For Katrina evacuee, a life still adrift

When Jules Wise Jr. walked into the tattoo parlor on a rainy afternoon last winter, he was thinking of love.

Her name was Sade, pronounced with a lyric dip -- Sha-Day. They were both 18, evacuees not just from the churning flood waters of Hurricane Katrina, but from troubles that began long before the August storm. Fate had delivered them to a leaky two-bedroom at the top of a stairwell in Taunton. And they were to be married. For Jules, this new family felt like the one he'd longed for; disaster had granted his wish.

He already had Sade's name tattooed in capital blue letters across his belly. Now he was going to have ''Lil' Daddy" inscribed on his neck, an homage to his forthcoming role as stepfather to her two small children. Even the tattoo artist hesitated at that.

''She is my first and she will be my only," declared Jules, lying on the table. ''My mother told me to save myself for one special person and that is what I did."

Within weeks his first and only would vanish, taking her two children on the train back to New Orleans. Jules would not handle this well. The last time Sade had talked of leaving, in November, he'd taken a razor blade to his wrist with such force that even the police officers who rushed to his rescue were taken aback by the spray of blood.

Some in Katrina's singular diaspora have crafted new lives out of the storm's wreckage, finding opportunity in their unexpected relocation. But there are growing fears among mental health workers for the many, like Jules, who have not. The youngest of the evacuees to walk off the airplane at the Otis Air National Guard Base on Cape Cod last September unaccompanied by family, Jules was also the first to find an apartment and leave the base, eager to launch his new life.

But that early momentum quickly stalled. Jules attended an alternative degree program at Taunton High School but dropped out in March. In April, the Federal Emergency Management Agency stopped paying for his apartment and state officials worry that he could end up homeless. Often, he wanders the streets, his oversize jeans and black jacket flapping against his thin body. The only predictable event in his life is his Thursday night bowling league at AMF Taunton Lanes.

And yet, he does not want to go home. Home is a slippery concept for Jules, whose mother died of kidney disease when he was 7. Raised in the New Orleans suburb of Metairie by his grandparents and father, Jules moved out three years ago. He is accustomed to being on his own.

''I can't go back home," said Jules. ''I won't. It's worse there than it is here."

Jules's deterioration had gone largely unnoticed by authorities, until recently. On the few occasions that outreach workers dropped by his apartment, he wasn't there. Or didn't answer the door.

Nearly nine months after Katrina hit, many evacuees are, like Jules, adrift in the wake of a hurricane long gone. A recent survey by the New York Times found that most evacuees questioned have not found a permanent place to live and have exhausted their savings. Depression was more common than employment.

Suicide is also a hovering specter. Nationwide, about a dozen evacuees are known to have taken their lives, one of them a disabled man relocated to Braintree. There may be many more. Calls to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, for example, have nearly tripled since the hurricane. Last month, the federal Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration announced $800,000 in grants to bolster suicide prevention services for young people in Mississippi and Louisiana.

In Massachusetts, 66 of the 421 Katrina evacuees receiving state services are getting therapy for depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder. Some of those had mental illness issues when they arrived: Others have unraveled since coming here. As the Rev. Richard Richardson, director of the Katrina Evacuee Program of Children's Services of Roxbury, which provides services to some evacuees, puts it, ''We have had to monitor people closely to make sure they weren't starting to fall apart."

One of those who have found themselves pondering the evacuees' plight is Taunton Patrolman Eric P. Nichols. It was Nichols who burst into Jules's apartment when Sade called police in hysteria on the day Jules attempted suicide. And the police veteran has been called back to the apartment three times since because of disturbances by Jules or his friends.

''I was thinking how are these kids going to survive?" recalled Nichols. ''I couldn't imagine being swept away like that and landing in a completely strange place. I thought, they are going to have one tough time."

When Jules stepped off the Boeing 737 into the pre-dawn darkness last September, the assembled crowd of volunteers and state officials whooped as they did for each of the evacuees. Then they looked to see who was accompanying the angular boy in shorts and dirty T-shirt. There was no one.

''We couldn't believe it. I mean, no one thought this kid was even 15 much less 18," said Joanne Pelzer, of Plymouth, a volunteer who worked with Jules. ''Some people thought he was an orphan."

In a way, he was. Jules's parents separated when he was one. He was raised in part by his paternal grandparents, who operated a bowling alley in a suburb outside New Orleans. Many childhood hours were spent on the polished wooden lanes and he fast became an ace. Bowling was one of the few constants in his life.

''Jules never had any rules or guidelines in his life," said his half sister, Erica Graziosa, 20, who moved to California shortly after Katrina hit. ''No one kept an eye on him."

Jules left home at age 16, and was expelled from high school in his senior year after he threw a test paper at a teacher who he says called him stupid. He had just recently moved into his father's apartment when forecasters began to sound the alarm about a relentless hurricane pounding into the Gulf. As his father, Jules Sr., drove off with his girlfriend to Mississippi -- dogs and cats in the back seat -- his son chose to stay behind and was eventually evacuated as the roof began to collapse. The next day he was put on a plane.

''Halfway through the flight the pilot announced that we were going to Cape Cod," Jules recalled. ''I thought, what is that?"

Among the 235 evacuees at the Camp Edwards base in Bourne, Jules stood out. Part of it was his mop of brown hair and impish smile. He could sweet-talk his way to another pack of Kool cigarettes or an extra blanket, no problem. He was smart: He proudly showed his school books to state officials. And he was always turning up, gliding into a group as he dispensed hugs right and left, or chatting in his rolling Louisiana drawl with whomever would listen.

To many on the base, his story seemed to shift with every conversation. He said he was married to a beautiful girl named Sade, then he was not. He had parents, then he did not. He said he was taking one painkiller because of a back injury, but doctors learned he had also obtained drug prescriptions from dentists off the base.

State workers gradually began to realize that Jules was as ungrounded as his stories, that his childhood had left him largely unformed, even as it lent him some wisdom of the street.

''Jules Wise sells Jules Wise pretty well. He's a player," said Jonathan Marcus, vice president of children and family services for Community Counseling of Bristol County. ''That is what is so charming about him. Everyone at Otis knew him. He was like the mayor of the village. But he made only very superficial connections. He had a very hard time trusting people."

What Jules wanted most was to connect. But, if need be, he could take care of himself.

''I came here with a shirt and a pair of shorts," Jules said. ''But I like this kind of journey. It makes you stronger. I've learned not to cherish things. Things always change."

By early October, Jules had rented himself a tired second-floor apartment in Taunton. Not only would FEMA pay the $800 monthly cost, but the unit had a small second bedroom which Jules hoped would be filled by Sade's children.

On a brilliant fall day, the apartment's owner came to pick up Jules at his dorm on the base. Marcus urged Jules to stay in touch, and stuffed his business card into his pocket, but Jules was clearly not interested. As the realtor's car pulled away, Marcus felt his stomach clench.

''We were very worried about him," said Marcus.

That night, Jules called Joanne Pelzer, the volunteer, from his new apartment.

''He was so sad," said Pelzer. ''He didn't know where to begin."

Sade was coming. At last, doe-eyed Sade and her two plump babies, William and Johnia, were moving in. Jules bought an extra large box of diapers in celebration.

Sade Hudson had been hurled in several directions by Katrina's fury, eventually winding up in an apartment in Atlanta crowded with relatives. When Jules called and told her he had an apartment that was paid for, she promptly agreed to join him. When she got off the plane in Massachusetts in early October, Jules fell to his knees and proposed.

''I had her engagement ring in my pocket," exclaimed Jules. ''I had never asked her before, but I knew she would say yes. And she did."

The two teenagers had a lot in common. Both were raised in part by their grandparents. Both had had scrapes with the law. And both had lost a family member. Sade's 16-year-old brother, Johnius, was murdered by a friend in 2005 and ''R.I.P. Johnius" is tattooed on her neck. As she recalled him, she mimed the pump-action of the gun used in the killing. One month after Katrina, the father of her children -- aged 23 months and 6 months when she arrived in Taunton -- drove into a river and drowned, she said.

Jules and Sade first met at a gathering in New Orleans in memory of her brother, and Jules became a regular guest at her family's home.

That they were of different races -- Jules is white and Sade is African-American -- seemed only to enrich their bond. Jules was smitten with her lean good looks and sharp humor. Schooling was very important to her and, after they settled in Taunton, she was forever nagging him to attend class: ''Don't come 'round me if you don't go," she admonished him one day. ''I wish I was in school."

They laid plans for a marriage in May, and Sade was looking forward to having a baby with Jules. ''It's only right," she nodded. ''He helps me with my babies, so I'll give him one for himself."

Their new home was on a quiet side street of working-class homes. Jules and Sade shared the large bedroom. The children, when they weren't staying with family in New Orleans, slept in the small room, where a bucket caught the drip from a ceiling crack. Baby supplies were stacked on the counters in the tiny kitchen and in the corners.

Although Taunton became home to the largest concentration of evacuees from the base -- 24 in all -- Jules stayed in touch with only two families, and eventually those ties frayed, too. Like Jules, many of the evacuees are struggling; only 58 of the 400-plus still receiving services in Massachusetts have found jobs.

For Jules and Sade, money was not, at first, a problem. Since his mother died in 1995, Jules has received a Social Security survivor's benefit: It would continue until he turned 19. When the $1,100 check arrived each month, he spent $20 on bottles of Hennessy cognac and Hypnotic -- a fruity, blue liqueur. The rest of it went toward food and the rental of a bed and a big-screen television -- the two items cost $359 a month. Sade's food stamps helped.

But while the pair had assumed some of the responsibilities of adults, they remained teenagers to their core. Many nights, they stayed up late watching movies, as the pile of soda bottles and potato chip bags mounted in the corners. Some days Jules caught a ride to school. Some days he did not.

''It's eeeeeeeeeeeeeeasy," he grinned. ''I get all A's."

Thursday night is bowling night at the AMF Taunton Lanes. Jules is often late, but the middle-aged women who make up the Strike Force team know he will eventually come loping through the lobby with his green ball in hand, his Kools tucked in his shirt pocket. Jules is very good: They rub his head for good luck.

As winter approached, Jules talked regularly to his grandparents and sometimes his father back home, but he had no desire to return. Nor was he urged to do so. Jules's father, a contractor, did not return several phone calls from the Globe.

''Jules says he is happy up there, so I guess that's where he is going to stay," said Mary Wise, Jules's grandmother.

Indeed, Jules was pleased with his new family. He liked cooking them jambalaya and fried chicken to the throbbing tones of ''I Gave My Heart To You." Two months after he was evacuated, he had gained 17 pounds.

''I was miserable in New Orleans," Jules exclaimed one day. ''Overall, I am happier here."

Sade was not. She had never been outside of Louisiana before Katrina, and she did not like the chilly weather. She also didn't think much of the friends Jules brought home from school, many of whom were girls. Sade sent her children to her grandmother in New Orleans and began to stay out at night.

And then in November they began to fight.

''I got mad," said Sade. ''It all built up. I took that boy upstairs and whupped his ass. I hit him, yes, I did."

Jules, by both of their accounts, did not fight back.

''I loved her," he shrugged later. ''I had gotten used to being hit by my father and I knew there was no point in hitting back."

Sade announced that she was going back to New Orleans. She would be gone for at least a month. Jules tried to talk her out of it. He begged her to stay. But Sade kept right on packing. Shortly after lunch on Nov. 3, Jules took a razor and slashed four long gashes into his right wrist.

''There was blood everywhere," recalled Sade. ''On the couch, on the floor. Jules was cuckoo that day."

Jules thinks he cut himself because he was taking Klonopin, an anti-anxiety medication he was prescribed on the base, which made him feel drugged and dopey. But he also remembers feeling bereft at the thought ''of cooking meals for no one."

He was taken to Pembroke Hospital where he stayed for several days. He was released with a prescription for the antidepressant Trazodone and an appointment for a follow-up at Community Counseling in January. But Jules didn't fill his prescription, or keep the appointment. And no one from Community Counseling came looking for him. Until a Globe reporter contacted state officials in March, they were unaware that Jules had attempted suicide.

When Jules got home, he climbed the narrow stairway hugging a whisper of hope that Sade would be inside, but she was not. She had promised that she would ''definitely, definitely" be back by his 19th birthday in January. And so Jules waited. He called her every day. And almost every day she hung up on him. Jules moved his engagement ring from his left hand to his right, explaining, ''I am not engaged to myself."

On the day before his birthday, Jules hovered excitedly at the tiny window in his kitchen. Surely, Sade would be back today. Some of his classmates, who were planning a birthday party for him complete with a cake decorated with a naked lady in stiletto heels, had less faith: They had bet Jules that she would not show up. Jules remained by the window for much of the night, starting hopefully each time he heard a car door slam.

Sade did return in the first week of February, but only to pack up some of her things. And then she was gone for good.

On the morning of March 10, the phone rang shrilly at the Taunton Police Department. The caller was shouting: There was a man with a gun in an apartment on Bay Street. People were screaming inside. The police must come immediately.

When Patrolman Nichols saw the address, he knew immediately who lived there: Jules Wise.

Police officers hurried to the apartment and found blood smeared in the hallway. As two officers kicked in the door and found a young woman unharmed, two others set off after a man fleeing from the apartment and arrested him on an outstanding warrant outside. Jules was not there and insists he knew nothing of the incident. But police believe the caller was Jules himself.

''I think Jules wanted to get the guy out," Nichols said, ''but didn't know how to do it."

The woman in the apartment was Jules's new roommate. Shortly after he turned 19, Jules's Social Security check, his only source of income other than occasional gifts from his grandfather, had stopped.

So he had rented out a room to a neighbor, a woman in her 20s, to earn money for food. But within days of her arrival, Jules had begun to lose control of the place. Some days there were several people drinking and smoking around the dining table when Jules was not there.

There was more bad news to come. In March, FEMA began to review the status of the evacuees receiving assistance. Jules was found ineligible because his father is receiving benefits, and only one member of each household can do so. FEMA, to date, has terminated benefits for 51,200 evacuees in its ongoing audit of the 942,000 evacuees receiving assistance.

The state has agreed to pay the rent until the end of June for Jules and any other evacuees who wind up being cut by FEMA. Concerned that many among the hundreds receiving assistance in Massachusetts may wind up on the street, state officials are urging evacuees to quickly find work or consider returning to New Orleans.

''We are trying to prevent instant homelessness," said Larry Tummino, assistant commissioner for field operations for the state Department of Mental Retardation.

The news from FEMA left Jules shattered. Unable to sleep, he stayed up late watching ''A Nightmare on Elm Street," one of his favorite movies, and was often groggy in the daytime. He had stopped going to school entirely. His fingernails were dirty and his cuticles raw from anxious chewing. He traipsed the streets alone, sometimes deliberately flirting with traffic.

As his money gradually ran out, a friend bought him some groceries with her food stamps. His phone was turned off and so, briefly, was his electricity. When the bill came due on his bed and television, he did not answer the knock at the door.

''I don't know how I am going to deal with this," Jules told the members of his bowling team one night, the hood of his black sweatshirt pulled low over his head. ''But I guess God doesn't give you more than you can handle."

Jules had been given the phone numbers of several agencies that could provide him assistance. But he never called. ''I don't depend on other people," Jules said.

But as the weeks passed, he seemed to reconsider. State officials, notified by FEMA that Jules was to be cut off, launched an aggressive effort to connect with him; Community Counseling case workers went repeatedly to his door. Finally, in early April, as a housing advocate and a counselor stood outside his door and threatened to call the police, Jules emerged. The workers noticed several women in the apartment, one of them asleep on the floor. Jules later confided to the workers that he was afraid of the women.

''He wanted them to leave," said Cindy St. Pierre, Community Counseling's vice president of community support services. ''He asked us to get the locks changed."

Jules was invited to become a client of the Department of Mental Health, which would make him eligible for a number of services, and he agreed. He also agreed to start seeing a psychiatrist.

Caseworkers made an appointment with Jules to have the locks changed on April 10, but he didn't show up. Nor did he keep an appointment with the psychiatrist two days later. And he has not returned half a dozen workers' phone calls since. St. Pierre suspects that Jules's erratic behavior is a reflection of his depression.

''The bottom line is the rent is up in June," said St. Pierre. ''Jules is going to have to make some decisions."

Days passed with no sightings of Jules. And then it was league night at the Taunton bowling alley. The members of Strike Force were growing uneasy. Jules was running late, even for Jules. They peered anxiously at the door. They looked blankly at the overhead scoring screen bearing his name.

And suddenly he was there, weaving through the crowd, his red bowling shoes tucked under his arm, a ringing cellphone clasped to his ear. He hugged to his right, then to the left. And then he got down to business.

His first ball obliterated the wedge of pins: a strike. His teammates cheered and gave him high-fives. The second ball was a strike, too. And then Jules uncoiled, and his green ball hurtled down the lane. A third strike. As the clapping erupted, Jules jumped slightly into the air.

Sally Jacobs can be reached at jacobs@globe.com