Recovering Charles by Jason F. Wright

mission, the mission for those of us who stayed or who have already returned, is to rebuild a city our brothers and our sisters can return home to. We want our blessed neighbors back, and even our enemies, yes, even that woman who stole your job, or the man who stole your wallet; it doesn’t matter. We want them all to return. We want to rebuild this city so that it invites them back. New Orleans needs her people back. She needs to heal them . . . Remember this. Without our people, there is no city. Without our city, there is no music. Without music, the world has nothing. Now let’s get to work, people. Back after this.”
    If that man doesn’t have a congregation, I thought , it’s a crime. Then I realized he did have a congregation—weekdays from nine to noon. I saved the station on the car’s radio presets.
    A policeman pulled into the parking lot and walked into the gas station convenience store. I turned off the car and followed him in.
    “Officer, can I ask you a question?”
    The officer pulled a Red Bull from the drink cooler. “Shoot.”
    “I’m driving down into the city, trying to get to the French Quarter. What’s the best way?”
    “What on earth you want to do that for? Hardly nothing open.” He turned his back and walked toward a display full of Slim Jims.
    “It’s for work. Not for fun, obviously.”
    “What kind of work?”
    “I’m a photographer.”
    He looked me over. “Turn around, kid, there’s plenty of ya down there already.”
    “Actually, I am a photographer, but I’m also going to identify my father.”
    “He died in the storm?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The officer turned his back again and walked up to the counter. He pulled a free map from a stand by the register. “Come here.”
    He opened the map and grabbed a pen tied to a string attached to a donut case. “These roads are still closed.” He drew squiggles through a surprising number of lines. “This is the main artery. It’s open here and here, closed here. The Quarter is dry, but there’s not a real direct route unless you’re driving an ambulance or military Hummer. You should be able to get to here.” He circled an intersection a few blocks east of the Superdome. “When you get stopped, because you will get stopped, tell them you’re Coast Guard Auxiliary.”
    “Thank you. And there’s ample parking down there?”
    The officer looked at me like I was the biggest idiot he’d ever encountered.
    “It’ll be tough, young man, but just keep driving around. I think you’ll find a spot open up. All those day-tripping, gambling tourists have to go home at some point.”
    The clerk behind the counter snickered.
    “Sorry.” The officer looked sincerely embarrassed. “That was wrong.” He shook my hand. “Good luck with your father.”
    “Thanks for the map.” I nodded and walked toward the door. But in a simple, insignificant act that made me think of my father, I turned around, took out my wallet, and paid for the officer’s Red Bull and Slim Jim.
    “God bless you,” he said.
    Twenty minutes later I found myself navigating side streets and roadblocks. I saw signs and scenes that days earlier had only existed on my television in my comfortable Manhattan studio apartment.
    Flooded cars. An abandoned shopping cart filled with personal belongings. Two older men sleeping in the shade under a bridge. At least I assumed they were sleeping. After I took their photos through my open driver’s window I realized they could just as easily be dead.
    I parked on a residential street that appeared to have the most life. A man and woman dragged a taped-up refrigerator to the street curb. One of their neighbors had already done the same.
    I locked my bags in the trunk, put my camera around my neck, stuck my notepad in my back pocket, and double-checked that the photo of Dad was still in my shirt pocket.
    Then I set off on foot.
    The French Quarter, my father’s last employer, Verses, Jerome, Dad’s fiancŽe—the