The Ray of Hope

He met Belinda’s eyes in a way where nothing needed to be said. The panic and emotional struggle of an all too real human condition, had suddenly sent them in a clouded fall, reeling and tumbling head over heels. He prayed his soul would swell and for a moment take over his literal and practical life, rise from his chest and inspire him to carve a way out of this dead-end. His mind swam, the enormity of life and death without disguise permeated everything. The whole universe, perhaps, was participating in this whirlwind moment.

He glanced at the empty street behind them, then looked at his watch; the numbers on the dial ran circles around each other. Belinda moaned and clamped down on his hand. What could he do? If he ran, he could make it to Mercy in eight to ten minutes. He cringed knowing they had left the house in a panic, with no regard whatsoever to what had been discussed and practiced. They just fled without her bag or a cell phone. He had grabbed the car keys and they took off in a panic, certain they’d be at the hospital within minutes. All he had was his wallet from the hall table.

There were no homes, no front doors to knock on this close to the medical district, only the occasional office that wouldn’t open till eight.

“I gotta get to a busier street,” he told her.

“Don’t leave me,” Belinda wailed as she fought another strong contraction. The baby’s head had lowered and she knew it would not be long before it crowned and she would have to push.

“Bae, I gotta get around a corner, and…”

He hated leaving her, but if he had stayed, he wouldn’t have found help. Fortunately, Keisha had been born safely just moments after entering the emergency room. Her body, less than eight pounds, was strong, and he recalled how he felt when he first cradled her in his arms early that morning. Every trial, mistake, joy crystalized in her fresh, bright, mesmerizing eyes; he was renewed.

Today was her birthday, and he missed her as he reminisced about her birth. It had been a harrowing night of confusion and helplessness, followed by sheer elation. Nothing brought him happiness like Belinda and Keisha. He savored the thoughts, let the vision of them linger and warm him. It felt like before, when he was with them, when he was complete and lived in a world surrounded by love.

Wynton paused, shook off the momentary memory and began surveying the throngs of people lumbering past his station, assessing who was returning home or just passing through. New Orleans residents had a keen interest in the way others perceived them, he thought. A strange attribute from a people who defend and embrace traditions regardless of how odd or seemingly archaic.

Working in security for Customs, he knew the Port of New Orleans gave rise to unlikely forms of life: crazy vendors who curse at you if you pass by declining to purchase their wares, old men with gray knee-length beards and dreadlocks, cooks who carry lemons and spices in their pockets.

This, after all, was the place of grunge and ghosts, drawn carriages and cobblestones, nudity and rooftop parties. The place of Blue Dog art, drive-thru daiquiris, streetcars, and go-cups. Where humidity swathed the body in slow-melting ham fat, where Mardi Gras was a lifestyle, and tawdry behavior burst along the seams of Bourbon Street. Unlike any other American city, New Orleans oozed with daring mysticism and outrageous whimsy.

It is never routine, he reflected, as his eyes rifled through the crowd. New Orleans portrayed everything in life as fragile and precarious, and that nothing should be taken for granted. He glanced at his wristwatch, 2:58; he’d take another welcomed coffee break soon. That’s when he spotted Eric and Sara Doussaint. They were grappling for their things after an overstuffed, canvas bag had been searched and was spilling out onto the floor. They were too distracted by the disarray to notice anything else. Wynton however, had a keen eye for trouble lurking among the mundane.

They have lost their edge, he thought, as he watched them gather their things. He spied out the station window at all the tourists shuffling down the gangway like sheep mindlessly clamoring along in a flock. He considered that perhaps a few days at sea, and the ocean waves had lulled and dulled their senses, quieted their instincts that could serve them well.

Louisiana’s occasional back-up in dry dock, and recent cruise scandals of illnesses and inept personnel had slowed ticket purchases. Despite profit risk, companies were lowering costs hoping to lure travelers back and gain an uptick in sales. Lowered prices attracted more people, and as far as Wynton was concerned, more people meant more criminal elements. Today was no different.

He spotted the ragged rail of a man with the Doussaints, who squatted alongside Sara to help her collect clothing, and placed a small, semitransparent cylinder in among the fabric. She had been played without knowing it, or she was part of the game. When Wynton approached them with his hand atop his side-arm, Sara looked up at his tall, statuesque figure with fear. Eric was already standing with his hands raised asserting there had been a mistake, though he didn’t know what the mistake could be since they had just arrived and were cleared. Wynton motioned for Humberto Alvarez, a nearby guard, to assist him, and the two agents escorted the three of them to a small, concrete room to the right of the escalators. Wynton’s muscular frame made the room even smaller when he entered and stood beside Alvarez.