Recovering Charles (11 page)

I do.

“We’re hoping to catch a flight out tomorrow. Get Lou here to a doctor at home. Get her something to help her sleep. She’s not been sleeping a wink, have you, Love?” He stroked her hair with a familiar kind of pure devotion.

“Keep a close eye on her, please,” I said. I hoped it didn’t sound like I was pleading, but in retrospect it might have.

“Good luck,” I added. “My best wishes to you both.”

Louise opened her eyes, smiled slightly, and said “Thank you” in the most innocent, kind English accent.

There is no guile in these two,
I thought.
No agenda. No selfish, ulterior motives. They breathe charity in its purest form.

I said good-bye and walked away.

Good luck.

I strolled back up Canal toward Bourbon Street. The city’s street vendors wouldn’t return for weeks, but a few shop owners gathered to gossip on corners. I listened as I casually walked by. The men made bold predictions about who would reopen and when. One man said he was leaving to meet his family in Houston and would have to be dragged back to New Orleans.

Troops patrolled the streets.

A sign on a souvenir shop said, “Gone fishing in the Ninth.”

A white Red Cross tent had been erected in the middle of the street. Empty pallets surrounded the entrance where I imagined thousands of bottles of water must have once been distributed to survivors who hadn’t had a drink in days.

I continued down Bourbon to Toulouse and turned right. I tried to picture my father walking up and down these same streets. Had he played on the corners I’d passed, collecting coins and the occasional bill in his velvet-lined saxophone case?

“You.” A member of the Coast Guard startled me from my left.

“Yes?”

“You with a group?”

“Group?”

“FEMA, Red Cross, whatever.”

“No, I’m a journalist. A photographer.”

“Let’s see some I.D.”

I pulled my license from my wallet and handed it to him.

“Credentials?”

I’ve got a $3,000 camera hanging around my neck. That good enough?

“Hold on,” I said, and dug through my wallet.

“Never mind. Just be careful.” The guardsman handed me back my license and moved on.

I walked the final block. My stomach spun when I first saw the darkened neon sign for Verses
.
I should have expected it, but someone had taped a picture of my father on the door.

He sat with a group of smiling, almost giddy-looking children who were holding instruments of all kinds. Dad held his sax.

In the photo his upper-body was circled in blue felt pen. Above his head were the words:
Charlie Millward—Missing.

What hadn’t been entirely real before now stared at me in full-color, 8x10, glossy truth.

I opened the door. I heard chatter from upstairs, but the main floor of the club appeared empty. Fifteen tables and scattered chairs crowded the room in the center.

I took a single step inside.

To the right, a thick wooden bar ran from the back of the club almost to the door. Coolers were lined up along half of it. A stack of boxes along one wall read, “Shelled Peanuts.” To the left and against the wall sat a platform stage a foot or two off the ground. It held a set of drums and enough chairs for a jazz band.

A woman appeared.

She came from a small room behind the bar. She had light brown skin and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. A few strands snuck out on each side and she tucked them behind her ears with her thumb and index finger. Her dark eyes spoke of both fatigue
and
resilience. Her mouth was the most rare kind, the one that could say, “I’m happy,” even if she wasn’t talking or even smiling. She wore khaki cotton shorts that almost hit her knees and a T-shirt that said

Visit Verses
French Quarter, New Orleans
Center of the Universe

She wore heavy-looking hiking boots and midankle socks with a Nike Swoosh on the cuff.

Her earrings were small gold hoops that looked like they had been made specifically for her skin color.

Her name was Bela.

Part
2

Chapter
16

Her voice was as beautiful as her name.

        My palms were actually a little sweaty.

        “Can I help you?” she asked.

If Jessica Alba had a better-looking sister, it could be Bela. As I appreciated her striking good looks, I predicted one of her parents was Latino and the other Caucasian.

“Luke Millward.” I finally extended my hand.

She took it reluctantly but gave a firm shake.

“Bela Cruz.”

“I’m looking for Jerome,” I said. I noticed a delicate gold chain dangling a cross against her neck.

“Not here. Came back with us a little while ago then disappeared again.”

“Any idea how long until he’ll be back?”

“None.”

“Can I wait here?”

She stepped aside and gestured into the club.

“Nice place,” I said, and if there had been a beer bottle within reach I would have broken it over my head as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I just meant, nice job keeping things running, being open for people.”

“We’re not
open,
not for actual business anyway. We’re just offering support to some people in the Quarter.”

“The
French
Quarter.”

“Mm-hmm,” she answered.

I’d never heard “mm-hmm” done with such sarcasm.

“We’re a staging area of sorts. Club’s owner has opened up to others in the Quarter.” She curled her lips just enough to qualify as a smile. “The
French
Quarter. We’ve got water, some food still in the back we can cook up, packaged snacks, sanitizing wipes, a generator, and some alcohol. But not much else.”

“And an open door, most importantly.”

“True,” she said and began slicing open cardboard boxes with a box cutter.

I zigzagged around supplies, small round tables, and scattered bentwood chairs to a wall filled with photos of famous patrons enjoying themselves at Verses: Nicolas Cage, Adam Sandler, John Goodman, Spike Lee, Wynton Marsalis, Ray Nagin, and New York City’s very own Naked Cowboy in his bright-white jockeys and waxed chest.

“Naked Cowboy, huh? Didn’t know he traveled outside of New York. I see him in Times Square pretty much year-round.”

Bela stood abruptly and seemed to finally notice my camera.

“You’re from New York?”

“Yes, I am, in fact.” I was both impressed
and
curious.

“Wait here.” Bela climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor and the noise from the crowd upstairs quieted to something only slightly louder than sign language.

Uh-oh.
I’d either walked into a reality show or Bela had news about my father. Or both. I picked a barstool and sat.

Moments later a tall, lean African-American woman followed Bela back down the stairs. The woman approached me, but Bela walked straight out the door.

The woman wore no makeup and had a thin scar on her left cheek that ran almost from the bottom of her nose to her temple. Even still, she had the look of a woman who didn’t need makeup to attract attention. “Are you Luke?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I stood and reached out my hand, but she pulled me into a hug. After a long, uncomfortable embrace, at least for one of us, she kissed my left cheek and let me go.

“I’m your father’s fiancŽe.”

“Jez.”

“That’s right. Short for Jezebel. My brother tell you?”

Who else?
“That’s right,” I said politely.

“Bela’s gone to find him.”

I asked the most obvious question next. The one I should have asked Jessica Alba as soon as I walked in the door instead of admiring her legs. “Have you seen or found my father?”

“Let’s wait for Jerome. He’s just around the corner.”

Dad’s dead,
I thought. I wondered if my mother was waiting for Dad the way he’d dreamed.

I breathed deeply and looked at the woman who would have been his second wife. She wore faded blue jeans, scuffed tennis shoes, and a green tank top. She was confident. Attractive and fit. Stylish. Everything Dad hadn’t been since the year Mom passed away.

“How did you and my father meet?”

Before answering, she took a seat next to me at the bar. “We met here. I do the bookkeeping for the club and your dad walked in seven months ago—almost eight—looking for gigs. Let’s just say we didn’t have any spots immediately, but I was motivated to keep him here.”

Only then did I notice just how tired and red her eyes looked.

“You’re a bookkeeper?”

“Accountant, to be precise. . . . You look incredulous.”

“No, no, not at all.”

“It’s OK. Let me guess. You talked to my brother on the phone and could barely understand him.” She cocked her head to get a better view at the dumb look on my face. “Then you arrive here and find his educated, well-spoken sister. You’re not the first to wonder if one of us is adopted.”

“I really didn’t mean—”

“Hush. Quit all that white-boy worrying over there.”

I laughed.

She did too. “We’re from New Awlins. Born and bred. I went to LSU and earned a masters of accounting. Math was my thing growing up. I don’t know what sparked it but I always loved numbers. And Jerome’s thing, his passion, was always music.
Is
music.”

“A nice partnership then.”

“Uh-huh. We don’t own the club, but we might as well. Jerome handles all the music and lives upstairs in an apartment on the back side of the building. I do the books, Bela helps run the bar when she can. And we have the requisite barkeeps, bouncers, a couple cooks . . .”

I must have drifted off because the next thing I heard was, “You OK?”

“I’m sorry, yes. Forgive me, it’s just . . . so
odd
to think of you and my father. A couple. Getting married.”

“Because I’m black?”

“No, because Dad was a drunk.”

She laughed even harder this time and playfully wagged her long finger at me. She had a bright, wide smile. As her pleasant laugh ebbed, Jerome appeared at the front door.

Bela followed him in.

“Jerome, this is Luke,” Jez said. “Charlie’s boy.”

“Charlie?” I said, shaking Jerome’s hand.

“We started callin’ ’im that after he got a spot in the band. He took to it.”

“What can you tell me? Has he been recovered or identified?” I hadn’t practiced that line, but now I wished I had.

“Sit down, son.” Jerome led me back to my barstool and, with a subtle nod, sent his sister and Bela upstairs.

I noticed that Bela watched me closely until she cleared the top of the stairs.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

Jerome reached over the bar and pulled two warm beers off a hidden shelf. He put one in front of me.

“No thanks,” I said.

“That’s right, I remember. You don’t drink a lick.”

“Dad told you.”

“Yes, sir, he did. Good for you.” He opened his beer and took a long drink. “He was proud of you for that. That you decided to be a, what do they call that?”

“Teetotaler. But it’s not a big deal; I just don’t drink.”

“Teetotaler. That’s right. Dumb word—teetotaler.” He said the word with disdain. “Makes me think of tea. Why ain’t it
beer
totaler?”

I grinned broadly, despite, or maybe
because
of the nerves.

Jerome took another swig of his warm beer. “Son, we don’t know ’bout your father yet.”

I exhaled.
Is this relief?

“No word. We got people all over the city lookin’, checkin’ shelters, askin’ ’round.”

“I’m relieved,” I mustered.

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I drove down here, didn’t I?”

Jerome’s face shone wisdom. “That’s right, you did.” He finished his beer. “You didn’t exactly rush though, did you, son?”

“I really couldn’t.” It was the best I could come up with.

He stared right through me. “You take the long way?”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothin’. You’re here. We’re happy for you. Happy for your dad, too.”

“You think he’s alive?”

“For now I’m talkin’ like he is. Cause we’re goin’ to find ’im, son, one way or another. And you’re goin’ to help us.”

“All right.”

“Good.”

“Is there a hotel open yet? I’ve got nowhere to stay.”

“Nothin’ in the city. You can go north across the lake and find somethin’, maybe, but rooms are tight right now. But we got you all set. Got a sofa bed upstairs.”

“Here?”

“That’s right. Cause I didn’t say upstairs someplace else, did I?”

“No, sir, I couldn’t put someone out, but I’m really grateful, truly—”

“You sound like Charlie.” He stood up and stomped on his beer can, crushing it flat, and then flung it like a Frisbee toward a tall black trash can in the corner. The can bounced off the wall and fell in. “We have the will and the room, Charlie Millward’s boy. You’ll stay here. Go back to your car, get your belongin’s or bags or whatever you brought, and come back before dark. Curfew’s in effect but ignore anythin’ you hear overnight. Some of the reporters hangin’ around have been comin’ by late for a drink.”

“Really?”

“That’s need-to-know. Got it?”

I nodded.

“Good on you. Tomorrow we’ll get to work.”

I had no desire to trudge back to my car.

As if rehearsed, Bela and Jez made their way down the stairs and into the conversation. Jez looked like she’d been crying again.

“Jez, Luke’s goin’ to be our guest upstairs. Would you mind settin’ up the gray couch for ’im?”

“Happy to,” Jez answered.

“Bela. Would you mind walkin’ with Luke back down to his car so he can get his things?”

“Sure, Jerome.”

“Great,” I said eagerly. “Let’s go.”

Chapter
17

Bela’s bronze legs moved faster than mine did.

     “Wait up, you’re killing me.”

     “Sorry, Luke,” she said as we turned onto Canal. “Used to walking fast, I guess.”

I picked up the pace and walked at her side.

“Tell me again where you’re parked?”

I was beginning to lose my breath; I calculated in my head the last time I’d been to the gym. “A mile from the Superdome. Garden District, I think.”

“You didn’t write it down? Or take a picture?”

That would have been an excellent idea,
I thought. “No, no, I’ll remember it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Is she walking even faster?

We walked, mostly in silence, until we neared the area where I remembered parking the car. In the gray light of the September evening, I saw the two men still sleeping under a bridge and accepted that their sleep was eternal. I hoped they weren’t too far from the main streets to be noticed and recovered by the Red Cross, FEMA, or anyone else with body bags. I also wondered if they had worried children somewhere.

A moment later we reached my car. I removed my duffel and laptop bags from the trunk. I slung my camera bag over my shoulder.

“Is that everything?” Bela asked.

“Think so.”

“I don’t want to stress you out, Luke, but there aren’t many dry cars down here. So make sure there’s nothing valuable here, because it’s a pretty attractive target.”

“For looters? Really? A cheap rental car?”

“It’s survival. That backseat would be a welcome place for someone to sleep.”

“True enough.”

“You got the rental insurance, right?”

Whoops.
“Of course.”

Bela’s eyebrows drew together and she reached out for a handwritten note that had been slipped under one of the wiper blades. She read it out loud in the fading light.

“Whoever you are, you’re brave (or stupid) to leave a FEMA car unattended because you aren’t the most popular four-letters in town right now. We wanted to leave you a not-so-friendly spray-painted message telling you where to go but then we noticed the pass is for FEMA Construction—the good guys. So . . . thanks for coming. Thanks for staying. Thank you for helping us recover.”

She gently folded the note and handed it to me. Then she tapped the window above the FEMA Construction pass. “Looks like this is better than rental insurance.”

I swallowed past a sudden lump in my throat and carefully slipped the note into my wallet, grateful that small miracles were still happening in the Big Easy.