door behind him.
I took him to Lakeview where the post-World War II homes had not fared well after being inundated with black water for over a month. Everywhere the bright orange National Guard crosses were painted over windows and doors, announcing when and if any animal or human bodies had been found. Some of the houses were gutted, leaving the naked studs inside many a structure to dry out in the humid southern climate. Large mounds of furnishings, warped sheetrock, and duct-taped refrigerators littered the curbs along the streets. Most of the tall, majestic oaks that had filled this part of the city were also gone, replaced by gaping holes that scarred the earth like pockmarks on a beautiful woman’s face.
Worst of all for me, from the grass to the beautiful gardens that had graced this neighborhood, everything that had once been green and filled with life was now brown and dead. It was as if the devil himself had blown his putrid breath over this city and killed every living thing in his path. People always used the term “come hell or high water”; after Katrina I learned that first comes the high water and then comes the hell.
“Jesus!” Dallas whistled beside me as we drove down a dirt-covered street. “You see this stuff on the news, but you never realize how bad it really is.”
“But the water was only the beginning,” I said.
As Dallas took in the destruction around us, I wondered how to explain what the city had been through to an outsider. New Orleans had been decimated with “the new normal” taking over what FEMA had left behind. Beneath the streets, water mains continually broke, making bathing an infrequent occurrence. Electricity came and went, leaving many to rely on their generators. Cell phones stopped working and landlines were the last vestiges of communication linking us to the outside world. Crime took over, making looting, shooting, and anarchy a familiar pastime for the citizens of our city. And circling above us like a pack of scavenging buzzards, the world media documented each and every labored breath of our recovery. New Orleans was hurt, bleeding, in pain, and lost. Where in the hell was Superman when you needed him?
I pulled my Nissan Pathfinder up in front of the little blue shotgun double I had frequented so long ago when David had lived there. Like many others in the area, the home had not yet been gutted and looked as battered and muddy as the day the water went down. The house had also shifted a few inches off its raised foundation, leaving the structure tilted and dangerously unstable.
Gone were the two towering oaks that had once graced the front garden. The inviting porch I remembered with its comforting shade and array of potted plants was now covered in mud, dead leaves, and an assortment of trash. The front doors to each of the residences had been ripped off their hinges and an orange cross lay spray-painted between them.
“David lived on the left side of the cottage,” I said as my nostrils immediately filled with the lingering stench of rotting vegetation in the air. “Cora was his landlady. She lived on the right.”
Dallas inspected the property. “I remember David mentioning her. He seemed to care for her a great deal.” He turned back to me. “What happened to her?”
I strained to contain the thunder of pain inside of me. I looked away and focused on the orange cross spray painted between the two front doors.
“Nicci, are you all right?” Dallas asked as his hand rested upon my right shoulder.
“Cora died here.” My bottom lip began to quiver. “The obituary in the newspaper said her body was found in the attic.” I paused and tried to sigh, but the breath caught in my throat. I remembered Cora’s vibrant Cajun accent, the bright ribbons she wore in her hair, and the way her living room had been filled with dozens of dolls. “She loved this place and probably stayed to protect it, like a lot of others did. They thought they could ride out
I took him to Lakeview where the post-World War II homes had not fared well after being inundated with black water for over a month. Everywhere the bright orange National Guard crosses were painted over windows and doors, announcing when and if any animal or human bodies had been found. Some of the houses were gutted, leaving the naked studs inside many a structure to dry out in the humid southern climate. Large mounds of furnishings, warped sheetrock, and duct-taped refrigerators littered the curbs along the streets. Most of the tall, majestic oaks that had filled this part of the city were also gone, replaced by gaping holes that scarred the earth like pockmarks on a beautiful woman’s face.
Worst of all for me, from the grass to the beautiful gardens that had graced this neighborhood, everything that had once been green and filled with life was now brown and dead. It was as if the devil himself had blown his putrid breath over this city and killed every living thing in his path. People always used the term “come hell or high water”; after Katrina I learned that first comes the high water and then comes the hell.
“Jesus!” Dallas whistled beside me as we drove down a dirt-covered street. “You see this stuff on the news, but you never realize how bad it really is.”
“But the water was only the beginning,” I said.
As Dallas took in the destruction around us, I wondered how to explain what the city had been through to an outsider. New Orleans had been decimated with “the new normal” taking over what FEMA had left behind. Beneath the streets, water mains continually broke, making bathing an infrequent occurrence. Electricity came and went, leaving many to rely on their generators. Cell phones stopped working and landlines were the last vestiges of communication linking us to the outside world. Crime took over, making looting, shooting, and anarchy a familiar pastime for the citizens of our city. And circling above us like a pack of scavenging buzzards, the world media documented each and every labored breath of our recovery. New Orleans was hurt, bleeding, in pain, and lost. Where in the hell was Superman when you needed him?
I pulled my Nissan Pathfinder up in front of the little blue shotgun double I had frequented so long ago when David had lived there. Like many others in the area, the home had not yet been gutted and looked as battered and muddy as the day the water went down. The house had also shifted a few inches off its raised foundation, leaving the structure tilted and dangerously unstable.
Gone were the two towering oaks that had once graced the front garden. The inviting porch I remembered with its comforting shade and array of potted plants was now covered in mud, dead leaves, and an assortment of trash. The front doors to each of the residences had been ripped off their hinges and an orange cross lay spray-painted between them.
“David lived on the left side of the cottage,” I said as my nostrils immediately filled with the lingering stench of rotting vegetation in the air. “Cora was his landlady. She lived on the right.”
Dallas inspected the property. “I remember David mentioning her. He seemed to care for her a great deal.” He turned back to me. “What happened to her?”
I strained to contain the thunder of pain inside of me. I looked away and focused on the orange cross spray painted between the two front doors.
“Nicci, are you all right?” Dallas asked as his hand rested upon my right shoulder.
“Cora died here.” My bottom lip began to quiver. “The obituary in the newspaper said her body was found in the attic.” I paused and tried to sigh, but the breath caught in my throat. I remembered Cora’s vibrant Cajun accent, the bright ribbons she wore in her hair, and the way her living room had been filled with dozens of dolls. “She loved this place and probably stayed to protect it, like a lot of others did. They thought they could ride out
Similar Books
