?I'm taking it in. Trying to process it. I?'ve heard a lot of disturbing things about what happened down there. The Danziger Bridge shooting, wide-open rules of engagement. The administration?s response on the humanitarian side, or lack of one. Talk about too little, too late.?
There?s nothing original in this view. And I'm not much interested in a privileged publisher taking a luxury tour through the dark side of our national character. This reminds me of Caitlin as I first met her, a Northern dilettante who preached liberalism but who had no experience of the world outside a college classroom or a newspaper owned by one of her father?s friends.
?Disturbing things happen everywhere,? I say, ?all the time. In Natchez, in Charlotte, wherever. You can find a window into hell a mile from wherever you are, if you really want to.?
She inclines her head, almost as though in prayer.
I didn't mean to sound so cynical, but I have little patience with selective outrage. ?You could just as easily be doing a story on how the white Baptist churches are sheltering black refugees, but that
won'?t sell as many papers as a white-cops-shoot-black-civilians story, will it??
?You always kept me honest, didn't you??
?And you, me.?
She turns from the rail, and her green eyes throw back reflections of the streetlamps behind me on Broadway. A thumping bass beat booms from the tavern across the street, then a blast of calliope music blares dissonant counterpoint from below the bluff.
?Wow,? Caitlin exclaims. ?The boats must really be crazy tonight.?
With a start, I realize that for a few peaceful minutes I haven'?t thought of Tim Jessup. ?I really should get back to Annie,? I say, suddenly anxious about the depth of my need to be near Caitlin. ?I?'ve got a really long day tomorrow.?
?No doubt. I heard you?re on the morning flight,? she says with a knowing smile. ?Is that true??
?No way out of it, I'm afraid. I'm schmoozing a CEO who could bring a new plant here.?
?I heard. You think you may swing that, Mayor??
?No comment.?
She laughs dutifully, but her eyes are troubled. ?I can?t read you like I used to.?
?I know how you feel.? Despite my anxiety, I realize that the dread I felt earlier has been replaced by an exhilarating feeling of lightness under my sternum, as though I?'ve ingested a few particles of cocaine along with Caitlin?s words. An electric arc shoots through me as she takes my hand to lead me down the steps.
?Is Annie with your mother?? she asks. The path along the bluff is filling up with people preparing to watch the fireworks display across the river in Vidalia. ?I haven'?t seen your parents in so long. I feel bad.?
?They still talk about you. Dad especially.? I don'?t want her to ask any more about Annie. I don'?t feel she has the right to, really.
?You know, Charlotte?s not what I thought either,? she says.
?No??
?It?s a lot smaller than I expected. Boston too. I'm starting to think that no matter where you go, it?s basically a small town. The newspaper business is a small town. L.A.?s a small town.
is a small town.?
?Maybe those places only look small from the window of a limo. When you have the phone number of everybody who matters.?
She doesn?'t respond to this, but after a moment she lets my hand fall. As we near the festival gate, she stops and gazes at me without the guard of irony up. ?That'?s the question, isn?t it??
?What??
?Who matters??
?Yep.?
Her eyes hold mine steadily as the crowd swirls around us. ?What?s your answer??
?That'?s easy. Annie.?
?Touche. You?re right, of course.? She looks back toward the carnival lights beside Rosalie, brushes the black veil of hair away from her face. ?This feels strange. So familiar, and yet?I don'?t know. You don'?t seem quite yourself.? She tilts her head and tries to penetrate the time that hovers between us like an invisible shield. ?Is it just me? Or is something really wrong??
?What are you doing here, Caitlin??
Her eyes narrow. ?I told you. Working a story.?
?A New Orleans story??
She glances away for the briefest of moments. ?There might be a Natchez angle.?
Before I can ask about this, a male voice cries her name twice in quick succession. ?
you are!? says the newcomer, a handsome man of thirty-five who disengages from the chaos with some difficulty. He has a bohemian look?bohemian chic might be more accurate?and he clasps Caitlin?s right hand in both of his. ?I?'ve been looking all over for you. I ended up down at the stage, talking to some gospel singers. They?re fantastic!?
Caitlin casually extricates her hand and introduces me as the mayor of Natchez. The bohemian?s name is Jan something.
?Jan?s doing a documentary on the Danziger Bridge incident.?
?Bridge
? Jan corrects, as though quoting the title of the film.
On the Danziger lift bridge in New Orleans, four white cops responding to an ?officer down? call received sniper fire from a group of black men, returned fire, and killed two of them. The black group later contended that they had been unarmed. As with so much
of what happened in the first days of Katrina?s flood, no one has yet been able to ascertain what really transpired. ?I'm sure they?ll eat that up in Park City,? I say with a brittle Chamber of Commerce smile.
Jan draws back in momentary confusion, and Caitlin looks startled. I usually cover my emotions better than this, but tonight I just don'?t give a damn.
?You guys have fun. I need to find my daughter.?
And with that I'm away from them. I couldn'?t have stood much more, and that knowledge frightens me. Yet as I walk through the festival gate, making for the flashing neon above the rides grouped on the bluff, it?s not heartache that preoccupies me, but some of Caitlin?s last words:
As improbable as it seems, I wonder if she?s somehow picked up the rumors of dogfighting, prostitution, and illicit drugs surrounding the
A word from one of her local reporters would be enough to pique her interest, and every facet of that story would engage her. If Caitlin does have reporters working that story, she might well elide it from any conversation with me. At one time we told each other everything. But as our relationship wore on, we found that the professions of lawyer and journalist?even novelist and journalist?gave us separate agendas where privileged information was concerned, and that led to conflict.
Thirty yards ahead, I glimpse the familiar rounded line of Libby?s shoulders, and a blade of guilt pierces me. Though we?ve officially ended our intimate relationship, it would hurt her to learn that a few moments with Caitlin affected me so deeply. As I near Libby, Annie and a friend cannonball through the exit of the Space Walk and roll squealing onto the ground beside her. Only now do I remember that I need someone to stay with Annie while I'm out on tonight?s midnight rendezvous. There?s little chance of getting a high school sitter this late on a balloon-race Friday; I'?ll have to ask my mother to spend the night at my house.
?You?ve been gone awhile,? Libby says with a shadow of suspicion.
?They had a lot of questions about Katrina,? I say in an offhand voice.
?We want to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl!? Annie and her friend scream in unison.
