Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans (38 page)

He’d left the car there in the middle of the rock-strewn path that led either from the woods to the cabin or from the woods to Local, a road not well traveled. It didn’t occur to him that he could get back in the car and drive the remaining yards to the house; he’d simply broken out into a fierce run, as fast as his legs could carry him.

He was short of breath when he reached the porch, chest heaving, and at first he just reached out his hand to his father; they had always greeted each other with a handshake. But like a moth pulled into fire, he could not help grabbing his father’s thin body, pulling the smaller, older man close into his chest and hugging him with all his might as the tears slicked his face.

“It’s all right, son,” Simon said, patting his back, his voice quivering. “Everything’s all right.”

When he pulled away, Julian wiped his eyes, then sat in the rocker while his father sat next to him, his words tumbling out like spilled rocks.

“Daddy, we’ve been looking, we didn’t know…we thought you…”

“Well, I told you I’d be here. I just didn’t say when.”

Julian leaned forward nearly panting, both forearms on his knees with his hands clasping nervously. “Are you OK? What happened? How’d you get here? Are you OK?”

Simon shook his head, voice nearly in a whisper. “You told me I shoulda left. I don’t know why I didn’t. I shoulda listened to my son.” He smiled, held up his Bible. “But the good Lord brought me through.”

Julian was full of questions, his eyes lit with the kind of joy he hadn’t known since the Christmas mornings of childhood. But after a few minutes, Simon held up a hand and pointed toward the path a few yards away.

The Neon still sat there, door open, dead in the middle of the road.

Julian laughed. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

When he’d brought the car up into the yard and climbed back up onto the porch, Simon told him everything he could remember: the water swelling and rising in the house, the water in the streets, the sun burning the back of his neck, the helicopter ride over the city, the Convention Center insanity, the long miles walking in the miserable damp heat. The truck driver, waking in the hospital with the nice young nurse, the couple who’d brought him here.

“They tell me I passed out on the road,” he said. “I don’t know much else.”

Julian bowed his head, eyes closed, imagining his father lying on a road somewhere, left to the mercy of strangers. “I’m sorry I said stuff to you that…”

Simon held up his hand. “Son, that’s all past now. I shoulda listened. Let’s just leave it at that.”

The slip of yellow paper on top of the Bible next to Simon’s chair caught Julian’s eye.

Simon looked down and picked it up. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

Julian nodded, speechless, a boulder stuck in his throat.

Again, his eyes filled up. He rubbed his temples. Then, like a floodgate opening, the events of the last several days poured out: meeting Kevin and learning all about the auction and the sale of the property and trying, with no luck, to get the land back.

He stopped talking, unable to push more words out around the tears.

Simon’s shoulders flinched, his heart sinking, though Julian only confirmed what he suspected, and even his own instinct told him this day would come. Twice, Genevieve had mentioned to him about trouble brewing, once before the hurricane, once during it. Nothing she’d said had sparked a sense of urgency until Parette’s accident—that had sent a shiver up his back. He’d promised himself he’d see about the land as soon as the storm was over.
The storm.
Ladeena had told him so many times, “Simon, you just don’t believe fat meat is greasy!” She was right. He’d always been a bit stubborn, and now he was old and stubborn. When it came to the storm warnings, the one for New Orleans as well as the one for Silver Creek, he just hadn’t seen the danger in those darkening clouds.

But looking now at Julian, all Simon could think about was his reaction—not at all what he expected. Before, Julian had never seemed to want to hear about Silver Creek; now, the sadness that shadowed his eyes, the tears—his son cared, it seemed, and not just because he, Simon, did. Speaking of Silver Creek, Julian looked as though he had lost his best friend.
My, my. Something in my son’s heart has changed.

Both turned their heads when the engine noise of a truck and the sputter of gravel from the road interrupted the quiet. Kevin parked the Ford in the yard and got out, his eyes curiously fixed on Simon. His mouth opened with a look of stunned surprise, then recognition registered on his face, as if the man he’d never met before were a long lost friend.

Julian got up and introduced him. Kevin looked at Julian, grinned widely, and grabbed Simon’s hand to pump it. “Sir, this sure is a pleasure.”

They pulled their rockers together and sat, and leaned their heads back and breathed in the sweet breezes from the creek, as if a large piece of the puzzle of each of their lives had just been found and snapped into place. Kevin was as full of questions as Julian had been, and Simon regaled them with stories of his adventure: the fear, the uncertainty of his life, the certainty of his death. The moment in the hospital when the belief that he would not make it gave way to the giddy joy that he would.

After a while, the subject turned again to the eviction notice atop Simon’s Bible, and Julian explained the situation: meeting Kevin, the partitioning laws, Larouchette’s company, and the auction. And finally, the insulting offer from Nathan himself.

Kevin’s voice quieted. “And I should confess to you, sir, the man is my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather?” Simon’s eyes glazed.

Kevin’s head hung, his tone apologetic. “We’re not close. In fact, I been working on this a while, trying to help people who are about to lose their land to men like my granddaddy. I’m still trying with your case, sir, but without a will,” he paused, shrugging, “it’s real hard with these cases.”

“Well,” Simon said, “We’re in trouble, then.”

They talked on, rocking in the painted rockers, the tone more serious as they tried to figure out the next steps to take. Things looked grim, but Kevin promised to “keep trying until I see the bulldozers coming.”

Julian mentioned he needed to call Genevieve over at Pastor Jackson’s, and Sylvia, who’d said she’d be in Baton Rouge today. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the numbers. Both women’s screams of joy could be heard across the whole porch.

“I wondered where Genevieve was. She’s staying at Pastor Jackson’s?” Simon asked.

“Ah, yes, she is.”

He nodded his head. “Well, it’s nice of the pastor to give my cousin a place to stay while all this mess is going on.”

Julian quietly considered ways to change the subject.

He brought up the house in New Orleans. It had fared better than some of the houses—at least it was still standing, even though the furniture and nearly everything inside was ruined and the walls covered in mold. It would have to be gutted, and the insurance agent had told him they would not cover the damage since it was done by water, not wind, and Simon had no flood insurance. They might be in for a long fight.

“I told them, if there hadn’t been any wind, there wouldn’t have been any storm, and no flood,” Julian said. “But they weren’t buying it.”

“Now I been paying on that policy for forty years, and they can’t pay me?” Simon said, his voice pitched high. He shook his head, sighed deeply.

Julian wasn’t sure how to tell Simon about Matthew Parmenter. He decided to wait—he’d already gotten so much bad news. But Simon must have read his thoughts. He’d asked about his friends from church, and from the Elegant Gents Social Aid and Pleasure Club. Sylvia could tell him more, Julian said, but as far as he knew, everyone from the club and from church had evacuated. All were safe.

“And Matthew Parmenter too?” Simon asked.

Julian’s eyes paled. His voice dimmed as he broke the disheartening news. Simon’s gaze dropped to his lap; he nodded, not surprised.

“He told me a while back his time was short.” Simon said quietly. “Did he go peaceful?”

He’d been to see him the day before, Julian said. “He seemed like a man at peace.”

Simon pursed his lips and frowned. “Son, I know you didn’t much care for Matthew. He wasn’t perfect, I know that. We saw a lot of things differently.”

Julian leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.

Simon sat back in the rocker and folded his hands in his lap. “He was always the ambitious type, always looking to do better. I just never was that kind of man. Like I say, we were different. But we got along.”

“Daddy, you really didn’t care at all about the recipe, the money and everything, did you?”

Simon smiled wryly. “To tell you the truth, I never liked the idea of the whole thing from the beginning. Dried herbs? Little pieces of dried vegetables? Shoot. That wasn’t my Auntie Maree’s recipe. Didn’t taste nothing like it. Didn’t bother me all that much that the Fortier name wasn’t on it.”

Simon let out a tired huff of air, leaned his head back against the rocker. “But then, maybe I should have cared, though, for you and your mama, especially when she got sick. I was just never bent on chasin’ that dollar. But there’s a lot of folks in the world like Matthew Parmenter, minds always set on gettin’ ahead, restless, never satisfied. Some folks, you know, just like that. I never held it against him though.”

His eyes met Julian’s. “Never held that against anybody.”

What was he telling him?
Julian blinked. He never considered that he, Julian Fortier, would have much in common with Matthew Parmenter. But maybe Simon thought so, and maybe he was right. Ambition. Always looking to get ahead, no matter what. Shelving friendships, even love, in the pursuit of success. Had he been like that?

Julian looked for a sign in his father’s eyes, but they gave nothing away. Maybe he wasn’t making any such comparison, and it only existed in Julian’s mind. But if he’d learned anything through all this, it was to see himself differently. And he couldn’t deny the leap from Parmenter’s thinking to his own was, at best, a short one.

Julian told Simon about the funeral, the parade, the band, and the second liners in the Square. When he told what happened at the reading of the will, Simon’s eyes and mouth opened wide.

“He did
what?”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either.”

For a moment, Simon was speechless. Finally he said, “You know, I wondered what that whole thing was about.” He told Julian about the night they got drunk on Parmenter’s good port and played dominoes late into the night.

“I didn’t think anything of it,” Simon said. “We were just having some fun, you know. I didn’t think he’d do something like this.”

“He owed you, Daddy,” Julian said. “He wanted to make it up to you.”

“Well.” Simon shrugged. “What am I going to do with all that house? I already got a house.”

Julian wanted to say,
No, you don’t
, but thought better of it.

“You’ll think of something.”

Twenty minutes later, Genevieve and Pastor Jackson pulled up in his Mustang, the backbeat of Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together,” thumping from the speakers. Genevieve got out, both hands on her hips, her head cocked to the side. “Well, look what the water done washed up! Simon Fortier, is that you?” Then, laughing like a woman filled up with the Holy Spirit, she clapped her hands together and with the lively steps of young girl, climbed to the porch to grab Simon in a hug.

“God bless you, you old fool,” she whispered in his ear.

She introduced him to Pastor Jackson, who Simon remembered from years ago as a young boy growing up near the creek when he’d come back to visit Auntie Maree from New Orleans.

“Sure nice of you to let my cousin stay with you while we get this mess all cleared up,” Simon said.

Pastor Jackson gave Genevieve a playful wink. “Ah, it’s no problem.”

By the time Sylvia arrived with Velmyra, Simon had already gone back into the kitchen in search of something decent to eat. Sylvia found him rumbling through Genevieve’s pots beneath the sink.

“You,” she said, shaking her head with a smile that verged on breaking into tears, “you had me worried sick!” She flung both arms around his neck and hugged him. “Don’t you ever do anything that stupid again!”

He grinned boyishly, eyes twinkling. “So you missed me, did you?”

“Oh, silly man, how many nights did I pray?” She held his face in both hands. “Thank God for taking care of babies and fools.”

Velmyra smiled shyly from the kitchen door, waiting her turn for a hug.

She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Mr. Fortier, I want you to know that your son never gave up on you. He would not stop searching for you.”

After a while, Simon, uncomfortable with so much fuss, shooed everyone out of the kitchen and back onto the porch so he could cook.

He wanted to cook because he was hungry and missed his own cooking, and because there were people he loved gathered around, and because when things went crazy, this was the way he calmed his nerves and did his best thinking.

And because he was breathing, and for him the two things went together.

He found two unopened bags of Camellia brand red beans in Genevieve’s pantry. Better if they could soak overnight and then have a half a day to cook to get good and seasoned, but as much as he hated a rush job, in a couple of hours, this pot of beans would be better than anything he could find in some store or restaurant nearby. From Genevieve’s garden, he brought in thyme, onions, bell peppers, sage, and parsley; from her cupboard, bay leaves; and from her refrigerator—did she have any?—yes, there it was. Fresh garlic in the bin, some chopped celery in a plastic container in the freezer. Genevieve was always prepared for emergencies, because, like Auntie Maree had taught them both, you just never know. He put on a pot of water to boil, then searched through the drawers to find Genevieve’s good chopping knife.

He put the beans in the pot, brought them to a quick boil to release the starch, then let them set, and took a deep breath. He shook his head. So much going on, so much happening. Most of his beloved city in ruins. Matthew, his good friend, gone. And now he owned the man’s house? Something he never asked for. He kept chopping onions and bell peppers, his busy hands helping his mind to take it all in.