Spillway Review
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                        Eugenie and the Hurricane
                                       by Patrice Delahomme

    The year after Eugenie made her debut, having been presented by five Carnival
organizations and having reigned as queen of one, Hurricane Pablo came and flooded
her uptown home, ruining all her gowns and even her commemorative program, which
was sitting on the floor in an antique frame until her mother could find a space on one of
their crowded walls to hang it.  Eugenie cried for hours.  Her legacy was ruined, she
wailed.  There wouldn’t even be a commemorative program to pass on to her offspring-
to-be.  It was as if all her history had been erased, as if all she had planned to become –
an attorney in an old line New Orleans law firm, a leader in Junior League, wife to Bubby
McElroth, heir to the McElroth funeral home fortune – was obliterated.  It was as if she
was no one, a person without a history.  Her mother tried to intervene as Eugenie
spiraled downward.  She put together a scrapbook of Times-Picayune clippings and she
contacted the Carnival Organizations for duplicate copies of their programs.  But all of
this was to no avail. 

    Eugenie didn’t feel like a Eugenie anymore.  She felt like a Krystal or an Amber or a
Tiffany.  She began to dress differently.  She put aside her Ann Taylor sweater sets and
donned short shorts and tank tops from Abercrombie and Fitch.  She stayed out all night
in the French Quarter, drinking hurricanes until she was falling-down drunk.  Bubby
McElroth told her he couldn’t see her anymore.  His parents no longer approved, and he
didn’t want to jeopardize his inheritance.

    Eugenie knew she’d hit rock bottom when she woke up in the gutter on Bourbon Street
next to the street performer who covers himself with silver paint and pretends to be a
statue.  He had his arm draped over her very still and a group of tourists were standing
over them laughing.  She pushed his rigid arm away and kicked him in the shin.  He
didn’t move.  The tourists laughed louder.  She began to run and didn’t stop until she
came to St. Louis Cathedral where she dropped to her knees and vowed before God and
man that she would leave New Orleans, that she would never return, and that she would
never speak of it again or acknowledge her connection to it.

    Immediately, Eugenie searched out tour bus drivers and finally persuaded one to allow
her to join the Kansas City Senior Citizens’ Tour of the Old South.  She boarded the bus
that afternoon, and as the last vestiges of the city faded away, an elderly woman leaned
over and asked her name.  Eugenie thought a moment.

    “Do you have a granddaughter?” she asked the woman.

    “Yes, I do.”  The woman smiled.

    “What’s her name?”

    “Britnay,  spelled B-R-I-T-N-A-Y.  Isn’t that precious?”

    “Absolutely.  It happens to be my name.”

    “The same spelling, too?” the woman asked.  Eugenie nodded.  “You’re kidding.  What a
coincidence.  Marian, would you believe this young lady is named Britnay and she spells
it just the same as my granddaughter?  Where are you headed, dear?”

    “Kansas City, naturally – my hometown.”

    “Did you hear about the horrible bunch of tornados that just ripped through town?  So
many houses lost.  So much devastation.  I tell you, we’re all anxious to see what’s left.” 
The woman sighed and patted Eugenie on the arm.  “I’m sure that’s why you’re headed
home, isn’t it?”