Buddy Read online

  Granpa T opens his eyes. “I ain’t asleep,” he says.

  “They told me it ain’t all flooded,” Daddy says. “They told me around our street, there are places where the water ain’t so deep. Some places.”

  Granpa T raises up on his elbows.

  “One man here told me he’s driving down tomorrow morning just to look,” Daddy says. “He wants to see how much water he got in his house.”

  Granpa T shakes his head. “Too much,” he says.

  Daddy don’t listen to him. “He can’t stay, of course. There ain’t nowhere to stay.”

  Daddy crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Mama sitting on the cot behind me. “He asked me to ride with him,” Daddy says. “And I’m going.”

  Granpa T sits up. I put down the Game Boy.

  “I want to know if you want to come,” Daddy says to Granpa T. “There’s room.”

  Granpa T shakes his head. “You go first,” he says. “I ain’t ready.” Then he lays back down and closes his eyes.

  I open my mouth and out come the first words I’ve said in almost a week. “Can I come?” I say it real quick, and then I shut up.

  Daddy looks hard at me. Mama stands up behind me.

  “It ain’t going to be easy,” Daddy says. “We won’t get back here until late.”

  “I can do it,” I say, and push the Game Boy off to one side.

  Daddy looks up at Mama. I know she’s shaking her head. I know her mouth’s making the shape of “No.” Daddy looks down at me again.

  “You’re old enough,” he says. “You can come.”

  We get in the man’s truck before light. I’m sitting between him and Daddy. They’re drinking coffee. We’re riding with the windows open. The cool of the morning is coming in with the smell of all the pine trees. We’re going along looking at the white, broke trunks pointing up to the sky. Behind us, the sun starts to come up. We have to go around the lake to get into town. That storm washed the bridge to pieces. The concrete slabs of that superhighway bridge just floated off like toy boats. Daddy says they’ve got real boats stacked up in the marshes like dead fish. He says they’ve got boats sitting on top of bridges down by Empire. He says they’ve got barges sitting on top of houses in the Lower Ninth Ward.

  That’s a lot of water, I’m thinking. That’s enough water to fill up a city. That’s enough water to fill up a house.

  We’re taking the back roads. The man tells us they got the army blocking the main ways. They got piles of dirt and gravel dumped across the roads so nobody can get through. They got soldiers standing there with guns, and they won’t let you pass. He tells us they got people tearing up the city. They’re breaking down the windows and stealing everything they can lay their hands on. He says the mayor don’t want nobody coming into town. They’re afraid people from the country going to come and join up with the thugs. They’re afraid it’s going to get out of hand.

  Daddy says, “It’s already out of hand.”

  “That’s so,” says the man. “That’s truly so.”

  When we get into the city, the man stays close to the river, where the land is higher and there ain’t no flooding. But everywhere we look, trees are broke or fallen down. It’s just like Mississippi except these are oak trees. On some of them, the root balls are sticking up almost as high as a house. The trees pulled up sidewalks and fences and even houses when they fell over. All the yards are full up with broke limbs and trash. They got pieces of fence and strips of tin roof laying on the street. They got patio chairs sitting in the branches of the trees that are still standing up. They got a mattress twisted up in some wires hanging off a pole.

  We’re driving over electricity lines and phone lines draping all over the streets. We’re crunching branches and trash. Everywhere you turn there are great big old potholes that could swallow your car. Daddy says to the man driving, “Watch out,” and the man swerves that truck one way, then another.

  And this ain’t even where the water is. This ain’t even the part we’ve been seeing on TV.

  It takes us almost an hour just to get to our neighborhood. The man lets us down near our church. That church is standing there all high and dry. It ain’t flooded at all and the grass needs cutting. The front door is wide open. Daddy walks up the steps. Inside it’s cooler. He shouts out, “Hello!”

  A man stands up behind the altar. It’s Brother James.

  “Praise God,” Brother James says. “It’s you.”

  He and Daddy are standing there hugging like they’re real brothers. Then Brother James turns and hugs me. He’s sweaty like he ain’t bathed in days.

  “Your family?” he says to Daddy.

  “Safe,” Daddy says. “We went to my cousin’s place in Mississippi. After the storm, she went on up to her daughter’s place in Atlanta. Now we’re in a shelter.”

  “Praise God,” Brother James says again.

  Daddy sort of waves his hand around at the chairs standing in the church.

  “Everybody?” he says.

  “Mrs. Washington passed,” Brother James says. “She drowned in her attic.”

  Daddy covers his eyes with his hand.

  “Brother Thomas is in the hospital in Houston. His heart went bad on him. And those Cary boys have been pulling people out. They got their fishing boat and they’ve been going back and forth.” He stops for a minute and looks out the window. “But they’ve left now. They’re worn out.”

  Daddy finishes rubbing his eyes and nods. “We’re going to the house,” he says.

  “You can’t get there,” Brother James says.

  Daddy looks at him.

  “Your street’s flooded up to the eaves. Twelve feet of water at least. I’m sorry, T Junior. You’re going to have to tell your daddy about his house. Y’all ain’t got nothing left. It’s all gone. Everything.”

  “But what about Buddy?” I say.

  “Buddy?” Brother James says.

  “We left him locked in the bathroom. The car was too little for him to fit. He’s been waiting and waiting.”

  Brother James looks at Daddy. “You were planning on getting that dog?”

  Daddy nods.

  “You can’t get there, son,” Brother James says. “Your house is standing in the middle of a lake.”

  “But I can swim. I know how.”

  “You can’t swim in that black water. You don’t even know what’s in there. And what’s your family going to do if you drown yourself going after that dog? Buddy was a street dog when you found him. Now he’s got to take care of his own self again.”

  “But he’s only got three legs now.”

  Brother James stoops down and looks me in the eye. “You can’t get to that dog, Li’l T. It’s the Lord’s will,” he says. “And there ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

  21

  The next day, I just lay there on my cot. Some boys in the shelter are starting to make gangs. They’re coming up to people and acting big. The boss of the shelter takes them and puts them in a room with a counselor.

  I’m thinking about what that would be like, sitting in a room with this white lady saying, “What’s troubling you now?”

  And I think, What do you say first? The bathrooms in this shelter stink. I can’t eat watery red beans and rice one more time. I want my own clothes, not these ones with somebody else’s name written in the neck. I want to watch the TV shows I like. I want a place where I can be by myself.

  I want my dog.

  I’m laying there and I close my eyes and I go flying. I go right out the window and over the broke pine trees and all that black water and I land right on the roof of our house. I lean over the edge and I look at the bathroom window.

  Is that window covered up with water? Is it high and dry? Is it broke open? Is Buddy gone, roaming the
streets and looking for food? Is he sitting there in the corner, panting in the heat and cocking up his eyebrow, just waiting for me to come let him loose? Or is he—?

  And that’s where the flying stops. I can’t see nothing else.

  Daddy’s gone almost all day. When he shows up that evening, I’m still laying on my cot playing my Game Boy and Granpa T is laying on his cot looking at his pictures.

  “What are you looking at?” Daddy says to Granpa T.

  “Your mama,” Granpa T says, and hands one of the pictures to Daddy. “She’s been gone a long time,” he says, “but I’ll be seeing her again soon.”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve got a long time yet,” Daddy says. “It’s going to be all right now. We’re leaving this shelter. I’ve got a job.”

  Mama sings out, “Praise the Lord!”

  Granpa T sits up. “Where are you working?”

  Daddy says, “Right here in town. I’m going to help them clear up all these trees. Going to work with the same crew I helped before.”

  “But where are we going to live?” Mama says.

  “The church will give us a place to start,” Daddy says, “and it’s all furnished. We get three months free, then we pay rent.”

  “Hallelujah,” Mama says. “Praise God.”

  Daddy looks down at me. “And the kids are going back to school again. Right here in town.”

  “But when are we moving back to New Orleans?” I say.

  “I hope never,” Mama says. “Next time I see that place will be too soon for me.”

  “I want to go home,” I say.

  “This is home now,” Daddy says. “We’re starting over.”

  They put us up in an apartment building on the other side of town. Stacked up on top of ours are maybe three more apartments, and they each have a balcony stuck on the front. We’ve got a little square of grass that I could cut in five minutes with a pair of scissors. Right in front of our grass is the parking lot. And then there’s a six-lane highway with cars blasting back and forth all day long and making a circle all the way around the whole town.

  Everywhere you look there’s plenty of cars, cement, and buildings. But one thing there ain’t hardly any of is trees. There weren’t too many to start with and whatever there was got broke off in the storm. There ain’t no iron fences neither. And there ain’t no front porches or steps to sit on. There ain’t no corner to the street, and as far as I can see, there ain’t no end to it neither.

  Tanya’s standing out front clapping her hands and pointing at the raggedy flower boxes hanging on the front windows of every first-floor apartment. Baby Terrell is trying to walk up the sidewalk to the wrong apartment. Mama’s saying how are we going to remember which one is ours. Granpa T’s saying he thinks we’re up to it.

  Then Daddy puts the key in the door and in we go.

  That apartment ain’t hardly as big as the first floor of our house in New Orleans. It’s mostly one big room with the kitchen and the table and the TV, and then off to the side are two little bedrooms. Granpa T stretches out on the sofa and says he guesses he’ll sleep there because that’s where he spends most of his time anyway.

  Mama and Daddy take the bedroom that has a big bed, a crib, and a bureau with four drawers. Daddy opens those drawers and laughs and says all he needs now is some clothes, and Mama says he better not get too many because that’s where she plans to put hers.

  The other bedroom has two twin beds so close together you almost have to turn sideways to get between them. Mama says me and Tanya get that room and we have to make up our minds which bed is whose.

  “Which one you want?” I say to Tanya.

  She’s standing there looking and looking, trying to decide.

  I push past her. “I pick this one,” I say, and lay down on the one farthest from the door.

  “But I want that one.”

  “Too late,” I say. I turn over and stare at the wall.

  The next morning, Daddy starts his job, and Mama takes us down to the school office. They give us uniforms for the school. They’ve got a whole big room set up with cafeteria tables loaded down with red and white shirts and khaki shorts and skirts. They’ve got piles of belts in one corner and a whole stack of book bags in another.

  When we walk in, the ladies are all smiles. They say how they are so glad we can come to their school. They say how all the families gave their old uniforms so the Katrina kids can come to school. They tell Mama one store in town gave away all these book bags. They give her a piece of paper to take to some other place where somebody else is giving out free paper and pencils.

  They’re patting us on the back and holding shirts up against my chest. They’re saying what a strong-looking boy I am. They’re saying how Tanya is cute as a button. Tanya’s showing all her teeth in her grin and I’m thinking I’m tireder than I’ve ever been in my whole life. I’m thinking I just want to go back to that apartment and climb in my bed and go to sleep.

  That night Daddy is worn out at supper. He’s saying he’s awful out of shape but he’ll get stronger. Mama’s saying she made his favorite roast. Granpa T’s saying he thinks he can fix up the apartment so the doors don’t squeak if somebody would buy a little can of WD-40. Tanya’s saying her doll likes the new bed. Baby Terrell is sitting in the high chair somebody gave us and rubbing his hands in his peas. After looking at that, I’m thinking I don’t even want to eat. I just want to go to bed.

  I’m still tired the next morning when I head off to school. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Watson. She looks like she’s about six feet tall. She’s got red hair hanging down to her shoulders. She’s wearing a blue dress. I walk in the door and she looks up and she says, “Ah! Tyrone. Welcome.”

  And I think to myself, I ain’t Tyrone.

  She shows me where to hang up my bag. She hands me a stack of books. She shows me a desk. It has my name written on a card taped right on the tabletop. I sit down. I look around. Everybody’s busy doing something—writing or drawing or something.

  One boy lifts up his head and gives me a look. One girl turns around and grins like she’s my best friend but she ain’t. All a sudden I wish Jamilla was here. Or even J-Boy. He was mean about Buddy and he stole the lawn mower, but he’s still somebody I know.

  Mrs. Watson squats down beside me and looks me straight in the eye. Her eyes are almost green. “We have six new students because of Katrina,” she says. “We’ve been talking about what happened, and we’ve decided to make a book. Everybody’s doing something to go in it. Would you rather write or draw?”

  I don’t say anything. I just put my head down on my arms. Then I feel her touching my shoulder. I figure she’s already going to send me to the principal. I sit up.

  “Why don’t you draw?” she says, and hands me a piece of paper and a pack of colored pencils.

  She stands up again and walks away.

  I look at my paper. Ain’t nobody going to help me. It’s all on me.

  I pick up a black pencil. I draw a dog. Then I draw water.

  22

  The days pass. In the classroom I sit at the desk. Three of the other Katrina kids move back home before I even find out their names. The ones still left are from someplace else in Mississippi. The only boy is the one who turned around to look at me that first day. His name is Jerome. I find out he hardly ever talks. I find out the grinning girl is named Mattie. I find out there’s two kids in my class who don’t even speak English. I find out my teacher is going to call me Tyrone no matter what.

  It’s coming on October. Baby Terrell’s giving Mama a fit about trying to climb in the cabinets. One day we lose him and find him stuck up in the cooking pots. She’s going around latching everything now. Can’t get a glass of water without undoing a lock. One day he gets out the front door and Mama nearly loses her mind. She looks out and he
’s rocking down the sidewalk like he knows where he’s going. She starts screaming and I go running. When I catch him he’s grinning at me like he’s proud. I don’t fuss at him. I just snatch him up and carry him home and think I’d like to do that, too. Just walk out the front door and not come back.

  Tanya’s got about a hundred new friends plus a whole stack of new dolls. Everybody’s giving them to her. She’s got black dolls and white dolls. She’s got dolls with hair and dolls without hair. She’s got dolls in pink dresses, dolls in bathing suits, and dolls in nothing at all. She’s naming them after all her new friends. Every night she kisses every one of them good night. It takes a long time. I lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling while she’s kissing.

  “Good night, Susie,” she says. “Good night, Keisha. Good night, Gaynelle.”

  Looks like everybody’s getting happy except me. And maybe Granpa T. He fixes all the hinges. He takes all the doors down and oils them and sands them and puts them back up. I help him some on a Saturday. Then he crawls up in the kitchen cabinets and puts down new paper all the way to the back corners. He takes apart the stroller somebody gave us and puts it back together again so it rolls twice as good. He looks around and there ain’t nothing else to do.

  So he sits in the dark and watches the TV.

  When I go to school, he’s watching the TV. When I come home, he’s watching it. When I go to bed, he’s still watching it. I ask him what he’s watching. He lifts up his hand and says, “This here show,” and that’s all. Sometime it’s about animals in the jungle. Sometime it’s about a war somewhere. Mostly it’s just people acting stupid.

  Mama stands in the kitchen and wipes her hands on a dishrag. “Are you still watching that TV, Granpa T?” she says.

  He nods, and she shakes her head. “It’s not right,” she says. “It’s just not right.” I sit on my bed and do my homework and learn all my games by heart. I beat every level. I start over.

  One night at supper seems like everybody’s talking at once. Daddy says they’re trying out a new way to keep the pine tree resin from gumming up the chain saws. Mama says she’s thinking about making some pralines for the bake sale they’re having for Tanya’s class. Tanya says there’s a girl in her class who has hair so long sometimes she sits on it. Baby Terrell reaches over and grabs one of Tanya’s ponytails and Tanya screams. When Mama makes him let go, he starts banging his spoon.