Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans (17 page)

They rode in silence for a while, the two men up front and Velmyra sitting in the back seat, her knees pressed up to her chin, gazing out at the sun-tinged landscape like a small child on a family vacation trip.

“So.” Velmyra leaned forward, resting her arm on the back of Kevin’s seat. “You practice law, right? What got you interested in all this land stuff?”

Kevin turned around, smiling impishly, like a small boy not wanting to let go of a secret.

“Like I said before, my teacher, Professor LeClaire. He had a way about him. Made stuff sound real interesting, important.”

“No, I mean, this case. How’d you know about the auction?”

He ran his fingers back through his damp hair. “Like I said, I been checking on the auctions for a while. Prof and I always checked the paper. He showed me your land before he died. He had a hunch something would happen with it.”

“Ummm.” Velmyra nodded, her voice laced with skepticism.

Julian shifted in his seat. Velmyra had a way of pressing sometimes, when she suspected there was something hiding between the lines. He’d often thought she would have made a good lawyer herself. But now he wondered too why a young white kid with a pregnant girlfriend would be out with a couple of black strangers on a country road on a morning when he should have been helping the mother-to-be deal with her pregnancy.

“So, where’d you say you practiced law?” Julian steered the car left along the creek’s sharp bend.

“Me? Oh.” Kevin scratched at the back of his neck, and turned to look out his window. “Well, truth is, uh, I haven’t taken the bar yet. Planning on doing it this fall, though.”

He pushed a loose clump of wet hair back from his eyes. “By the way, what do you folks do?”

Velmyra told him she was an artist and art teacher in New Orleans. Julian cringed at the thought of discussing a career that was currently going nowhere.

“Musician,” he said, looking away.

And after a little coaxing from Kevin, he admitted that he was a trumpeter from New Orleans now living in New York, that he had “traveled a little” with his own group to a few countries, and that he had a “couple of recordings” that had done “OK.”

Kevin, a lover of music since he was a twelve-year-old trying to learn guitar, had cut his teeth on old vinyls of Eddie Van Halen, George Benson, Wes Montgomery, and Stevie Ray Vaughn. After a couple of minutes of lawyerly prodding, it didn’t take him long to deduce that he was riding in a car with a world-class, and by many accounts, world-famous jazz musician.

“Aw, man!” he said, eyes wide and grinning, his face lit up at full wattage. And then he lit into a spiel about his fascination with classic jazz, his favorite players who’d come from New Orleans, his interest in all kinds of music, including hip-hop and rap, which he believed to be social commentary of the highest order, and grossly misunderstood.

He went on and on, while Julian listened patiently, nodding occasionally. Velmyra, realizing Julian’s pain at this reminder of his predicament, took the lead in responding to the young law school grad with an occasional “really?” and “that’s so great.”

Kevin admitted, apologetically, that he was not too familiar with “straight ahead” jazz and had never purchased any of Julian’s recordings, but promised to correct that as soon as possible. Then pointing ahead at the changing landscape, he said, “I think we’re here. That’s Ray Simpson’s Texaco on the left. Local’s just right around the next little turn.”

Julian slowed the car to the new speed limit as the little town emerged. A sleepy, small bubble of civility in the raw landscape, Local, Louisiana, population 820, consisted of little more than a couple of stoplights, a gas station, and a square clustered with mature magnolias. The square was surrounded by a courthouse and a few shops: a used appliance store, a tea room, and a shed with broken down furniture outside that announced “Auntie’s Antiques” in Gothic lettering on its window.

At the Texaco, Julian got out of the car, ambled inside to the small grocery, and came back out in less than two minutes.

Both Velmyra and Kevin gave him a questioning look.

He closed the door, and popped a piece of the sugarless gum he’d bought into his mouth.

“The church we’re looking for, in fact the only black church around here, is back near Silver Creek.”

So they drove all the way back down the twisting road to an area less than a mile from where they’d begun. They drove past the church twice, each time missing the clearing tucked back behind a grove of pines. They pulled up into the sandy yard of the weathered white clapboard building with its left-leaning steeple, sitting on twelve-inch cinderblocks. A wooden sign with the words “Elam C.M.E. Bible Church” hung askew just above the door, and a rooster pecked around beneath the crawl space. Even before Julian knocked on the door, it was obvious to all of them that no one was there. But a few yards back behind the church sat a small, steeproofed house of white siding trimmed in red brick. Next to the house sat an old Buick Park Avenue and a dark blue Ford Mustang, with one door a dull primer-gray, baking in the sun.

The strains of rhythm and blues greeted Julian as he climbed the steps to the porch—it was the thumping bass of a familiar tune, a love song by Al Green.

The door opened and a man about Julian’s height with an untrimmed salt-and-pepper Afro and matching beard, about fifty years of age, shaded his eyes from the sun.

“Can I help you all?”

Julian cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, sorry to bother you. I’m trying to find my cousin. Her name is Genevieve Callers. Or she might go by her maiden name, Genevieve Fortier. I understand she goes to the church over there, and I just wondered if you might—”

The name lit a spark of recognition in the man’s eyes. “What’d you say your name is?”

“Just tell her Simon’s son Julian is here.”

“You Simon’s son?”

“Yes, sir.”

A smile spread the full width of his face. He looked behind Julian at the waiting car where Velmyra and Kevin sat. “Y’all come on.”

The man turned down the boom-box volume, quieting Al Green’s boisterous rendering of
“
Love and Happiness” to subtle, bass-backed musings, and disappeared into the back of the house, calling Genevieve’s name. Julian waved to Velmyra and Kevin and they both got out of the car. He was a little confused; he didn’t remember his Cousin G having a son. But maybe he was a handyman of some sort, or a gardener.

The scents of Pine-Sol, garlic, and the faintest hint of peaches drifted out from the living room. It was dark inside and somewhere an electric fan whirred beneath the gentle roar of a window unit air conditioner. Several faux-oriental area rugs of every color imaginable partially obscured dark, rustic hardwood floors. An exercise bicycle stood in one corner, and a portable television sat atop another television housed in a mahogany console. Oversized furniture crowded the room—bureaus, upholstered chairs, tables—giving it the appearance of a small warehouse.

A slightly sunken blue and green striped sofa sat in front of a curtained window, neatly folded stacks of white laundry covering every inch of it. The three of them stood in the middle of the floor and waited.

“Oh, my sweet Jesus!” a voice cried from the back of the house as Cousin Genevieve came into the room, clapping her hands and smiling.

Grabbing Julian into her neck, she rocked him in a smothering hug. “Julian! Look what the storm blew in!”

She pulled away from him and looked him up and down, her eyes dancing. He hadn’t seen her in years, and she didn’t look like the woman he remembered, or imagined he would see after all this time. She was his father’s age, maybe older, but her eyes held the spark of a woman in her forties, and her deep brown skin was unblemished and barely lined. Thinner than he remembered, she wore a short, reddish-blond wig with bangs that covered her forehead and reached down just over her eyes. Her jogging suit, a deep red, matched her eyeglasses, designed in a flattering, thin-rimmed style.

But she was unmistakably his father’s first cousin; she had his high cheekbones, and beneath the youthful veneer, this was a woman of the deep country. It was in her voice, her manners, the tilt of her head, and even in her misting eyes.

She gripped his shoulders, shaking her head—her brows furrowed above still-smiling lips. “Child, child,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you again, baby.”

Julian smiled, feeling a warmth that seemed both to come from the air in the room and the heat of his cousin’s hug. This was what it was like to come back to the people who had prayed for you when you were a sickly infant, had watched you grow from a toddler, had spanked your bottom with one hand when you reached your fingertips to a too-hot stove, and then slipped you a fresh, ripe peach from the backyard tree with the other.

“I’m here looking for Daddy.” Julian coughed a little at the smells of disinfectant and mildewed wood. “I haven’t been able to find him since the storm.”

Genevieve’s eyes darkened and she looked away for a moment, then looked back at him.

“I was so afraid for him.” She touched her hand to her chest, her voice quieter. “I talked to him that night, so I know he stayed there. I been calling him every day since then, but I just can’t get through.”

“We thought he might be here. We drove to your house hoping to find him.”

Genevieve turned to the sofa and sat down on the edge of a pillow with both hands on her knees, rocking forward.

“Lord, have mercy.”

Julian pushed aside a stack of towels, sat next to her, reached an arm around her.

“We think he got out; he left us a note. We think he’s safe somewhere. Lots of folks are missing but a lot of ’em have been found, safe and sound.”

With those heartening words, Genevieve’s eyes lifted, and she looked up at Velmyra and Kevin.

“Y’all know Simon too?”

“Oh, sorry.” Julian got up. “These are friends of mine, Velmyra and Kevin. They’re helping me look for Daddy.”

“Bless you both.” Genevieve stood up and hugged each one. “Y’all had breakfast yet?”

Julian glanced at the other two. “We had a little something earlier. I sure hope you don’t mind us raiding your fridge.”

Genevieve waved her hand dismissively. “Baby, you always know whatever’s mine is yours, too. Make yourself at home over there. So, y’all had breakfast already. How about a little peach cobbler?”

They followed Genevieve into a dining room filled with two large china cabinets piled with silver-rimmed dishes and a sideboard piled high with ceramic serving bowls. Wide-striped patterns of rose and gray flowers trailed up the sun-streaked walls. The man who had greeted them at the door, Pastor Jackson (head of Elam C.M.E.’s twenty-four member congregation), brought an enormous pie plate from the kitchen filled with a deep-dish cobbler glazed to a perfect golden brown and still bubbling from the oven.

Between delectable bites of Genevieve’s cobbler, the talk centered around New Orleans—the condition of Simon’s house, the stories they had heard on the news of government bungling, the horrible reports from the Superdome and the Convention Center and the tens of thousands stranded in the flooded city waiting for help, the good Samaritan doctors saving lives, the insurance shysters, and the dogs reunited with their masters. They talked about whether the city would ever be itself again, and how long that would take. Pastor Jackson sat quietly, sometimes nodding, saying next to nothing. It was when they were halfway through the pie that Julian figured the time was appropriate (if there was an appropriate time) to bring up the Silver Creek land.

“Cousin Genevieve, did you get anything in the mail a month or so ago about Silver Creek?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “No baby. Your daddy took care of all that business with the land. I sent him money but he took care of all the legal stuff, taxes and whatnot.”

“Do you know anything about people coming around Silver Creek, trying to buy it?”

Genevieve wiped pie crust crumbs from her mouth and put down her paper napkin next to her plate. Her eyes darkened.

“Child, it’s so much stuff going on around here,” she said. “I called Simon the night of the storm to tell him about Mr. Parette.”

Julian remembered the Parettes, whose land bordered his father’s property. His father talked about growing up with the old man’s son, James Earl. Both the son and daughter had moved to Chicago years ago, and the father, past ninety, lived on the property alone.

“What about him?”

“Oh, child. You don’t know?” Genevieve rested her cheek on her hand, her elbow on the dining table. “Something awful. Just awful.”

She told him what she knew, what she’d seen. Strangers in big expensive-looking cars cruising through the area, property “changing hands faster than you can say Jack Robinson.” Beautiful spreads of land being cleared for factories, condominiums, golf courses, and time-share communities.

Parette had told her he would not sell, not for any amount of money. Not for any reason. Then suddenly, he was found slumped over the steering wheel of his car, in a ditch just off Dutch River Road.

Could have been an accident. He was half blind, old as sin, and shouldn’t have been driving anyway, Genevieve said. But everybody looked out for him. He only drove about twenty miles an hour and he’d never had an accident before on that road.