In this fourth installment, the eye of Katrina has passed, but what it's left in its wake can't yet be imagined.
- by Ellis Anderson 
Webb School after Katrina. The front looks relatively intact, but in fact, much of the roof is gone from the back side of the house. The boat Augusta's family arrived in can be seen to the right. Photo by Joe Tomasovsky.
But the rapping came again, insistent and much too rhythmic to be caused by the fitful winds that shook the house. I hurried into the kitchen and found Jimmie and my neighbor Paul patiently waiting on the landing. I pulled them into the house, where they shook the rain off themselves like big dogs climbing out of a pond. I had lots of questions, all fighting to be first in line. The winner was one about Mimi. Jimmie assured us that she was fine. “The boat people are watching her,” he said. I couldn’t quite get my head around that. Boat people? Jimmie began to reel off a jumble of details, but they bounced off my exhausted brain like children on a taut trampoline: My house had become a shelter for the neighborhood. The first arrival was Paul. Paul’s apartment across the street from me had lost the roof and then began to flood. He’d grabbed his kitten and waded to my house to take refuge with Mimi and Jimmie. 
Joe's house before Katrina
Joe's house after Katrina
The two men had tried to minimize the damage inside by patching broken panes of glass and putting out pots to catch the numerous leaks. In the frenzy, Jimmie had been blown from a ladder while trying to secure a transom window in the living room. He’d landed solidly on his hip, but could still manage to walk. Then a boat had floated to my house with four people clinging to the sides. Jimmie helped the sodden survivors inside and made them as comfortable as possible. The new arrivals said they were neighbors of mine from down the street, but Jimmie couldn’t remember their names. When the water had gone down, he and Paul decided to cross the yard to Joe’s house to check on us. The boat people agreed to keep an eye on the sleeping Mimi while they were gone. Jimmie reported that my two dogs, Frieda and Jack, were safe and seemed to be enjoying the adventure. The night before I’d made the hard decision to leave them at my house for the storm. I was worried they’d add to Cleo’s anxiety if I’d brought them to Joe’s. Both dogs loved Jimmie, who had sat for them before, so this good news relieved me of a nagging guilt. 
Frieda and Jack in Webb Schoolhouse shortly before Katrina. photo by Ellis Anderson
Frieda, taken shortly after Katrina by Joe.
But the house hadn’t fared as well as I’d imagined. Jimmie said that water poured through the ceilings and cascaded down the walls. Light fixtures had filled with rain and smashed to the floor, scattering glass everywhere. Four transom windows had blown out, and hurricane force winds whipped through the interior. Jimmie and I had parked our cars beneath the house for protection. Both had been submerged in the surge and were certainly totaled. The afternoon before, I’d mentioned to Joe that I’d taken the precau- tion of putting my musical instruments and family photos in the trunk of my car. It was part of my normal hurricane routine. If the roof came off, at least my most sacred possessions would be safe. “I think you should put them upstairs,” he said. His tone of voice had a peculiar resonant quality when he spoke that single line, as if he were an oracle channeling a warning. I didn’t argue, although reason was on my side. Hedging my bet, I had moved the guitar and violin and half of the family photos upstairs. I was suddenly very grateful to Joe. 
Webb School grounds before Katrina
The grounds of Webb School the afternoon of Katrina, photo by Joe Tomasovsky
Jimmie finished his recital and then raided Joe’s ibuprofen stash for his pain. He and Paul set out back for my house. Almost as soon as they’d left, water began invading Joe’s living room. The limbs that had hit his roof in the night had caused more damage than we’d first thought. We worked without pause for the next few hours. I handled the bucket bri- gade inside—mopping, emptying the many containers, catching new leaks as they sprang from the ceiling. Part of the ceiling eventually collapsed. Meanwhile, Joe sorted through his garage, which had flooded and lost the roof. He worked frantically to save the photography equipment he’d stored there, but it was mostly wasted effort. Around midafternoon, the gusts and rain began to slacken. I slid on my raincoat and began the trek back to my own house. The well-worn path had become an obstacle course. I leapt over branches, lumber, roofing tin, and railroad ties. My three huge oaks still stood, but they’d lost half their branches and were stripped of leaves. The yard was a thicket of cruelly amputated tree limbs. Coming in through the back door, I didn’t recognize my own kitchen. A grim confetti of glass shards covered every surface. The entire ceiling dripped water, so it appeared to be raining inside. Pots and pans placed to catch the leaks had been outnumbered and sat overflowing in the shallow pool that covered the floor. I sloshed through to my living room. Frieda was napping on a wet sofa, but Jack met me with his normal exuberant welcome, hoping it was time for a bike ride. In typical doggie fashion, he seemed unaware that anything was out of the ordinary. I found Mimi in bed, nested in the one relatively dry corner of the house. She held a radio to her ear and waved me off when I asked what she needed. Her only complaint was that “the blasted news only talks about New Orleans. There’s not one word about the Gulf Coast.” We didn’t know that this would be a permanent trend. I forced one of the front doors open and looked over the railing. The boat below canted to one side, the bow nosed into my azaleas. A dirty cot- ton rope secured it to my porch railing. I leaned over the rail, scanning the neighborhood. Most of the surrounding houses still stood, though many had been shorn of their roofs. The cabinet shop across the street had been completely demolished by the winds. When I looked up the block to the west, my view was obstructed by an entire house resting in the middle of the street.
I went looking for the “boat people” and found two of them in the dining
room. I recognized them as my neighbors who lived on Citizen Street, about a block closer to the beach. Augusta and her daughter, Augusta-Inez, had houses next to each other. Both were soaked through and shrouded with towels. Jimmie had served them cheese and crackers on a blue glass plate. The refugee kitten played hide-and-seek with my dogs beneath their chairs. Tired to the bone, we sat passively around the table, indifferent to the blasts of wind tearing through the broken windows and around the high ceilings. I offered them some water and we drank from the plastic bottles, while Augusta gave me an abbreviated version of their escape. She, her daughter, and two grown sons had been floundering in the rap- idly rising water in the middle of Citizen Street. They’d been on the brink of drowning, trying to make it to higher ground. A boat had floated by and they’d grabbed hold, managing to steer it to my house—the only raised building in the neighborhood. It was an astonishing tale, but I didn’t realize then that it was actually a ghost story. I wouldn’t hear the full account until more than three weeks had passed. We were quiet for a few minutes. Finally, to make some conversation, I said, “It’s got to be over soon.” Both women nodded their heads. We didn’t understand that our ordeal was just beginning.
Next Installment: Chapter 6 - Lionel's Boat
My house is a quarter mile from the Gulf, yet five months after Katrina, there’s still a boat beached in my front yard. It’s an ugly boat. The fiberglass is flaking and dark stains mottle the lackluster hull. It’s the sort of small power skiff that’s used to fish in bayous or in our shallow bay. There’s no motor now. The interior—where fishermen used to land their catches, swap tales, and drink cold beers out of coolers—is filled with branches, leaves, and mud. This boat’s been around the block a few times. Literally. The boat didn’t arrive at my house in the normal way—on a trailer. It sailed the streets of my town, borne by the greatest storm surge in American history. Coming to rest at my porch like some battered gondola from Venice, it carried four souls to safety, four names that would have been added to the long list of Katrina’s dead. Augusta thinks it was steered by a spirit. to be continued... 
Under Surge, Under Siege is available in paperback and as an ebook.
In 2011, Anderson founded her first digital publication, the Shoofly Magazine and served as publisher from 2011 - 2022. She established French Quarter Journal in 2019, where she currently serves as publisher and managing editor. Anderson currently divides time between the New Orleans French Quarter and Mobile, Alabama.
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