They say there are blessings from Katrina. Mine was I lost my job.

I gaze around at the lush breakfast area of The Monteleone Hotel in New

Orleans, enjoying eggs Benedict, crisp bacon and the creamiest grits I’ve had

in years and force myself not to laugh. Life is looking up, despite my lack of

job security. All I have to do is get on a plane, make my assignment and my

life will resemble this from now on.

“More coffee, ma’am?” I glance up from my newspaper and I wasn’t really

reading and there’s a red-headed man wearing a uniform more typical of the

1920s standing beside my table.

And he isn’t carrying a coffee pot.

Startled, I shake my head. I’ve had my caffeine quota for the day,

promising my doctor I would stop at two cups in the morning. Of course, I

never promised anything about afternoons.

After all, I am a journalist.

“Very good ma’am.” He bows and quietly saunters out the cafe door. I’d

say float but that’s absurd.

“Who was that?” I ask the waitress when she arrives to refill my cup.

Despite my promises, I let her.

“Who was what, dawlin?”

After months in Cajun Country, it feels great to hear a New Orleans

accent again, people we label “Yats” because they usually begin a greeting

with “Where y’at?” It’s more Brooklyn than Southern, slower and more

friendly. Definitely not the Hollywood, Tennessee Williams drawl most

people assume to find here sprouting from residents dressed in seersucker and

white bucks.

The Yat sends me a puzzled grin with a hand on her hip, the kind siblings

bestow on one another. This is New Orleans. We’re all related so why not

just act like family.

“Are you all doing a costume brunch now?” I ask, adding, “I’m writing a

story on the hotel.”

Dolores — it was written on her name tag right above “Ask About Our

Rebirth Specials” — isn’t impressed with my assignment. She grabs one of

her purple and gold hoop earrings and pulls, her snide expression unfaltering.

“Did Margaret put you up to this?”

“Who’s Margaret?”

Dolores huffs and walks away, leaving me to ponder what the hell that

was all about.

I check my watch. Two hours. I’m meeting Mary Jo, my old roommate

from college who is now the PR director of The Monteleone, and then I’m on

my way. She’s late, as always, but this will be one of those times I’m not

going to hang around, even though she set up my complimentary night at the

historic hotel in the hopes I would write a glowing story to help attract

tourists back to New Orleans; it’s been months since Katrina and many

people still think we’re under water. But today my first press trip as a travel

writer awaits and I have a plane to catch.

Finally, Mary Jo appears, wearing her usual navy blue A-skirt and

matching button-up sweater, topped by a discreet strand of pearls and creamcolored headband. I almost laugh because she could have walked out of the

LSU Delta Gamma house, but her coifed hair and perfect makeup make me

feel self-conscious. She waves from the hostess desk and I attempt to

straighten out my wrinkled blouse before she sits down.

“What’d you think?” she says before even pulling out a chair.

“Gorgeous as always.” I place a hand over my coffee cup as Dolores

arrives, hovering her pot across the table like an alien spaceship and sending

me a suspicious glance. “The customer service is exceptional, Mary Jo

McConnell.”

Hearing the name, Dolores jerks to get a better look at my table

companion. Mary Jo is clueless, but Dolores suddenly resorts back to her

cheerful self. “Would you like some coffee, Miss Mary Jo?”

“No thanks, Dolores. I’m just here to see how my travel writer friend’s

stay is going.”

Mary Jo pronounces my new profession like my family does, as if I’ve

decided to become a ventriloquist or palm reader for an occupation. I’ve been

writing travel stories for years, bringing in extra income to my well-paying

newspaper job covering the school board and police beat in deep St. Bernard

Parish for the New Orleans Post. The Post is the smaller city newspaper to

the notable Times-Picayune. Note sarcasm here: the pay sucked, we were but

a shadow to the Times-Pic and guess who’s up for a Pulitzer for their Katrina

coverage? My twin Sebastian thought my day job would produce fodder for

the Great American Novel I was to write and my dad called it “a decent job

and I should be glad to have one.” I saw it as newspaper hell.

But I dismiss Mary Jo’s obvious doubting of me making a living at

freelance travel writing, instead catching how Dolores is now doubly scared

because she’s finally figured out I may write about her. She starts fussing

over me and I wonder if, as a travel writer, I will have this power over people

from now on.

Cool.

Mary Jo shushes her away and I explain how my suite overlooking Royal

Street delighted every sense (all true), the rooftop pool was heavenly (too

crowded and noisy but the drinks helped make that go away), my massage

the night before couldn’t have been better (again, no lie, although that poor

woman got her money’s worth working on me) and two small children kept

me up all night running down the hall. I left that last part out.

Either the hotel’s haunted or there are parents here waking from a good

night’s sleep that I want to throttle.

Once we get awkward business out of the way and I assure her a story is

forthcoming in Mais Yeah!, the southwest Louisiana weekly I now write

travel for, we catch up on girlfriend news. Mary Jo shows off her enormous

diamond and grabs my day planner to circle the date of her upcoming

wedding. Branford J. Whitaker the third, otherwise known as “Brick” — I

don’t inquire — heads up his father’s Carnival store, the kind that sells all

that China-made crap thrown at Mardi Gras parades, those lovely beads,

doubloons, trinkets and the like that everyone kills each other over and then

stuffs into attics like Christmas decorations.

“There’s so much money in Carnival,” Mary Jo informs me. “You

wouldn’t believe how much those krewe members spend on throws.” She

leans in close and whispers with a sly smile, “Thousands and thousands,

which is great for the Whitaker family.”

I really shouldn’t have blurted it out, but I had to stop the jealousy rising

in my chest. As much as I love my new freedom and finally realizing my

dream, I’m scared as hell at the lack of financial security and I’m trying hard

not to remember that fact.

“You did what?” Mary Jo asks me, which surprises me as much as TB’s

reaction.

“I don’t understand why this is such a surprise.”

“Viola, you’re upset because of the disaster,” she says, patting my hand.

“The loss of your house, “It’s a mother-in-law unit,” I answer way too

defensively.

My mother calls my home in the neighboring town of Lafayette a potting

shed because of its ruggedness — okay, it’s a bit frayed at the edges — and

refuses to set foot inside. Which turned out to be a good thing; my parents

never visit.

“Deliah said it was a dump.”

“You talked to my mother?”

“I can find you a really nice place in New Orleans....”

“Can’t afford it now that I’ve gone freelance. You talked to my mother?”

Mary Jo takes my hand and squeezes. “We’re worried about you.”

I pull my hand back and offer up my best “life is good, what hurricane?”

smile. Nothing is taking me down today. “My landlord is letting me live there

free in exchange for keeping an eye on the big house,” I say, trying to

eliminate the defensive edge from my voice. It could have been a closet and I

would have eagerly agreed. Well, it kinda is.

“It’s part of the freedom package that’s allowing me to work as a travel

writer and not go back to that horrid newsroom,” I continue. “You know how

miserable I was.”

Mary Jo tilts her head as if to start a “Yes, but....”

“Did I tell you that Reece, my Cajun landlord, isn’t hard on the eyes?”

Wrong thing to say when you’re fresh into a separation.

“This is all too soon to be thinking of dating your landlord, Vi.”

“Who said dating? He’s married.”

Mary Jo winces. “Maybe you and TB should get counseling.”

“You never liked TB,” I add. “Since when are you taking his side?”

TB stands for T-Bubba. My ex loves to joke about his name, calling

himself half Cajun, half redneck since the Cajun “T” stands for “petite,” or

“Petite (Little) Bubba.” His father, the redneck half, was Bubba Senior. My

mom calls TB a disease.

Mary Jo huffs while shaking a packet of Sweet-n-Low before ripping off

the side and pouring the cancerous substance into her coffee. Just watching

her sip that pink stuff leaves an awful aftertaste in my mind and I swallow

hard.

“A divorce is a pretty big step,” she says. “And you just went through a

traumatic experience. You don’t need to pile more stress on your life.”

What’s a little more stress after axing your way through an attic when

lake waters rushed through your home, to sit on a rooftop for two days while

your government ignored you? Not knowing where your twin brother was for

more than a week. In fact, now that Sebastian is working as a temp in the

restaurant industry and moving around the Deep South, I still don’t know.

Brat.

“I’ll be fine.” Weirdly enough, I actually believe that, feel infinitely

better. The future is unstable but the possibilities are endless.

Mary Jo doesn’t share in my excitement. The light behind her eyes

disappear, replaced by a comatose stare she once exhibited when she thought

Lampton “Scoop” Mallard over at the KA house was having an affair.

Goosebumps run up my arm and panic fills my chest.

“Is this about Lillye?” she asks quietly.

Time to leave. I check my watch. “I need to go. My plane leaves at ten.”

“Viola.” Mary Jo grabs my hand as I rise. “This is all so horrible. You

lost everything and now you’re getting a divorce and living in someone’s

potting shed.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek, knowing she means well. I have my photos.

Really, what else matters?

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

Mary Jo grins through the tears; she really is a good friend. I give her a

tight hug and roll my pink and white polka dot luggage I nabbed at Goodwill

to the Honda that TB had insisted I keep (he’s spending his share of the

FEMA money on a pickup). I have to stop by the house and give TB the mail,

since mail service in New Orleans is spotty at best. Our insurance check

finally arrived, so I need to hand it off to TB before I fly out so he can

continue renovations.

I drive through the tourist-infested French Quarter amazed at how the lure

of Bourbon Street keeps them coming no matter what. Good thing our

founding fathers settled the heart of the city above sea level. You’d never

know a disaster happened gazing out at the crowds strolling through the

ancient quarter, giant drinks shaped like bombs in their hands, those tacky

beads around their necks making the Whitakers rich, and silly grins produced

when alcohol mixes with the freedom to be whoever you wish to be.

The closer I get to Rampart, however, the more damage I spot, blue tarps

on the roofs to keep the rain out, piles of mildewed sheetrock by the curb. I

turn and head over to Canal and move toward the lakeside of town, an area

called Mid-City where TB and I lived. The waterline is evident here, like a

child extended his hand with a pen between his fingers, letting it mark up the

sides of houses. The further west I travel, the higher the mark, like I’m slowly

descending under water and into hell.

In fact, I am. All that euphoria of staying at the elegant, historic

Monteleone Hotel in the heart of the romantic French Quarter disappears and

the horror of Katrina stares back at me everywhere. I swallow hard, fighting

down the bile and panic as I gaze at the blocks upon blocks of water-logged

homes and the empty shopping centers and dead traffic lights. One corner

still sports an abandoned boat from the rescue days. A pack of dogs runs wild

down Iberville Street. A billboard blown free of its tethers has landed in a

housetop and I see a smiling woman enjoying coffee peeking out by the

chimney.

This is what Mary Jo and my mother want me to live in. I vow to hand

TB his mail and haul *** to the airport.

He must have heard me drive up for TB is halfway to the curb by the time

I turn off the engine. I’m not happy to see him and that old guilt comes back

with a rush. I could write a dissertation on why my marriage failed, but sum it

up with one sentence: The man aggravates the hell out of me. For years I

tried to hide it, put “a nice face on” as my mother would say, but the

nastiness in my voice bubbles to the surface and pours out, sometimes in

turrets.

Before I’m able to grab the mail and lock up the car, TB’s staring at me

over the hood. “Mary Jo called in tears, said she’s worried about you.”

I groan, pushing the lock button on the door; I wasn’t able to afford one

of those push-button kind you carry on a key chain. I even roll down my

windows the old-fashioned way. “What could possibly be wrong?” I ask TB

sarcastically, laughing.

“She said you’re on your way somewhere.”

I don’t feel like explaining to the world where I am and what I’m doing

because family and friends keep trying to talk me out of it. And get

counseling. Both of which I don’t intend to do. Even though TB’s motivation

is to get me back into the marriage, I keep it simple. “I’m going on a press

trip.”

“Oh yeah, what for?”

Here come the twenty questions. TB’s idea of a conversation is asking

mundane questions, like a three-year-old following a parent around the

house. “What are you doing?” “What’s your plans for today?” “What do you

want to do for dinner?” “Was that the mail?”

“I got invited to go somewhere, to do a travel story,” I tell him.

“Where are you going?”

I shouldn’t have blurted it out but my multi-tasking brain is busy focusing

on getting to the sidewalk and not on the elderly man across the street staring.

A shiver runs up my spine as I feel those cold black eyes upon me. “I’m

heading to Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”

“What for?”

I pull TB through our front gate and head up toward the house, glancing

back to see if the old man is still there. He is. And his gaze still bores holes

into my back.

“Who is that?” I whisper to TB.

“Who is what?”

A normal person would have had trouble comprehending how TB could

have missed this intense weirdo across the street, but TB is regularly clueless.

I turn toward the house but pause at the porch and hand TB the mail.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“Uh, no.” I had seen all I had wanted of our house about a month after

Katrina, when they finally let residents into the parish to view what was left

— if anything — of their homes. Weeks under water can do amazing things

to a person’s belongings, like a stick of butter in the microwave left on high

too long. I don’t want to step foot in that house again.

TB marches up the steps. “Want to see what I’ve done with the kitchen? I

painted the cabinets and found some nice granite pieces half price.”

I’m not following. “Really? I need to get to the airport.”

He nods but I can tell he wants to talk, try to convince me a legal

separation isn’t the best route. Thankfully my trip to the courthouse last week

sealed the deal. “Your mother said we need time.”

My head snaps to attention. “What? You talked to my mother?”

“For a woman who routinely left me places as a child because she was

too busy practicing speeches for her TV appearances, I doubt she’s worried.”

“You should give her a break,” TB says. “Tulane hasn’t asked her back.”

I’m sorry my mother is out of a job, really, but whose side is she on? She

hates TB, convinced I had married beneath me, which is probably true. Now,

he’s her best friend?

I nod at the mail in his hands. “The insurance check is on top.”

“I finished the second floor. You’ll hardly recognize it.”

“Uh, huh.” I turn back toward the street and the creepy old man has

reappeared on the porch next door. I can’t get to my car, out of the Katrina

zone and to the airport fast enough.

“Don’t you want to even look?”

“Nope.” I head to the front gate but I can tell TB is hot on my heels.

“What are you doing again?”

“I told you, a travel writing thing,” I shout out without turning around. I

can’t bear seeing that man again, or pondering how a man his age moved so

fast. “Like the ones I used to do on the side, although this one is an organized

press trip.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Crescent Hotel.” Crap. I feel like Homer Simpson after he says

something truly stupid. Why did I just tell TB that? I make it to the driver’s

side and gaze up at him over the hood. He stands there like a puppy dog

wanting a bone.

“Can I come?”

Travel writers on press trips receive everything complimentary —

accommodations, food, plane tickets. Guests are not allowed. Usually, the

tourist bureaus foot the bill and they are not about to spend valuable dollars

on people who won’t write about the place. I’ve heard about husbands or

wives posing as photographers but that’s about the extent of it. TB had

accompanied me once on a trip I arranged on my own, and I hated every

minute. I wanted to explore, he wanted to drink and sit by the pool. I wanted

to enjoy a nice meal and examine the place on my own, he blurted out to

everyone that I was there on assignment so every member of the restaurant

visited our table. The next time I arranged an excursion I conveniently

planned it over a weekend during football season, knowing well TB wouldn’t

give up valuable couch time.

“No, you can’t come,” I tell him tersely.

“I could stay in the room, not bother you....”

“No.”

“I could just hang by the pool....”

I hate to do it but the look on TB’s face, the putrid smell of mildew and

decay and that horrid man’s stare make me slip in my car and drive off

without another word. I have a plane to catch and nothing is getting me down

today, I practically yell inside my head. The guilt is eating me alive and it

takes everything not to gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Call your mom,” I hear TB shout out, as I turn the corner and head back

to the interstate.

I’m late getting to the airport, mainly because my mother called twice and

I fumbled with my purse trying to silence the damn cell phone. The

distraction made me miss my exit and I ended up circling Kenner needlessly.

When I finally park, get through security and make it to my gate, I have

minutes to spare. I drop my bag at my feet, fall into the chair and breathe

deeply, startling the well-dressed man across from me whose right eyebrow

raises without him looking up from his laptop.

“Finally,” I say to no one and the man shifts in his chair. Am I bothering

him? Doesn’t matter. I’m free of my ex-husband, my overbearing family, my

well-meaning friends pushing psychoanalysis and the putrid wrath that was

Katrina and on my way to a new adventure and career.

And that’s when she started singing.

A woman about my age, soaking wet, stands dripping in the aisle outside my

gate, belting out You Are My Sunshine at the top of her lungs. She looks me

straight in the eyes, water leaking off the ends of her stringy black hair,

puddles appearing at her bare feet, and explains how I make her happy when

skies are gray.

I look around to see if anyone else is watching this woman sing the

Louisiana state song written by a former governor, her arms outstretched for

emphasis when she hits “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,” but

no one seems to notice her. A mother and daughter play with an American

Girl doll to my right, a businessman devours a biscuit and sausage to my left

and Mr. Fancy Pants continues reading his laptop.

Usually I ignore the crazies in New Orleans, too, especially in Louis

Armstrong Airport where half of the tourists are glazed and hung over and

the other still fresh and slobbering from a night on Bourbon Street. The ones

arriving have that get-me-a-drink look and who knows what for a motive so

their focus is elsewhere. But this woman is soaked head to toe, looking

positively frightened or agitated or both and singing as if her life depends on

it.

I lean over to search the airport corridors and two cops are laughing over

coffee around Gate Number Four. Esther Williams is still singing and neither

one looks in her direction. Weird. The gate agents are busy sliding boarding

passes into the machine and a security guard drives up in one of those pseudo

golf carts but no one even glances in this poor lady’s direction.

Just when I am about to get up and see if I can be of assistance, Mr.

Fancy Pants across from me, his head still bent toward his laptop in

engrossed concentration, lifts his right hand and snaps his fingers. One simple

gesture, and the singing stops.

The woman appears as if she’s been slapped, her eyes registering intense

pain. She bows her head in failure and moves away, her feet leaving prints as

she meanders down the aisle.

I glance back at Fancy Pants, whose hand has returned to his side, his

gaze never leaving the screen, until they call Zone Three. He closes his laptop

and rises, never glancing in my direction, heading to the ticket agent as if

nothing had happened.

When I check back on the wet opera singer, she’s gone. Vanished.

Maybe my family and friends are right, I think, wondering where I put

that card Mary Jo gave me, the one for the counselor specializing in post

traumatic stress disorder. But that woman was standing in the aisle in front of

me, singing to the heavens. I know what I saw. And if I’m not totally nuts

Mr. Fancy Pants heard her too.

I’m so confused and, like a good journalist, totally curious, but it’s time

to get on the plane and start my new career. I sneak one last look down the

airport corridor, even check for footprints, shake my head and hand the gate

attendant my boarding pass.

Once aboard, I have other things to worry about. I end up lodged between

an overweight man hogging the armrest and an elderly woman knitting. I

practically wrap my elbows around my chest like a true crazy person and

attempt to read my “S” book, something light and funny with cartoon women

on the cover with words like “sassy,” “seductive” and “scandalizing” among

the back cover’s description. S books make me happy, take me away from

waterlines and levee breaches and I’m not going to apologize for it like most

women I know and call it “trash.” Right now these books are better than

Prosac.

I’m so enraptured in the hunk who runs the town newspaper and his fight

with the spirited yet intelligent heroine of the mayor’s office that we land in

the Northwest Arkansas airport in no time at all, a good-sized facility in a

rural area near Bentonville and Rogers, places most people have never heard

of unless they work for Walmart. Bentonville was home to entrepreneur Sam

Walton who started the multi-national chain and thus the town became the

operational hub of the megastores. Because Walton insisted companies move

to the area if they wanted to be part of his dream, and all these new

businesses plus Walmart need transportation services, the lovely new airport

was built.

Too bad New Orleans never had such pull, I think, as I head down

impeccable marble aisles toward the baggage claim. The Crescent City had

long outgrown its airport and progressive politicians had suggested a larger

international airport almost halfway between Baton Rouge and New Orleans

with a light rail in between but the idea never took. As usual not enough

money. Or forward thinking. Plus, there was that time after Katrina when the

airport became a hospital and morgue so right now all everyone’s thinking

about is getting it back to normal.

I wasn’t going to think about New Orleans on this trip, or my flooded

home, lack of a steady job and the fact that my electricity would get cut off if

my FEMA check didn’t arrive soon. Tonight I would sleep between layers of

multi-thread linens and indulge in fine cuisine while PR people drive me

around, line up interviews and pay for everything. Only in America could

writers straddling the poverty line be wined and dined at posh hotels and

four-star restaurants in fun destinations.

“It doesn’t get better than this,” I whisper to myself.

Travel writing was my dream in college, a career I wanted to start the

moment that journalism diploma hit my greedy little hands. But it’s not

something you major in, interview for and start the next day. You could nab a

similar position at a magazine or become a newspaper travel editor, and lord

knows I tried getting on at Southern Living and the Times-Picayune travel

section for years. Or you could do what I did and cover the cops beat in St.

Bernard Parish for the New Orleans Post while writing travel on the side for

the Sunday edition and a few other small magazines and newspapers.

That’s how I met Henry Torrington Wallace. I had driven to Birmingham

for a journalism conference and took some side trips to compile into a feature

for the Martin Luther King Jr. birthday weekend. The travel piece garnered a

Louisiana Press Award and Henry called to ask if I wanted to join his

agency’s press trip to Nashville. I wasn’t able to accept free trips at the time

— against newspaper policy — but I kept his card just in case.

Needless to say, my cops job in St. Bernard Parish washed away, pun so

very much intended. Good riddance. Once I got established in Lafayette,

Henry was the first person I rang.

“I’m freelancing now for the chain in southwest Louisiana and a few

magazines,” I told him. “Got any trips in the Deep South?”

Did he ever. I was in business before you can say, “Your hotel room is

complimentary.”

I grab my polka dot bag and do as instructed, travel to the baggage claim

and look for signs from Henry’s PR agency, the Wallace Group. As expected,

Henry is waiting at the bottom of the escalator, his arms full of press packets.

He tilts his chin up at me and I smile, tingling with excitement. I can feel

those silky-smooth sheets already, after which I will relax in a bathtub full of

free upscale products. For not the first time I wonder if the other journalists

— those working at travel writing longer than me or who live in equally nice

residences — feel the same rush when they exit the plane knowing what’s

coming.

“How’ve you been, Viola?” Henry asks me after an obligatory hug. His

agency hails from Tennessee, so he’s Southern to the core. He also

pronounces my name correctly: VIE-O-LA.

“I’m great, Henry.” If only he knew just how, staring down at a press kit

announcing “Heaven in the Ozarks!”

“Is this it?” He grabs the handle of the polka dot bag and heads toward

the exit.

“I always travel light,” I say apologetically. Do other journalists bring

more? What’s funny is that practically everything I own is in that bag. You

know I’m not kidding.

“Am I the only pick-up?”

As soon as I ask, I realize two other travel writers are waiting by the door,

a dark-haired woman dressed in a Talbots-style outfit complete with high

heels and several layers of gold necklaces, intent on text messaging on what

looks like a Blackberry (I honestly don’t know, never had the money to buy

one), and an older man in jeans and a Lacosse shirt scoping out the local

newspaper container. I smooth down the designer linen shirt I found at

Goodwill, sorry for my choice since traveling between those two armrest

hogs has rendered it a massive wave of wrinkles. I also worry about my tried

and true Converse sneakers my mother calls adolescent. These days, I don’t

care what my mother calls my clothes but I’m self-conscious around these

people.

“Small news hole,” the tall guy says without looking up.

I extend my hand. “Viola Valentine.”

Tall guy ignores me. “I hate it when they put ads on the front page.”

“Richard Cambry,” Henry explains, then nods his head toward texting

queen. “And Irene Fisher.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, but only Irene responds, without looking up.

Ah, a nice polite bunch. We make our way to the van, one Henry has

rented for the trip, and the Friendlys deposit their bags at the back while

Richard talks about his newspaper days and grabs the front seat. Irene sighs

and mutters something under her breath.

“Do you need help?” I ask Henry, who gives me a sweet “Are you

kidding, get in the van” look. He opens my door and I do the obligatory

Southern conversation, asking about his wife, his job and Henry gives me a

quick roundup with a smile.

“Don’t we have to be there by four,” Richard asks from inside the van. “I

don’t know, just saying. It has four on the schedule.”

Henry smiles politely as only PR people can do; it’s an amazing talent

they own, being able to offer impeccable customer service in the presence of

assholes.

“Be right back,” Henry says and heads back inside the airport.

You’d think plum assignments such as these would render people

gracious and thankful, but there are jerks in the best of professions, and

plenty of folks who need bibs and bottles. Now realize, we must have

credentials and extensive work experiences to be asked on press trips, not to

mention there is an art to this craft most people don’t understand. No, it’s not

about writing what you did on vacation. But come on, folks. When

someone’s paying the bill, lining up interviews and driving you around in a

van where you don’t even have to wear a seatbelt, the least you can do is be

polite and grateful. Leave your whining at home.

I enter the van and park next to Irene, who finishes her text and looks up.

“Irene Fisher,” she announces, holding out her hand. I skip the reminder that

we’ve already met and shake her hand, but dear old Richard doesn’t miss a

thing.

“We had introductions in the airport, Irene. If you weren’t so busy on that

cell phone….”

Richard must be around sixty or seventy with a head full of white hair to

back up that statement and he launches into a tirade about young people and

cell phones, using a woman not paying attention while driving as an example.

From the way he describes this female, I pick up chauvinistic sentiments, not

to mention arrogance and conceit. I didn’t like him back at the newspaper.

Now I really don’t.

Irene tunes him out but he keeps shifting in his seat to look at me. Just for

fun, I ask if he’s married.

“Who knows?” he answers, leaving this balloon of a thought floating

above us. As if synchronized, Irene and I gaze at each other and silently vote

not to pop that bubble. The pause we offer makes Richard uncomfortable so

he launches into a lengthy explanation, mostly about how difficult women are

to live with and how his wife is at fault for everything. Irene begins texting

again and I stare out the window, noticing how rural the surrounding area is,

when who should saunter by but Mr. Fancy Pants. He pauses at the van door

with his laptop and garment bag — do people use those anymore? — and

leans his head in to greet us.

It’s the first time I get a good look at his face, which is handsome with

sleek, sculptured lines, a no-nonsense countenance although I detect a slyness

lurking beneath. His salt and pepper hair is perfectly combed back, a bit of a

white streak happening around one temple but this guy plays it up, embracing

what I suspect is early middle age. His green-gray eyes match the whole

ensemble, as if he did it on purpose. My gay-dar is beeping rapidly.

“You all remember Carmine Kelsey,” Henry says, adding for me, “and

this is Viola Valentine. The Arkansas trip is her first with us.”

Carmine looks me in the eye for the first time, albeit briefly, raising one

eyebrow. The atmosphere feels uncomfortable. I’m not sure if it’s because

everyone now knows I’m a newbie to this business or Carmine had witnessed

the wet opera singer. I realize someone must move to the back row to

accommodate Carmine, so I take the opportunity to break gaze, stumbling

into the back, the pieces of my press packet flying all over the floor.

“Nice to meet you too,” he says, which garners a laugh from Richard and

Irene, and I immediately dislike the man.

As I rearrange my belongings and attempt to tame my now horribly

wrinkled shirt, Henry jumps in the front and off we go. Richard begins a long

discourse on the state of travel writing today and Henry politely listens while

Irene and Carmine take to their electronics. I want desperately to ask Carmine

about the wet apparition in the airport, but on the flip side, from his haughty

demeanor and sarcastic snide, I want to cross him off my list with the rest of

the van’s occupants.

Instead, I enjoy the rolling countryside of northwest Arkansas with the

budding sycamore and maple trees, fields full of rolled hay and nonchalant

cows and little rolling streams crossing the highway. We pass lovely

farmhouses where people reside with all their belongings, photos carefully

preserved in family albums. We pass a small town and I envy the smiling

faces of the children riding the streets in their Schwins. A man pumps gas at a

self-service, a canoe propped up in the cab of his truck. Two businessmen

stand in a parking lot laughing about something. Butterflies flit past enjoying

roadside flowers.

Suddenly a malaise so deep and powerful consumes me, knowing

normalcy exists outside the borders of my disaster zone. I don’t know why I

should be shocked that the rest of the country lives on, but I feel betrayed. I

want to be these people. I want to wake up in a bed where all my belongings

exist where I put them the night before.

I close my eyes, remembering why I am here. “This is what you wanted

and Katrina gave it to you,” I tell myself.

But I can’t help wanting more, and that black hole that took the place of

my heart years ago when Lillye died opens up once more, swallowing me

whole.

“Isn’t that right, Viola?”

I realize with horror that Henry has been asking me questions. I wonder

how long I have been in the dark place this time.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re from New Orleans.”

Where once was polite acknowledgement — with a bit of sarcasm from

Carmine — there is now complete attention. All eyes sans Henry gaze upon

me, filled with a look I have come to abhor. Pity.

I offer up a comforting smile and shrug. Sure, lost my house and

everything in it. Car was found seven blocks away. Chimney saved me from

blowing into the good state of Mississippi, after which I got this blistering

sunburn while sunbathing on the roof for two days. No biggie. Needed a

vacation anyway.

Of course, I say nothing. I don’t want to discuss it. Any of it. But the

questions fly fast and furious.

“Did you ride it out?”

Yes, had to, my job at the newspaper demanded it.

“Did you lose anything?”

Yes, everything.

“Everything?”

Yes, everything but my good looks. The attempt at humor fails miserably.

“Where are you living now?”

Two hours west in Cajun Country. In a potting shed if you ask my mom.

Again, not even a smile.

“What do you think of Bush and FEMA?”

At this point, I’ve had enough. I don’t want to think about Bush, can’t

bear to hear him speak anymore. And FEMA owes me money. More than

anything, I don’t want to talk about Katrina!!

“Where are we heading first?” I ask Henry over the cacophony of

questions.

Henry explains how we are all checking into our hotels in the Bentonville

area for the night and then meeting back in our respective lobbies for a quick

overview of the historic downtown and then dinner. I ask him about his

family — and yes, I’m repeating myself — but the rest of the van seems to

get the idea that the conversation is over. They stop talking to me and I study

my press packet for the rest of the trip.

We arrive at my hotel, a chain but lovely with a stone fireplace in the

center of the lobby. I marvel at rocks; we have none in South Louisiana. Just

mud. I caress my hands over the quartz and swear I can feel the vibrations.

New Age people say I’m blessed, everyone else says I’m crazy, but rocks

have always spoken to me in one way or another. Most of the time it’s to say,

“Take me home,” and I always oblige. My chest hurts as I wonder where all

those crystals and rocks I’ve gathered over the years have ended up.

“There’s an indoor pool,” Irene says, breaking my thoughts. “Wanna grab

a swim tonight?”

I take one look at the luscious pool with its emerald waters and

neighboring hot tub, two sights that would have normally enticed me to

indulge, no hesitation at all, but I want nothing of it.

“I’m not a swimmer,” I lie to Irene.

As Irene heads down the hall to the elevators, I take one last look at the

pool, swallowing hard to dislodge the lump choking my breath. The wet

opera singer waves to me from beside the water.

A woman about my age, soaking wet, stands dripping in the aisle outside my

gate, belting out You Are My Sunshine at the top of her lungs. She looks me

straight in the eyes, water leaking off the ends of her stringy black hair,

puddles appearing at her bare feet, and explains how I make her happy when

skies are gray.

I look around to see if anyone else is watching this woman sing the

Louisiana state song written by a former governor, her arms outstretched for

emphasis when she hits “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,” but

no one seems to notice her. A mother and daughter play with an American

Girl doll to my right, a businessman devours a biscuit and sausage to my left

and Mr. Fancy Pants continues reading his laptop.

Usually I ignore the crazies in New Orleans, too, especially in Louis

Armstrong Airport where half of the tourists are glazed and hung over and

the other still fresh and slobbering from a night on Bourbon Street. The ones

arriving have that get-me-a-drink look and who knows what for a motive so

their focus is elsewhere. But this woman is soaked head to toe, looking

positively frightened or agitated or both and singing as if her life depends on

it.

I lean over to search the airport corridors and two cops are laughing over

coffee around Gate Number Four. Esther Williams is still singing and neither

one looks in her direction. Weird. The gate agents are busy sliding boarding

passes into the machine and a security guard drives up in one of those pseudo

golf carts but no one even glances in this poor lady’s direction.

Just when I am about to get up and see if I can be of assistance, Mr.

Fancy Pants across from me, his head still bent toward his laptop in

engrossed concentration, lifts his right hand and snaps his fingers. One simple

gesture, and the singing stops.

The woman appears as if she’s been slapped, her eyes registering intense

pain. She bows her head in failure and moves away, her feet leaving prints as

she meanders down the aisle.

I glance back at Fancy Pants, whose hand has returned to his side, his

gaze never leaving the screen, until they call Zone Three. He closes his laptop

and rises, never glancing in my direction, heading to the ticket agent as if

nothing had happened.

When I check back on the wet opera singer, she’s gone. Vanished.

Maybe my family and friends are right, I think, wondering where I put

that card Mary Jo gave me, the one for the counselor specializing in post

traumatic stress disorder. But that woman was standing in the aisle in front of

me, singing to the heavens. I know what I saw. And if I’m not totally nuts

Mr. Fancy Pants heard her too.

I’m so confused and, like a good journalist, totally curious, but it’s time

to get on the plane and start my new career. I sneak one last look down the

airport corridor, even check for footprints, shake my head and hand the gate

attendant my boarding pass.

Once aboard, I have other things to worry about. I end up lodged between

an overweight man hogging the armrest and an elderly woman knitting. I

practically wrap my elbows around my chest like a true crazy person and

attempt to read my “S” book, something light and funny with cartoon women

on the cover with words like “sassy,” “seductive” and “scandalizing” among

the back cover’s description. S books make me happy, take me away from

waterlines and levee breaches and I’m not going to apologize for it like most

women I know and call it “trash.” Right now these books are better than

Prosac.

I’m so enraptured in the hunk who runs the town newspaper and his fight

with the spirited yet intelligent heroine of the mayor’s office that we land in

the Northwest Arkansas airport in no time at all, a good-sized facility in a

rural area near Bentonville and Rogers, places most people have never heard

of unless they work for Walmart. Bentonville was home to entrepreneur Sam

Walton who started the multi-national chain and thus the town became the

operational hub of the megastores. Because Walton insisted companies move

to the area if they wanted to be part of his dream, and all these new

businesses plus Walmart need transportation services, the lovely new airport

was built.

Too bad New Orleans never had such pull, I think, as I head down

impeccable marble aisles toward the baggage claim. The Crescent City had

long outgrown its airport and progressive politicians had suggested a larger

international airport almost halfway between Baton Rouge and New Orleans

with a light rail in between but the idea never took. As usual not enough

money. Or forward thinking. Plus, there was that time after Katrina when the

airport became a hospital and morgue so right now all everyone’s thinking

about is getting it back to normal.

I wasn’t going to think about New Orleans on this trip, or my flooded

home, lack of a steady job and the fact that my electricity would get cut off if

my FEMA check didn’t arrive soon. Tonight I would sleep between layers of

multi-thread linens and indulge in fine cuisine while PR people drive me

around, line up interviews and pay for everything. Only in America could

writers straddling the poverty line be wined and dined at posh hotels and

four-star restaurants in fun destinations.

“It doesn’t get better than this,” I whisper to myself.

Travel writing was my dream in college, a career I wanted to start the

moment that journalism diploma hit my greedy little hands. But it’s not

something you major in, interview for and start the next day. You could nab a

similar position at a magazine or become a newspaper travel editor, and lord

knows I tried getting on at Southern Living and the Times-Picayune travel

section for years. Or you could do what I did and cover the cops beat in St.

Bernard Parish for the New Orleans Post while writing travel on the side for

the Sunday edition and a few other small magazines and newspapers.

That’s how I met Henry Torrington Wallace. I had driven to Birmingham

for a journalism conference and took some side trips to compile into a feature

for the Martin Luther King Jr. birthday weekend. The travel piece garnered a

Louisiana Press Award and Henry called to ask if I wanted to join his

agency’s press trip to Nashville. I wasn’t able to accept free trips at the time

— against newspaper policy — but I kept his card just in case.

Needless to say, my cops job in St. Bernard Parish washed away, pun so

very much intended. Good riddance. Once I got established in Lafayette,

Henry was the first person I rang.

“I’m freelancing now for the chain in southwest Louisiana and a few

magazines,” I told him. “Got any trips in the Deep South?”

Did he ever. I was in business before you can say, “Your hotel room is

complimentary.”

I grab my polka dot bag and do as instructed, travel to the baggage claim

and look for signs from Henry’s PR agency, the Wallace Group. As expected,

Henry is waiting at the bottom of the escalator, his arms full of press packets.

He tilts his chin up at me and I smile, tingling with excitement. I can feel

those silky-smooth sheets already, after which I will relax in a bathtub full of

free upscale products. For not the first time I wonder if the other journalists

— those working at travel writing longer than me or who live in equally nice

residences — feel the same rush when they exit the plane knowing what’s

coming.

“How’ve you been, Viola?” Henry asks me after an obligatory hug. His

agency hails from Tennessee, so he’s Southern to the core. He also

pronounces my name correctly: VIE-O-LA.

“I’m great, Henry.” If only he knew just how, staring down at a press kit

announcing “Heaven in the Ozarks!”

“Is this it?” He grabs the handle of the polka dot bag and heads toward

the exit.

“I always travel light,” I say apologetically. Do other journalists bring

more? What’s funny is that practically everything I own is in that bag. You

know I’m not kidding.

“Am I the only pick-up?”

As soon as I ask, I realize two other travel writers are waiting by the door,

a dark-haired woman dressed in a Talbots-style outfit complete with high

heels and several layers of gold necklaces, intent on text messaging on what

looks like a Blackberry (I honestly don’t know, never had the money to buy

one), and an older man in jeans and a Lacosse shirt scoping out the local

newspaper container. I smooth down the designer linen shirt I found at

Goodwill, sorry for my choice since traveling between those two armrest

hogs has rendered it a massive wave of wrinkles. I also worry about my tried

and true Converse sneakers my mother calls adolescent. These days, I don’t

care what my mother calls my clothes but I’m self-conscious around these

people.

“Small news hole,” the tall guy says without looking up.

I extend my hand. “Viola Valentine.”

Tall guy ignores me. “I hate it when they put ads on the front page.”

“Richard Cambry,” Henry explains, then nods his head toward texting

queen. “And Irene Fisher.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, but only Irene responds, without looking up.

Ah, a nice polite bunch. We make our way to the van, one Henry has

rented for the trip, and the Friendlys deposit their bags at the back while

Richard talks about his newspaper days and grabs the front seat. Irene sighs

and mutters something under her breath.

“Do you need help?” I ask Henry, who gives me a sweet “Are you

kidding, get in the van” look. He opens my door and I do the obligatory

Southern conversation, asking about his wife, his job and Henry gives me a

quick roundup with a smile.

“Don’t we have to be there by four,” Richard asks from inside the van. “I

don’t know, just saying. It has four on the schedule.”

Henry smiles politely as only PR people can do; it’s an amazing talent

they own, being able to offer impeccable customer service in the presence of

assholes.

“Be right back,” Henry says and heads back inside the airport.

You’d think plum assignments such as these would render people

gracious and thankful, but there are jerks in the best of professions, and

plenty of folks who need bibs and bottles. Now realize, we must have

credentials and extensive work experiences to be asked on press trips, not to

mention there is an art to this craft most people don’t understand. No, it’s not

about writing what you did on vacation. But come on, folks. When

someone’s paying the bill, lining up interviews and driving you around in a

van where you don’t even have to wear a seatbelt, the least you can do is be

polite and grateful. Leave your whining at home.

I enter the van and park next to Irene, who finishes her text and looks up.

“Irene Fisher,” she announces, holding out her hand. I skip the reminder that

we’ve already met and shake her hand, but dear old Richard doesn’t miss a

thing.

“We had introductions in the airport, Irene. If you weren’t so busy on that

cell phone….”

Richard must be around sixty or seventy with a head full of white hair to

back up that statement and he launches into a tirade about young people and

cell phones, using a woman not paying attention while driving as an example.

From the way he describes this female, I pick up chauvinistic sentiments, not

to mention arrogance and conceit. I didn’t like him back at the newspaper.

Now I really don’t.

Irene tunes him out but he keeps shifting in his seat to look at me. Just for

fun, I ask if he’s married.

“Who knows?” he answers, leaving this balloon of a thought floating

above us. As if synchronized, Irene and I gaze at each other and silently vote

not to pop that bubble. The pause we offer makes Richard uncomfortable so

he launches into a lengthy explanation, mostly about how difficult women are

to live with and how his wife is at fault for everything. Irene begins texting

again and I stare out the window, noticing how rural the surrounding area is,

when who should saunter by but Mr. Fancy Pants. He pauses at the van door

with his laptop and garment bag — do people use those anymore? — and

leans his head in to greet us.

It’s the first time I get a good look at his face, which is handsome with

sleek, sculptured lines, a no-nonsense countenance although I detect a slyness

lurking beneath. His salt and pepper hair is perfectly combed back, a bit of a

white streak happening around one temple but this guy plays it up, embracing

what I suspect is early middle age. His green-gray eyes match the whole

ensemble, as if he did it on purpose. My gay-dar is beeping rapidly.

“You all remember Carmine Kelsey,” Henry says, adding for me, “and

this is Viola Valentine. The Arkansas trip is her first with us.”

Carmine looks me in the eye for the first time, albeit briefly, raising one

eyebrow. The atmosphere feels uncomfortable. I’m not sure if it’s because

everyone now knows I’m a newbie to this business or Carmine had witnessed

the wet opera singer. I realize someone must move to the back row to

accommodate Carmine, so I take the opportunity to break gaze, stumbling

into the back, the pieces of my press packet flying all over the floor.

“Nice to meet you too,” he says, which garners a laugh from Richard and

Irene, and I immediately dislike the man.

As I rearrange my belongings and attempt to tame my now horribly

wrinkled shirt, Henry jumps in the front and off we go. Richard begins a long

discourse on the state of travel writing today and Henry politely listens while

Irene and Carmine take to their electronics. I want desperately to ask Carmine

about the wet apparition in the airport, but on the flip side, from his haughty

demeanor and sarcastic snide, I want to cross him off my list with the rest of

the van’s occupants.

Instead, I enjoy the rolling countryside of northwest Arkansas with the

budding sycamore and maple trees, fields full of rolled hay and nonchalant

cows and little rolling streams crossing the highway. We pass lovely

farmhouses where people reside with all their belongings, photos carefully

preserved in family albums. We pass a small town and I envy the smiling

faces of the children riding the streets in their Schwins. A man pumps gas at a

self-service, a canoe propped up in the cab of his truck. Two businessmen

stand in a parking lot laughing about something. Butterflies flit past enjoying

roadside flowers.

Suddenly a malaise so deep and powerful consumes me, knowing

normalcy exists outside the borders of my disaster zone. I don’t know why I

should be shocked that the rest of the country lives on, but I feel betrayed. I

want to be these people. I want to wake up in a bed where all my belongings

exist where I put them the night before.

I close my eyes, remembering why I am here. “This is what you wanted

and Katrina gave it to you,” I tell myself.

But I can’t help wanting more, and that black hole that took the place of

my heart years ago when Lillye died opens up once more, swallowing me

whole.

“Isn’t that right, Viola?”

I realize with horror that Henry has been asking me questions. I wonder

how long I have been in the dark place this time.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re from New Orleans.”

Where once was polite acknowledgement — with a bit of sarcasm from

Carmine — there is now complete attention. All eyes sans Henry gaze upon

me, filled with a look I have come to abhor. Pity.

I offer up a comforting smile and shrug. Sure, lost my house and

everything in it. Car was found seven blocks away. Chimney saved me from

blowing into the good state of Mississippi, after which I got this blistering

sunburn while sunbathing on the roof for two days. No biggie. Needed a

vacation anyway.

Of course, I say nothing. I don’t want to discuss it. Any of it. But the

questions fly fast and furious.

“Did you ride it out?”

Yes, had to, my job at the newspaper demanded it.

“Did you lose anything?”

Yes, everything.

“Everything?”

Yes, everything but my good looks. The attempt at humor fails miserably.

“Where are you living now?”

Two hours west in Cajun Country. In a potting shed if you ask my mom.

Again, not even a smile.

“What do you think of Bush and FEMA?”

At this point, I’ve had enough. I don’t want to think about Bush, can’t

bear to hear him speak anymore. And FEMA owes me money. More than

anything, I don’t want to talk about Katrina!!

“Where are we heading first?” I ask Henry over the cacophony of

questions.

Henry explains how we are all checking into our hotels in the Bentonville

area for the night and then meeting back in our respective lobbies for a quick

overview of the historic downtown and then dinner. I ask him about his

family — and yes, I’m repeating myself — but the rest of the van seems to

get the idea that the conversation is over. They stop talking to me and I study

my press packet for the rest of the trip.

We arrive at my hotel, a chain but lovely with a stone fireplace in the

center of the lobby. I marvel at rocks; we have none in South Louisiana. Just

mud. I caress my hands over the quartz and swear I can feel the vibrations.

New Age people say I’m blessed, everyone else says I’m crazy, but rocks

have always spoken to me in one way or another. Most of the time it’s to say,

“Take me home,” and I always oblige. My chest hurts as I wonder where all

those crystals and rocks I’ve gathered over the years have ended up.

“There’s an indoor pool,” Irene says, breaking my thoughts. “Wanna grab

a swim tonight?”

I take one look at the luscious pool with its emerald waters and

neighboring hot tub, two sights that would have normally enticed me to

indulge, no hesitation at all, but I want nothing of it.

“I’m not a swimmer,” I lie to Irene.

As Irene heads down the hall to the elevators, I take one last look at the

pool, swallowing hard to dislodge the lump choking my breath. The wet

opera singer waves to me from beside the water.