the shovel. I was finally able to turn my back on them, but on the next corner we found another body, a woman this time.
A man sat near her on the curb with a bottle of whiskey in his hands. I asked if he knew who she was, and he shook his head.
“I’ve been looking for my wife all day, but that ain’t her.”
He sipped at the bottle but didn’t appear drunk. I waited to hear more, and just when I figured he’d saidall he wanted, he added, “I couldn’t get home last night and now everything is gone, just washed away.”
I tried to get him to go on, but he refused, saying he wanted to help us lay her away. He used a board to pull back the wet sand Josiah shoveled, all the while mumbling a name—his wife’s, I reckoned.
When we’d dug the hole large enough, he helped me lay her in the grave with such tenderness, it near made my heart break in two. I found a corrugated washboard to place over her face and refilled the grave. We stood over her a moment, quiet, then the man thanked me and turned south toward the gulf.
Up ahead, gangs of men loaded bodies onto mule-drawn drays that only yesterday had hauled groceries or grain or beer, and on every street corner we saw people, cut and bruised, clothes in shreds, asking about missing children, husbands, wives.
We passed a mule impaled on an iron fence, a cow bawling from the top of a shed, and a man dressed in a nun’s habit. He said the sisters at the Ursuline convent had pulled his bruised and naked body through a window, saving his life, and had given him the only clothes they had.
Another man who had lost his wife and four children claimed he’d been swept into the gulf where he floated all night hanging onto a steamer trunk beforebeing washed miraculously back to shore. And soon after, we came across a lisping boy, no more than eight, who told without a single tear how he’d watched his mother die.
Stories crowded the streets, and through all these tales and others, I saw not a trace of emotion. Eyes stared, glazed and without light. Hearts appeared numb. The panic and loss that had gripped us all seemed to have been replaced with a bewildered calm.
Doors swung open to the houses that had withstood the storm, and anyone, rich or poor, white or colored, merchant or servant, was welcomed and fed. A woman who’d been carrying water to the men working in her street offered me a ladle and didn’t hesitate to let Josiah drink, too. We had our fill, gulping greedily, almost emptying the bucket.
By the time we finally turned onto what was left of Thirty-fifth Street, I figured we must’ve been walking for at least six hours, maybe more.
Right away I saw that Ella Rose’s house had been swept away, as were most homes along that side of the street. Ezra and Josiah’s place was gone, too; only pilings marked what once had been. But most of Uncle Nate’s house still stood. Even the big ash tree sat anchored in the front yard with its stark limbs stretching skyward for leaves long gone.
As we neared the house, I could see more. The barnout back was gone, and there was no sign of Archer or Deuce, Uncle Nate’s horses. The dray or buggy, either. The neighbor’s house on the south side had been swept up against the wall, leaving a mangled pile of lumber as high as Andy and Will’s bedroom windows. In this case, it may have protected the house. Only a portion of my uncle’s roof and veranda appeared damaged. The front stairs had been swept away, but the north stairs, which led to the kitchen door at the side of the house, had remained intact. Oddly, the screen was still attached.
Gratitude swelled inside me. The house looked far better than many. Surely everyone was safe inside.
Josiah grinned when he saw Ezra clearing debris from the kitchen stairs. “My granddaddy look fine,” he said.
I nodded and smiled back at him. “I bet he’ll be surprised to see you.”
We moved as fast as we could, helping each other over the splintered roofs and broken
A man sat near her on the curb with a bottle of whiskey in his hands. I asked if he knew who she was, and he shook his head.
“I’ve been looking for my wife all day, but that ain’t her.”
He sipped at the bottle but didn’t appear drunk. I waited to hear more, and just when I figured he’d saidall he wanted, he added, “I couldn’t get home last night and now everything is gone, just washed away.”
I tried to get him to go on, but he refused, saying he wanted to help us lay her away. He used a board to pull back the wet sand Josiah shoveled, all the while mumbling a name—his wife’s, I reckoned.
When we’d dug the hole large enough, he helped me lay her in the grave with such tenderness, it near made my heart break in two. I found a corrugated washboard to place over her face and refilled the grave. We stood over her a moment, quiet, then the man thanked me and turned south toward the gulf.
Up ahead, gangs of men loaded bodies onto mule-drawn drays that only yesterday had hauled groceries or grain or beer, and on every street corner we saw people, cut and bruised, clothes in shreds, asking about missing children, husbands, wives.
We passed a mule impaled on an iron fence, a cow bawling from the top of a shed, and a man dressed in a nun’s habit. He said the sisters at the Ursuline convent had pulled his bruised and naked body through a window, saving his life, and had given him the only clothes they had.
Another man who had lost his wife and four children claimed he’d been swept into the gulf where he floated all night hanging onto a steamer trunk beforebeing washed miraculously back to shore. And soon after, we came across a lisping boy, no more than eight, who told without a single tear how he’d watched his mother die.
Stories crowded the streets, and through all these tales and others, I saw not a trace of emotion. Eyes stared, glazed and without light. Hearts appeared numb. The panic and loss that had gripped us all seemed to have been replaced with a bewildered calm.
Doors swung open to the houses that had withstood the storm, and anyone, rich or poor, white or colored, merchant or servant, was welcomed and fed. A woman who’d been carrying water to the men working in her street offered me a ladle and didn’t hesitate to let Josiah drink, too. We had our fill, gulping greedily, almost emptying the bucket.
By the time we finally turned onto what was left of Thirty-fifth Street, I figured we must’ve been walking for at least six hours, maybe more.
Right away I saw that Ella Rose’s house had been swept away, as were most homes along that side of the street. Ezra and Josiah’s place was gone, too; only pilings marked what once had been. But most of Uncle Nate’s house still stood. Even the big ash tree sat anchored in the front yard with its stark limbs stretching skyward for leaves long gone.
As we neared the house, I could see more. The barnout back was gone, and there was no sign of Archer or Deuce, Uncle Nate’s horses. The dray or buggy, either. The neighbor’s house on the south side had been swept up against the wall, leaving a mangled pile of lumber as high as Andy and Will’s bedroom windows. In this case, it may have protected the house. Only a portion of my uncle’s roof and veranda appeared damaged. The front stairs had been swept away, but the north stairs, which led to the kitchen door at the side of the house, had remained intact. Oddly, the screen was still attached.
Gratitude swelled inside me. The house looked far better than many. Surely everyone was safe inside.
Josiah grinned when he saw Ezra clearing debris from the kitchen stairs. “My granddaddy look fine,” he said.
I nodded and smiled back at him. “I bet he’ll be surprised to see you.”
We moved as fast as we could, helping each other over the splintered roofs and broken
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