Oceanetta Charbou never married, and she’d always lived in the house where she and her four siblings were born. She was the youngest sister of Bill’s mom and looked to be in her midfifties, maybe a bit older. Wiry and alert, she was just as decisive, able, and attractive as her nephew. From her perch on the roof, she tossed down two plastic shopping bags full of candy, granola bars, and little bottles of water. She slid on her bottom down to the edge of the roof, where the two cops caught her. Once they’d settled her in the Zodiac, she introduced herself to each of the FBI agents in turn. This lady wasn’t about to be intimidated by a hurricane.
Charbou glanced up at the umbrella abandoned on the rooftop. “I didn’t know you had a hatch in the attic to get on the roof.”
“And indeed I didn’t, baby, not before today. Don’t you ’member what old Vic Schiro told people to do?”
“Hey, give me a break,” Charbou said. “Of course! I’m from NOLA too, remember.”
“But I’m not!” Amaia spoke up.
“Vic was mayor of New Orleans when Betsy smashed us up back in 1965. He died a while back,” Dupree explained. “Lots of our folks drowned when they got trapped in their attics as the water rose. Vic Schiro said everybody in New Orleans ought to keep an ax in the attic.” He bent over and took Oceanetta’s hands. Her palms were covered with blisters.
Johnson was astonished. “You chopped a hole in the roof?”
Oceanetta didn’t reply. She was entirely focused on Dupree. “You from New Orleans, and you was here when Betsy smashed us up. You musta been just a little fella back then.” She peered into his face the way some women do when trying to guess age, family, and parentage. “What they call you, darlin’?”
Amaia was entertained. Perceptive and direct, Oceanetta reminded her of Aunt Engrasi.
Charbou made the introductions.
“Dupree,” she said, savoring the name. “You a pretty light-skinned fella for a Haitian. They lots of black folks from Haitian families in this area, I know the names.”
Dupree smiled. “I’m not upset, but my family is Creole, not Haitian. It’s a French name.”
“Maybe it is and maybe it ain’t. Lots of slaves changed they names when they got free, and Dupree sounds a lot like Dipré from down there in Haiti. Anyhow, your name familiar to me somehow, and I’m gonna remember why. Got a fine memory.”
That remark was casual, but it had an unexpected effect. Amaia and Oceanetta saw Dupree close up immediately.
She turned to her nephew. “No way you came all this way just looking for me! You gonna tell me what you doin’ here?”
“Oh, it’s just ’cause one of your neighbors is shooting at the sky. We want to make sure he doesn’t kill somebody. A boy up the street told us his name’s Jim Leger.”
“Oh, dear Lord, that old crazy man! I heard the shots. It’s a semiautomatic, he don’t have anything else. Usually keeps it locked up. Must be upset ’cause of the hurricane.”
Amaia was surprised. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“Well, he’s a client. Took out all his insurance policies with me.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Sure. Just go down this street and take a right.”
Her directions quickly became unnecessary, for the sharp crack of a rifle confirmed them. Bull kept the Zodiac idling a prudent distance back from the corner. Jim Leger had posted himself on his roof near an attic window. Before they could discuss a plan of action, Oceanetta cupped her hands and shouted. “Hey! Jim, this here is Oceanetta Charbou talkin’ to you! You gonna tell me what the hell you think you doing?”
“Hey there, Oceanetta!” came his polite reply. “Glad to see you okay. Defendin’ my house here; not gonna let those sonsabitches steal everything I worked all my life to get.”
Oceanetta rolled her eyes. “But what they gonna steal, Jim? You take a look around? We done lost everything, and all you doin’ is scaring folks. Look here, the police is come looking for you, and they got a whole heap of better things to do, I tell you. Stop acting like a fool and get down from there before somebody get hurt!”
It took a while, but Jim came down from the roof and leaned out of a second-story window. His bushy white hair framed a face creased with age, but his tank top didn’t hide his bulging muscles. Amaia guessed Leger was about seventy-five. He seemed dismayed to find that his actions had brought the police down on him.
Jason Bull was less conciliatory than Oceanetta. “Mr. Leger, we got a report that gunshots are alarming the few neighbors you got left round here. Have you been firing your gun, sir?”
“Well, that is, uh,” Leger stammered, “uh-huh, but I was shootin’ in the air. Just to keep ’em away, warn ’em I’m still here.”
“All right, then, sir, but you need to stop doing that. Nobody’s been hurt, but they could be. So no more shooting. You understand what I’m telling you?”
The man nodded and looked toward Oceanetta.
“You’re lucky Miz Charbou spoke up for you, and that’s why we’re not going to report you. But if I hear you get to firing your gun again, if you make me come back, I’ll arrest you. Do you understand me, sir?”
Leger, abashed, nodded his head. “Thank you, Oceanetta,” he murmured.
She appealed to her nephew. “We can’t just leave him here. I know you on duty. I don’t think the FBI came all this way because this old crazy man shootin’ at the sky. Just take us somewhere dry we can walk out of.”
Charbou checked silently with Dupree, who nodded. “Listen, throw some things together—ID, any medicines, just the most basic stuff—and we’ll take you and Miz Charbou someplace out of the flood.”
Leger turned to Oceanetta. He seemed to feel he owed her an explanation. “I’m gonna stay, Oceanetta. Can’t leave my house with nobody in it.”
She waved in exasperation, dismissing him as impossible. “You gonna be all right here?”
“Water gonna go down soon. This ain’t my first hurricane. Got good water and food, and my house got a solid foundation. But you know that already.”
Oceanetta turned to her nephew. “Let’s go. I know ol’ Jim Leger from way back, and not even the army gonna be able to get him out of there.”
They headed down the flooded street and left Leger to his fate, which turned out to be a rescue by the National Guard two weeks later.
Earlier in the morning, it had looked as if the hurricane might come howling down again at any moment. But now the sun was out and threw the devastation into sharp relief. The hurricane had indeed passed. The horrors that remained, anchored in the undeniable reality of the bright light of day, were proof of that.
A stifled, despairing moan brought Amaia out of her musings. She looked behind her. Oceanetta had given in to grief at last, her big eyes filled with fright and rage. She looked around, both hands clasped before her chest.
“You should have listened to us, Auntie, you should have left!” her nephew scolded her, but his heart wasn’t in it. “You are such a hardheaded old thing!”
“Had to be here to help my people. Who ever thought things was gonna get this bad?”