Another Kind of Hurricane (16 page)

Henry ran until his legs gave out. He didn't know if Jake and Cora were following him, but his calves cramped up and he couldn't run another inch. He leaned over his knees, breathing in gulps like he was drinking water from the river. He walked like that, bent over, down a short walkway to a house and sat, without ever straightening up, on its porch step.

Henry leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the sky. It matched the ground, the houses, the street, the few trees, and, mostly, the garbage.

Gray.

All of it was gray.

And flat.

Henry heard a rumbling sound. He sat up and looked down the street. Three boys were skateboarding. The boy in the front—a short kid wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans—jumped onto the sidewalk and skated toward the fallen tree.
Henry watched him bend his knees, grab the front of his board, and jump the tree. The other two followed him. Then they skated back onto the street, picked up speed, and were gone.

Did they race on their skateboards? Did they have a fourth friend? Where was he?

Henry wondered what their story was.

Help—

A thousand voices calling for help flooded through Zavion.

He couldn't tell if the sounds were coming from inside him or out on the street. He stopped running, stopped walking, and then stood still.

Help—

He looked around but didn't see anyone on the street.

Fear was back. He knew it had been waiting for him, curled up in a tight ball. Zavion couldn't tell if it had been hiding in the rubble of New Orleans, camouflaged in mud and trash, or if it had been lodged in his own body, tucked small and hard at the corner of his lower rib.

But it was back. Long and cold. It stretched from Zavion, to the stop sign on the corner, and wound around back to his body.

Zavion stared at the gray street. At the gray neighborhood.
He listened to the silence, now that his heart had stopped blasting.
Please let there be some sound
, he thought.
Please let there be some movement
. But there was nothing. Only the fierce sun pushing down on a city ripped open, top to bottom, organs and veins and muscles torn away, with its bones exposed to the harsh light.

And what did that make Zavion? A lone cell, flung far, gasping for breath, lost, lost, lost.

Fear was definitely back.

But Zavion had made it to Luna Market.

Its window was taped up with a piece of cardboard and half the space was dark, but the lights were on in the front and Zavion could see a woman carrying a box down an aisle.

Okay, then.

They would walk in together.

He and Fear.

He reached into his pocket and touched his marble.

He would stand here for a few minutes, until he could walk in as a trio.

Zavion, Fear, and a Magic.

“Help—”

A muffled voice called from somewhere.

Henry's heart froze, and what was already quiet became silent.

He instinctively reached his hand into his pocket to touch the marble. But of course it wasn't there.

“Help—”

The voice sounded louder.

Henry leaned forward and peered into the street. Had one of the skateboard boys called out?

“Help— Hello—”

The voice was coming from inside the house.

A switch flipped in Henry's heart, and he felt the rush of blood pumping through his body all the way down to his feet, which began to move without Henry even thinking about it. He walked up the porch steps and into the house.

Jeezum Crow!

Water had pushed up through the subfloor in the entryway. And the subfloor had pushed up the tiles above it so they were frozen in wavelike shapes, some up and some down. A long narrow rug that lined the hall just past the entryway was covered with a thick brown sludge.

Henry stumbled over the tiles and sank into the muck on the rug. The living room was just past the hall. Or he thought it was the living room. He couldn't quite tell. A desk and a bookcase and a—was it a washing machine?—had risen up from their spots on the floor and floated across the room. Dropped back down somewhere strange and new. Chairs were on their sides, broken in half. A table was turned upside down and looked like a turtle, its legs stuck helplessly in the air. Henry thought of Nopie on his back, silver boots flailing. The shelves from the bookcase were scattered around the room and the books were almost disintegrated, globs of white mush, like snow.

Henry walked around the rest of the downstairs. There was a coffee table in the kitchen. Another bookcase laid across the bathroom door. A lamp on the stairs, a rug on the couch, a toaster in the hall. A big armchair, a trunk, a piano, fans, French doors. All strewn across the house like a giant hand had scooped them up and tossed them back down without caring where they landed.

A brown watermark ran in a horizontal line around the entire first floor. After he had checked everywhere for the voice, Henry began to climb the stairs. He imagined the water rising. The water climbing the stairs one by one. He followed the watermark.

He slipped. There was so much mud.

In the corners of the stairs, the mud was thick with pieces of rock and grass and garbage. Henry stepped over what he thought might be part of a dead snake. He stood quietly for a moment when he reached the second floor.

“Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello—”

Henry found the room the voice was coming from and opened the door.

He scanned the room. A dresser on its side. A broken window. A closet door off of its hinges. A chair. A bed.

No one.

But clothes were laid out on the bed for work, or school.

Henry got down on his knees and looked under the bed.

No one.

He walked over to the closet and picked up a pile of clothes.

No one.

He scanned the room again. The dresser. The window. The closet door. The chair. The bed—

“Hello—”

—a birdcage.

A birdcage with a cloth thrown over it sat on the floor next to the foot of the bed.

Henry lifted the cloth. Underneath was the most beautiful bird he had ever seen. A parrot. With a brown head the color of the woods behind his house, twelve shades of brown, and a bright yellow band around his neck, a lime-green chest, and stripes along his back. Stripes. A tiger parrot. He had never seen a live one before. It stared right at Henry, its deep brown eyes piercing his.

“Hello,” he said again. “Help, would'ja? You wash the dishes and I'll sweep the floor.”

Henry hadn't realized he was holding his breath. It tumbled out with laughter. “Okay, okay, I'm here to help you, buddy,” he said.

To Henry's left, a blanket lay on the floor. Two glasses and an empty bottle were tipped over on top of it. Two plates sat empty at either end. Henry scanned the rest of the room. Mud, watermarks, furniture in strange places. All things he had already come to expect. But the bed looked weird. He leaned against it. There were pieces of paper taped onto each back bedpost.

“What are those?” asked Henry.

The bird didn't answer.

He untaped them and sat down on the bed to read.

“They look like wishes,” said Henry. He talked to the bird. “What your people wanted their family to know. They had some money in the bank. Ooooh, and some under the mattress.” He lifted it. “They must have taken their stash.” He scanned the papers. “Tiger was supposed to go to their daughter.”

“Your name is Tiger, buddy?”

“Tiger's the name, keeping you on task is the game.”

Henry stuck his finger in the parrot's cage. In Tiger's cage. Another Tiger. First a cat, and now a bird. “Wow. They didn't think they were going to get out of here alive, did they?”

Henry looked at the blanket and the plates and glasses again. A picnic. It looked like a picnic. Like the one he and Wayne had on the top of Mount Mansfield that night. “Oh man—maybe they thought this was going to be their last meal—”

Wayne's last meal—

—

Wayne opened his backpack and took out a block of cheese and his sleeping bag. He spread the bag on the ground. Then he lay down on top of it and pushed his pack under his head like a pillow
.

“Come here, Brae,” he said. Brae lay down along the length of Wayne's body. Wayne tore off two chunks of cheese and fed one to Brae. “You gonna lie down, Henry?”

“I don't think so.”

“Brae'll keep you warm. And we can throw your sleeping bag over us too.”

“Yeah, right, share my sleeping bag with you—” Henry pushed Wayne with his foot. “Over my dead body.”

“I wouldn't want to share your sleeping bag with you and your stinking dead body,” said Wayne. He sat up and punched Henry back
.

The boys stared straight up into the sky
.

“Whoa,” Henry said
.

“I know,” said Wayne. “I take it back. I do feel small up here.”

—

“Help, wouldja?”

Henry pushed his fists into his eyes. Pulsing orange spots. Better than seeing Wayne. He moved his hands from his face. Tiger's head shone in all those shades of brown, his eyes the darkest, like the dirt in the garden after it's been turned. Henry opened Tiger's cage door. He stuck his hand inside. Tiger leaned forward, like he was taking a bow, and touched the tip of his beak to Henry's finger. It was quick and he barely made contact, but Henry felt it. A butterfly landing on his skin and then taking flight.

“C'mon up, Tiger,” Henry whispered. He made a soft clicking sound with his tongue. Tiger extended his wings. “C'mon up.” He clicked again.

Tiger stepped onto Henry's hand. The bird was amazing. The feathers down his back were striped shiny night-sky black and bright sunshine yellow. Like day and night all at the same time.

Henry scanned the pieces of paper. “Mark McKenzie,” he said. “And Maryanne Weidner. They must really miss you.”

“Mark and Maryanne. Mark and Maryanne. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em,” said Tiger. “You sweep the floor, Mark. Ever heard of a broom?”

Henry burst out laughing, and Tiger squawked and flew off his hand. He flapped around the room, a spot of bright light in the gray. He landed on the windowsill.

Henry stood up from the bed. “Come on, boy,” he said, stretching out his arm. “Come on back.” He pointed to his arm. Tiger cocked his head and then gently landed right where Henry asked him to.

“Let's get out of here,” said Henry to Tiger. “Maybe we can find the people who belong to you.”

—

Jake and Cora were walking down the street when Henry came out of the house with Tiger balanced on his arm and the cage in his hand.

“Henry—” Jake's voice was sharp.

“Jake.” Henry said his name like a one-word sentence. “I'm—”

But before he could finish his next, slightly longer sentence, Jake pulled him against his chest and hugged him tight.

“—sorry.” Henry finished the sentence into Jake's jacket. He really was too.

“I was worried about you, Henry.” Jake pulled back and swiped at Henry's hair.

“I was too,” said Cora. Her eyes were still wide and deep.

“And who's this?” Jake said, pointing to Henry's arm.

“You won't believe this,” began Henry, “but his name is Tiger.”

Jake closed his eyes. “One Tiger lost and another one found.” He opened his eyes again. “Kind of makes sense, huh?”

Sense?
Henry wasn't sure anything made sense anymore.

He swallowed and then coughed. His throat was so dry.

Nothing made sense anymore except that he was thirsty.

“I need a drink,” he said.

“You need a drink. Okay. We can take care of that. Maybe.” Jake turned to Cora. “Is there a store around here that is actually open?”

Cora nodded. “Luna's back,” she said. “She's sort of open. Half the store is, anyway. Tell her I sent you. She'll find you drinks.”

“To Luna's, then,” said Jake.

Cora pointed. “This is Chartres Street. Keep walking for
another block and a half. Luna Market is just past Bienville Street.”

“Thank you,” said Jake. Then he stared at Henry for a moment. “I'm glad you're okay,” he said. “I can't lose you too.”

I can't lose you too
.

Henry realized he felt the same way.