Recovering Charles Read Free Page A

channel again. An unknown but attractive, well-groomed female reporter was outside giving an update on the state of the Superdome. The sun was beating down on those camped along the sidewalk and cries could be heard all around her.
    In the background, a black man knelt over a body covered from the neck down with a gray bedsheet. He pulled the sheet over the body’s head and turned toward the camera, screaming in agony.
    Bernard.
    Tears began to drop for a man I’d never meet face-to-face and for the woman he loved.
    I found yet another channel offering wall-to-wall coverage, but I don’t remember which. They were showing a series of still shots set to a slickly produced dramatic soundtrack—
    A body in a grassy median, covered with a stunningly vibrant American flag.
    National Guard troops on helicopters.
    The roof of the Superdome. Most of its tiles ripped in half or missing completely. The building best suited to handle high winds in all the Crescent City in trouble. Bitterly ironic, I thought. Water is leaking in. Hope is flooding out.
    Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour hugs a woman outside a temporary shelter.
    Mormon missionaries hand out cases of water in a church parking lot.
    A man and a teenager paddle three young children down a street in a canoe. A fire burns behind them in an upscale neighborhood.
    Cars stuck in an alley, buried under ten feet of water. They look like colored marbles at the bottom of a mud puddle.
    A young, tall black man pushes a dead woman—probably his mother—in a wheelchair.
    A red Chevy Cavalier sits in a hotel swimming pool.
    A man sits alone on an overpass, clutching a black case. I wonder if it’s a saxophone.
    ~ ~
     
    I was fourteen and certainly not the most popular kid in Mrs. Ingham’s eighth grade music class. Everyone else had no trouble picking an instrument during the first week. We spent two days goofing around on twenty-year-old trombones, trumpets, clarinets, and whatever else Mrs. Ingham pulled from a closet in the back of the band room.
    Wednesday was decision day.
    “Can I pick last?” I’d always known I’d go with whatever Chrissy Alves picked. She’d never even looked at me before, but playing the same instrument might finally be the excuse I needed to say hello or punch her in the arm the way other boys did to the girls they liked.
    Mrs. Ingham smiled warmly. “I suppose, Luke.”
    One by one the other kids announced their choices. Big Spencer chose the bass drum. No surprise there, not with the way he liked beating up on people. Olivia chose the violin because she already owned one and had taken a few private lessons. Our popular eighth grade class president, Matthew, went with the tuba, and Green Beret-bound Glen chose the trumpet. His best friend Bryan went for the tambourine on the theory it would give him the greatest opportunity to sleep during class. Caleb only wanted to sing, and quite loudly, but Mrs. Ingham made him pick an instrument anyway.
    “But my voice is an instrument,” Caleb argued.
    “I know, Caleb, and a finely-tuned instrument it is, but chorus doesn’t start until next semester. So choose a musical instrument, please.”
    He went for the cymbals and played them with gusto.
    The Wages twins picked saxophones. Jay had really wanted to play the bassoon but the school didn’t own one. He settled for the trombone. The new girl from Minnesota picked an orange-colored French horn that was already bent.
    Then came Chrissy. She sat at the end of the row below me; I was perched alone on the highest riser. I looked at her profile and admired her sparkly purple hairband. I prayed, Please don’t pick the—
    “Flute!” she announced proudly.
    Mrs. Ingham smiled toward me again. She clearly enjoyed this. “And last but not least, how about you up there at the top? Mr. Millward? The flute for you as well?” She winked. I hated it when teachers winked.
    The boys giggled and Spencer practically screamed, “You two will make beautiful music