Child of the Storm (11 page)

Celeste
nodded, somehow afraid to speak since it occurred to her that this was a dream
and dreams could come undone so quickly, so easily. Dreams could be lost and
never found again, even in memory, since dreams could be like a breeze.
Impossible to hold.
But she could feel a difference with
this dream. It felt strong, like a branch of her old oak. She could look at it,
wonder at it and not have it shy
away.The
bear said nothing to distract her, sideling up next to Celeste to give her
something to lean against as she dreamed through the long night.

Crack
of dawn light
—
that barest of light only seen by the
earliest risers with eyes sensitive enough to feel it laying on their closed
eyelids; that light found Celeste and woke her gently. The city could hold the
darkness of night back a few paces from where it could reach in the countryside
—
except in those tight and secret filled
alleys and passageways, but the morning light felt pretty much the same as it
did back home, so at first, she was confused. Confused by the familiar light
but the strange surroundings. Then it all came back, since Celeste was suited
to the morning. She recognized the second floor bedroom in Aunt Odette
’
s house. She remembered how she had
come to New Orleans. She knew that her mother was gone.

She
sat up and looked out the window to the upper porch, hoping to see the bear but
knowing she wouldn
’
t. Not in the day. Still, she slipped
down from the high mattress
—
everything
up high
!
—
and walked across the
thick rug to the window, pausing for a moment before stepping through so she
could wiggle her toes, feeling the rug like it was fur, then crossing the low
sill of the tall window to the boards of the porch, damp with dew.

The
street was still and she heard, first a bird, and then the answering call of a
ship on the river. A dog trotted silently down the sidewalk. A lone figure, two
blocks away, slipped into view, only as long as it took to cross the street. So
people did walk around in the city in the early morning. It would be less
crowded and maybe less confusing to take a walk so early. There was no sound
inside the house. No sound of Odette moving about.

She
slipped back inside and changed from the nightgown she
’
d been given by Odette. She slipped
back into her dress and put on her shoes. It wasn
’
t easy walking down
the hall without noise, but she made the floors squeak less than Odette did.
Odette was still in
bed,
snoring plenty loud enough to
drown out any floor squeaking Celeste could do in passing by the open door and
down the stairs. At the front door, she took time to touch this and that in the
entry way, anything that looked interesting to touch, particularly the doorknob
which was crystal and cool to her fingers. Cool but not cold like ice, which
she
’
d rarely seen.
Nice
to touch, but useless for opening the door.
It was locked, and she
couldn
’
t figure how to change that. The
morning wouldn
’
t last forever, so she gave up on the
front door to see if she
’
d remembered right,
that there was another door at the back of the house that opened to maybe a
back yard.

Not
a back yard, but a small courtyard you could reach through a door that was more
cooperative. And the courtyard spoke to the street through a narrow passageway,
closed off at the street end by a pretty iron gate, clear of the ground just
enough that Celeste could wiggle under with only the hint of dirt to show for
it. A space only she could have passed through, so she took it as an
invitation.

The
street stretched right and left, and she took the right way since that had been
the way the dog had gone. She walked briskly but quietly so no one would wake
up and come outside. Cross streets came up at neat intervals; a few houses and
another street, and then to a corner where a woman stood waiting for something
or someone. A special lady, Celeste thought, judging by her clothes that were
dressier than most she
’
d seen. Strangers could be like bears
in the woods
—
maybe a danger, even if they don
’
t look that way. But this lady was
fancy and she turned as Celeste edged up closer. The lady smiled down at her.

“
Out and your mama
doesn
’
t know it. That so?
”
she asked in a friendly way.

Celeste
nodded since it was so.

“
Going somewhere?
”

As
she asked this, Celeste was distracted by the sound of distant bells. The white
church back home had a bell it would ring on Sunday, but this was a bell voice
of a richer tone, and Celeste pointed toward the sound, calling the lady
’
s attention to it; curious but without
knowing what to ask. The lady took it differently.

“
Oh, you need to go
there?
”
The lady seemed to think that was
funny.
“
Need to get something off your chest?
”

Celeste
wasn
’
t following, but the lady didn
’
t seem to want an answer. A streetcar
was coming their way, like the ones she
’
d seen swarming along
the wide street when she and Odette got off the train, only this one was by
itself on a quiet street, maybe lost. The lady fished inside a small purse.

“
This won
’
t get you to the front door, but close
enough. You have money? No? Thought not. Well, this one
’
s on me. Maybe next time you can cover
us both.
”
The woman laughed and again, Celeste
couldn
’
t make sense of any of it but was
interested enough that she stayed close. The lady
’
s friendly way of
talking reminded Celeste of Sandrine, though little else about her was the
same. The streetcar stopped and the lady boosted Celeste up the steps, handing
the driver coins so they could claim a seat.
Lots of seats to
choose from so early.
Only two other folk on the car
and both of them looking at the lady as if she was something strange and maybe
frightful.
They looked at Celeste like she was something odd too.

The
streetcar rumbled along its rails, rumbled up through every seat and Celeste
thought how it wasn
’
t like that truck she
’
d ridden in, the truck with its
callused wheels. Not like the wagon either, bumping along on the rutted roads.

“
Tell you what,
”
said the lady.
“
I may just take a detour this morning
and climb down at Orleans. Walk you up to St. Louis before I stroll through the
park. See who
’
s there under the trees. A long night,
but a girl
’
s got to stay on top of things.
”
She laughed, and Celeste smiled too,
because it seemed the lady thought something was funny and it was best to be
polite when someone was being helpful. Somehow, this brought Neighbor to mind.
Helpful and quiet.
A good listener and a
good friend, who took off when the storm destroyed his garden.
Maybe he landed
here.
Wishful thinking, but no harm in wishing so long as
Aunt Odette didn
’
t get wind of it.

“
So who you meeting?
”
the lady asked, as the streetcar
stopped and she ushered Celeste off.
“
What
’
s he look
like?
”
Celeste thought she
sounded genuinely interested.
So friendly.

“
Tall, with a black
hat,
”
Celeste said.

The
lady stopped
—
recoiled a bit on hearing words come
out of Celeste
’
s mouth, for the first time since their
friendship began.
“
Tall with a black hat, you say. Sounds
promising.
”

It
was a short walk up a narrow street with a channel down the middle, still damp
from the last rain, and then the street drained out into an open space, looked
down on by tall buildings as full of windows as Odette
’
s house was full of books. All those
windows looked out to a space of trees, safe inside the tallest iron fence she
could remember seeing.
Big trees
—
almost as big
as her own lost Climbing Oak.

“
That a garden?
”
Celeste asked.

“
Lots of flowers,
grass and trees,
”
said the lady.
“
If that
’
s a garden to you,
then, yes ma
’
am, that
’
s a garden. Never
been to Jackson Square?
”
She eyed Celeste
curiously.

Celeste
thought it was just the sort of place Neighbor would settle if he
’
d blown this way and had his choice.
She followed the lady through the gate into the
square,
empty at that still early hour except for them and for one other seated under
one of the tall trees and sporting a black hat.

“
We
’
ll you weren
’
t kidding. Looks like your man with the
hat, though he looks a bit on the old side.
”
She appeared to size
up the seated man.
“
Maybe not too old.
”

The
man stopped what he was doing as they drew close. He touched the brim of his
black hat.
“
Bonjour.
”

“
French,
”
the lady whispered to Celeste.
“
That
’
s good.
”

“
Bonjour to you,
”
the lady said.
“
You
’
re a painter.
”

He
held up his brush to acknowledge. He sat on a bench with his small easel, his
palette and basket at his side. Celeste edged around where she could see what
he was working on with such care, while he and the lady chatted. Where she drew
with her lines, he was drawing with color; big patches of color like a quilt.
She looked beyond him and saw the white building with its tall spires, just as
his color drawing was, only in his drawing, the walls weren
’
t white, but a soft color of morning.
She looked again at the building and saw that she
’
d been wrong. It
was
a color, and he
’
d seen it where others might not
—
as she hadn
’
t until she looked again.

“
My little friend came
to find someone with a black hat,
”
she heard the lady
say in a softer voice.
A smooth voice.
Smooth like her
skin and the fabric of her clothes.
“
Came to keep you
company I guess. I can be good company too. Looks like you could use some
company, not being from around here.
”

“
Thank you,
”
said the painter.
“
A tempting offer, but for another time
perhaps.
”

“
I stay busy, but who
knows,
”
she replied.
“
Another day.
”

The
painter touched his hat again and smiled. The lady left without a backward
glance at him or Celeste. Another stranger, so Celeste tried some conversation
to be polite and give herself time to figure out what to do next.
“
I draw,
”
she said.
“
But not in color.
”

“
You live nearby?
”

She
pointed off the way she figured she
’
d come.

He
offered her a small pad of paper.
“
Maybe you could draw
while I finish my painting. Then I can offer you a ride back to your home.
”

Celeste
nodded and took the offered paper; took the offered pencil too, which felt
different in her hand than the one back home. The one she
’
d lost like everything else. So they
sat for a time as he painted the cathedral and she drew the same. She drew
until the touch of the pencil to the paper felt different and the look of the
graphite on the paper looked different, and she stopped drawing and looked up
at the heavy clouds. He stopped too and cleaned his brush in a jar of water,
changing the color of it once again.

“
It could rain,
”
he said.

“
Soon,
”
Celeste agreed.
“
Your colors could wash off.
”