Voices of katrina, p.1
Voices of Katrina, page 1
Copyright Kimball Mayes 2020
ISBN: 978-1-09-833107-8
CONTENTS
Gone
The Footlocker
The Sleeping Bag
Parts Is Parts
The Deposit
Ironic Pentameter
Gone
Post-Katrina Golf Coast 3/19/06
It was all gone ~ every vestige of every memorable landmark was wiped off the face of the earth. I couldn’t even remember what it looked like before. The sky was dull and overcast, the wind was fierce ~ like it still had more to do ~ the water was dull and choppy: a chill was in the air. Trees stripped bare of leaves and bark, decorated by an odd type of cloth and plastic adornment left by the storm ~ sometimes sporting tarps, sometimes sporting baby seats. The only things that never changed were the water, the wind, and the sky ~ a sort of symbol of Spirit.
I will never truly understand why my brothers and sisters were taken, but I was left. There has to be some divine reason for all this chaos, all this loss, all this pain. Perhaps this is really hell. Perhaps I have all my life actually been living in hell from some past sin, and this is my “just desert.”
I question God often about the whys and wherefores of this life, but come away with the strangest answers, I could ever imagine ~ so strange, in fact, that I have to believe they are Truth:
This is, in fact, only hell if I believe in hell.
The real is not before my face, but beyond corporeal sense.
My sin, real or imagined, is punished moment by moment according to my belief in the sin.
If I stop believing I am a sinner, I will stop sinning, because there will be no reason to do anything but what God wants me to do.
My brothers and sisters are doing a far greater work now that they are gone from my life than they had ever done before.
My job is to tell everyone I know these truths while the telling can make a difference in their lives.
So this is what is meant by seeing “through a glass darkly.” I Corinthians 13:12
The Footlocker
Packed full of clothes and a few dishes, on route to the new world, the dull green trunk was carefully guarded by Colin Hampton. He had grown leery of anyone who showed half an interest in his stuff, since he’d lost his knapsack full of books prior to boarding the tall ship. Intent on making a new life for himself, the young sojourner was heading to “New Orleans, the place of opportunity!” as the ad read. Now he would have to sleep with one eye open to be sure his things arrived with him. His things weren’t necessarily of any real value, but if he was going to get work, he would need clothes to be presentable. And thus he journeyed in the ship’s hold, curled on top of his trunk.
~
When Darla Jean found the trunk in mamere’s attic, she was intrigued by its many stickers of all the places visited over the years. There were stickers from almost every state in the union, including Hawaii, pasted to almost every square inch of the outside, except where it was stamped with the name Colin W. Hampton. That was mamere’s papa’s name. Inside was a wooden tray for holding odds and ends that one wants to keep separate from the rest of the contents. Darla was always careful to place the wooden tray to one side while she played with the lovely gowns and satin nighties mamere kept in the trunk. The tray held mostly old photos of mamere and papere right after they met in New Orleans. She loved dressing up in the gowns whenever she visited mamere. Darla Jean especially loved imagining how quaint it must have been during mamere’s childhood walking in those gowns down the wooden bankettes while horses and mules rode past in the dirt streets lined with the many shops of the French Quarters, as it was called then.
Usually, Darla Jean would sneak upstairs to the attic when mamere went to make groceries. Mamere repeatedly warned Darla Jean never to go into the attic because it was dark and dirty. But to Darla Jean it was a marvelous place of intrigue. Darla never even told her best friend Betsy about the attic trunk, preferring to keep it as her private fantasy place. That made it easy for her to escape whenever Betsy got too bossy. Darla would suggest that they play hide and seek outside. Then she would sneak inside and go upstairs into the attic, leaving the door open a bit so she could more easily hear anyone coming into the house. Pretty soon Betsy would tire of looking for Darla, and mosey on home. The next day she would hardly speak to Darla, except to complain that she wished Darla Jean would not hide so well so that Betsy could find her once in a while.
Sunday afternoon when Mamere went next door to visit Miss Clovis Leachmen to see if she was going to evacuate for hurricane Katrina, Darla Jean snuck into the attic and decided to try on the prettiest gown in the trunk. The pink satin ribbon flowers were showing a little age in the tiny yellow speckles that showed here and there, and the lace was wrinkled, but to Darla Jean, it was as beautiful as Cinderella’s ball gown. Suddenly, a gust of wind from the leading edge of hurricane Katrina traced through the house, slamming the attic door shut. Startled by the loud sound and sudden darkness, Darla lunged forward, stumbled on the footlocker and fell in, knocking her unconscious as the lid slammed closed.
~
Two months after hurricane Katrina roared through New Orleans, Manuel Jesus Corezon, a Mexican-American, was sifting here and there throughout the enormous trash heaps on Elysian Fields Avenue, looking for whatever could be of value to use in his house-turned-thrift shop. Now days, everyone was out of work, so a person had to be inventive to earn a living, especially if the company one worked for pre-Katrina, folded up and relocated elsewhere, leaving all the employees on the lower rungs of the ladder to fend for themselves. This was what Manuel was doing ~ fending for himself ~ looking for just the right object (be it furniture or knick-knack) that might not be too badly damaged, and still usable ~ when he stumbled upon the footlocker.
It was in fair condition, damp and moldy, with a bit of rust around the lock, covered in travel stickers, except where someone’s name had been stamped. It was still quite sturdy because as he turned it upright, it held together well. Its heaviness was a sure indication that some sort of treasure was inside. Manuel had gotten into the habit of smoking cigars of late, since the stench of the rubbish that lined the streets was more than human could bear.
The Cuban cigar was like incense to him, and calmed him, making the disgusting work a bit more bearable ~ until now. When he pried the lock open, the putrid smell of death stung his nostrils in spite of his stogy. He thought at first maybe a family pet had gotten into the footlocker during the storm and became trapped, but the teeth were human. Curled into a fetal position, it appeared to be a little girl about 10 years old, dressed in a long gown ~ miles too big.
The Sleeping Bag
She never dreamed it would come to this. She purchased all her grandchildren’s gifts at the Wal-Mart on West Judge Perez Dr. For the boys it would be anything GI Joe, and for the girls it would be anything Barbie, except for the oldest girl, Severn, who was too sophisticated for Barbie. For her it would be anything bright, neon, fuzzy, or glittery.
Now, Trenice Inez Turner, a 65-year-old widow, was packing all her early-bird specials into the van at the end of August so her grandkids could be assured of some sort of Christmas in the wake of hurricane Katrina. All she knew was it was a catagory 5 storm, and she “wasn’t stickin’ around for nothin’.” During Betsy in ’65, their house had flooded, and she lost all her kids’ gifts. This time she was prepared, and packed everything into black garbage bags so they couldn’t tell what was inside, and headed into New Orleans.
She only had a few last-minute errands that had to be run before they headed out of town for the three days they expected to be gone:
Pick up the grandkids from their various activities (the boys from soccer practice, and the girls from the pep squad practice, except for Severn who had to be picked up at her girlfriend’s).
Pick up Aunt Hilda’s prescription from the pharmacy on the corner of Claiborne and Napoleon before she
retrieved her from the uptown nursing home so there’d be plenty of her medicine on hand in case of an emergency.
Swing by the Sav-a-Center on Tchoupitoulas to get peanut butter, bread, milk, an ice chest, ice, canned soft drinks, ham and cheese for the adults, mayo, lettuce and tomatoes. Oh, yeah, bottled water, and plenty adult diapers in all sizes.
“Please, Mawmere,” Severn pleaded, “don’t make me get de diapuhs. I get so embarrassed! What if I see Cawrtney or Scott? I’ll never live it down. Why we gotta get dem things anyway?”
“Now, Severn,” Trenice admonished, “you know your poor ol’ aunt can’t hold it all the way. And you know we all gotta hold it ‘til we find a terlit! So I thought we could all benefit from dem. Before we leave outta here, you take de girls in to put ‘em on while I wait here wid de boys. Then you watch de door while I take de boys. It ain’t gonna hoit you none to do dat. If you promise me dat, I’ll get da diapuhs while you primp in the terlit wit de girls. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The lines were long in the store with so many people “makin’ grosheries” before the storm. By the time they finished, picked up Aunt Hilda, and headed out, it was 1:00 PM and the traffic was already at a crawl. It didn’t matter what artery she took to get to the I-10, they were all practically at a standstill. As they inched down Tchoupitoulas St. toward the west, she suddenly remembered the prescription for Aunt Hilda. The pharmacist warned her to get there before 11:00 AM because he had to leave too, and that was the latest he was going to stay.
Since Maggie worked in Metairie, she regularly took the dogs to be treated at a vet on Causeway so she could pick them up on her way home while her mom was busy with the kids, cooking dinner, and helping them with homework. It had been a tradition from Maggie’s former marriage, when they lived in Metairie, to use this vet, and Maggie just never made the switch to a Chalmette vet after the divorce, because of the proximity to work. Besides, the dogs loved the vet, and she just didn’t know who else to trust.
Since Jerome, Trenice’s EMT brother, lived in Shreveport, they always evacuated there, usually early. This time they just didn’t realize soon enough the track of the storm. So now they were sitting at the corner of Carrollton and Claiborne at 3:00 PM, just hours before the storm was due to hit, with neither street offering up a solution to the endless wait, and none of the corners offering what they had in the past: a gas station on one corner and a drug store on the other had been closed in recent years.
“Even if dey been dere now, dey prob’ly still be closed,” she mused.
“Who you talkin’ ‘bout, Mawmere?” Severn asked.
“Nut’in’,” Trenice snapped.
“Trenice, don’t talk to my babies like dat,” Aunt Hilda scolded.
“Auntee, you ain’t drivin’, and you ain’t being driven nuts by dis traffic! What you expect? You want I be a saint or somethin’?”
“Aw right, Trenice, I know. You right, you right.”
Aunt Hilda always backed off when Trenice got riled at her. Her doctor warned her not to get worked up. The stress could cause her “condition” to flare up, and then she’d be back in the hospital with tubes and bed sores. She did not want that. She changed the subject, “Severn, hand your ol’ Auntee one uh dem sof’ drinks. Gimme a Creme Soda to wet my whistle.”
“Okay ya’ll, hold off on nem col’ drinks if you don’ wanna pee in your pants,” warned Trenice. Everyone giggled almost falling off their seats, if it hadn’t been for the seat belts.
“I’m serious, y’all. We got a good 14 to 20 hours drivin’ ahead. You can’t be drinking all dem drinks.”
“Trenice, I need a drink!”
“Me too,” came the chorus behind her.
“Awright, awright! But just one for all of us to share.”
And so it went as they inched along in the endless line. They had to stop and fill up the car before they even got to the I-10. By the time they waded through the endless stream of cars and got finished, the ramp was closed, so they had to get in the left lane and turn onto Tulane Ave., being careful to stay in the lane mapped out by the state police that would take them onto I-55 north.
Somewhere along the way, Aunt Hilda, nodded of ~ a common event ~ and the kids began to doze. Trenice was also getting tired about 8 PM, and needed a rest, but dared not stop or get out of line. She thought she’d call Maggie to talk. It might keep her eyes open and her brain alert. Since Hilda was sleeping, she could easily ask Maggie to get the meds for her Auntee somewhere enroute. That was good for another hour of driving until the cell phone died. Ordinarily that would not have caused a problem, except that her phone was missing a silver “doo-dad,” as she called it, that allowed the recharger to stay in place. Without that tiny piece, there would be no recharge.
They all became uncomfortable in their already sodden “plastic draws,” as Hilda called them. And awakening one by one, the kids asked to take a rest stop. Pulling over to the shoulder in the dark, they could go behind the van where no one would see them as Trenice and Severn held a beach towel up for privacy. No one dared wake Aunt Hilda because she was hard to get in and out of the van, and might fall in the dark. Piling back into the van, they quietly slid the door closed, and started off again.
“Mamere,” Severn whispered. “You want I should drive a while? You been at de wheel a long time. You want a rest?”
“If you promise not to tell your mama, I could really use a nap.”
Pulling over once again, they switched seats, Severn sliding across, and Trenice going around the back of the car. She took a long look at Hilda sleeping like a lamb, and slid into the seat.
“Look,” she pointed to the map. “You gotta stay on I-55 until you get to Jackson, and catch I-20 west to Shreveport.”
“I remember from the last time, Mawmere. When you gonna let her know I can drive? I’m almost 16.”
“Hush, girl, and let me rest.”
Severn took out some gum and popped it in her mouth, found her favorite cd, and popped it in the cd player. Forgetting she was in a car full of sleeping passengers, she turned the volume all the way up. The screeching guitars and the thumping bass startled everyone. The boys jumped up, knocking heads, the girls fell off the seat where they lay unbelted, Trenice cracked her lip when her hand flew up and wacked it. Everyone was screaming and crying except Aunt Hilda, whose open mouth and wide fixed eyes stared straight ahead unmoving. In the dark no one noticed. She was in the back, out of sight.
“What the hell you doin’, Severn? Turn that junk off! You ain’t alone, you know!” yelled Trenice.
“Yeah, turn it off!” came the chorus from behind.
It wasn’t until they were outside Jackson, Mississippi anyone noticed Hilda hadn’t made a comment. They took a rest stop, the kids piling out with Severn to the restroom. It was late and few people around, so Trenice said, “You go and take the kids at the same time. No one will notice. I’ll get Aunt Hilda.”
It was then she realized what had happened: poor Hilda’s heart stopped dead from fright. “Oh, my Gawd, oh, my Gawd!” Trenice whispered. “What we gonna do now? I can’t let de babies see her like dis. I gotta cover her.”
It was then she thought of Severn’s electric blue sleeping bag she bought at Wal-Mart for Christmas. “I’ll put her in dat ‘til I can get her to de morgue. Poor Severn’s gonna be out one Christmas gift. It’ll serve her right for what she done. Oh, my Gawd, oh, my Gawd! Poor Auntee, poor, poor Auntee….”
Hurridly, she removed the sleeping bag from the black plastic garbage bag, unzipped it and turned around to the boys asking, “What you doin’, Mawmere?”.
“What you mean, what I doin’? What you doin’? I tol’ you to pee ‘til you can’t pee no more.”
“We did, Mawmere, but now we hungry.”
“Oh, jeeze. Okay, take my billfold and get yourselves and the girls some treats out da machine. Don’t come back ‘til I wave you over, and don’t let anyone else come over here either. Auntee had a accident and needs her privacy.”
“Kay,” they said running to the machines.
With the kids safely out of her hair, Trenice put the unzipped sleeping bag into the van and began her task of slipping Aunt Hilda into it. It was amazingly easy. Why was that? She wasn’t unwieldy like you’d think. “Oh, Lawd she got rigormortis,” gasped Trenice. “And den what? What we gonna do? How we gonna explain it to de relatives, to de police, to everyone? What we gonna say, ‘Oh, Severn killed her Auntee with music.’? Yeah, like dey gonna believe dat. Or maybe, ‘Oh, she passed in her sleep, quiet like and peaceable.’” She gasped, “That’s it!” Now elated, she climbed out of the van and almost waved them back, until she realized how stupid it was: one glance at Auntee’s frozen look of horror, and they’d know something was up.
