John Ames - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 128, No. 5. Whole No. 783, November 2006

The right space designated “NE” for “No Entry” or “LE” for “Limited Entry.” At the six-o’clock position was the number of people found, living or dead. Usually this number was zero. The zero always had a slanting line through it so it wouldn’t be mistaken for the letter “O,” as in “OK,” for the Oklahoma National Guard. Two blocks over, the messages included “TFW,” for “Totally Full of Water” and if you don’t believe the words, note that they appear at an elevation of eight or ten feet and the scribe had to be sitting in a boat at the time.

SPCA volunteers had made the rounds soon after the Guardsmen and left their own messages: “Two Dogs Under House” or “One Cat Outside” and “Dog Food Drop” or “Cat Food Drop.” Someone had left a pan of dry cat food and fresh water in a clean and sparkling glass bowl. A thoughtful amenity for a fastidious feline refugee.

I saw a little yellow house spray-painted in red: “SPCA: Need F/W” (food and water) “2 Pit Bulls, 1 Baby.”

Oh dear! There was a baby in there with those pit bulls? (“Wah! Wah!”) I think they probably meant “puppy.” A human baby wouldn’t live very long in the custody of a pair of ravenous pits.

We have a strong dog and cat culture in this town. One of the stirring images of the Katrina coverage was that of a young black man kneeling on the I-10 overpass, clinging to his dog’s neck. He had probably been up there without food for days but refused all offers to ride to a shelter. The dog wouldn’t have been allowed to go with him. It was only a mutt of no real value, but the man declared that it had saved his life and he wouldn’t abandon it no matter what. Then the TV cameraman who was supposed to be neutrally recording the episode did an unprofessional thing. He took the pooch aboard his news helicopter and taped the reunion in Baton Rouge two days later, the man in tears, the dog wagging and licking.

Multiply this situation by thousands of New Orleanians who stayed behind in the city, enduring terrible hardship, even dying, because they wouldn’t leave their pets to drown or starve.

I walked three blocks down to see Angus Crawford’s house with its grisly message on the door. The date on top was “9–5.” The figure at the six-o’clock position was that chilling “1 D” for “One Dead.” Looking closer, I was surprised that the waterline was only halfway up the window frames on the first floor. The old cuss could have just walked upstairs.

Why didn’t he just walk upstairs?

I saw a man-shaped shadow move across a front window and decided it must be Angus’s son, Doug. One of the heroes of the storm.

On reaching the post office, I picked up a flier — “Get Rid of Mold” — and got into line. While reading the cleaning formula (one cup of bleach to one gallon of water) and trying to figure out what an N95 mask was, I eavesdropped on two postal workers. The letter carrier said he was living in a tent until the sodden, crumbling Sheetrock in his house could be replaced. The clerk behind the counter said he was still waiting for his FEMA trailer.

“I was five days on the neutral ground. The water was all around us.”

“You spent five days sleeping in your car on the neutral ground?”

“I didn’t have the luxury of a car.”

“What did you sleep in?”

“My clothes. I had two women with me — my wife and our daughter — so we couldn’t go to the Superdome.”

No, they couldn’t. What happened to some women and girls up there was much worse than staying outdoors during a category-three hurricane.

“Then they put us all on different buses,” the man went on. “My wife and daughter wound up in Houston and Dallas. I got a cot in a skating rink in Mamou.”

Our cow-pasture accommodation was starting to look like the Paris Ritz.

When I got home, I joined Julian in the backyard and helped him refill the generator with gasoline, my mission being to hold the funnel. “Good day at the gallery?”

“Not really. It was so cold this morning that I wanted to keep the windows shut.”

“But you’re working with strong solvents. Don’t the fumes...?”

“Right. I almost fainted on top of this moldy wizard painting.”

“Wear your warm sweater and keep the windows open... I passed by Angus Crawford’s place today.”

“I heard about poor old Angus.” Julian emptied one can and picked up another. “The water filled his house?”

“No, it only flooded the first floor.”

“Then why didn’t he just walk upstairs?”

“That’s what I wondered.”

Julian stopped pouring, adjusted the choke, and pulled the crank to start the noisy roar of our power source.

“He could have slipped on the wet steps and fallen, hit his head, drowned.”

“Could have.”

Our generator, from which extension cords snake all throughout the house, runs the washing machine but not the dryer, so Julian had to string a clothesline across our back porch.

Living a lot more like my grandmother than I ever wanted to, I carried our wet laundry outside and started pinning it up. At least I had those new-fangled clothespins with the wire hinges.

We’re slogging through the usual rainy New Orleans January and I have to take clothes down and hang them back up several times to get enough cumulative sunlight to dry them. Pinning up our towels, I sang, “No phone, no lights... not a single luxury...”

The Gilligan’s Island theme refers to “Robinson Caruso.” Of course “Caruso” was a tenor. The stranded guy was “Crusoe,” but the song required a three-syllable name. Also, the sitcom was about a bunch of ignoramuses who never heard an opera or read Defoe.

Except maybe for “the professor,” who was brilliant and handsome. If I had been “Ginger” or “Mary Ann,” I would have set up hut-keeping with the professor. I wonder why they never thought of it.

Julian opened the door behind me. “Let’s pay a condolence call on Doug Crawford.”

Young Doug Crawford and his friend Steve Marks were both wearing nothing but jeans and bronzer. They looked like an ad for a “Meet Friends” phone line.

“Margo and Julian!” They swung the door open wide. “We’re so glad you’re back.”

“We’re glad you’re back, too.”

“I can’t say we ever left, really.” Steve stepped around one of the dozen scented candles illuminating the living room. “Our apartment in Lakeview was totaled, so we slept at the deputy station for a month. Then, when the water receded, we moved here. Upstairs, of course.”

“The first floor must have been ruined,” I said. “But I see you’re bringing it back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Doug agreed. “We tore out the old Sheetrock the first week and put up new the second.”

“We’re going to enclose the back porch and make it into a sunroom.” Steve waved. “The whirlpool tub will be right over there.”

“That old kitchen table will be gone, gone, gone, replaced by an island, with stainless-steel sinks. And our copper-pot collection will hang up there. You see that?” Doug pointed to three paint cans on the counter. “My father was about to redo this kitchen in white. Zinc white! Can you imagine? It’s all going to be ‘Prudent Primrose’ now.”

Steve picked up a brush and fanned the bristles. “We’ll get ourselves a spread in New Orleans magazine. Bet on it.”

“We were trying to understand your father’s terrible accident,” Julian said. “We asked ourselves, why didn’t he just walk upstairs?”

“Oh, but he did. Let me show you.” Doug pointed to the staircase and we all followed him up to the second floor. “Dad must have lived up here by himself for three or four days. He had a generator out on that balcony off the bedroom. He’d stocked jugs of gas, bags of freeze-dried food and bottled drinks.”