Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans by Rosalyn Story Page A

after the storm, close to her age. Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed by worry and insomnia.
    “Morning, baby,” she said wearily, untying her scarf and patting her curl-less, gray-rooted hair. “You drinking coffee? Shoot. I need me something stronger than that .”
    Julian smiled. When his father had introduced him to Sylvia, one sunny Labor Day after he and his buddies in The Elegant Gents had second-lined through Treme, a seldom-seen sparkle had seemed to backlight Simon’s eyes. Clearly, it had been Sylvia who, after Ladeena had died, lifted Simon out of his quicksand of grief and got him interested, once again, in living. There was a natural kindness about her, Julian had noticed, and from then on, her bluesy, motherly warmth and nurturing nature had spilled over onto him, helping to fill the gap in Julian’s life that his mother’s passing had left.
    “Stronger? I’m sure they can help you with that.” He nodded toward the bar. “If you’re hungry, somebody brought a whole box of muffalettas for the National Guard and the cops and the volunteers. They’re telling everybody to help themselves.”
    Sylvia glanced toward the bar where the guardsmen and volunteers stood, a big cardboard box on the counter between them.
    “They deserve a lot more than that for trying to clean up this mess of a city,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Lord, have mercy. I tell you I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since all this happened. I’ll split a sandwich with you. But, baby, I got something to show you.”
    Julian went to the bar and returned with a Bloody Mary for Sylvia, a plastic cup of water for himself, and a ridiculously large muffaletta sandwich sliced in half on a paper plate.
    Sylvia ignored the sandwich and the drink and reached into her purse. The folded paper she handed Julian was wrinkled and stained the color of tea.
    She exhaled a huff of air. “Well, I went back to Simon’s,” she said, leaning forward with her eyebrows arched up and her eyes bright and brimming with something he hoped was hope. “I just felt like we missed something. So I took my nephew with me, Rashad. You know him.”
    Julian remembered the gangly six-foot-six kid, a star forward at one of the high schools in the city. He unfolded the paper. The handwriting was unmistakable—the dramatic, forward-leaning slant, the longish serifs. It was Simon’s.
    Julian’s heart jumped. He looked up, his eyes wide. “Where’d you…?”
    “Rashad climbed up to the attic through a little door in the ceiling of the bedroom closet. Simon must have been up there for hours. Days, maybe.”
    “This note was wedged in between the beams in the attic ceiling.” Sylvia reached for his arm and squeezed it. “This is it, baby. Simon got out! He’s safe somewhere.”
    Julian flinched at the thought of his seventy-six year old father having to climb up into a hole in the ceiling. He read the note slowly, his eyes brimming.
    Julian,
    I don’t know where I’m going but I got to get out of here. I don’t know if I will make it because there is so much water out there. Find me if you can or what’s left of me. If something bad happens then take me back home to Silver Creek and lay me down besides your mama.
    I love you son no matter what.
    Your dad.
    Julian looked up from the letter, his eyes glazed, his throat tight. The last two lines sank and burned like a sharp knife pressed to his chest, and would have hurt even if he hadn’t wasted his last conversation with his father being disrespectful.
    Julian rubbed his temple and looked down at the letter again. This didn’t necessarily mean his father was alive. “He could be anywhere. He could have…anything could have happened after he wrote this.”
    “But this tells us that he tried to get out. He tried , baby.”
    Julian cleared his throat, took a long drink of the coffee, and stared at the sandwich, the spicy olive salad over sliced salami on the huge, thick roll. He tapped his