Another Kind of Hurricane (29 page)

They made it to the top.

The shiny white rock was jagged. It wasn't slippery like the gray rock had been.

“What is that?” asked Zavion.

“Quartz,” said Henry.

A thick fog had rolled in and it was hard to see very far ahead, but the boys could place the heels of their shoes against raised pieces of quartz to keep their balance as they climbed up the last bit of the mountain.

A bird sang from a nearby shrub.

“What is that?” asked Zavion.

“A white-throated sparrow,” said Henry. “They sound like chickadees underwater.”

“You're kidding.”

“They do, though, don't they?”

The bird sang again.

“Wow, yeah. They'd feel at home in New Orleans right about now.”

They came around a bend and into a clearing. Instantly the trees became shrubs and the dirt gave way to long sheets of rock. The wind whipped through the air. Brae chased it, his ears perked up and his tail held high.

“What is that?” Zavion asked, pointing at the dense, low shrubs off to the side of the trail.

“Tundra,” said Henry. “Cool, huh?”

“That's how high we are?”

“That's how high.”

Henry wished they could see farther than a few feet in front of them. Zavion had come all this way and Henry wanted to show him the view.

Zavion walked closer to what he thought was the edge of the mountain, but then he stopped because he couldn't see far enough in front of his face and he was afraid of falling. He looked down at the ground instead.

“It looks like a marble,” he said.

“What does?” asked Henry.

“The rock. Look at it.”

The rock was swirls of gray and white and even green. It did. It looked like a giant marble.

Henry walked to the center of the largest sheet of rock. He
got down on his hands and knees and ran his fingers along its swirling lines.

How had he never noticed that before?

Brae stopped chasing the wind and stood still, his ears perked up high, and then he tore off into the tundra. Zavion took the marble out of his pocket and held it up to the sky. Its blue oceans and green mountains and its very own blazing sun broke through the fog and glowed.

Henry leaned over to look at the marble.

“Maybe this is Louisiana right here,” he said, pointing to a spot of green.

“And this is North Carolina,” said Zavion pointing too.

“So then maybe this is Grandmother Mountain,” said Henry.

“And this is Vermont,” said Zavion.

“And this is Mount Mansfield.”

“And this is its peak.”

“And this is—” Brae barked and Henry turned his head. “Jeezum Crow—”

“What?” said Zavion, turning to look where Henry was staring.

“Tiger,” Henry whispered. Brae lay in the tundra, and walking back and forth under his chin was a small striped cat. Henry stared at Tiger, who finally saw him and stared back, his
yellow eyes piercing Henry's. He sauntered over to Henry and Zavion. Henry dropped to his knees as if the whole sky had just pushed against his shoulders.

“Nopie was right,” Henry whispered. “Tiger's been looking for Wayne.”

The wind blew the fog away, and the boys could see down into the valley.

“I haven't seen color in so long,” said Zavion.

“Yeah, New Orleans was gray,” said Henry. “I mean literally gray.”

Zavion laughed. “True,” he said.

After they stood silent for a while, Zavion offered the marble to Henry. “Do you want this back?”

Henry took the marble in his hand. He stared at it. Then he pulled his arm back like he was getting ready to pitch a baseball.

“I could just throw it over the edge,” he said. But then he dropped his arm. “Nah, I can't.” He tossed it into the air and caught it again. Then he handed it back to Zavion. “I think you should have it,” he said.

Zavion turned the marble over and over in his hand. “You're sure you want to give it to me?” he said.

Henry felt his boots standing firm on the rock. He felt the wind biting the edges of his ears. He peered into the valley, saw a break in the trees, and wondered if that was his dirt road, wondered if he could see his house. He glanced down. Brae and Tiger lay curled together on the tundra, their fur soaking up the sun.

“I'm sure,” he said.

“Maybe Papa can help us paint a mural on that wall,” said Zavion. “The one under the ledge. You know, where we waited out the storm? We could paint a face—”

“A few faces, maybe. That would be cool,” said Henry. “Maybe we can ask Nopie to help.” He shook his head. “I can't believe I just said that.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh! Cockroach!”

“Nopie?”

“Huh? Oh no, no. The answer is cockroach. The name of an insect that can live for a few weeks with its head cut off. Cockroach.” Henry reached down to give Tiger a pat on the head. “Knowing Nopie, he probably can too.” He and Zavion laughed. “Tell Skeet for me, okay?”

Zavion felt his sneakers standing firm on the rock. He felt the wind stinging the inside of his nose. He peered into the
valley, saw a break in the trees, and wondered if that was the dirt road that led to Jake's house. He had done it. He had climbed to the top of the mountain.

“Maybe you can tell Skeet yourself. When you visit me in New Orleans…,” Zavion said.

“You think you're going back?”

“I think so,” said Zavion. “I think Papa wants to stay there. I think I want to too.”

“I'd like that,” said Henry. “To visit you there.”

“I could give you the marble when you come.”

“I might want it by then.”

“Until you come,” said Zavion, unwinding the scarf from around his neck, “keep this, okay?”

It wasn't about luck. It never had been. The marble practically had a string attached to it. Henry saw that clearly now. Zavion saw it. The marble had a sort of magic. Back and forth. Back and forth, weaving between them. And it wasn't just in the marble. It was in the whole world. The magic was in the space between. In all the pieces connecting.

In all the pieces connecting, falling apart, and connecting again.

The wind blew and the fog rolled right back in, covering everything. It was as if the valley had never been there. But it was there. Henry had seen it. Zavion had seen it. Like their joy and even like their fear, it would seem to come and go, but it didn't change the fact that the valley was there all the time.

The wind blew a third time, and the fog disappeared once again.

“Does that happen often up here?” said Zavion.

“Yup,” said Henry. “All you have to do is wait a few seconds, and things change.”

—

Henry and Zavion stood on the edge of the mountain, on the edge of the earth, where the sun and the moon shine over rivers and valleys, oceans and forests, cities and farmland. They breathed in and out, in and out, a spiral of mountain and river and air, a spiral of dog and cat and bird, a spiral of boy and boy and a marble traveling between them.

Five years ago my life changed. Tropical Storm Irene swept through my state of Vermont, my town, my street, and
my home—
and all of a sudden I was inside
Another Kind of Hurricane
in a way I had never,
ever
imagined.

I know, now, how floodwater smells. How heavy flood mud is, and how it sticks to everything it touches. I know what it feels like to walk down a block lined with more refrigerators than trees and more garbage than grass. Facing cleanup is lonely—deep-in-the-bones lonely—and it's also a lesson in losing control. Part of that loss of control means surrendering to the awful thing that has happened, but another part means accepting help—from friends and from strangers. And that's why I also know what it feels like to have a stranger walk up my front steps and ask if she can take the pile of muddy, wet laundry from my yard and wash it for me—and to not know what to say—and to finally say
yes
—and to have my life change forever because of that one word.

Put simply, that stranger and I—we became friends.

And this is just what happens between Henry and Zavion.

I got the idea for
Another Kind of Hurricane
from my oldest son, who, when he was four, asked the question, “Who exactly is going to get my blue jeans?” as we dropped off a bag of food and clothing for the Hurricane Katrina Relief Drive at the Vermont State Police barracks in September of 2005.

I read many articles and blogs and books as research for this story. I interviewed people. I watched countless documentaries. Hurricane Katrina was the largest and third-strongest hurricane to touch the United States, ever. It reached Category 5 proportions, with wind
speeds up to 175 miles per hour and a storm surge—the rising of the sea based on atmospheric pressure and wind speed—of 20 feet high. About 80 percent of New Orleans was underwater during Katrina, and almost one million families in the Gulf Coast region were forced to live outside of their homes for at least a while. The list of incredible facts goes on and on.

But the facts don't describe the amazing people who were affected by Katrina. People like:

That
list goes on and on too.

After all of that research, I felt as though I knew—as best I could—what it had been like during those harrowing days of the hurricane. I felt emotionally connected to the incredible people who had survived such a tragic disaster. And it was from this place that I wrote
Another Kind of Hurricane
. I hope Henry and Zavion's story does justice to the resilient, beautiful people of New Orleans, but I recognize, after Tropical Storm Irene, that I can't ever know someone else's perspective exactly. What I've come to realize is that striving for knowledge and empathy, while accepting that we might not be able to totally get it, is truly the best we can do.

There is magic within the pages of
Another Kind of Hurricane
: how one boy in Vermont and another boy in New Orleans can come together in such a strange and stunning way. And I wonder, now, if my experience with Tropical Storm Irene is a part of that magic. Regardless, it has become an accidental author's gift—a window into the truth of my characters' lives. I am eternally grateful for that.