
the most powerful radio stations in the county. The 50,000-watt
barnburner could be heard in forty states at night, if the atmospheric
bounce was right. Sure enough, the talk radio station was wall-to-wall
Ivan coverage and the gridlock that was occurring on the roadways.
Chuck could see for himself that I-10 was turning into a parking
lot as he dashed down Tulane. He was making great time, he thought,
and he estimated he would hit traffic around Causeway Boulevard
interchange.
Just after Tulane
became Airline, and just before the Jefferson Parish line, Chuck
had his first inkling that he was wrong. He hit his breaks as
all four lanes of Airline were lit by hundreds of taillights.
Before he knew it, his Camry was trapped, as other cars sandwiched
him in.
Chuck looked around
in surprise. There was nothing on the radio about Airline; the
announcers were talking about the horrible conditions on the
interstate and the US-90 Westbank Expressway. The station
has airborne traffic spotters. Are they blind? Can't they see
this? What the hell's going on?
Just then he heard,
"…and we're getting reports that the situation on
the surface roads - Airline, Jefferson, and River Road - are
just as congested as the Interstate . All we can say, folks,
is to keep your cool, stay in your lanes, and let this work itself
out. As for Contraflow, it's still scheduled to go into effect
at six. Our producer is trying to get through to the State Police
to see if there is any change…"
Chuck flipped open
his cell phone and tried to call Jane. Nothing. No signal?
What the hell? He glanced out his window to see the driver
in the car next to him with a cell phone to her ear. He suddenly
realized that everybody must have had the same idea. They'd overloaded
the cell. He steeled himself to wait a minute and try again.
This time he got through.
"Hey, honey,
it's me."
"Where are
you?"
"Stuck on Airline,
about…oh, two miles from Causeway Boulevard."
"I've been
watching the coverage. It's bad everywhere."
"Tell me about
it. Where are you?"
"Home. The
clinic let us out early. I got the kids from daycare."
"Is the traffic
bad up there?"
"Terrible.
How long do you think you'll be?"
Chuck estimated.
They weren't at a virtual stand-still. Traffic was crawling at
a stop-and-go pace of about five miles an hour. Ought to clear
up on the bridge. "A long time - maybe four hours. Let's
see, it's noon now. Look for me about four."
"Okay, honey,
drive safe. You got anything to eat?"
"No, but I'll
be okay. Love you." Chuck switched off his phone and tried
to settle down for the battle ahead. He didn't yet know that
his guestimate wasn't even close.
~*~*~
"George,"
Emma barked on the cordless phone, "I need you at home!"
"Emma, I
can't. We're in the middle of hurricane preparations here at
the hospital. They need me."
"But I need
you, too!"
"What's
wrong?"
"It's Papa.
He won't evacuate."
"What? I
thought we settled that at breakfast. You and Abe are supposed
to pull outta here. I've got the reservation in Lafayette all
set…"
"Here! You
talk to him!" Emma shoved the phone at her father.
"Umm…Abe?"
"You might
as well save your breath, George. I'm not going."
"Abe, look,
this storm's a bad one. It's a Cat 4, at least."
"Doesn't matter.
I'm an architect. I know we've got nothing to worry about. Have
you really looked at the levees on the lakefront and river?
Fifteen feet high! Thousands of tons of earth and materials.
Nothing this side of an atom bomb's gettin' through there!"
"Abe, you're
not a structural engineer."
"Look, George,
you're a doctor. Would I second guess a diagnosis from you?"
George thought that
he would, but keep his comment to himself.
Abe continued. "I
know what I'm talking about. Besides, that ain't all. Haven't
you noticed there hasn't been a major strike against a big US
city since forever? I'm telling you, the heat sink around big
cities push those damn things away. Remember Andrew? Missed Miami.
This year, Charlie was heading right at Tampa, when it turned
at the last minute. I'm safer here in my La-Z-Boy than in some
motel in the country."
"What about
losing power? Let's say you're right and Ivan goes into Mississippi.
We could still have the lights go out."
"What about
it? It'll be back in three days or so. Be like camping out."
George sighed. "Abe,
please put Emma back on."
Emma took the phone
and walked back to the kitchen. "Well?"
"Has he
been like this all day?"
"No, only since
the mayor's press conference. He's been watching the coverage,
and all the reports of the traffic jams got him stirred up. I
think the thought of sitting in traffic is the real problem.
George, what are we going to do?"
There was a pause.
"Emma, I can't leave right now…"
"George!"
"Wait! I
might be able to get away for a little while later - say around
seven. Let him calm down and we'll talk some more on what's to
be done, after the next storm advisory."
"All right,
George."
"Hang in
there, babe. I know it's hard."
"It never ends.
Please hurry home."
"I will.
Oops…they're calling for me. Gotta go! Love ya."
"I love you,
too," Emma said to the dial tone.
Meanwhile, Abe was
still holding court from his recliner. "I'm telling you,
Princess, that storm's not comin' here. Bet you a thousand dollars
- right now."
Emma, too tired
from arguing, just walked to her bedroom.
~*~*~
Lizzy let herself
out of the back door of her parents' Chackbay house and watched
as her father, dressed in stained oilfield coveralls, finished
preparing the place for a storm. All the loose things about the
house, anything that could become a missile in hurricane force
winds, water hoses, lawn furniture, tomato cages, and garden
gnomes, had been put away in the garage. Everything else too
heavy to carry was placed on its side. The only thing left to
do was secure the swing set in the back yard; the very one her
father built out of used oil field pipe for her and her sisters
so many years ago.
Lizzy looked up
in the sky as she walked the yard. The house was just off Highway
20, and the traffic was steady. It was such a normal, warm September
day. There was very little wind and hardly a cloud in the sky.
Only a few cirrus clouds competed with the odd jet contrail.
Nothing that said Death was churning in the Gulf.
It was always that
way before a storm, she recalled - lovely, sunny days that gave
no clue as to what was coming. Eventually, the wind would freshen,
and low clouds would dash across the sky in an unusual manner.
Was that how her ancestors would know of a storm approaching?
Was that very few hours the only warning they would get in the
days before radio and television and satellites?
Lizzy's musings
were interrupted by a large pick-up truck turning off the highway
into the drive to the house. She waved as she moved towards the
duel-wheeled behemoth and saw two people get out: a slim girl
with glasses and a giant with a ball cap over his shaved head.
"Hi, Lizzy,"
the girl called.
"Hi, Mary,
Bubba," Lizzy called back to her sister and her boyfriend,
fellow teacher Adam "Bubba" Teresina.
"Is Kit inside?"
Mary asked as she hugged her, referring to their sister Catherine
Boudreaux.
"Yeah, she's
online, last time I saw her."
"Figures. She
wanted me to show me a web site - some fan fiction place called
'The Garden.' I'll go get that over with, and we'll talk later."
"Okay, Mary."
She turned to the massive man next to her. That the six foot
six, two hundred fifty-pound Bubba Teresina was a football coach
surprised no one. He still looked like the defensive end he was
at Nicholls State. What turned people's heads was the fact that
he was also the biology teacher at E.D. White Catholic High,
where both he and Mary taught. "Just in time to help Daddy
lower the swing set, Bubba," Lizzy grinned.
Bubba eyed the contraption.
"Oo-wee! That looks heavy. He made it himself?"
"Mmm-hmm. Everything
all set at your folks' place?"
"Yeah, we just
come from there. They canceled school this morning. Well,"
he rubbed his hands together, "might as well get it over
with. Hey T.B! You ready to tackle that thing?"
T.B. Boudreaux,
Lizzy's father, waved his agreement, and the two men moved towards
the massive apparatus. Lizzy knew better than to try to help.
Dad would storm, and Bubba would get embarrassed. She grinned
as she thought what a teddy bear Bubba really was and how Mary
had him firmly wrapped around her finger.
I think Momma's
more anxious for a proposal than Mary, she recalled, knowing the two were waiting until
their paychecks were high enough to think of marrying and getting
a house. I hope it's soon, then Momma will get off my back
for a while.
She stopped. She
wasn't being fair. Fanny Boudreaux hadn't bugged her about being
unmarried for a while. Not since Lydia.
Oh, Lydia - where
are you?
~*~*~
In 1969, the Swiss-born
psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross identified the Five Stages
of Receiving Catastrophic News: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression,
and Acceptance.
Many incorrectly
assumed the stages only referred to how people dealt with the
approach of their own demise. A reasonable error, as the title
of the book they first appeared in was entitled On Death and
Dying. Dr. Kübler-Ross stated that those stages could
be felt for grief of any kind.
Dr. Kübler-Ross
died in August of 2004 at her home in Scottsdale, Arizona. One
wonders, if she had been alive in September, whether she would
have extended her theory to hurricane evacuees - because by three
o'clock in the afternoon, Chuck Bingley was going insane.
In a little over
three hours, he had driven less than four miles. Through the
worst stop-and-go traffic he had ever seen, he had worked his
way the two miles to get on Causeway Boulevard. Now he wasn't
even to the intersection with I-10, and there was still over
a mile to go before he was on the bridge. He had no illusions
as to what awaited him. Assuming five miles per hour, it would
take him almost five hours to cross the 24-mile long Causeway.
Only God knew what awaited him on the other side.
There were two good
pieces of news. He had filled up his gas tank the night before,
so he had plenty of fuel. And his bladder wasn't giving him any
trouble - yet.
What he could not
understand was why the traffic was so bad - why the Contraflow
had not been put into effect. He could just make out the Interstate.
Three lanes of traffic at a near-standstill going west, while
almost no cars at all heading eastward. He just knew some of
the traffic heading for the Causeway was trying to avoid the
I-10.
What the hell
were they waiting for!? Start the Contraflow!
~*~*~
A key part of the
Contraflow plan was that it could only be initiated by the governor.
This was not seen as any great obstacle when the plan was proposed
in 1999. What governor wouldn't use Contraflow as soon as possible?
No one counted on
Louisiana having a governor as indecisive as Kathleen "Committee"
Blanco.
Above all things,
Governor Blanco hated making a wrong decision, especially one
that could be placed solely on her doorstep. Her personality
demanded that she receive nauseating amounts of advice and counsel,
until she achieved consensus. Only then would she move forward.
If successful, she could take credit for leading the process.
If the plan failed, she could point to bad advice.
The governor's main
advisor for traffic issues was the head of the State Police,
who personally and intuitionally hated Contraflow. He wanted
to hold firm on the six p.m. commencement. Therefore, Blanco
was able to withstand the cries from the elected officials in
southeast Louisiana to speed up activation for hours, insisting
that Contraflow would become effective at six, as planned.
The governor might
be able to ignore telephone calls she wasn't taking, but she
and her political advisors couldn't ignore the pounding she was
receiving in the media, especially talk radio. Finally, she sent
the State Police commander out to the press at three p.m. to
announce that the commencement of Contraflow was being advanced
two hours. The orders went out and the law enforcement officials
began closing ramps and clearing traffic off eastbound Interstates
10 and 12 and southbound I-55.
At just before four
p.m., the crossover lanes by the airport were opened to traffic
for the first time.
~*~*~
By that time, Chuck
Bingley was working his way from Depression to Acceptance as
he waited at the intersection of Causeway Boulevard and West
Esplanade. For the last thirty minutes, Chuck idly wondered how
many of the cars would still be evacuating across the Causeway
when Ivan hit the area two days from now. How would a car react
to 100-plus mile-per-hour winds, anyway? Could a Camry hold up,
or would he be blown into the lake?
A lone Jefferson
Parish deputy was handling traffic control, allowing cars from
the major cross street to turn onto Causeway, to either go north
across the lake or to enter I-10 to head west. Chuck had been
there at the head of the line for about a half-hour, watching
the harassed deputy do his job. Of course, just because a lane
of traffic had the right-of-way didn't mean it could move. The
traffic was still crawling at a snail's pace, if at all.
You know, things
could be worse. I could have his job.
By 4:30, the wheels
of Chuck Bingley's car finally made contact with the concrete
roadbed of the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway.
Eight miles down
- thirty miles to go.
~*~*~
William Darcy sat
at his desk in the practically deserted offices of DGS. All operational
controls of the far-flung fleet had been handed off to the company's
branch office in Houston. Except for Will and a handful of computer
operators, everyone had been sent home. Data from the DGS computers
was being backed-up and transmitted to two locations: the European
office in London and a contracted facility in Utah. The DGS jet
was on its way to Dallas to ride out the storm. Will was waiting
for traffic to lighten up so he and the two ice chests of stuff
from his refrigerator could make the run to Pemberley in something
under four hours.
Pemberley was a
great place to ride out a hurricane. Not only was the place -
located on some of the highest ground in St. Charles Parish -
built like a bunker, it had a natural gas electric generator
attached to the main electrical circuit, set to kick on at the
first interruption of power. It would run the whole house, AC
and satellite TV included. As long as there was natural gas,
he would live quite normally. Only a direct strike by a tornado
would ruin his day.
He had a sense of
déjà vu as he scanned the latest meteorological
data from the company's contracted weather forecasters on his
computer screen. The last time he had done this was back in 1998,
as he looked over his father's shoulder at Hurricane Mitch.
The models were
grim. Hurricane Ivan was a strong Category 4 and was expected
to intensify as it got away from the mountains of Cuba and entered
the warm waters of the Gulf. The cone of probability had New
Orleans on the western side of its projected track.
The weird thing
was that Ivan wasn't behaving normally. The weather gurus kept
saying it was going to run due north, or even north-northwest,
but the damn thing wouldn't turn left. If anything, it kept cheating
to the right - eastward.
Might it go into
Florida? Could those poor bastards get hit yet again?
Will rubbed his
eyes. Such conjectures were a waste of time. His duty was to
prepare his company for the potential of a strike from a major
hurricane. Had he done everything he could? Had he protected
his people?
Will had to do something.
He got up and left his office to check on the progress of the
computer guys.
~*~*~
Chuck made better
time on the Causeway. Rather than poking along at an average
of two miles each sixty minute period, the Camry was rolling
above the placid waters of the Pontchartrain at the breathtaking
rate of ten miles an hour. Things slowed considerably once he
hit the North Shore, but progress was made; and as his watch
hands moved towards seven o'clock he pulled his trusty Camry
into the driveway of his Covington home. His wife, Jane, Brett
in one arm and Hailey by the hand, rushed out of the garage door
to greet him.
Chuck wearily picked
up his daughter and kissed all of his family, Jane last and longest.
"Jesus H. Christ, that was the worst seven hours of my life!"
Chuck exclaimed.
"Chuck,"
admonished his wife, "the children."
"Sorry, babe.
I am so glad to be home." Hailey had her father's neck in
a death grip. The foursome walked into the house when the master
was set upon by the remaining member of the family.
"Rufus! Rufus,
how's my big boy?" Chuck said in a sing-song voice to the
grey Great Dane puppy in his den. Rufus was six months old and
was all legs and tail, his big cheerful face at Chuck's waist
level.
"No, no! No
jump!"
It was a lost cause.
To Hailey's screaming delight, Rufus placed his front paws on
Chuck's shoulders and gave him a thorough licking. Jane admonished
the dog, unsuccessfully suppressing the laughter in her voice.
Soon the entire party was on the couch, except for Rufus, who
took his station at Chuck's feet.
"Have I told
you I'm glad to be home?" he asked his wife.
~*~*~
Abe Weinberg was
very satisfied with himself. "I TOLD you it wasn't coming
here. I TOLD you."
"Abe,"
George Katz tried to reason, "the weatherman didn't say
that. We're still under a Hurricane Warning." The good doctor
was not a happy camper. His head was pounding and his stomach
was in knots.
"Papa, it could
still hit us," Emma chimed in.
He shook his head
stubbornly. "Ivan hasn't changed direction all day. Look
at the track. It's heading right for Pensacola. We're perfectly
safe here."
George was losing
his temper. "Abe! That damn thing's almost a Cat 5! We're
talking Camille-class! Remember Camille? That thing will KILL
us if it hits here!"
"I damn well
remember Camille, and it didn't hit us, either! I'm not leaving!"
Abe scowled. "I told you; you want to leave, go on. Nothing's
stopping you. But I'm staying here. You just go without me."
"Papa, we can't
just leave you!" Emma pleaded.
"Why not? I
can take care of myself! I've been doing that for almost seventy
years! I don't need a daughter of mine to baby-sit me!"
"Papa, your
heart!"
"Nothing's
wrong with my heart, Emma!"
"Bullshit!
You've had a triple by-pass…" George barked.
"George, I'm
not leaving, and that's final!"
"Papa…"
"Oh, screw
it!" cried George. "Go on and stay here! Go ahead and
die! But you're not going to kill my wife, too! Emma, you're
leaving!"
Emma was absolutely
shocked speechless, for it was the first time she had ever heard
her soft-spoken husband raise his voice. George's wide-eyed anger
evaporated in the face of his wife's stunned expression and covering
his face with his hands, he mumbled an apology.
"Em…Em,
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for yelling."
"George, I
can't leave Papa - you know that."
George's indigestion
got worse when he saw Abe display his hurt feelings. As much
as he hated giving in to the stubborn old goat, a compromise
was in order. "Okay…Okay, this is what we'll do. We'll
monitor the storm tonight, and if it looks like it's moving this
way, you BOTH leave at sunup, all right?"
Emma sighed. "All
right. Papa?"
Abe was still pouting.
"You're going to stop yelling at me?"
"Papa…"
"All right,
all right!"
"Good,"
George breathed. "I've got to get back to the hospital.
Em, please keep your bags packed. And Abe, I'm going to monitor
the reports from the break room all night. If that thing's coming
here, and we say go," he took a breath, "and you keep
giving Emma shit, I will come back here and…and…"
He wanted to say, "Kick your ass," but he ended up
with, "…I'll throw you into the car myself. We clear
on that?"
After Abe nodded,
George gave Emma a peck on the cheek and stormed out of the house.
Emma dashed after him and caught up as he was getting back to
his car.
George, halfway
into the car, looked past his wife at the house. "That son-of-a-bitch!
He absolutely drives me crazy sometimes!"
Emma had intended
to thank her husband for dealing with Abe, but George's tone
offended her. "Well, now you know what I have to put up
with all day, but at least I can understand…"
"Emma, that's
your father! Can't you do something with him?"
"What do you
think I've been trying to do?"
"I don't know.
Can't you get Irene to take him?"
"George! Are
you saying you want to throw my father out of the house!?"
George struggled
with his voice. "No," he managed, "but it would
be nice to have my own house with my own wife without somebody
else telling me how to run it!"
"George!"
"I better go
before I say something I'll regret." He climbed into the
car and shut the door. Emma was flabbergasted that he was leaving
without kissing her goodbye, when she might be evacuating during
the night without seeing him again.
Just as he put the
car in reverse, he lowered the window. "Em! Em, I'm sorry!"
She leaned in and
they shared a quick kiss. "I'll be on the cell," he
said. "Call me, okay?"
"Okay."
Her eyes started to water. "I'll talk to you in the morning."
"Yeah. We'll
see what happens tonight. Bye." He backed out of the driveway
and drove down the street. Emma slowly walked back into the house.
Abe was still in his recliner, but his eyes were on her, rather
than the TV.
"George left?"
Emma nodded woodenly. "Princess, it'll be all right,"
he tried to soothe her. "You'll see - that storm won't come
anywhere around here."
Emma just nodded
again as she stared unseeingly at the TV screen.
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