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Chapter 54
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
K plus forty-four hours
Lizzy left Mrs.
Reynolds in the kitchen fixing breakfast and walked to Will's
office. As expected, he was seated at his desk, checking his
email via the satellite dish, while the TV was showing hurricane
coverage.
"Anything?"
she asked as she set down a mug of coffee.
"DGS is still
with us. Our people have been doing a great job rerouting our
traffic. Thanks, sweetie." Will took a sip as Lizzy perched
herself on the arm of his chair. "Still missing a lot of
people from New Orleans, though."
"They have
no way of checking in, Will."
"Those in the
strike zone, yeah." He rubbed his face. "The others…
The procedure is to phone into the automated system. Let us know
where you are. But a quarter of our New Orleans staff hasn't
phoned in yet. It's been almost two days."
"You're worried,"
she said as she ran a hand through his hair.
"Yes. Those
are my people. How many are trapped in the city? How can we help
them?"
She kissed his head.
"Honey, there's nothing you can do right now."
He sighed. "Might
as well check my personal email." He typed on the keys.
Lizzy leaned in
to get a better look at the screen. "Can I check mine with
this thing?"
Will nodded as he
typed. "Sure - I'll show you how in a minute…Hello!
An email from Henry Tilney. Lets see…" They read for
a second.
Lizzy set her coffee
down abruptly as she stood up. "Oh, no! Not Mr. Abe!"
"Aww, crap,"
Will moaned. He reached for the satellite phone.
Lizzy pointed at
the screen. "Can't you send email back?"
"No, it's not
set up for that. I only have this system to check web mail. Full-blown
satellite broadband is as slow as frozen molasses. Wish I had
it now, though. Until Cajun Net comes back on-line, it's the
satellite phone or find a place where our BlackBerries still
work. Do you have Emma's cell number?"
Lizzy retrieved
her BlackBerry and got the number from her directory. Will was
in luck and got through right away on the satellite system. "Emma?"
"Will? Oh,
Will, are you all right?"
Will held the phone
so that Lizzy, sitting again on the armrest, could hear. "We're
fine. Lizzy's right here, and we're both fine. But, enough about
us. How are you? We hope we didn't wake you up, but we just heard
about your father."
Lizzy leaned in.
"Emma, we're so sorry."
"Thank you,
Lizzy. Thank you so much for calling. You didn't wake me. I was
already up." She
spent the next few minutes telling them what had happened over
the last three days. "Irene and Tyler are flying in today,
and we're going to pick them up. Cathy and Henry insist they
stay at their house. There aren't that many hotel rooms in Houston,
anyway. The funeral is tomorrow."
Will glanced at
Lizzy. "Tomorrow? How…?"
"It's going
to be in Lake Charles."
Emma explained the Jewish custom of quick burials, and both Will
and Lizzy felt for their friend, knowing she would have to leave
her father to rest in a strange place instead of next to her
mother in the family plot. "It's going to be very small.
Please, I would feel better if you don't trouble yourselves about
it. Stay home." She changed the subject. "Have
you heard from George?"
"No. Have you?"
They had both seen the coverage of the flooding in the city and
suspected that George was trapped.
"Late Monday
night. He's all right, but I don't know how long it will be before
he can get out of New Orleans. He said they were evacuating the
patients first."
"I see."
Will thought for a second. "Emma, what are your plans?"
"I…I'm
not sure. I haven't thought much past tomorrow."
"Look, I've
a proposition for you…" He explained his idea, Lizzy
looking on in approval. It took a minute to convince Emma, but
in the end, she accepted. They talked for a few more minutes,
Will passing along the pertinent information before ending the
call, whereupon Lizzy gave him a big kiss.
"What was that
for?" he asked after his fiancée released his lips.
"For being
you. I'm so proud of you." She slid down into his lap.
Just then, the door
opened and Mrs. Reynolds poked her head in. "Uhh, sorry
to interrupt - again - but there's a truck pulling up in the
driveway."
Will and Lizzy shared
a puzzled look before following Mrs. Reynolds to the front window.
The gate had been left open due to the power outage because it
was not part of the grid handled by the generator. On looking
out, Lizzy gave a cry.
"Daddy!"
~*~*~
Little noticed by
the people most affected, the remnants of the monster merged
with a storm front at 0700 CDT over the eastern part of the United
States. After 186 hours of life, Katrina was finally gone.
Meanwhile, as Air
Force One was on its way for a flyby of the devastation, Governor
Blanco formally requested 40,000 regular duty troops to help
in the recovery, a number she would later admit she pulled out
of the air. She also demanded the immediate return of all Louisiana
National Guard personnel and their equipment from the Middle
East. By doing so, she ignored the offers of National Guard troops
from neighboring states.
This puzzling communication
from the State of Louisiana made the Administration start thinking
that there was something critically wrong in Baton Rouge, and
that the President should seriously consider federalizing the
National Guard.
This was not a decision
to be made lightly. According to the law, the National Guard
answered to the governor of the state in which it was located.
They could be used in times of natural disasters, providing help
in recovery or law enforcement. If a governor needed more help,
he or she would formally request other states send their Guard
units to assist.
In times of war,
the President could nationalize the Guard and place them under
the command and control of the Pentagon. The President had done
that when National Guard troops were called up to serve in Afghanistan
and Iraq. This was what the Administration was now considering
for Guard troops in the Katrina recovery. That way they would
fall under the direct command of the officer the Administration
planned to send in to coordinate Joint Task Force Katrina, the
Department of Defense's hurricane recovery efforts.
But there was a
potential legal issue. In the aftermath of the atrocities committed
by Federal troops during Reconstruction after the American Civil
War, the Congress passed the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878.
It forbade personnel from the Army, and later the Navy, Air Force
and Marines, from participating in arrests, searches, seizure
of evidence, and other police-type activity on U.S. soil. The
Coast Guard and National Guard troops, under the control of state
governors, were excluded from the act. Therefore, some lawyers
claimed that if the National Guard was nationalized, they could
not be used to supplement the local police, a primary function
of the Guard in natural disasters.
The Insurrection
Act of 1807 did give the President the authority to deploy troops
within the United States to put down "lawlessness, insurrection
and rebellion," but what President wanted to issue such
an executive order? By doing so without the request of the local
government, the President would call the competence of the locals
into question. It just wasn't done. The person who occupied the
Oval Office in Washington was, in the end, a politician, and
as such, his first instinct was to defer to the fellow politician
in the governor's seat in Baton Rouge. Nationalization was a
sledge hammer, one that the Administration didn't want to use
unless absolutely necessary.
~*~*~
Chuck Bingley woke
up later than he intended, but it was an unsurprising result
of his exhaustion from cutting trees and the three beers he had
consumed the day before. After dressing, he walked around the
house, taking pictures of the damage with a digital camera while
munching on a granola bar. It would be important for the insurance
claim, and Jane had all the household files with her. They could
make a claim from Baton Rouge.
He had finished
recording the downed trees outside and was in his daughter's
room, photographing the damage, when he heard voices - voices
of people coming into his house!
Chuck almost dropped
the camera. He thought hard, wondering what was upstairs he could
use as a weapon, so it took him a moment to realize he recognized
one of the voices. He moved carefully to the head of the stairs.
"T.B.? Is that
you?"
"Chuck!"
his father-in-law answered. "Are you all right?"
Chuck quickly came
down to the first floor. "Damn, T.B.! You almost gave me
a heart attack!" Without another thought, the two men embraced
in a bear hug. "Where the hell did you come from?"
"Chackbay.
Me an' Bubba come up here to check up on you. We picked up some
help, too."
Chuck raised his
head and saw Bubba and Will standing just inside the front door.
He ended up sharing hugs with them, and the four men quickly
shared their experiences from the storm.
"Really, not
too bad back home," T.B. claimed. "Some trees down,
an' the power's still out. Bubba made out good, too." The
big man confirmed Mr. Boudreaux's story.
"How about
phones?" asked Chuck.
"Nah, nothing,"
replied the older man. "So, let's see this tree."
Chuck showed them
the damage from outside before leading them upstairs. They stood
silently in the room, thinking of what could have been; the bed
was right beside the window the tree had come through.
T.B. looked closely
at the busted window. "It's not too bad. The window took
most of it. I think the studs are okay. What do you think, Bubba?"
"Hard to tell
till we get that tree outta there."
Chuck had his hands
on his hips. "Yeah, but how are we gonna do that?"
T.B. grinned. "Come
on down to the truck." A minute later, T.B. showed what
he meant. The bed of his pick-up was jammed with tools, saws,
gasoline - even another generator.
"I didn't know
if'n you had one," T.B. explained. "But it'll come
in handy - run more stuff."
Chuck was speechless
for a moment. "I…I… This is great, T.B.! But,
are you sure you can spare it?"
T.B. slapped him
on the back. "Don't worry 'bout that."
Chuck looked closer.
"I don't need three chainsaws, though."
"Those ain't
for you," Bubba piped in. "Those are ours."
Chuck turned to
the other men, confused.
"We're here
to help," Bubba continued. "Spend a few days cleanin'
up. We brought sleeping bags and chow. Beer, too."
"It's the least
we can do, Chuck," said his father-in-law.
Chuck gaped a bit
before embracing T.B. again. He then turned to Will. "You,
too?"
"I can give
you a few hours, but I gotta get back to Pemberley." He
gestured to the BMW parked behind the truck. "T.B. and Bubba
stopped by this morning to check on us. They recruited me."
Chuck thought that
over. "Look, Will, there's something else you can do for
me. With T.B. and Bubba's help, I can clear up some of this mess
and get the house weather-tight. Would you please drive over
to Baton Rouge and let Jane know I'm all right? She must be worried
sick." His voice caught. He coughed and spoke again. "Tell
her I'll see her and the kids in a couple of days, okay?"
Will placed a hand
on his shoulder. "No trouble, buddy. I'll put in a couple
hours, and then head to Tiger Town. Be happy to do it."
"We're burnin'
daylight," T.B. declared. "Let's get this truck unloaded
an' get to work."
~*~*~
K plus forty-eight
hours
The governor and
FEMA finally announced a plan to get the people out of the Superdome.
It was claimed that almost five hundred buses had been secured
to shuttle people from the Dome to a refugee center set up in
Houston's Astrodome. The impressive estimate was that the operation
would take less than two days.
~*~*~
The helicopters
returned to Tulane Medical Center at daylight and the staff worked
calmly to get the remaining patients evacuated. Things were not
so calm at the Park Plaza Hotel, where many of the Tulane families
and dependants had ridden out the storm. By now the blacked-out
building was filled not only with guests but refugees from the
flooded neighborhoods, and conditions had deteriorated. Fights
had broken out over food and water. Roving gangs controlled the
hallways, some brandishing guns. The families, especially the
children, were terrified.
Word had gotten
back to the hospital, and staffers set out to rescue their families.
They waded through chest-high water and confronted angry armed
people, but they were successful in bringing their people back
to TMC. Some heard gunshots as they left the hotel that had turned
into a hell-hole.
Now Tulane had scores
of more people to evacuate, and the MEDIVAC choppers weren't
large enough. HCA needed something else.
~*~*~
K plus fifty
hours
The water had poured
in from multiple breeches in the levees, but it still took days
to fill the city. Finally, at 1200 CDT, two days after landfall,
the experts declared the City of New Orleans had achieved equalization
with swollen Lake Pontchartrain.
Not all the city
was underwater. In fact, Uptown, the Garden District, the Warehouse
District, the French Quarter, and most of Downtown were high
and dry. The commercial heart of the Crescent City - the home
of the port, the financial district, and most of the tourist
assets - had survived.
But for the residential
and local retail areas, it was a different story. Water had invaded
the medical district and surrounded the Superdome. Neighborhoods
like Bywater, Gentilly, Mid City, Carrolton, Upper Ninth, St.
Claude, and the vast New Orleans East had between one and five
feet of water. Hardest hit were the poor Lower Ninth and the
wealthy Lakeview, both under as much as ten feet.
Jefferson suffered.
Water had flowed into Old Metairie. Parts of the areas near the
Lake had received two feet of water or more. On the West Bank,
trees were down everywhere.
In St. Bernard Parish,
Arabi and Chalmette were both drowned. Not a single inhabitable
building remained. Plaquemines, except for Belle Chasse, was
in a similar state. Half of Slidell, in St. Tammany Parish, was
underwater.
In Mississippi,
the horror was different, but no less complete. From the Louisiana
border on the west to the Alabama line in the east, it was as
if the Hand of God had wiped everything away, from a few hundred
yards from the shore to two miles in. Houses, buildings, floating
casinos - all gone. The three coastal counties of Mississippi,
the powerhouses of the economy in the southern part of the state,
were flat on their backs. Alabama's coast had received damage,
as well.
The storm had its
effects inland. Five million acres of trees, from Louisiana to
Alabama, pines grown for the lumber and paper industries, were
wiped out. Much of the timber was owned by the giant timber companies,
but there were countless small plots, too - owned by individuals
waiting for the twenty-to-thirty years for the trees to grow,
to cash in their living retirement accounts. All now worthless,
for there was no way on earth to get it all out and processed
before the downed trees rotted.
From space, it could
be seen that the extent of the devastation was equal to the land
mass of Great Britain. Katrina was the greatest natural disaster
in the history of the United States.
~*~*~
The initial deluge
had drowned hundreds of people in New Orleans, St. Bernard, and
Plaquemines. Nothing could be done for them, except collect their
bodies for proper burial. The rescuers in the air and in the
boats grieved for them, but had to focus on a different task.
They knew that hundreds of people in the flooded areas had taken
refuge in their attics, and many of the attics didn't have windows
for the people to escape to roofs or boats. They were trapped.
The lucky ones had tools to break a hole in their roof, but not
everyone had the means or the presence of mind to do that. The
survivors were sitting in the stifling, stinking darkness waiting
for deliverance without water or food.
The rescuers worked
at a feverous pace, as time and numbers worked against them.
With scores of helicopters and hundreds of boats, there were
still thousands and thousands of buildings to check, crowded
into more than two hundred square miles - houses enough for half-million
people. That took time, and time was running out. The rescuers
dedication came with the realization, buried deep in the back
of their minds, that it would be impossible to save everyone.
For hundreds of
victims, a combination of exposure, shock, and dehydration would
kill them before they starved to death.
~*~*~
The story about
New Orleans had changed overnight, and Bryan Thorpe was afraid
of being left behind. How was he going to impress the networks
if he missed out on the story of the century? A quick meeting
in the hotel room with his producer and cameraman was held, and
Justin Middleton soon found himself looking for a car. It took
him an hour before he could return to the room with a scraggly-haired
busboy.
"This is Carlos.
Carlos, this is Sam and Bryan. Bryan is a famous reporter."
"Yeah, yeah,"
Carlos said as he gave the others a half-hearted handshake. "You
got my money?"
Justin handed him
some cash. "Fifty more after we get back. Now, where's your
car?"
Minutes later, the
four men were crammed into Carlos' ten-year-old Dodge Intrepid.
Carlos was coming along because he insisted on driving rather
than just renting the car to Justin. He was afraid the guests
might just run his car into the floodwaters by accident. As he
turned the ignition, he informed his passengers that he had to
be back at work in the kitchen in three hours. Thorpe, sitting
in the front passenger seat, gave the busboy his patented TV
smile.
"By this time
tomorrow, hombre, you're going to be the most famous busboy
in New Orleans."
The busboy rolled
his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," Carlos responded as he pulled
out of the hotel's parking garage.
After leaving Downtown,
Carlos drove down St. Charles Avenue. Sam half-hung out of the
rear passenger window, filming the damage. They saw some bedraggled
survivors walking down the middle of the empty streetcar tracks
and some evidence of a few stores having been broken into, but
nothing exciting. It didn't take long for Thorpe to get impatient.
"Look, Paco,
we want some footage. Where's the looting?"
"The name's
Carlos, asshole!" the driver shot back.
Justin reached over
from the back seat and laid a reassuring hand on the busboy's
shoulder. "Look, Carlos my man, Bryan don't mean nothing.
We're just trying to tell the story as to what's happening here.
We gotta tell it with the camera, ya know?"
"I gotcha covered,
dude. Just a little respect from hair-guy here, okay?" Thorpe
swallowed his pride a bit and nodded. "We'll go up a little
ways an' turn towards Magazine Street. You ought to get all your
pictures there."
Carlos was as good
as his word. The car pulled up to a convenience store being ransacked
by a dozen people. Thorpe and his two partners got out to film,
as Carlos nervously kept the engine running. Thorpe set up for
a stand-up.
"This is Bryan
Thorpe, reporting from a city where Katrina has not only broken
its buildings and levees, but also any sense of law and order.
You can see behind me dozens of people just helping themselves
to an abandoned shop. No police, nobody to stop it. Believe me,
this scene is taking place throughout this broken and flooded
city. Let me try to talk to this man." Thorpe walked a couple
of steps to intercept one of the looters. "Hey, mister.
What are you taking there?"
The man looked at
Thorpe if he had lost his mind. "I gotta get me something
to eat," his tone clearly patronizing.
"So, you think
you can just help yourself, without paying for it?"
The man was outraged.
"I ain't no thief! I come here all the time. I'd pay for
it, but there ain't nobody here! 'Sides, everybody else is doing
it." He held up cans of evaporated milk. "I've gotta
baby at home."
Thorpe gestured
to two men carrying armfuls of cartons of cigarettes. "What
about them?"
The man shrugged.
"What about 'em? I don't know them. Go ask them." With
that the man trotted away.
Thorpe eyed the
other two, but they seemed to be a rougher type than the man
he had just interviewed. He turned to his cameraman again. "And
this is the new normal in New Orleans. Things aren't so easy
in the Big Easy. For Action NOW News, this is Bryan Thorpe."
"Okay, that
was good," Justin declared. "Let's go find some more
footage for Sam."
The Intrepid drove
slowly around the Garden District for the next hour, stopping
every now and then for Sam to get a good shot of a tree in a
house. Many streets were blocked, and there was almost as much
backtracking as progress. They did see some crews out trying
to clear things; Sam shot them as well, but they were too busy
for an interview.
Carlos made his
way down Tchoupitoulas, next to the river, as he headed back
towards the Quarter. As he grew closer to the Crescent City Connection
and the Convention Center, he uttered a curse.
"What's up?"
Thorpe demanded as Carlos tried to turn off Tchoupitoulas. "The
hotel's that way. I can see the skyscrapers."
"Tryin' to
avoid that crowd by the Convention Center."
"What crowd?"
For the first time, the others saw the throng. "No! Head
that way!"
"No way, dude."
Justine leaned in.
"Another hundred if you take us over to the Convention Center."
Carlos thought for
a moment. "Fuck it. All right - it's on you, though."
The busboy wheeled the Intrepid towards the imposing structure,
with what looked like hundreds of people milling along its half-mile
long façade. Sam and Justin had switched places, and the
cameraman filmed the incredible sight of thousands of Americans
in abject misery.
"Shit, this
looks like something out of a movie," Justin muttered.
"Slow down,
not too fast," Thorpe demanded. "You getting this,
Sam?"
"Oh, yeah,"
he responded before adding under his breath, "Oh, my fucking
god."
The car rolled slowly
up Convention Center Boulevard, Sam recording the wretchedness
for posterity. The faces, mostly black, some angry, and all exhausted
and miserable, were enough to give one nightmares. The cameraman
and the driver, far more sensitive than the other two, had the
same thought:
There, but for
the Grace of God, go I.
They were almost
at the end of the building when Thorpe cried, "Stop the
car!"
"What?"
Carlos turned to the reporter. "Are you crazy?"
"Stop the damn
car! I saw something!" Thorpe jerked at the door handle.
"C'mon, Sam!"
Having no choice,
Sam and Justin followed Thorpe out of the car. He only walked
a few steps. "Look over there! Is that what I think it is?"
The three men saw
a figure in a wheelchair, mostly obscured by a blanket carefully
draped over it.
"Oh my god
- is that a dead body?" Justin managed.
"Sam, shoot
it," Thorpe whispered.
A figure in the
crowd moved towards them. "Yeah, let everybody see that!
She died a little while ago. Are you here to help? Are you gonna
get us some help?"
"We're trying
to," Thorpe told him. "Our footage will be shown all
over the world. We'll let everybody know what's going on."
"You gonna
get us some buses?" another man shouted.
"Yeah, you
gonna get us some help to get outta here?" came a third
voice, this one a woman, who was pointing back at the Convention
Center. "That place is full of dead people!"
"We'll do what
we can," Thorpe promised as he made a gesture, indicating
for Justin to turn on the tape. "How long have you folks
been here?"
"Too long!"
cried the second man. "You got room in that car?"
Thorpe realized
he had lost control of the situation. "Uhh, no, just room
for us. We'll, uhh, go get some help…won't we, guys?"
he said to his companions.
"Aww, c'mon,
you can get two or three more people in that thing," the
man said as he walked towards them, a few others following.
"Shit! Bryan,
let's get outta here!" Justin hissed. A terrified Thorpe
didn't argue but scampered back into the car.
"Pop open the
trunk. C'mon, don't leave us here!" the man demanded as
he pounded on the car's roof.
"Gun it!"
Thorpe cried unnecessarily, as Carlos had already floored the
accelerator. The Intrepid's tires squealed as Carlos shot up
the boulevard towards Poydras Street, the refugees cursing and
gesturing at them.
"Fuck, that
was close!" Sam cried.
Thorpe turned with
a wolf's gleam in his eye. "The hell with that - you got
the footage, Sam? Hot damn, we'll be the lead on every newscast
in the country!"
Carlos shared a
look with the others.
~*~*~
The telephones had
started working again in Baton Rouge, and Jane Bingley took full
advantage of it. She burned up the lines, talking to family and
friends. She was relieved to hear from her mother that not only
was the family in Chackbay safe and sound, but that her father
was trying to get to Covington to check on Charles. She was delighted
to receive a call from Elizabeth, who had driven a little upriver
to find a cellular signal for her BlackBerry. She was told that
William had joined Mr. Boudreaux and Bubba's mission to the North
Shore. She also learned about Mr. Weinberg's passing.
But she couldn't
get through to the one person she most wanted to speak to. Jane
was not one to let her emotions show, but since Sunday night
she had heard nothing from her husband, and the suspense was
agonizing. Carrie had done what she could to console her, but
it did little to offset Jane's fears and Catherine's low-level
constant bitching. Jane was a nervous wreck.
She didn't want
to watch the storm coverage, but she did anyway, in the forlorn
hope there would be some news about the North Shore. Unfortunately,
if the reporters weren't talking about the Superdome or the Convention
Center, they were replaying the looting footage from downtown.
The rest of the area just didn't exit in the media's eyes.
"Dammit,"
she muttered half to herself, "more than New Orleans got
hit."
"Do you think
they care, Jane?" Catherine opined. She may have agreed
to stop sharing her expectations of the confirmation of Jane's
widowhood, but she felt completely free to bloviate about all
other topics of the day.
The doorbell rang,
and Jane, weary of the sound of Catherine's voice, rose to see
who was at the front door. It was a tall, dirty man waiting for
her, and while not the man she most wanted to see, he was a decent
second place.
"William!"
She embraced her sister's fiancé without hesitation before
he could return the greeting. "Oh, come in! Did you see
Charles? How is he!?"
Arm in arm, the
two old friends walked into the den. "Yes, I did, Janie.
He's fine."
Jane covered her
mouth in relief. "Oh, thank God."
Will nodded at the
other woman in the room. "Hello, Mrs. Bingley."
Catherine Bingley
was frozen in place, her mouth working a little. She shut her
eyes and took a breath before rising to her feet. "Excuse
me, Will, but did you say you saw Charles?"
Leaving Jane's side,
he took Catherine's hand. "Yes, ma'am. He's absolutely fine."
The other two could
have sworn Mrs. Bingley whispered a prayer of thanks. She then
frowned. "Then, where is he?"
"Catherine!"
Jane's sharp tone took the others by surprise. "Can't you
see Will's exhausted? Let him sit down before the interrogation,
please!" She directed Will to a chair. By that time, Catherine
remembered what manners she still possessed and offered to fix
Darcy a drink. He told her water was all he wanted, and after
the older lady left for the kitchen, he turned to the younger.
"Chuck is fine,
Jane, but there's some damage to the house," he warned her.
Jane smiled a little.
"As long as Chuck is safe, that's all that matters. What
happened?" Told a tree had come through her daughter's bedroom
window, she gasped and closed her eyes.
"Chuck must
be upset. He loves the house so."
"You wouldn't
have known that if you had heard him today. All he talked about
was you and the kids, and how thankful he was that y'all were
safe in Baton Rouge instead of going through the storm in Covington.
He'll see you in a couple of days."
"Thank you,
Will. What is he doing?"
"Trying to
fix things. Your dad and Bubba are helping."
"Chuck and…Daddy?
Are you sure?"
Will grinned. "You
ought to see them, Janie." By then, Catherine had returned
with a glass of water, which Will accepted thankfully. "Blazing
away with their chainsaws, side-by-side, cracking jokes. They
would be having a ball, if it wasn't for the tree in the house."
"Tree in the
house!?" Catherine screeched. "What tree in
the house!?"
"There's a
tree in our house, Mommy?" Hailey had just walked into the
room.
Even though he was
covered in grime, Will picked up the little girl and assured
her that her daddy was working hard to repair their house. Told
that her Grandfather Boudreaux was helping, she brightened.
"Paw-Paw can
fix anything," she explained to Mrs. Bingley.
"I'm sure."
At least Catherine didn't roll her eyes.
William spent another
half-hour at the house before taking his leave, learning that
power and phone outages was the extent of the damage Baton Rouge
had suffered. Jane walked him to his car. "William, thank
you so much for coming by. You've been a blessing - we're so
relieved. Did Chuck say when he was coming?"
"No, but I
think it's gonna be soon. Oh, before I forget, I better give
you this." He reached in for Chuck's digital camera. "Chuck
took some shots of the damage."
"This will
help for the insurance claim. Thank you, Will. Say hello to Lizzy
for us."
~*~*~
It felt very strange
to stand in the terminal of the airport waiting for her sister
and brother-in-law like it was any other visit, Emma considered.
For one thing, she was in Houston, not New Orleans. It was Henry
and Cathy Tilney standing next to her, not her husband, George.
George was trapped in a flooded hospital hundreds of miles away.
And her dear father was in a refrigerated morgue in Lake Charles.
It was unreasonable,
but she couldn't help but feel resentful of the people walking
past her - ordinary people living their regular lives. Did they
know of her grief? That within twenty-four hours she had lost
both her father and her home?
How dare they
act so…so…normal!
"Emma? Are
you all right?"
Emma rubbed her
forehead. "I'm fine, Cathy, I'm fine."
Cathy said nothing,
but placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. A few minutes later,
Irene and Tyler Parker were there. The two sisters simply embraced
each other in the middle of the terminal, sharing their grief
and tears, while the Tilneys shyly introduced themselves to Emma's
brother-in-law.
"Look,"
Henry said, "the hotels are pretty booked up. We've got
room at our place. Why don't we get your stuff, and after you
get a rental car, you follow us to Bayside?"
Tyler frowned. "You
sure we're not putting you out?"
"Heavens, no,"
said Cathy. "The kids love to sleep in the den. They'll
think they're camping out."
~*~*~
K plus fifty-three
hours
It took almost three
hours for the governor to respond to Senator Vitter's forwarding
of the White House's "suggestion" that Louisiana request
federalization of the National Guard and the evacuation, but
when she did she was firm. It was a flat refusal. Instead, she
renewed her demand for the return of Louisiana National Guard
troops in the Middle East.
Meanwhile, thirty
thousand additional domestic National Guard troops were being
mobilized across the nation.
~*~*~
K plus fifty-five
hours
Chuck had found
some pork chops in the freezer and had allowed them to defrost
during the day. Now, as the sun stood low in the west, Chuck
had grilled them on his barbeque pit while warming up a can of
red beans. Dinner was served on plastic plates al fresco,
as Chuck, T.B., and Bubba, covered in sawdust, sat on some of
the logs they had spent the day cutting.
"These are
real good," Bubba declared as he took another mouthful.
T.B. slapped his
son-in-law on the back. "Damn, Chuck, cookin' like this,
I'd marry you myself, 'cept Miz Franny might take exception to
it."
The men ate in companionable
silence, drinking beer, in the middle of the work they had accomplished.
About half the trees that had fallen were now cords of timber.
The going was slow, as the soft pine wood was still green and
full of sap, which ate up the chains. The trio had gone through
two chains each.
Chuck eyed the big
pine still leaning into his daughter's window. "T.B., how're
we gonna get that thing off the house?"
T.B. considered.
"It's too big for just us to handle. I've got me a portable
crane we use in the business to move drilling pipe. That might
do the job."
"When can you
bring it up here?" Chuck asked.
"Oh, not 'til
next week. Got to see if it's needed at the yard at work. We'll
need more men, too." He sighed. "Shoot, we've done
a day's work, I'll tell you that." He glanced at Chuck.
"About as tired as you've ever been, eh?"
"Nah, that
was yesterday, after we got finished clearing the road."
T.B. nodded. "That
was a good job."
"Yeah,"
added Bubba., "those were some big trees, huh?"
"Big enough,"
Chuck agreed. "The bobcat helped a lot."
"Yeah,"
T.B. considered. "Got one of those, too. I'll bring it with
the crane."
"Sheesh, that's
gonna cost some money, T.B." Bubba observed.
"Whatever it
costs, I'll cover it," Chuck declared.
"Don't you
worry 'bout that."
"T.B.! Thanks,
but this is my house - my responsibility! I can't take your charity!"
The two men argued
over the issue while Bubba looked on uncomfortably. Finally,
T.B. relented and agreed that Chuck could cover the fuel costs.
Father and son-in-law shook hands over it as Bubba left to refill
his plate. T.B. sat back and looked around. They had cut up most
of the trees that had fallen, except those that had landed on
the chain-link fence. They had decided to leave them until some
temporary barrier could be erected to keep the Bingley's dog
in the yard when the family returned. They did not expect to
find a fence contractor anytime soon.
"Chuck, there
ain't a whole lot more we can do 'round here. We can't move these
here logs, an' the wood's too green to burn. How bout we take
a break 'til I can get back here next week with more equipment,
eh? Get a good night's sleep and leave in the morning. You, too
- get yourself to Baton Rouge and see the family."
"You think
it's safe to leave this place for a few days?"
The older man shrugged.
"Either it will be or it won't. You don't have a gun, do
you? If somebody really wanted in, you couldn't stop 'em. Get
your neighbors to watch the place and get outta here. 'Sides,
ain't nothing 'round here worth losing your life for."
Bubba sat down.
"Well, whatever you decide, I've got dibs on the shower."
The other two men
laughed. "You?" snorted Chuck. "No way, partner.
We'd like some hot water left."
"There ain't
enough water in Lake Pontchartrain to wash that body," observed
T.B.
Chuck lost his smile.
"There is now."
A grim Mr. Boudreaux
nodded. "Got that right."
~*~*~
Scott Davis had
done many things in his life, not all of them he was proud of.
Bright and clever, he should have been among the academic leaders
in school. But he was bored with rules and requirements, especially
from people he considered his intellectual inferiors. He spent
more that his share of time in the principal's office, but he
vowed that all the detentions in the world would not break him.
Certainly, he was proud of the time he and a buddy had hacked
into the school's computer and posted a semester's worth of tests.
He still felt bad that his friend took the rap without ratting
him out.
He rebelled against
his parents' suffocating authority. Each tattoo on his body was
a Declaration of Independence. He refused to attend his grandparents'
fiftieth wedding anniversary, because his mother demanded that
he shave his goatee. Instead he went to a Marilyn Manson concert.
How was he to know his grandfather would die of a stroke the
next week?
He left home after
that, tired of the condemnation and nagging. He would make his
own way in the world, away from his idiot of a father, who spent
his days working as little as possible for General Motors and
his nights drinking as much as possible in O'Malley's Pub. He
rejected the knee-jerk racism of his family - he would work for
the people, in the South, where they needed him the most. Here
was one white man who would not judge a man by his skin color.
He dismissed working-class values. He sought a non-profit to
toil for, for was not profit the root of all evil?
Yet, profit was
a good thing, he learned as he sweated in the southern sun, if
you wanted that non-profit to pay its employees. Was he traitor
to his beliefs, or had his thinking matured? He didn't know.
His professors said one thing, his co-workers something else.
And he was reluctant to challenge either.
He had helped neighborhood
children repair broken bicycles and witnessed muggings in silence.
But never before
had he intentionally stolen from a store. However, the end justified
the means, as far as he was concerned. Mrs. Johnson needed food
and water. All he had in his duffle were some granola bars of
indeterminate age, and those had been consumed the night before.
There was nothing in the Convention Center - at least for them.
Some gang members had broken into the kitchen and ransacked it
for food and booze. It was now cleaned out. The water fountains
didn't work. Neither did the bathrooms, but that was another
issue. His family needed food, and a man had to do what a man
had to do.
He made his way
through the stench and misery to where he had left Kaywanda and
her mother a few hours before, clutching the plastic bag close
to his chest, terrified that the envious eyes following him were
the precursor to violence against his person.
There were occasional
patrols of NOPD, but Scott didn't put much faith as to what a
couple of cops, even armed, could do to help. The police certainly
did not stop the hoodlums from hot-wiring the fork-lift trucks
and using them as battering rams to break into other parts of
the building.
"Here,"
he said as he unceremoniously thrust the bag into his girlfriend's
hands before he sat on the floor beside them. "I got as
much water as I could, an' some food, too."
Kaywanda peered
into the precious bundle. A box of crackers, some tins of tuna
fish, beef jerky, and five bottles of water.
"Sorry, but
the place was pretty cleaned out," he apologized.
"Oh, baby,
you did good. Look, Momma, Scott got us somethin' to eat."
Mrs. Johnson sighed.
"Never thought I would be happy to see tuna fish. Can't
stand the stuff, but I'm so hungry, I could eat my shoe."
"Here's some
water, Miz Johnson," Scott said as he handed her a bottle.
She sipped as Kaywanda opened a tin and used her fingers to spread
some of the tuna onto crackers.
To say that the
trio was exhausted would be an understatement. Kaywanda doubted
she had slept more than a couple hours at a stretch since the
three of them walked out of Mid City. There was always noise,
and a few times they were startled by gunfire. Their bellies
were empty and their throats were parched. The building provided
shelter from the unforgiving Louisiana sun, but not the stifling
heat. The bathrooms were useless and covered with filth, and
the smell defied description. While some of their fellows spent
their time walking around and talking, many simply lay still
where they had collapsed. Unless they moved, Kaywanda had no
idea if they were alive or dead.
The three munched
in silence until Scott was jostled by a passer-by.
"Hey, man,
where'd you score that shit?" a young man demanded.
Scott steeled himself
for an assault, but he relaxed as he took in the man's demeanor;
he was hungry but not threatening.
"Store about
a mile away upriver. You can try, but it was really picked over,
dude."
"Shit. I ain't
had me nothing since yesterday. Upriver you said?"
Scott was giving
the man directions when there was a disruption at the doors.
Not that there hadn't been disruptions all day, but this one
was different. Both men watched apprehensively as a large group
of people made their way in, shouting and crying.
"They turned
us back! Those honky sons-of-bitches turned us back!"
"What's going
on? What're you talkin' 'bout?" other people cried.
"The police!
They're blocking the bridge!"
Scott, Kaywanda,
and her mother listened in amazement as the story came out. A
large group of refugees, about 200 in all, had decided to walk
out of the city. The only way out was the Crescent City Connection
bridge to the West Bank of Jefferson Parish. The group had made
it almost all the way over when they came upon a roadblock, behind
it members of the City of Gretna Police Department. Through loudspeakers
they told the refugees that there was no food or water or any
other relief in Jefferson and ordered anyone without an operating
vehicle to return to New Orleans. No foot traffic would be allowed
to pass.
"They shot
at us, man!" one man cried.
Another explained.
"This one cop shot in the air, like to scare us."
"Fuck, no,
man!!" the first screamed. "He was shootin' at me!
They wanna kill us, the motherfuckers!!"
Scott huddled down
next to Kaywanda and her mother to become more inconspicuous.
While he was not the only white face in the Convention Center,
he was certainly in the minority. He could not miss the open
hostility erupting all around, and he was afraid that he would
be the recipient of the frustration and anger.
"They all wanna
kill us!!" another voice insisted. "Where's the government?
Where's Bush? Where's Nagin? Where's Blanco?"
The voices rose
to a deafening level, and only phrases could be made out over
the cries of children, the screams of women and the rage of men.
"They blew
up the levees, you know, to get rid of the black people!"
"What are you,
crazy? That's crazy talk! Fuckin' storm took out the levees!"
"Where's my
sister? Josephine!! Where are you, Josephine!?"
"It was the
terrorists!"
"Fuck them!
Fuck everybody! I'm gonna get mine - this is our time!"
"Just calm
down, brother, you scarin' the children."
Finally, the angry
and scared people shouted themselves out. But the situation was
not any better. A sense of total despair descended on the people
in the Convention Center. They felt alone and abandoned. For
not the first time since the storm, Kaywanda wondered if she
would die where she sat.
~*~*~
K plus fifty-nine
hours
For all the promises,
by nine o'clock only six buses had moved seven hundred people
out of the Superdome to Baton Rouge, and those were special needs
patients. Now, late in the evening, large numbers of buses appeared
before the damaged Hyatt Hotel to begin the evacuation in earnest.
It would later be determined that the Guard had distributed 70,000
MREs and 120,000 bottles of water since operations began.
The mayor had had
enough of the news reports of wide-spread looting and shooting
and rapes and atrocities. Martial law was declared. The NOPD's
mission had changed. Search and Rescue operations were suspended.
It was time to take back the streets. Police fanned out to stop
the looting of stores and homes.
As for the Convention
Center, they would move in tomorrow.
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