Zane and the Hurricane: A Story of Katrina Page 11

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  Finally we get to a place where the road widens out for a row of tollbooths, and that’s where our progress slows to a halt. There are a lot of folks in the way, and cars weaving around them, and at first I can’t make out what is going on, or why we’ve stopped.

  “Road is closed,” I hear someone say, but that doesn’t make sense because there are dry streets below us, a whole neighborhood that appears to have escaped flooding.

  Why would the road be closed?

  Malvina is not in a mood to be slowed down. “Comin’ through,” she says, pushing on Mr. Tru’s chair. “Make room. Scuse me, but we comin’ on through.”

  Me and Bandit follow along behind her. The dog is in my arms so the yellow rope doesn’t get tangled in the chair or under my feet. Actually he’s the one who lets me know something is wrong, because suddenly his little body tenses and his ears lay back. “What’s wrong, boy?” But by then the crowd opens and I can see for myself.

  A bunch of cop cars are blocking the tollbooth area, lights blinking. And standing behind the cop cars, a bunch of cops with shotguns. This one cop with a megaphone bellows, “TURN BACK, BY ORDER OF THE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. THIS EXIT IS CLOSED TO PEDESTRIANS. YOU WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO ENTER THIS PARISH. TURN BACK NOW.”

  At first I’m shocked, but then it kind of makes sense because everywhere we go there seem to be men with guns, wanting to keep us out, at least those of us on foot. As vehicles approach the blockade the cops talk to the drivers and let most of them drive on through, but they won’t let any of us walk past the tollbooths. Like we’re being punished for not having cars, for looking ragged and desperate and poor.

  “THIS EXIT IS CLOSED TO NONRESIDENTS. TURN BACK NOW.”

  Malvina goes, “No way.”

  Mr. Tru seems sort of confused, like he isn’t sure where he is. “There must be a parade,” he says. “Is there a parade?”

  Malvina re-grips the back of his chair. This skinny girl with arms like toothpicks. “We the parade, Tru. We goin’ through them tollbooth.”

  “I dunno, dawlin’, it don’t look right.”

  “It ain’t right,” she says, and pushes him through the crowd, into the open. Heading for the blockade of cop cars, and all the men with shotguns crouched behind, looking nervous.

  * * *

  Thinking about it later, maybe I should have stayed back, me and Bandy. Maybe they’d have let her through if it was just her and a sick old man in an office chair, one of the wheels spinning around like it’s on a crazy shopping cart. Maybe me and the dog looked threatening and that’s what set them off. Or maybe it didn’t matter one way or another and they were trying to make an example of us, demonstrating they were in charge.

  But what happened, happened. I can’t get away from that.

  “HALT. TURN BACK. THIS EXIT IS CLOSED.”

  Malvina keeps pushing. Moving so determined, so ferocious, that I have to hurry to catch up even though my legs are way longer than hers.

  “STOP. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING. TURN BACK OR WE WILL FIRE.”

  She keeps going.

  I get close enough to hear Mr. Tru say, “This ain’t no parade, dawlin’. Might be we should go home.”

  “We goin’ home, Tru,” she says defiantly.

  Malvina keeps going, that crazy wheel spinning. Me with the dog following close behind. The hair rising on Bandy’s neck, and mine, too. Both of us wound so tight it feels like we’re going to explode.

  And then cops in armored vests swarm from behind one of the cop cars, taking aim.

  “STOP. THIS IS AN ORDER.”

  Malvina shoves the chair forward, as if she’s trying to ram through the barricade, as if she and Mr. Tru are going to get past the tollbooths or die trying.

  The men lift their shotguns, tracking us.

  Taking aim.

  That’s when Bandy explodes from my arms. Baring his teeth and growling like he intends to tear the ankles off anyone who threatens our new friends. He leaps at the men with guns as if he’s a big bad wolf instead of a twenty-pound mutt.

  A shotgun explodes. I can feel the punch of air and the bright heat of the flash. And then Bandy is slammed to the pavement like he’s been hit by a shovel and he isn’t moving.

  Because they shot him, there on the bridge, the men with fear in their eyes. They shot Bandy the Wonder Dog, the best and bravest dog that ever lived.

  Next thing I’m on my knees cradling him and there’s blood all over. His eyes are open but he’s not barking or whining or anything, which seems like a very bad sign.

  I start screaming at the cops, and at the whole rotten world. Bandy’s teeth are bared and his eyes are unfocused and distant. His face is a grimace of pain. His right paw looks like raspberry jam. He’s dying. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  “It was an accident,” someone says.

  One of the cops, I don’t know which one.

  In the background Malvina is shouting, “You shot my friend! You shot my friend!”

  I notice she says “friend,” not “dog.” Which I’ll never ever forget.

  * * *

  I’m watching the light dim in Bandy’s eyes when a stranger pushes her way through the ring of cops, telling them to get back, she’s a doctor. One of the cops makes the mistake of saying, “It’s only a dog, lady.” And this woman glares at him like she’s the sun and he’s an ice cube about to melt. She’s a short, round, black lady with chocolate skin and close-cropped frizzy hair and round glasses that make her eyes look as big as brown eggs.

  “This is my family,” she announces firmly. “You will step back and give me room to treat my family.”

  And they do, they step back, all these cops with their shotguns and shiny black boots and bulletproof vests. Nobody says a word. Even Malvina keeps quiet while the woman places her hand on Bandy’s neck and nods to herself, as if she knows exactly what must be done and how to do it.

  “Keep pressure on the wounds,” she instructs me. “We have to move fast.”

  She asks the cops to help her make room in this rusty old van she has. It’s loaded up with empty dog kennels and cat carriers. After setting some of the cages on the curb, the cops help Mr. Tru into the front passenger seat and me and Malvina get in the back with Bandy.

  A moment later the cops wave us through the tollbooth.

  “Belinda,” the old man says, “I didn’t know you was a doctor.”

  She snorts. “I’m not. But you are my family. That part was true.”

  * * *

  You probably figured it out right away. The round woman with the air of authority is Mr. Tru’s cousin Belinda. Turns out she had evacuated the animals in her animal shelter to this place outside of Baton Rouge and was on her way back to check on her house in Algiers, which as it turns out is one of the few areas that didn’t flood when the levees failed. She’s waiting on the traffic to get through the tollbooths when she sees what she describes as “this big fuss on the bridge.”

  “Didn’t know who it was until I recognized that crazy hat of yours,” she says.

  “This my lucky hat,” he says, holding it up by the battered brim.

  “Lucky? Are you serious?”

  “I’m still here, ain’t I? And it brought you to us, didn’t it? But it won’t really be a lucky hat ’less you save that little dog.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she says.

  She reaches over the seat and hands me an elastic band. “Put that around his leg, just below the joint. Then wrap him in that insulated blanket, the one by your feet.”

  All I can do is nod and obey.

  Seems like forever, but probably within a few minutes we’re in the driveway of this gray cinder-block building with frosted-glass windows and a neon sign that says Last Chance Animal Shelter. Next thing we’re in the building and Belinda drops her keys on the counter.

  “Follow me,” she says.

  Bandy’s wrapped in the insulated blanket, but he’s
shivering as I gently place him on the metal examination table. The light is dim — the electricity is out — and Malvina holds a flashlight as Belinda bustles around, chatting as she goes.

  “Okay, okay. Here we are. Here we be. The dog is Bandit, correct, and you’re Zane Dupree from New Hampshire? I got that much. Trudell says Trissy Jackson is your great-grandmother, correct? Small world, I knew your father, Gerald. Okay, now to business, here we go. First, lift up the edge of that blanket, I want to check Bandit’s heartbeat.”

  She places a stethoscope on his chest and listens, eyes squinting slightly. “Not bad, considering. He’s going into shock. Can’t stop that, but we can keep him warm and make sure he doesn’t dehydrate while we deal with his wounds. You are this dog’s guardian, is that correct? Fine. Excellent. In the interest of full disclosure, I am not a veterinarian. The vet who volunteers at this shelter is presently in Nashville, visiting her family. But I am an RVT, a Registered Veterinary Technician, licensed in the state of Louisiana, and I’ve learned a thing or two over the years. Now — and this is important — do I have your permission to treat Bandy to the best of my abilities?”

  I nod permission.

  “We’ll take it one step at a time,” she says with a reassuring nod. “Step one, start an IV. Step two, administer sedation. Step three, clean and treat Bandit’s wounds, which are multiple and serious. Young lady, Malvina, is that correct? Yes? Can you continue to hold that flashlight? Excellent. Zane, would you please go back to the reception area and make sure Trudell is okay? Give him water, make him comfortable. Malvina and I will take care of Bandit, and then we’ll see if there’s anything we can do for Trudell’s foot. Lots of footwork today, but that’s okay, we can handle it. And Zane? Don’t forget to breathe.”

  I never knew waiting could be so hard.

  In the waiting area Mr. Tru has propped himself in a chair. He tries his best to distract me with stories about his little cousin Belinda that lived next door, in the other half of what he calls a “camelback house” on Charbonnet Street, not far from my great-grandmother’s house, and how little Belinda started rescuing animals when she was a small child and then made it her life’s work. Some of his stories are funny, especially one about a kitten and a parakeet, but all I can think about is Bandy, Bandy, Bandy. How much I had always wanted a dog and how long it took me to persuade my mother to let me have one. I kept asking and Mom kept saying no way, I wasn’t old enough to take care of an animal and she was too busy because she works full-time, and like that.

  No dog, no way, so quit asking.

  But I didn’t quit asking. I made it my mission in life to get a dog. I took out books from the library about dog training and dog grooming. Mom kept shaking her head and saying books are great but she wasn’t about to change her mind. If I couldn’t clean up my own room how was I going to clean up after a dog?

  So I cleaned my room. I mean really cleaned it, okay? Not just picked up all my stuff but vacuumed everything and even washed the windows.

  That really shocked Mom, that I’d wash the windows, but she wouldn’t change her mind. So then I went online and found the results of a medical study proving that owning a dog improved your health. Mom rolled her eyes. “I wish you’d put all that energy and brainpower into your schoolwork,” she said, “instead of wasting it on something that’s never going to happen.”

  So I did, and I got A’s that semester, and a note from my teacher saying I was much improved. Mom was so totally amazed that for once she didn’t know what to say, and that’s when I got down on my knees and raised up my hands like they were paws and barked, “Arf! Arf! I’m a dog and you’ll love me, promise promise. Arf! Arf!”

  That was it, she caved. Although I didn’t know it for sure until the next week, my birthday, when she woke me up early and said, “Rise and shine, young man, we don’t have all day,” and we drove to the SPCA and there he was, this eager little ball of black-and-white puppy fur that crawled up into my arms and licked my face.

  Bandy, short for Bandit. He knew his name right away. Every time I said “Bandy” he’d bark and wag his straight-up tail, like Yes! That’s me! Mom said I could have called him “Dirt Bag” and had the same result, but right away she loved him, too, because you can’t not love a puppy. And when she saw him following me around, not letting me out of his sight, she said, “He’s your dog, that’s for sure. Bandy belongs to you and you belong to him, and don’t you forget it, young man!”

  Not that I ever could.

  So I’m waiting and waiting, my brain full of Bandy, Bandy, Bandy and after about a million years Belinda finally comes out of the examination room with a smile. “There’s an old saying, ‘when a good dog dies the angels cry,’ ” she says. “I’m happy to report there will be no crying today.”

  Takes me a while to speak, but finally I swallow hard and go, “So he’ll be okay?”

  “Affirmative,” she says. “He had several shotgun pellets embedded in his chest and he lost part of one paw, but a dog can get along on three legs almost as good as four. Especially a dog as low to the ground as Bandit.”

  Mr. Tru puts on his battered old top hat, tugs it firmly into place, and gives me a big grin.

  “Told y’all this was my lucky hat,” he says.

  We carry Bandy into Belinda’s house, next door to the Last Chance Animal Shelter, and keep him wrapped in the special blanket. He’s really groggy from the anesthesia, and I’m worried he won’t wake up, but he does with a little whimper of recognition. I tell him what a brave dog he is, and that he probably saved my life by getting in the way of the shotgun, but he doesn’t seem to care about that, he’s just happy to see me.

  People will say you can’t know what a dog is thinking, but that’s pure baloney.

  Belinda’s house is small and tidy, sort of like Grammy’s house but modern. She says it would be more comfortable if the power was on, so the ceiling fans could move the air, but I don’t care about the heat and the humidity. Compared to what we’ve been through, this is heaven. For the first time since the hurricane we all feel safe.

  Malvina helps Mr. Tru onto a couch so he can rest while Belinda fusses over him and makes him take a dose of antibiotics. The medicine is for large dogs but she says it will work just as well on humans. She tells us he has sepsis, which is blood poisoning, and we’ll have to watch his temperature but he’s a tough old bird.

  “First I’m a dog and then I’m a bird,” he says. “Make up your mind.”

  That inspires Malvina to crack some jokes about dogs and birds. “What happens when it rain cats and dogs? You might step in a poodle! Why do hummingbirds hum? Because they don’t know the words!”

  She goes on, but the jokes are so bad they hurt. Me and Mr. Tru are used to it by now, but Belinda laughs so hard she has to take off her glasses and dry them on her sleeve. “I do love a sense of humor,” she says, catching her breath. “I can’t tell a joke to save my life. But tell me, young lady, what were you thinking, taking on the entire sheriff’s department?”

  Malvina shrugs. “I was fed up, I guess.”

  Belinda shakes her head in wonder. “Girl, you’re an itsy-bitsy thing, but you have the heart of a lioness.”

  As if on cue, Mr. Tru starts snoring. A moment later Bandy is snoring, too, and me and Malvina get into a fit of giggles because it’s so perfect, them snoring away like a pair of chainsaws.

  While the two of them sleep, Belinda heats up some water on her outdoor grill and makes yellow rice and beans and the most amazing corn bread in a big iron frying pan. The three of us eat our fill by candlelight. It feels like a dream, a really nice dream where we’re not running or hiding or being threatened, and then it gets even better because after the meal Belinda goes out to her van and comes back with a cell phone that was charging on the van battery — this was a surprise, I had no idea — and I punch in Mom’s number and this time she answers.

  The connection is really bad — the cell only has like one bar — and I don’t ha
ve time to tell her much, not even what happened to Bandy, but this much is clear. Mom wants me to stay where I am. She’s already on the way, she’ll come to me.

  That’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.

  I’m feeling really good about how everything is working out until I catch a glance of Malvina in the candlelight. She tries to hide it but her eyes are wet and it hits me what a selfish goon I am, only thinking about my dog, my mom, myself. Me, me, me. So I tell her how sorry I am, that the first call should have been to check on her mother, not mine, and she says, naw, naw, that’s not it you stupid boy, she’s not crying for her mother, she doesn’t care about her mother, her mother can rot in jail for all she cares, she’s crying because she’s happy for me, that my mother is coming to get me, and because it means I’ll be leaving soon and that makes her sad. And if I wasn’t a stupid boy from New Hampshire I’d know that a person can be glad and sad and mad all at the same time.

  Now I really feel crummy, because I don’t know what to say to make her feel better.

  Belinda says, gently, “The boy has family here. He’ll be back.”

  Malvina folds her skinny arms tight across her chest and says, defiantly, “How he find me when I don’t know where I’ll be?”

  “Because you’ll be here with me,” Belinda says. “You and Trudell. This is your home now. I said you were family, and one thing you will learn about me, I always say what I mean and mean what I say.”

  * * *

  Belinda puts Malvina to bed, in what she promises will be her room, to fix up any way she likes, and I bring a battery lantern into the living room and lay out some sofa cushions on the floor next to Bandy, who is still sleeping fitfully. Sometimes his legs move like he’s running. I hope he’s dreaming of squirrels, which he loves to chase, not that he’s ever caught one.

  Mr. Tru remains fast asleep, too. A healing sleep, Belinda says, covering him with a light blanket and adjusting a pillow under his head, tenderly.

  “Trudell was like a big brother to me,” she says, her voice a husky whisper. “At times my childhood was very difficult, you understand, but he was always there, a calming presence. I feel bad we lost touch these last few years. My fault, not his. It’s a blessing that I’ll have the chance to make up for that now.”