Recovering Charles (7 page)

Chapter
9

The bags waited for me by the door.

Still, I wasn’t convinced I was going. I’d packed the carry-on-sized suitcase I’d used to travel the world. My laptop and camera bags were ready to go. And over the last twenty-four hours I’d successfully cleared my schedule for a week.

Clients were appeased. Kirky, my agent, was supportive, probably because he wanted to see the shots. Of course Jordan thought I was already on my way out the door and made me promise to call from the road at the end of my first day. She hid it well, but I knew she wasn’t thrilled I’d chosen to handle the burden alone. I’d made the case that she had her good name and a lot of money riding on several high-profile closings. She should stay.

Frankly, the truth was a pretty good reason, too. Her joining me would have felt very serious. Very adult. Very much like something a couple would do.

Since sitting down with Larry I’d avoided watching the news or going beyond ESPN.com on the Internet. This freed my consciousness to make a rational choice, not one mired in the emotionally-draining images still floating north from the Gulf region. Once the television was on, I knew how challenging it would be to turn it off.

My wallet was in my front pocket. The lights were off. I’d locked a few valuables in a safe hidden in a cabinet under my bathroom sink. The Sebring I’d rented online was waiting for me on a Hertz lot in Greenwich Village.

It took three tries but I finally reached Jerome. “I’m coming.”

“Good. I was startin’ to wonder ’bout you.”

“Yes, sir. Any news on my father?”

“Not yet, but lots of friends lookin’, keepin’ eyes open, and askin’ ’round. And ’member now, other folks missin’ too. Lots of ’em.”

“Understood.”

“Get comin’ then. You got the number?”

“It’s in my cell.” I suddenly remembered Jordan’s curiosity. “May I ask how you found me? My number?”

“Your dad gave it to Jez, in case anythin’ ever happened.”

“Of course.”

“All right then. Come by the club Verses
,
on Chartres. Almost at the corner of Toulouse in the Quarter. We’re ’bout the only thing here. But don’t expect no music playin’ right now. Just
gatherin’ up and seein’, makin’ sure we know who’s survived here. Get comin’, son.”

“I will.”

“And bring a photo.”

“I will.”

We thanked each other and hung up. I took my laptop back out of its bag, powered it up, and plugged it into my photo printer on my desk. I printed the most recent photo I could find of my father. We were standing side by side on the street outside my first NYU apartment. I repacked my laptop.

The other bags still waited for me by the door.

There were 1,306 miles and two long days—maybe three if I wore out early—between New Orleans and me.

I looked at my watch. Nearly noon.

What’s the point now?

I slid the bags aside with my foot, stepped out, and locked the door. Not five minutes later I was on the subway bound for Times Square and a ticket to whatever movie started next.

“Can I help you?” the young man behind the counter
mumbled. He had the look of an hourly employee who resented selling a movie ticket in the middle of a weekday to a grown man who should have been at work.

I smiled and fought to assume the best about him. A useful nugget from my father. “Let’s see, what’s starting now?”

“Read the screen, man. There’s
Junebug
in about twenty
minutes,
Dukes of Hazzard
at the same time,
Deuce Bigalow 2
after that,
Red Eye
—”

“That one any good?” I spotted his name tag. “Tracy?”

“It’s cool, I guess. Got that girl Rachel McAdams in it. She’s hot.”

I gave him two thumbs up and a goofy grin from my side of the glass.

“You get to see a lot of movies, huh? Nice gig you got.”

Tracy’s face finally brightened slightly and he gave me the “You know it, dude,” wink and smile. He looked back down at his screen again. “Then there’s
Brothers Grimm.
Matt Damon’s in it.”

I’d seen it already, but still asked, “How about that? Decent? I’m sure you’ve seen it, yeah?”

“Nah, ain’t seen it. Looks dumb.”

“No doubt.” I studied the board again.

“Or, if you don’t much care ’bout missing a couple minutes, you could catch
A Sound of Thunder.
Ed Burns and that English dude, Kingsley. Some of the guys saw it last night, said it was pretty sweet.”

“Hmm, never heard of it.”

“This special travel agency takes these dudes back in time.”

“Time travel? You sold me.”

I paid Tracy for the ticket. He told me to have a good day, and I think he actually meant it. Inside the red ropes I spent twenty-two dollars on popcorn with enough butter—though it shouldn’t legally be called that—to drown my arteries, an enormous box that held maybe eight or nine Milk Duds, and a large ice with Mr. Pibb sprinkled on top.

The theater was almost empty.

~ ~

The A-wing hallway was packed with hyper high school students. Teachers barked and prodded teens from one class to another. I had stopped at my locker just outside Mr. Balfe’s AP business class when I heard Dad’s voice coming from the direction of the front lobby.

“Luke!”

He was fast-walking down the hallway toward me.

“Dad? What are you doing here? Everything OK?” Mom had been gone only a couple months and my counselor at school said Dad was still grieving. I guess we both were.

He pushed past students in the crowded, narrow stretch of hallway and got close enough that I recognized his favorite sports bar on his breath.

“Everything’s just fine. You want to break out of here?”

“What?” I looked around me. “Dad, I can’t, I’ve got Balfe’s class. Are you OK?”

“I’m great. Just bored. Took off early from work. Come see
What About Bob
with me downtown.”

I looked Dad over. He was wearing sweat pants, a golf polo, and tennis shoes without socks.

“A movie? I can’t, Dad.”

He reached over and slammed my locker. His voice rose. “Come on, kiddo. Quit being so serious. Your grades are great. Everyone knows what we’ve been dealing with, right? Come on, let’s go have some fun together.”

“Dad, I’ve got a quiz today. I really can’t.”

A few of my friends at nearby lockers were tuned in.

“Fine.” He looked broken. “See you at home.” He turned around and began walking away.

“Wait, Dad.” I grabbed his sleeve. “Maybe you should sign me out and I’ll drive you home.” I stepped closer. “You can sleep this off—”

“Hey, there’s
nothing
to sleep off. I’m good.”

“Right. I’m sorry.” I noticed Mr. Balfe rounding the corner toward us. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Let’s see a matinee and make a memory.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of that already,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure which of us should be more embarrassed.

As inconspicuously as possible, I pulled him alongside me and up the hall toward the office. I walked right past it and out the door.

“Yes! Here we come, Bill Murray!”

The Saab was parked in the fire lane. Dad handed me the keys, and I opened the passenger side door. I tossed my book bag in the backseat and got in the driver’s side. I hadn’t quite mastered the stick shift, and as I lurched and screeched out of the parking lot, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a gaggle of kids watching from the terrace by the flagpole.

Some of them laughed.

Some of them knew.

I don’t recall much about the movie itself. I do remember buying Dad peanuts and a soda and sitting where we always did no matter the theater: eight rows back, middle section. Dad liked to sit right next to me; I preferred a seat in between so we could spread out. That day I remember giving in and sharing the armrest with him.

I also remember Dad crying.

Chapter
10

Traffic.

This is why I don’t own a car.

I reminded myself of this fact several times as I navigated toward the Holland Tunnel and out of the city. I hadn’t had to drive anywhere in over a year and hadn’t even owned a car since high school. At 6:30
am
the city was already filling with cars and color-blind pedestrians.

The buildings became smaller and the highway exits farther apart as I headed west on 78 into Pennsylvania. Not feeling suffocated by skyscrapers was refreshing, but by my first fill-up, I missed the energy of the city. For all its flaws, and there are many, New York is a photographer’s dream.

Interstate 78 led me to 81 and I began to drive south through Maryland, West Virginia, and into the lush Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. The leaves were only threatening to begin their dance into fall colors, and I almost wished I could park on the side of the road until they did. Instead I stopped for gas and gum in Strasburg and followed directions on a billboard to someplace called Crystal Caverns. I knew I didn’t have time to take the tour.

I did anyway.

The caverns were fantastic and I made a mental note to tell Jordan about them when we spoke that night and to e-mail her the photos. It was the kind of thing the Brooklyn-bred girl would have appreciated.

When I returned to my car, armed with several dozen photos and more information about crystalline rimstone and calcite crystals than I could possibly ever use, I saw I’d missed two calls from the cell phone number Jerome had given me. I called back. No answer and a full voice mail box.

I drove on. Interstate 81 carried me south and gradually southwest through Woodstock, Harrisonburg, and Roanoke. By the time the odometer read five hundred miles, I’d been on the road nearly twelve hours. I pulled off in Blacksburg, Virginia, and, remembering that my credit cards would be useless in New Orleans, I stopped at an ATM and withdrew the max. Then I checked into a Best Western across the street.

I tapped into the hotel’s Wi-Fi, downloaded my pictures,
e-mailed a few to Jordan, and called to let her know I’d survived so far. I apologized for not calling the night before and promised to keep her updated.

I fell asleep listening to Norah Jones on my iPod.

I dreamt that night that I was in a grassy field with friends. A young woman appeared over a ridge wearing a white spring dress, twirling a pink parasol, and singing a song I’d never heard before. She practically glided down the hill toward me.

~ ~

Dad had his most important dream not long after he met Mom in high school.

He didn’t tell her about it until well after they were married, and I didn’t hear about it until Mom was already addicted to prescription drugs and mourning Grandma.

Dad and I sat across from one another at a Cracker Barrel.

“How’s school?”

“OK, I guess.”

“Just OK?”

“It’s hard. All my teachers are treating me weird, even some of my friends.”

“Because of Mom?”

“I guess.”

Dad took a bite of pot roast. “It won’t last. Mom will get through this.”

“Soon?”

“I sure think so, son.”

Our waitress dropped off a second basket of bread.

“It’s hard, Dad, to see her just lying around all the time. Watching TV. Sleeping. Watching more TV.”

“She’s suffering, son, that’s what people do sometimes when they’re grieving.”

I concentrated for a moment on buttering my third roll. Dad flagged down the waitress and asked for a refill of his Pepsi.

“You know Courtney?” I asked Dad.

“Harding? From the track team?”

“Yeah. Her dad died of cancer last year.”

“That’s right, I’d heard about that. How is she doing?”

“Really good.” I added more butter to the second half of my roll. “She says her mom is doing good, too. She got a job at the Red Cross. Still sad, I’m sure, but pretty happy. Considering.”

“Luke, I doubt they’re happy.”

“You know what I mean, Dad. Not
happy,
but dealing, you know? They’re dealing with it all. Moving on as best they can.”

I could tell Dad was weighing his words. Whenever he took extra time to calculate what to say next, or how much he thought he should say, he’d rub his right earlobe.

“I get it,” he finally said. “But we have to be careful, son. Everyone grieves differently. Some people bounce right back. Some deal with the grieving process by working through it, staying busy, occupying their mind with other things. Other people, like your mother, need time alone. They need to move at their own speed. Rushing them, rushing
her,
would be a mistake.”

I poked at the ice in the bottom of my cup with the straw.

“She’ll surface again, Luke.”

The waitress must have thought I was hinting because she grabbed my glass and disappeared. Dad picked at his fried apples.

“What if she doesn’t?” I asked him.

He slid his plate aside, wiped up the area around him with a napkin, and put his elbows on the table. “She will.”

Dad then shared with me “the dream” he’d carried as a lifeline since high school. It wasn’t his only dream, but it was the one that gave him hope when he needed it most.

It was two nights before Senior Prom, and Dad dreamt he stood on a long, straight country road lined with magnolia trees. He turned around and saw that the road began not far behind him. But in front of him, the road stretched as far and straight as he’d ever seen. “It was like God had drawn a straight line through the forest,” Dad said.

At various points ahead, on both the left and the right, tree branches hung like thick, muscular arms over the road. Curious, Dad began to walk. Every now and then, without warning, the surface changed. From smooth, fresh pavement to loose gravel to red dirt, back to pavement, and then to uneven cobblestone.

The more he walked the more he noticed danger all around him. Animals crouched in the brush and behind trees. Narrowed white eyes followed him, darting from hiding place to hiding place. He didn’t know their breed; he only knew to fear them.

He walked on.

A noise startled him from behind. Dad turned and the branches behind him suddenly swayed and swatted violently at the ground below. He quickly looked forward again but now, some thirty yards ahead, stood a woman. She wore a long, flowing white dress and faced away from him.

“It was your mother,” Dad told me.

The woman began to walk away from him.

“Stop!” Dad yelled.

She walked on.

Dad also walked, faster now, and with each step he took, she took one of her own. The winds behind them grew stronger and played notes to the most frightening song Dad had ever heard.

Tender whimpers from ahead.

Dad couldn’t be sure, but after all these years, after replaying the dream hundreds of times in his mind, Dad was convinced the woman was crying out for him.

“Are you OK?” Dad called out to her, but as soon as the words left his mouth they were carried away by a violent rush of air. It came from behind and filled every inch of the road, lifting the two of them off their feet and tossing them from one side of the road to the other.

The woman yelled to my father. “I . . . I can’t . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .” She was drowning in the energy of the air swooshing by them.

“Save me, Charles,” the woman begged.

He reached out to her, and she locked her soft fingers and palms around his wrists. The angry wind jerked and jostled them down the road. She continued to choke and sputter and her face turned a painful blue. But they were together now, joined tightly at both wrists.

Dad begged her to be strong, to breathe, to remain calm.

The woman cried tears that flew away in the air instead of hitting her cheeks.

Finally realizing he was the only one who could save her, Dad pulled her close with all his strength and filled his lungs with air.

Then he put his mouth to hers.

He breathed out slowly, emptying his chest.

Her eyes closed as she took his breath.

Once again, he took all the air he could and gently put his lips around her mouth and exhaled.

She opened her eyes and smiled. Just then Dad saw a large branch hanging out into the road. The woman let go of Dad’s wrist with one hand and grabbed the branch as they passed by.

The wind clawed at their legs and the woman held on to Dad as long as she could. But when Dad sensed he was pulling her free from the safety of the sturdy branch, he said good-bye and let go.

Dad was swept down the road and out of sight.

The waitress dropped our check on the table and thanked us for coming.

Dad straightened up and looked me in the eye. “I don’t know how,” he said, “but I’m going to save your mother.”

Chapter
11

The hotel’s obnoxious wake-up call shook me to reality.

I’ve never understood why, but 6:00
am
comes earlier in hotel rooms than at home. I wiped my eyes and stretched out across my surprisingly comfortable king-sized bed. Thankfully the television remote was within reach.

I turned it on.

The coverage was still pervasive, but just as during 9/11 and other historically significant events of my lifetime, the broadcast and cable networks found a way to systematically begin sprinkling in other stories and reporting on lighter fare. Still, I thought the reporters looked embarrassed to be reporting results from dog shows and hot dog-eating championships.

The evacuation of the Superdome had been completed.

The 17th Street canal breach had been repaired and water was being pumped out of the city at last. Experts predicted dry streets by mid-October.

Rescue workers said there were a surprising number of holdouts still refusing to leave the city behind.

Could Dad be one of those?

Bodies were still being identified and recovered on overpasses, left by broken and heartbroken family members before they boarded buses for new lives, whether they wanted them or not. In attics and in slowly emerging cars even more bodies were being discovered.

He’s probably one of those.

The smell, one reporter says, is something you cannot describe. It’s death and grief and filth typical of war, not an iconic American city. The woman, trying her best to hold it in, cuts the segment short. There’s no point seeing her vomit on camera.

Highlights roll of a panel of talking heads from an overnight show. They debate whether Michael Brown should resign entirely from FEMA. They angrily mock his experience as a judge for the Arabian Horse Association.

Well, that can’t possibly be true,
I thought.

Later, the same panel discussed the outrage from House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi and Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid. The two accused the president of mismanaging the disaster fallout and of a failure of leadership. Analysis turned to argument.

I muted the television.

My laptop was tucked under the bed. I pulled it up and used my stomach as a desk. An extra pillow behind my head got me to the perfect height.

There was an e-mail from Mrs. Paisley, my perpetually concerned neighbor who hadn’t seen me much lately and was worried I wasn’t eating enough. There was a surprise note from Dan, a former roommate who was serving his last tour in Iraq and was beginning to worry about money and returning home to resume civilian life. He wondered if I’d let him stay with me for a bit while he got things in order.

There was also a short note from Larry wishing me luck on my trip and asking me to drop him a note or stop by campus when I returned to the city. I replied and thanked him for his concern.

My junk filter had also filled up nicely overnight with bulk e-mails from eBay, a political web site I’d never heard of, and from experts promising to enhance everything imaginable. One e-mail caught my eye. It was a touching, painful note from a gentleman named Dr. Clement Okon. He revealed that his uncle had been killed in a recent military coup in Nigeria and Dr. Okon had inherited ten million dollars. Sadly, he had no easy way to get it out of the country and away from the corrupt, greedy regime in power. Would I help him for a promise of two million dollars?

I smiled and forwarded it with an “LOL” to my buddy Dan in Iraq. “Your money woes are solved!” I added.

Before packing up and heading out I felt compelled to e-mail Jordan and share Dad’s dream. She was always accusing me—in her playful way—of not opening up as much as she did. She was right; she deserved more of me than I’d given, and having a written record while it was fresh in my mind seemed the appropriate thing to do. After all, it was unlikely Dad would ever tell that story again in the first person.

I concluded my note: