"Little Ice Age"

Short Story

“Little Ice Age”

It was cold as a shock for an early September, at least as Norleans reckoned it. Back when Robert E. Lee was dead it would not be spoken in that kind of way. Even in Trina’s lifetime, it would be obscene to phrase it in that those terms. Katrina recalled when the weather was, well, the weather. Out in California, it was climate, where the days run into each other like a procession of days just like the last, and nights that were similarly inclined. But here in Bayou Louisiana they still had Weather, with a capital ‘W’, even a Girl Scout knew that. But now the weather disturbed everyone but especially Katrina, in an eerie contemporary zone. Fishing her eyes over the sparse road with trees going up the middle on the divider and poles on the edges, this was a distant New Orleans from the picture book spread. Though the city was dying it sent out waves, a fortress besieged.

The name was given to her as a joke, in that way which the Little Years spun things. It was a very hot August late in the summer months and her father, over his fat hands, told the ob/gyn nurse: “Well I suppose you should call her Katrina.” He smirked because at the time it was a Tropical Storm. In those days, what the father wanted he often got, as was said: “good and hard,” with a reference to H.L. Menken on Democracy. Trina chuckled because the father often got what he wanted; the mother made sure that her family got want it needed. Even when her firstborn was technical out-of-wedlock. Marriage was inevitable.

As she was walking down on high-rise heels, her overstuffed bag was long to burst with her weekly assignment. It was Monday and that’s the way it was: assignments galore. Until she could put those little letters after her name, it was all she could want, it was all she could wish for, and it was all that she could into being from her tiny body. No ancestor could say that ‘I am a college graduate’ until her mother. She walked along the stifling pavement, so far from the French Quarter where her ancestors used to cry for bread, and another thought began to gnaw at her psyche, with a smooth face and an uplifting turn of back. She almost, but not quite, plunged it into the deep unconscious where it should in truth belong. But her attire was out of some other era, with light blue decorated with lace (which her mother preferred), and did not account for truth the way our ears contrived it.

Scanning the bungalows and shotgun houses along with the old Ninth Ward until her eyes alight on the one which she, for as long as she could remember, was home. Shotgun on Tupelo Street, in both reality and her memory. Her mother was the General and since daddies’ death, she could say so in public. Her momma still ruled the kitchen with an iron glove, and there was iron all the way down. In Katrina’s odd moments, she would admit that this was the way that she had grown accustomed to it and would not have it any other way. But admit this to someone else? Never. But there was also her grandmother who all of the children called the Sweetmommy because when she cooked there was always some sort of sweet thing that rolled around the inside of the mouth. But the days where there was happiness were now few and far between. That is why they called it an ‘inundation’ and meant every syllable. Katrina still remembered the flooding of the streets in picture books with the submerged roofs of cars. The reality was unknown to her.

Up the short pedestrian stairs and in. Then she walked in with no more fuss than could be expected from a member of the family. Everything was still the way that she could remember it if she tried. Is true that the young’uns were now grandchildren, and that made Sweetmommy a great-grandmother.

“Well look who we have here. My best student.” Of course, this was Sweetmommy. A wide frame with open arms that begged for a hug from her grandchild. She gives the kids free samples of this.

Then her mother asked: “How were your classes today?”

“It was the usual, assignments till the students’ eyes cried.” Automatically she checks her shoulder bag for essentials, but everything was still there, just like last time. And the time before that. Ad infinitum. 0 would never be her hero.

Her mother twirled around to stir the gumbo and asked from the back: “Do you think you will be able to survive this semester?”

“I always do. Every teacher says I am precious.” With a swoop on the last vowel. She had learned about Milman Parry and the oral in Western Lit.

With that, the conversation went into minute detail of her Master of Fine Arts classes. First around the kitchen and then at the fine oak table in the dining room. The dining table was her father’s prized possession in the flood. Trina had been told multiple times of the story: how it had been placed inside a nearby apartment building, where his father had a friend, and the machinations where the friend wanted “payment” for its return. That was the last either of the two families had spoken.

A rock had reached through the shotgun house’s back window two years later, but no one had any proof of who did it. There were other things to worry about. That was the event that Trina could just remember: her speaking began. And it started her loquaciousness: non-stop talking from her. “What was that? Why did someone throw it? Was there a reason? How could he throw it?” To which Sweetmommy replied: “Hush your mouth.”

Trina was a middle child and momma, however, knew something was up. So, she pushed and pressed hard on the system. The men who were elected to positions had their own reasons for going along. Trina graduated from high school at 12. She finished her bachelor’s degree in three years. Each step the General was behind the master plan. Bazamataz!

It was at this point, with the pecan pie being served, that Trina said: “I would like to go to the university’s library.” Her skirt grapple on the oak chair as Katrina waited for the answer.

The General looked sternly. “Are you sure that it is studying that you want to do?”

Trina only nodded.

Sweetmomma nodded and added: “Be back by 10 because is 9ish when they close.”

It is at that point that Trina responded: “That is only if you want to check something out, but it runs 24 hours a day to study during the week, and I need the references. Can I go until 11?” The act of pronouncing references doubled ‘fer’ and ‘nces’ to half their normal length making it almost sound like ‘fences.’

“Well now, if that is the case then we should let your mama decide.”

 The General listened and finally said: “Just so long as you do not touch the three B’s and you really do mean to study.” Boys, booze, and ‘backward’ which means cigarettes in someplace that her mother used to frequent.

Trina grab both the bookbag and oversize white purse and followed the General out to the run-down Ford red Escape. Trina was loaded and her mother drove her to Tulane, knowing just where the library was.

“I have a question.” Trina's eye said she had a secret.

“What is it?” Momma but really thinking about maneuvering the car so as to get a bead on Freret Street when she turned off of Broadway. There was a short movement of the light blue signage for ‘The Boot’ on the way by, which prompted momma to stare along the street and declare: “I certainly will not want to see you in that student-run establishment anytime soon.” The words were clipped and precise and most definitely formal in their denunciation.

“Promise you directly that that never did that cross my mind.” The very idea of packing your flesh into the cavernous brown building was not appealing, though for different reasons than Trina wanted to discuss with the General. “Can I ask the question later then?”

At this momma did soften a bit and replied: “You can ask me on the way home.” What momma was looking for was the deflation that came with the plot to get a ride home from someone else was deflated. Momma did not see that but that was because she was not looking hard enough. Trina silently noticed and thought momma is complicit though she does not know for what but begs and pleads to swallow. Look at momma: we will all go together when we go. Trina lurched out.

And with that, Katrina was free as a gull. She kept her word: she was going to the library. She entered TU's view of the universe from the logo on the walls onward.

Howard-Tilton Memorial Library was, in the Southern way of thinking, a modern building set out from the street. White with decoration from the tight pillars and a large 2-story white on the outside and black square on the inside cap with only pine trees to guard its entrance. Katrina walked in a daze because this was her third place: not home on the defensive, not the lecture halls into which was poured knowledge on the offensive, but that place where she thought about all the problems which afflict her, and there were many especially ones which could not be brought up in front of the family. Because while the General was worried about the cognition, there was also a blooming of the body which only time or special medications could contain.

At first, she went down to the stacks and procured several books that she had been intending to read. One or two of them was for class but being a voracious reader meant that class reading was only the beginning. She privately scoffed at those students who complained about the amount of reading and the amount of memorization that the reading required. There was a chair that she had grown accustomed to in the time that she had been to Tulane (after having transferred from The University of New Orleans, which momma considered too up-to-date for anyone’s taste.) And in this chair, she nestles herself and began to read Fagan, a sample of Spinoza, from the tome of readings which assigned Joyce, and T.H. White one the proper way of speaking English. Leave behind the copy of Chekov’s short stories on the shelf which she found boor-ring. C’est coeurs d’ennui.

While the white school wooden chairs were her mother’s taste there were much more of a chaise lounge moderne where she could luxuriate. And think, reason, consider, cogitate. But also wander through the tribulations which afflicted her.

Then Trina rose. There was a breath that was frosty. The person it came from was just coming in through the outdoors. Katrina turned and saw his thin face beneath a raspberry beret. In the evening all coast with gold and gems from Zanzibar from his ears. He was, of course, not so young as she was, which was part of the attraction to her. And him for her. Suddenly, a pigeon lit on the windowsill outside.

“Prince however did you get in here?”

The jacket was leather, and the zips were closed to the cuff. The dungarees were sharp and newly purchased. It was obvious, to him, that he fit the stereotype of a student with a flourish: down and out in a form-fitting way with a hint of sleek.

“I know a way in which they do not check your ID. Collapso-dismo - here I am.”

There was a warmth in her cheeks and a hidden flush that spread all over her face. She dove her hand to grab from her drawstring (Everly Coach, natch, only-on-line) the perfect thing for her Honesty touch-up (her momma had heard it was recommended) but his hands were faster. His zipper bobs started to keep against her flesh. It peeled a shiver.

“Ya doneed anything on your face, I like it just the way it is.” Crescendo crashing on the ‘way.’

“You don’t mean any such thing but thank you nonetheless.” So, stretching her hands to the whisks of his beard, she stopped. “We can’t do much in the library. You can only take me away for an hour at best.”

“Su wen enough.” Imitating the age-old radio to reference the man and his rules. She fenced in her knees in a defensive move but inside she ached. She wanted him to do something – anything - so she could say ‘No’ in some definite fashion. Oh, how she wished for that. Upon all the living and the dying.

Then Katrina pulled herself together. It was a change that radiated through the hall as she stood up. It was her taking command.

“I need to freshen up, but I will be back.” She winked at him and plowed off to the ladies’ room. Prince looked around at the girls with a pounce but then focused on the way that Trina would be coming back to him.

And in some minutes, she was there all in a glow.

He allowed himself to blink at the fine sight of her visage. De-lovely. “You sure take your time, but it is worth the weight, sha.” He touched the back of his beret and seemed to be smitten. From her, this elicited a warm giggle.

With a curtsy. “Shall we go?”

He mocks bowed. “Shall we dance?”

“Mais yeah.” Almost the hint of an exclamation point.

At so, they left for a few blocks to where his car was parked. On one hand, it was a dark blue old Mer-ce-des, on the other, it had a gash down the driver’s side along forward and back. She pretended not to notice. The place to go, to his standard, was the most invincible One-Eyed Jacks, with its luscious purple and gold wallpaper and the lives of live sound on the collage in the hall. It was the finest, she thought, of the French Quarter and the review out of Moulin Rouge. Mob scenes every night with the bounciest of babes flaunting their bustier and hips who tempt you with Marmalade on their pasty green faces. Prince truly was a prince among nobles of the trade: he both gave tips to their girl and received from the mélange of needs looking to get a flood of crank, crack, China Girl, and cheap hot meth with a chaser of heroine. Free at first to hook young, innocent faces turned into tomorrow's clientele. Between times he told her stories that often ended with a crash which she listened intently to. Then the music came and seduced (Want to give it a go?). He whispered to Trina that he had the rumba with another lady for business but planted a kiss on Trina’s ear. (Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?) Katrina watched him as he crumbled his way because he glanced back at her. But his hand was elsewhere, as in Saint Elsewhere to an allegro simpatico. The one thing is that Trina did not partake of refreshment-addled festivities – even alcohol was verboten. She knew that the General would know as the rising of the brass. And anywho, it was the internal fix that she wanted: a galliard internal. There is more to life than the material world.

Out of the corner of her eye, Trina imagined she saw a woman at the bar, streaked with blonde rings and purple lips. All decked with leather across her buxious black frame. Trina looked again to say “Where y’at?” but the woman was gone. Trina looked around because the diamonds alone would have stood out.

In fifteen minutes, Trina realized that she had to go but fortunately, Prince had, just, returned. A few long galocher and then they were back in la voiture near the river. There was a wind on the boulevard that shiver its way over neutral ground. Then she was left on Freret waiting for her momma. The General picked Katrina up but they drove in sullen silence.

Trina knew the was trouble and did not even try to hide from the rock or the Lord, for she knew she was a Sinnerwoman. Finally, the shotgun home and within it, the following scene played out, with three players: the General, Trina, and the belt – with a prop: a box of condoms. At first, it was a couple. Accusing, excuses, pleading. Then the belt came out: a long and pointed tongue belt. A belt that would lash the legs and buttocks with welts that bled. This was not the first hammering that Katrina suffered but it was the most brutal. Trina cried, Trina bawled, Trina yowled, scraping and scrooching. Yet the whip kept coming down.

And then, the young girl snapped. Trina picked herself off the plaid, well-worn settee. Trina tore out of the house. Then she took the side streets to avoid being caught. It rained but she kept striding. Eventually, an ancient Chevy Malibu in yellow stopped and a fat middle-aged man rolled down the passenger side window.

“I cannot believe you are just taking a run.” The eyes spoke, and they spoke of sadness and grief. The torrent watered all the trees, grass, and people. It washed Trina completely until she was a drowned bird.

“I was going to a place. My boyfriend lives there.” There was a pleading which matched his.

The door opened then, and he asked where it was. She told him. He drove her there with no fuss. He remembered how that age went.

Then she asked a question: “What is your name, kind sir?”

He flushed: “Lehrer.” Then he lit a fag, draining it into cancer. The automobile left with broody bloody intention in a soot spleen. As the automobile winked out, Katrina felt that she had been schooled by a teacher. Yet, it was still nibbling at her mouth what it was.

The apartment house was … less. The windows were decidedly antique, and the doors are forgotten. There were irises in the pots and a wisteria down at the street level. It occurred to her how she had read of the poverty of St. Cloud, bet never truly grasped what it meant. The apartment was among few places with green all alistening. The others were too poor. The street was cracked into little hills o’ beans. Now the poor mislaid lost its “o” and “r.”

However, she did not go to the front door, but to the back stoop. It was a riff in several of his histories. She pulled the screen door and pushed the whitewashed tomb into the kitchen. There was an engulfing silence. Across the kitchen to the darkened sitting room in brown. The television was unlit. And then on the overstuffed rocker was the body of her Prince. Laying with a face that was lit blue from the opioids, was another mindless crime.

Then the back door stretched, and Katrina turned, and saw. It was the face of the temptress moon with ringlets still in tow. There were Mercedes keys on her belt.

The mouth spoke but none of her face was in the right syncopation: “I think you should leave here no one wants to find you in the orgies of bacchanalia.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It is my pad; he was just roomin’.”

“I do not have any place to go.”

“No, you just do want to be there right now. You are not the first to lay bewitched under the power of his gab and inquiries, though you may be the last.” Emphasis on the word ‘may’ as if there was still doubt.

Trina glance at her prince and then retreated to the streets and stars, like poison birds. She drifted over the boulevards and bridges. For a while, she went into an open Apostolic church as she left her glance recorded a terminus where holy water had rested. Then went out to the land where once beguiled the old lamplighters at work. She ambled until in the streets, near dawn, when a hung dog and blustering cock fighting on a house roof over the night ending and the day beginning. A car stopped and pulled over on that row of houses. A familiar car. And then Sweetmomma put her head out.

“Child it is time to come home.” Caressing with a soft voice.

“I will. But only if that stitch is thrown out.”

“You drive an impossible bargain.”

“You were the mother once, you were the teacher, once. You may be sweet, but you’re the one who found me. Not the General.” The words bit hard.

“It will take more than a strap to be set free. It will take some time.”

“Time is what I have, mostly.”

Sweetmomma looked and realized that this one was ready to fly. She pulled her head in and very carefully checked everything. Then the Escape drove off, into the East. Katrina would see the car again, when she got home. Later. Until then: peace of elegy, as the show of dawn was breaking.

Vatican rag is out, and instead, Katrina metaphased in onomatopoeical song in the pantomime: “It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns.” The ache which gripped her a moment ago was blasted; what remained behind was the realization of the warmth that came afterward: the little ice age blooming.

Fin.