Hurricane Song Page 2

  I put away the sheet with the football plays, and my eyes landed on the round bronze medal pasted up on the dashboard.

  Pop turned around and saw me studying it from the backseat.

  “It’s a St. Christopher medal, Miles,” he said. “He looks after travelers. That’s the baby Jesus on his shoulders. St. Christopher carried him across a river and thought it would be nothin’. But it felt like he was haulin’ the weight of the whole world.”

  The needle on the temperature gauge started rising up into the red. Then there was smoke from under the hood, and Uncle Roy cursed that piece-of-shit Chevy up and down. He pounded the car horn so the other drivers would give him enough room to pull off to the side. After the engine died out, Pop and me pushed it the rest of the way to the exit ramp and watched my uncle coast down into a row of empty parking spots on the street.

  Workers on a big truck were busy hustling the metal garbage cans off corners—before the wind turned them into flying missiles, I guessed.

  All morning, the radio said the Superdome was the only safe place for anybody staying behind. We could see the top of it from where we were, and scrapped the motel idea.

  “No choice from here, Doc,” said Uncle Roy.

  “Guess not,” Pop came back.

  Uncle Roy opened the trunk and looked at all his shoes lined up there in pairs. Since he didn’t have a house, that trunk was like a closet to him.

  “I just pray no water seeps into here,” he said, slamming it back down. “Hang on tight—I’ll be back for you, my babies.”

  Then Roy pulled an empty green duffel bag from under the driver’s seat, and him and Pop put their horns at the bottom of it, like they were hiding them. And with the clothes and other things they piled on top, that bag got so heavy I was the only one who could carry it without stopping to rest every minute.

  We started walking with all our stuff, and if Pop and Uncle Roy weren’t with me, I’d have probably felt like I was running away from home.

  The Superdome’s huge and takes up four or five blocks easy. It looks like a cross between a concrete flying saucer, all round and smooth, and some kind of nuclear reactor. The New Orleans Saints pro football team plays there. I’d heard that’s where the city’s championship high-school game gets put on, too. I’d never been inside it before, but I was hoping the first time I set foot in the Superdome I’d be playing for the city title, instead of running from a storm.

  Everybody on the streets around us was headed there, too—young people, old people pushing shopping carts loaded up with their things, and whole families. And except for the faces of the little kids, they all looked stressed over it.

  We were still a few blocks away when the rain started. It came down steady from the beginning. Uncle Roy was the only one with an umbrella, and he was walking with it tipped halfway over my head, too. Then the first good gust of wind tore that umbrella inside out.

  “Another dead bird,” he said, slamming it to the sidewalk.

  The wrecked pieces got blown through the street, and I started thinking how the hawk that clipped it might as well be a hungry vulture now.

  Pop stopped us on the ramp leading up to the Superdome with the rain rolling down his face and said, “I don’t care how big it is or what kind of slick name they give it—it’s still a shelter. Son, your uncle and me spent plenty of days when we were young in places like this, and I won’t forget ’em. People are uptight over everything. Drama can jump up out of nothin’. Going in here ain’t a game. I want you to be respectful of people—of what they have and what they don’t have. But don’t close your eyes on anybody, either.”

  “Lord knows, you right on the money about that, Doc,” Uncle Roy said, climbing the next step.

  2

  Oh, when the sky goes dark and gray

  Oh, when the sky goes dark and gray

  Lord, I want to be in that number

  When the sky goes dark and gray

  Sunday August 28, 11:00 A.M.

  National Guard soldiers in camouflage fatigues stood at the door with their machine guns pointed straight up in the air. They looked us over like we’d crossed the border from another country without any papers. I locked eyes with one of them who had a thick square jaw, and his grip on the gun got tighter.

  There was a big sign just inside the Superdome: EVERY ADULT AND CHILD SHOULD BRING ENOUGH FOOD AND WATER TO LAST THREE (3) DAYS. ALL CITY AND STATE LAWS WILL BE STRICTLY ENFORCED.

  Taped underneath was a letter signed by the mayor, ordering that the city be evacuated.

  My uncle asked, “How we gonna make groceries, Doc?”

  “We’ll solve it later, or live off all that chocolate you brought,” Pop answered.

  “And there’s no going back and forth!” a soldier hollered after us. “Once you’re inside, that’s it! Nobody leaves till we get the all-clear signal!”

  “I’d rather have cops than those damn weekend soldiers,” my uncle said low, turning into the hall.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Maybe their real job’s working in a gas station, or a bakery. They train at soldiering something like one weekend a month. Then the state gives ’em a gun during big emergencies and says, ‘You’re in charge now.’ But I guarantee, if shit goes down, they’ll either run or start shooting out of fear,” Pop said, looking at me. “So you just keep clear of ’em, Miles.”

  We stepped out into the stadium, under the dome, and the noise hit me like a wave. There were people praying out loud, talking and shouting. Little kids were running through the stands, screaming after each other, and babies were crying their heads off. Almost every one of those voices belonged to black people. I saw some doctors, nurses, and soldiers who were white, but nearly everybody coming to get saved was black like me. And that sat like a rock in the pit of my stomach.

  Then I saw the football field, and everything inside me stopped. I just froze there for a second, looking from one end of it to the other. The grass was the brightest green I ever saw. It didn’t matter to me that it wasn’t real and was just painted that color. It was like finding the present you’d always wanted under the tree on Christmas morning.

  “The boy’s seen his Holy Ghost in that field,” Pop told Uncle Roy.

  There were three tiers of seats sandwiched one on top of another, with a ring of lights between the top two levels. A huge scoreboard hung down from the center of the dome, but it was dark. Families were camped out all over the stands, looking like they’d brought along most of what they owned. They had radios, mountains of clothes, dishes, and portable TVs and VCRs with no place to plug them in. There was even a two-foot statue of the Virgin Mary with dirt and roots still clinging to the bottom that somebody probably dug up from their front lawn. And everywhere we looked to settle, people watched us close, like we might steal what they had.

  Pop picked out a section next to an Exit sign, and we piled up our things in a corner closed off by a concrete slab and steel rail.

  “Those folks down there got it right,” my uncle said, pointing to a small part of the football field that wasn’t blocked off by metal barriers. “They got blankets spread out to sleep lyin’ flat and everything. That’s livin’ large compared to these stiff seats. There’s more open space. Let’s move there.”

  “Can if you want to,” said a woman with her arms around two little girls, a few rows in front of us. “But the soldiers already made them move once. They said that’s the first place that’ll flood if the dome leaks. But some people is hard-headed, and had to go back.”

  “We’re stayin’ put then,” Pop said, and wouldn’t budge on it.

  “That’s good! We need more men in their right minds ’round here,” the woman said. “I don’t trust those soldiers, and the wolves might come howlin’ at night.”

  Uncle Roy went over with his sack of candy, and those two girls waited for their mother to say it was all right before they took some.

  Then Pop shot him a hard look, like we’d be hun
gry soon.

  I looked out at the field, and couldn’t hold myself back. So I put on my practice jersey, with the blue side facing out, and promised Pop I’d quit when the first soldier told me to.

  “Go ’head,” said Pop with a sour look. “There’s probably worse ways to kill time in this place.”

  Then I grabbed the football and climbed down. I took a deep breath and turned myself sideways, slipping between the barriers. I’d never been on artificial turf before, and it felt like walking on thick carpet laid over concrete.

  The first level of stands was already half filled, and I made believe all that noise was people cheering. Something inside me started churning hot, like I really was in that championship game. So I took off full speed with the football tucked inside of one arm, cutting left, then right. The white painted lines flew under my feet, and I high-stepped it the last five yards. When I hit the goal line, I spiked the ball, and it must have bounced ten feet up in the air. I turned around and a bunch of young kids were chasing after me. They dove for the ball, laughing and yelling like it was a sunny day outside in the park.

  I split them into two even teams for a game of touch, and played quarterback for both sides. We knelt down in the huddle, and I drew up plays in the fake grass with my finger.

  Everything was going smooth till one of them shoved his brother with both hands in the chest for no reason. The kid who got pushed fell backwards, slamming his head on the ground. I heard it hit solid, and was just glad he got back up. Then he ran off crying to find his mom, and the game was finished. I turned my beams on his asshole brother, staring him down. But he wouldn’t even look back at me.

  “Yo, Miles!” somebody shouted. “You tryin’ out for midget league now?”

  It was two guys from the varsity squad, Dunham and Cain. Both of them had on their practice jerseys, too, only with the red side showing.

  They each gave me a pound, and Dunham said, “That’s three of us now. We just got stronger, case we need to take care of our own.”

  “Team’s family,” I said, turning my jersey the same way as theirs.

  I really only knew those guys from football. They were both going to be seniors and hung out with dudes from their own class. I’d seen them treat most of the underclassmen like shit on the practice field. But they’d never crossed me. So I liked the idea of rolling with them, and maybe getting bumped up two years on the social chain at school.

  “We scoped out this whole Superdome already, and we’re just goin’ to fill our stomachs,” said Cain. “How you fixed for food?”

  “I saw that sign outside about it. My family’s probably gonna faint ’fore three days are up,” I answered. “We can definitely use more eats than we have.”

  “We’ll solve that,” Dunham said.

  So I started off with them. Then I remembered my football and turned back around for it. There were only a couple of kids left on the field. But they were all playing tag, and my ball with the busted laces was gone.

  I wanted to find that little punk who’d decked his brother and body-slam him to the floor. I knew it had to be him who snatched the ball, and I stood there steaming.

  “Let’s go, Miles,” Dunham said. “Whatcha waitin’ on?”

  I didn’t want to look like a real jerk in front of them, getting jacked by a fifth-grader. So I kept my mouth shut and sucked it up.

  In the corridor, soldiers were handing out a cold spaghetti lunch in a cardboard box. The line was super long, and lots of people standing alone looked really pissed off at being stuck next to other folks’ crying kids.

  It swung halfway around the Superdome, and I couldn’t see the front of that line from the end. That’s when Dunham and Cain started moving forward, and I followed.

  Cain picked out a spot close up on the line, and asked some old guy standing by himself, “You all right on your feet, Gramps? ”

  “Doin’ o-kay,” he answered in a cautious voice.

  Then Dunham put a huge paw on the old guy’s shoulder, like we were his family, and he’d been holding our spot down.

  “That’s bullshit!” said some man, maybe ten feet behind us. “You don’t belong up there!”

  Cain shot him the meanest look I’d ever seen, like he’d stomp on that man’s throat if he said another word. The man had a couple of little kids with him. Then I saw him look at the three of us together. I guess he decided it wasn’t worth it, because after that, he only said stuff under his breath.

  That whole rest of the time I waited in line, I didn’t know how to feel. I couldn’t decide if we’d just run the winning play in a football game and I should give Dunham and Cain high fives, or if we’d acted like asshole bullies. So I just stood there smiling and nodding my head at them, while that tug of war was going on inside me.

  By the time I brought the lunch back to Pop and my uncle, I felt two inches tall about what I did and wouldn’t even open the box to look inside.

  “Where you been since you left that field, Miles?” Pop asked. “I saw you go off with those two boys.”

  “I got this food the two of you can share,” I answered, handing him the box.

  “What about you? Ain’t hungry?” Uncle Roy asked.

  “Had enough already,” I said, pulling off the jersey and stuffing it down into my bag.

  Some soldiers dragged an old dude with gray Brillo hair back to our section. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, “This ain’t Noah’s Ark! It’s Nigger’s Ark! Ain’t two of everything, just us niggers in here. Let me out ’fore God sends his mighty flood!”

  “Daddy!” yelled the woman with those two little girls. "Stop it! What’s wrong with you? You actin’ crazy!”

  Pop was the first to recognize him.

  “That’s Cyrus—that fool dishwasher from Pharaohs, ” said Pop. “Just pretend you don’t know him.”

  After Pop said it, I recognized him, too.

  “He’s never been sane,” said Uncle Roy. “Just our luck to have him near us.”

  Another man came back with them. He was a preacher with a white collar around his neck, and told Cyrus, “God gave us this place to be safe, brother. Your family needs for you to be strong.”

  “Listen to your people, old man,” snapped one of the soldiers. “We can’t chase you off that damn door all day long.”

  “Please, Miss, you gotta keep a better eye on your father,” said a soldier with more patience. “We can’t let him outside, and he’s gonna get hurt running around out of control.”

  “I’ll watch him good from now on. I promise. He won’t cause no more trouble,” the woman said, starting to cry.

  “Only God got the right to watch me!” said Cyrus, sitting down. “Nobody else!”

  Then he closed his eyes and started singing—

  Oh, when the saints come marchin’ in,

  Oh, when the saints come marchin’ in,

  Lord, I’m gonna be, be, be in that number . . .

  His voice went lower and lower, till it got swallowed up by all the noise. The two little girls were shaking, looking at their grandpa like they didn’t know who he was.

  “Thank you for goin’ after him,” the woman told the preacher through her tears.

  “Sometimes you need to look after your neighbor’s house like it was your own,” he answered.

  The preacher’s family was settled in our section, too. He had a wife and three young children of his own. But he moved them a couple rows closer to help keep an eye on the old man.

  “See what it is, but don’t get caught up in people’s problems, Miles,” Pop said. “It’ll come back on you. I know.”

  “How would you know, Pop?” I asked, like he never cared about anybody but himself.

  “For almost a year, my mama, brother, and me bounced between shelters after our father walked out,” he answered, sharp. “Everybody in those places was angry and on edge almost all the time. These people in here, they ain’t had long to get used to the idea of maybe losing what they have. And when t
his hurricane really hits, some of them are gonna be more than tight. They’ll be ready to snap.”

  “Our first gig was in the shelter,” my uncle said. “We was in junior-high band class together and the teacher give us each a horn to take home.”

  “Home?” Pop said. “We’d hang around the school-yard for an hour after class, till everybody was gone. That way nobody could see where home was.”

  “We was just learnin’ to play and practiced in the shelter’s rec room,” said Uncle Roy. “Half the people living there wanted to beat us over the head with those horns for the headaches we gave ’em.”

  I’d heard that all before and wasn’t in any mood for a history lesson.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “And nobody lived happily ever after.”

  Pop’s face turned hard, like he wanted to boot me halfway across the Superdome for disrespecting his family that way.

  Then he looked straight in my face and told me part of the story I’d never heard.

  “Some woman was hanging wash to dry on the air vents inside the shelter when this lunatic lady living there started screaming how she couldn’t breathe because of it. They got to arguin’ so bad it was almost funny. I don’t know why our mama got in between them. Maybe she was just sick of all the goddamn noise. But the lunatic pulled a kitchen knife on the other one. Only it was our mama who got stabbed by mistake,” he said, slow and even. “She didn’t die from it, but she lost a lot of blood. Our mama passed away too young—fifty-six was all.”

  “Amen to that,” Uncle Roy said, crossing himself.

  "And I know that stabbin’ cost her some good years,” Pop said.

  I started thinking how I’d feel to see my own mother get knifed, and how I’d want to tear anybody to pieces who had a part in it.

  “That’s a sad story,” I said.

  “No story,” Pop came back. “Just the God-awful truth.”

  3

  We are trav’ling in the footsteps

  Of those who’ve gone before

  We’ll all be reunited on a new

  and sunlit shore