Katrina Rules

As always, all story characters are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * *

It was August 2005. I was set to begin my junior year at Tulane University, but the city was emptying out. I stayed, convinced that Hurricane Katrina would turn right and head for Florida; they always did. On Saturday night I went out with the guys, but the scene was dead and I got home relatively early. I learned in the months since Gabrielle dumped me that all night drunken excursions with the guys bitching about women did not leave me missing her any less, but did leave me with a blinding hangover. At the apartment there was a message from Mom asking me to come home to help get the house ready for the storm. I figured that even with my knowledge of the back roads, traffic would be a mess the next day. I decided to get up early; I set my alarm for 5:00 A.M.

Mom lived in Abita Springs, a town of about 2,500 people, normally an hour's drive from school. That Sunday it took closer to three. We had never really discussed why she'd moved there, leaving the gated community in which she and Dad had lived before he passed away two years ago. When I thought about it, which was almost never, I figured it was because Abita had a slightly different feel from the rest of the conservative parish in which it was located, a bit funkier, a bit more artsy. These parts of Mom's personality had become more pronounced after Dad's death.

I called Mom when ten minutes from the house; I was greeted at the door with a kiss, hug, and the smell of bacon, ham, eggs, and grits. Old fashioned, to the point, delicious. Since Dad's death Mom had taken up cooking. Her life as a bank president's wife included plenty of restaurant meals and formal entertaining with the de rigueur maids and cooks, but little actual cooking. Growing up I was more often fed on doggie bags from one of New Orleans' great restaurants - Mom's insistence of bringing home leftovers was, in her, an endearing trait - than anything cooked in our McMansion's massive kitchen.

I chowed down; we had a long day ahead of us.

Mom had already done much of the preparing. The generator was working and there were plentiful supplies of gasoline and water and enough food in the deep freezer to feed us for a month. After checking on the storm's progress - overnight it turned gargantuan and was aimed dead at us - we turned to the storm shutters. Their rusty hinges required plenty of oil and muscle and took most of the morning. On the roof we cleaned the gutters, nailed down a few loose shingles, and cleared away the branches that had grown close to the house. Most of the families near us had evacuated, but the Johnsons', two doors down, had stayed. They saw us working, figured they should be doing the same, and asked to borrow our ladder and saws. Nice people, but not proficient with tools; Mom and I ended up doing most of the work for them.

We were wrapping up the Johnsons' roof when a car pulled up. A man and woman stepped out and shouted for Mom. Mom said they were the Mayor and Police Chief and asked me to join them after I finished cleaning up.

I did. "Louis, Bev, this is my son Austin. He came home for the storm."

"Looks like he came home to be put to work," Bev responded.

Mom explained the reason for their visit. The city attorney had evacuated; Louis had asked if she'd provide legal advice if needed in the wake of the hurricane.

"I told them sure, although I'm an intellectual property lawyer, not a municipal lawyer."

The Mayor would have none of it.

"Your Mom's the smartest lady I know, no disrespect to the Chief here. How long have you lived here Natalie?"

"About two years."

"Seems like a lot longer. She's invaluable to the community. I hope she doesn't want my job some day."

We ate with the Johnsons', their way of saying thank you. Back home we turned on the television. Landfall was predicted for early morning.

* * * *

I'd heard stories about Betsy and Camille, but you have to witness a hurricane to comprehend its power. The wind was coming from the north and the house faced south; we spent much of the morning on the enclosed front porch, watching and listening to the storm. Howling wind really does sound like a freight train and the trees didn't blow over, they exploded; their trunks shattering under the torque imposed on them by the wind. By late morning it was over. We stepped outside and despite the fact that all I'd done was watch, I'd been so tense that my muscles were sore and my body stiff. Mom rolled her shoulders; she felt the same.

Mom grabbed my hand. "Let's check on the neighbors."

The street looked like a tunnel in a forest. The asphalt was completely covered in leaves, branches, and occasional tree trunks. The power lines, except, somehow, one with a big tree on it, were down. Mom noticed something that escaped me, birds were everywhere.

"I wonder how they survived the storm?"

The Johnsons were shaken, but intact. Billy, a college freshman, said a woman who'd recently moved into the small rental property catty-cornered from them got home late last night. We went to check on her. She was crying, shaking, near hysterical.

Mom turned to me. "Austin, grab the Johnsons, bring 'em to the house. There's bread and sandwich meat in the frig. Make everyone lunch. We'll be there soon."

Mom and the girl, her name was Brenda, arrived about half-an-hour later. Mom was holding her hand. She was still upset, her eyes red, but she was much better. Over lunch she explained that she was a single mother, that her one-year old daughter was with her grandmother on the other side of town, about a mile away.

Brenda was also quite attractive. I noticed Billy noticing. Mom noticed both of us noticing. "Billy, why don't you escort Brenda to her Mom's house, make sure everything is okay."

"Sure Ms. Laam, if," looking to his parents, "that's okay with you guys."

His mother and father warned him to be safe. They took off.

As they disappeared into the jungle that had recently been our street Billy's parents turned to Mom.

"Are you sure he's going to be okay?"

"Yes, and it will give both of them something to do. I think everybody needs a job right now."

The Johnsons' were given rakes and push brooms to start clearing the streets; the chain saws and the heavy work would come later. Mom and I got out the ladder and climbed onto our house. A tree limb had punched through the roof, leaving a hole the size of my fist.

"All in all, we're lucky. Easily fixed."

I didn't know Mom did roof repairs.

We patched the hole and climbed onto the Johnson's roof. It was fine, but from there we could see into their neighbor's back yard. A large tree limb was sitting in a picture window. We went to check. The damage was minimal, but the branch rested against on a table on which original art work was displayed. A strong wind would knock it over; the next significant rain would flood the house.

"We've got to clean this up."

"How?"

She walked to the back door, took a screw driver from her pocket, and jimmied the door open.

"Mom!"

She looked back at me. "I got skills."

"Yeah, I see that. Aren't there laws about this kind of thing, breaking and entering and stuff?"

"Katrina Rules."

"Katrina Rules?"

"Yeah, Katrina Rules, after Katrina you can break the regular rules if necessary to do good."

Sounded fine to me. "Okay." I cleaned up the mess; Mom studied the window.

"We'll need to put some plywood over this. Bob will have some in his shed."

"Who's Bob?"

"He lives across the street."

"Isn't that stealing?"

"Bob would tell us to go right ahead and, well, Katrina Rules."

We found what we needed in Bob's well-maintained shed. Mom also pointed to a chain saw hanging on the wall. "Grab that."

"Katrina Rules?"

"Yep."

We covered the window and returned home to find the Johnson's sitting under a tree. Mom fetched some bottled water from the house and pulled a tub of gumbo from the freezer to defrost. Then she and I, wielding chain saws and assisted by the Johnson clan, began clearing the street. Progress was initially slow, but picked up as we were joined by a steady stream of neighbors. By the end of the day the street was open to the small downtown.

Satisfied, Mom fired up the propane cooker and invited the neighborhood for gumbo. Billy and Brenda returned with her baby, somebody brought beer, local musicians arrived with guitars, banjos, and an accordion, and we partied, although Mom was pretty much my exclusive dance partner, everyone else said they were exhausted. The party broke up around 10:00, everyone pitched in to clean up.

After the last guest left Mom and I sat on the porch. It was hot and sticky and we were grimy and pooped, but still too wound up to sleep. There was not an electric light for fifty miles, the array of stars magnificent. What was the last time I'd seen the Milky Way? There were

also no human sounds - no cars, no televisions, no rumbling equipment. When Mom spoke it was clear she'd been thinking along the same lines as I.

"Its wonderful out here and I hate to ruin it, but would you fire up the generator and hook it to the window unit in my bedroom."

I did so, then returned, pausing in the porch's doorway, and took a moment to study Mom in the starlight.

Mom was, had always been, beautiful, but her looks had never been flamboyant. She was small breasted and thin, some would say skinny, she would say slender, but I had watched her work all day. She was firm and muscled; she stayed in shape. It was her face that was entrancing: long and narrow, slim nose, thin lips, her dark skin and brown shoulder-length hair reflecting her Tunisian heritage. It was, however, her soft brown eyes that stood out; there was an intelligence and vibrancy there I could not define.

"Hey Mom."

She jumped, a bit startled. "I didn't hear you come back."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I was just watching you." I sat down, took her hand in mine. "You were magnificent today."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? I mean you took care of the neighborhood, got everybody organized and engaged, rescued Brenda, fed everyone, and fixed a couple of houses. If not for you we'd all still be sitting on our porches, drooling."

She turned directly towards me, looking in my eyes. She touched my cheek.

"Thank you son, but I was just one of many."

"Well, I doubt the neighbors would agree."

She smiled and leaned back into my body. I started to rub her shoulders.

"That feels good. I'm getting old, some sore."

"The bedroom should be cool enough by now. We'll grab showers, then I'll give you a back rub."

"Thanks son, I'd like that."

Mom took the first shower, I the second. Both navy showers, thank gosh; the last of the hot water petered out as I finished mine. I put on gym shorts; Mom was wearing a short cotton sleep shirt.

"So where are you sore?"

"Top of the head, soles of the feet, everything in-between."

After finishing her shoulders, neck, and arms, I turned to the base of her spine, then moved up her back. Her muscles were tight, spotted with knots; I worked each one out; her low moans confirmed I was doing just fine.

I slid down the bed to her feet. Her voice partially muffled by her pillow, she said, "Son you are amazing. Gabrielle teach you all this?"

I placed her foot on my thigh and applied pressure to the sole. "Yeah, you learn something from dating a physical therapist for two years."

"I liked Gabrielle. What happened to you two?"

A painful subject I hadn't liked talking about, but it felt good to unburden myself. "Things had been rocky for months, then I got the 'it's not you, it's me' talk. Found out later she'd been seeing a doctor at the hospital. Kinda pissed me off. She'd been talking about him a lot, seemed infatuated, but when I asked about it she gave me the 'you're being insecure' speech. Turned out I was right."

"How you doing with it?"

"It's getting better. I even got a girl's phone number Saturday night. In retrospect I shouldn't have been surprised."

"Why?"

"Gabrielle has expensive taste, was always making a big deal about the sacrifice she was making dating a poor college student. Now she's got someone who can afford her."

Except for Mom's low moans, we fell quiet. I reached the top of Mom's legs, was working on the inside of her thighs, close to finishing, when I noticed her shirt had ridden up her legs; I could see the bottom of her plum shaped butt. I stopped.

Mom rolled her head. "Is everything okay?"

"Unh, well."

"Oh, I see. Wondering about touching your mother's buttocks."

I wasn't, I had no intention of massaging Mom's ass, but I said, "Yep."

"Hmm, well, I can see why you're hesitating, but its some sore and you've got the touch. I'm invoking Katrina Rules."

"Katrina Rules?"

"Yeah, Katrina Rules. During the aftermath of a major hurricane you can massage your Mom's backside."

"You got it."

I hadn't intended to do Mom's backside, but I seemed stuck with the assignment now.

Sliding my hands under her shirt, I worked my mother's butt. I was a bit uncomfortable at first, but she clearly enjoyed it - her breathing deepened out - and she'd certainly had earned it. Her groans began to morph into something akin to soft purrs. Unlike the rest of her slender body, her butt had a little bit of extra flesh on it.

I worked down to the bottom of her ass. Her legs were spread, her shirt pushed to the side, and then I saw it, her muff. I looked away, kept massaging her, moving downward, increasing the pressure, trying to decide where to stop. Then I felt it, glanced down, did a double-take; Mom was rocking her hips into the bed. The motion was tiny, but real. With Gabrielle, when I reached this point, she was always turned on, rarin' to go. Was I having the same effect on Mom? Was she aroused?

I patted her ass. "Done."

She rolled over, a happy lazy smile on her face. I lay down next to her and feeling emboldened, wondering how far I could go, I put my hand under her shirt, ran my fingers across her flat stomach, kissed her forehead. Her face was flush, skin warm.

"Thank you son, that was wonderful. Gabrielle taught you how to touch a woman."

My hand continuing stroking the skin under her shirt, I said, "Enough of my love life. How about you? Staying loyal to Dad? I don't think he'd mind if you found the right guy."

"If you're asking if your Mom's too old, no; I have the usual urges and the parts all work. And yeah, if I found the right guy your Dad would smile down on it. I've dated some, but nothing special; I've been focusing on me. I was eighteen when I married your father, walking into his well-defined existence. I'm not complaining, it was a wonderful life, but I've spent the last couple of years trying to figure out what I want for my future."

In the world I'd grown up, a gated subdivision stocked with well-off white folk, Mom had always been different. It's not that she defied convention. She played the role of corporate wife and was genuinely liked, as opposed to the polite tolerance that defined so many relationships. It was more like Mom understood it was a convention and then only one of many conventions. Her exploration of other worlds, of friends, art, and causes outside that which defined our community was written off as an artifact of Dad not only marrying, but falling deeply in love with a woman so much younger than himself.

I ran my fingertips up her side. "Is that why you moved?"

"In part. Everyone assumed the memories of the house were too painful, and that was true, but I wanted to live in a place where everyone wasn't the same. I've been considering moving back to New Orleans. It would save the commute. I wonder what it's like over there."

For the readers wondering how we didn't know, those first days there were no communications: no radio, no television, no cell phones. You didn't know if the town three miles down the road was still there, much less what was happening in New Orleans.

I took my hand out from under her shirt, placed it on her leg, rolled it to the side so her inner thigh faced the ceiling. On it, using a fingertip, I drew a map of the region. First an oblong circle. "So here is Lake Pontchartrain." Walking two fingers across her leg, pressing my fingertip to her skin, I said, "and you moved here." My fingers took a longer step and I pressed a fingertip to her thigh, less than an inch from her sex, "and are considering moving here, so you can avoid," and tracing the route of her commute by lightly running a fingertip across her thigh directly towards her vagina, "this long drive."

Mom's skin erupted into goose bumps.

"I'm not sure you should touch your mother like that."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I didn't say you did anything wrong; I said I wasn't sure. What do you think?"

I kissed the side of her head. "Katrina Rules."

"Yes, Katrina Rules."

She took my hand in hers and rolled on to her side. I followed her; we ended up spooning.

"It feels good to be held by, to sleep with a man again."

I kissed the back of her head. "I'm glad I came home."

"Me too."

She shifted position; her ass brushed my erection.

"I'm glad to see your parts work also."

* * * *

I woke the next morning to the smell of bacon and a gaggle of voices. Mom was in the kitchen, cooking for a dozen neighbors, suggesting we head downtown to see what was going on. A number of guests, still too shell-shocked for the experience, said they'd stay behind and clean up.

We walked downtown. Power lines and their electronic gear were scattered in yards and ditches, many houses had a tree branch through their roof, and the canopy that had defined the neighborhood was denuded, most of the leaves and all but the largest branches were on the ground. The city center, not having the same tree cover, was in better shape. The people who e already there congregated around Mom, who was eyeing Russ' Hardware. It had been boarded up in anticipation of the storm.

She motioned me over. "We're going to see the Mayor."

The Mayor was not in, he was at the emergency operations center in nearby Covington. We went to see Bev, the police chief.

Mom got to the point. "Bev, I'm sure Russ left a key to his place with you. There are a lot of supplies in there we could use to do some good around here. Can you let us in?"

"Natalie, I don't have Russ' permission and he evacuated. I don't know when he'll be back."

"You know he'd say it was okay. We'll inventory what we take and pass the bucket around. If we don't raise enough money, I'll pay what's missing."

Bev thought about it, but not too long. "Yeah, you're right, Russ would agree, but I warn you there are fifteen witnesses here who heard you promise to pay. I'll get the key."

Over the course of the day half-a-dozen work crews patched roofs, repaired windows and doors, cleared streets, and cut paths to homes buried amid broken tree limbs. By 6:00 we'd exhausted the small hardware store's supplies. Bev met us there, holding a coffee can stuffed with money.

"You're off the hook Natalie. Russ made himself a tidy profit. The Café is feeding everybody tonight. It figures it might as well cook before the food goes bad."

We walked the two blocks to the Café. Most of the town's remaining citizens were there. Bob Charles, the proprietor, and several volunteers were working the kitchen, rolling out waves of food. Mom volunteered to help, but Bob refused.

"Natalie, you've been taking care of everybody for two days. Sit, eat, relax. That's an order."

And so we did and when the musical instruments came out, we danced. Sometimes with others, mostly with each other.

After the party broke up I took Mom's hand in mine and, accompanied by Billy Johnson and Brenda - the boy was smitten - walked home. I hooked up the air conditioner up to the generator; Mom took the first shower. After I'd taken mine I returned to the bedroom. Mom was on her stomach.