The Heavens Rise

Had those late-night calls—they were always mock-casual, as if the other was just calling to chitchat, even though it was almost 3:00 a.m.—pushed those years too far into the past? Had they lost hold of some fundamental piece of themselves that had been revealed during those seventy-two hours in August of 2005? It was as if the city itself had asked them a clear and direct question when the levees failed—Will you fight for me?— and they answered with courage and a boat. But ever since, the answer to that same question had been: Get back to me. I’m busy trying to get comfortable.

He studied her wide-eyed, furious stare, and the way she was now lifting one trembling hand as if to hold him back, even though he hadn’t moved an inch since her outburst. Maybe it was post-traumatic stress syndrome, or maybe it was the old, uncompromised Marissa. One thing was for sure, he was so desperate for the return of that long-lost woman, he didn’t mind if she broke the door down on her way in.

“This city lost its margin of error twenty years ago,” Marissa said. “Somebody’s supposed to tell the truth even when no one wants ’em to. Goddamn Times-Picayune isn’t even a daily paper anymore. And while I was waiting for some spoiled white lady to give me permission to do my real job, sixteen people burned to death in their sleep.”

The door to the bar was swept open as if by a gale-force wind, and when Ben matched the strength of the person on the other side with the height of the baseball cap–crowned shadow suddenly blocking out the sun, an involuntary groan escaped from him.

“This is not the time, A-Team,” Ben managed, sliding off his bar stool.

But by then, Anthem Landry had slammed the latest issue of Kingfisher down on the bar so hard the row of beer mugs behind the register clinked together, and for a few stunned seconds Ben and Marissa just stared at the cover: “RIVER ROYALTY: How a Culture of Nepotism Is Putting Our City, and Our Lives, at Risk.”

The graphic, which Ben had literally turned away from when it first went up on the art board at the office, was a giant, bloodred oil tanker enlarged to the point that it looked like its wheelhouse was about to tear out the bottom half of the Crescent City Connection bridge. Ben thought it was a cruel irony that he would have been less afraid of this confrontation if Anthem had still been drinking. But at six months of sobriety, he wasn’t just a live wire; he was a curtain of them wrapped around leaner, more efficient muscles. Sure, his skin looked great, and there was an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes, but ever since he’d tossed his flask into Lake Pontchartrain, he had a tendency to bare his teeth during everyday conversations and shout at waiters if they brought him a Diet Pepsi instead of a Diet Coke.

Ben saw no good end to the collision before him, no good end at all.

“You followed me here?” Ben asked.

“You wouldn’t tell me where she was yesterday, and I have something to say to this nice lady.”

“No, you don’t. Not today.”

“Oh, let him talk,” Marissa muttered.

“San Francisco Bay?” Anthem growled. “You had your reporter compare our pay scale to bar pilots on San Francisco Bay? May I just point out to you that San Francisco Bay is almost as big as San Francisco. They don’t have anywhere near the currents or the proximity to population we deal with out there every day.”

“She didn’t write the piece, Anthem.”

“Did you?”

“Did you see my name on it?” Ben asked.

“You could have at least given me a warning, goddammit!”

“I apologize. Next time when I have to practically bribe a colleague to keep your DUI out of my paper, I’ll give you plenty of notice so you can give some thought to where you’re gonna buy me dinner.”

“You really did that?” Anthem asked. Then, to Marissa, he said, “Did he really do that?”

“We both did,” she said quietly.

“So is that some kind of consolation prize?”

“You know what, buddy?” Ben started, stepping between his best friend and his boss. “We’re kinda having a day here, and it’s not about you right now. I know this may come as a shock, but it’s not always about Anthem La–”

“You’re right. It’s not about me. It’s about the men I work with up and down this river. And they all want to know the same thing.”

“Which is?” Marissa asked him.

“What do you want? You want us all fired? Restructured? Because if that’s the case, then it’s my duty to explain what the alternative is. It’s a bunch of outsourced South Americans who will be willing to launch a tanker full of crude in a fog so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face, all so they can make a delivery deadline on the other side of the world for British Fuckin’ Petroleum.

“How safe do you think our river will be then? How will you all sleep at night knowing you got ships moving up and down out there, full of God knows what, being piloted by guys who’ve got no connection to anything on the other side of the floodwall? Guys who live and die by what the oil industry tells ’em to do. And pardon me, but if you don’t think being bossed around by the oil and gas companies is a problem, allow me to direct your attention to Ascension Parish today.”

Rather than wince right in Anthem’s face over this deep cut, Ben stepped out from between his best friend and his boss, and turned his back on them both. The reaction must not have been lost on Anthem, because when he spoke again, his voice had lost its hard, furious edge.

“Every moment I’m out there, I’m thinking about my family. I’m thinking about the two of you. I’m thinking about how far away everyone I care about is from the bridge I’m piloting my ship under, in case something goes wrong. Now, I know I rode out Katrina in a condo on Pensacola Beach. But if I had known what was coming, I would have been here with you both. But you have to believe me. There’s not a day when I round the bend in the river and see all those buildings still standing there that I don’t thank my lucky stars . . . There’s my girl. I say it every damn time, whether I want to or not. Ask any captain who’s done a turn with me. There’s my girl . . . But this . . . crap made it sound like men like me would run a ship straight through the Riverwalk if we didn’t get paid on time. And that is wrong. It’s just flat-out wrong.”

When he saw her watching the images of fiery destruction on the TV above the bar, Ben figured Marissa had tuned out Anthem’s lecture altogether.

“You think you can put all that in writing?” Marissa finally asked.

“Excuse me,” Anthem whispered. Ben was just as startled as Anthem appeared to be.

“I said, do you think you can put that in writing? That way, I can have one of our copy editors go over it and we can put it up on our website this evening.”

“What . . . like a letter to the editor?”

“No. A rebuttal. Better placement. Your photo. The works. It’ll even get its own comment thread if your pals want to chime in.”

Slack-jawed, Anthem shook his head, eyes moving from Marissa to Ben. Once he had his old friend in his sights again, he barked, “You write it!”

“I’m flattered, really,” Ben said. “But I have grout to clean.”

“Come on. I can’t write!”

“Well, you know how to spell and you know how to shoot off your mouth. Apparently, that’s all you need to know these days.”

“It’s all you knew how to do when I took you on,” Marissa said to Ben.

“I don’t want to work at your paper,” Anthem said.

“Well, that’s good, son,” Marissa said, rising from her bar stool. She pulled a business card and pen out of her pocket and wrote something on the back of the card. “?’Cause I didn’t offer you a job. This is a one-shot deal, and I’ll need it by three o’clock. Email it to Sue LaSalle, she’s our Web person.”

“All right . . . But you can’t blame me for being suspicious. You’ve never liked me very much.”

“Well, A-Team, let’s just say I’m a bigger fan of Anthem two-point-oh then I was of the old version. Still, nothing can change the fact that I do hate white people. Even the pretty ones.” She chucked Anthem on the cheek, then she headed for the door. “Good-bye, y’all. I have booze at home.”

Ben returned to his bar stool. Anthem took Marissa’s spot and gestured for the bartender. When he saw