Child of the Storm (12 page)

“
They could,
”
he agreed.
“
And after all my hard work.
”
He began to put his things away.

Celeste
offered him the pencil and the pad of paper.

“
Shall I tear out the
drawing for you?
”

Celeste
shook her head.
“
You have it.
”

“
A gift,
”
he said.
“
And since you cannot pay for a gift, I
will give you one in return. A secret about the colors.
”
He offered her a view inside the
little basket of brushes and tubes of paints he carried.
“
Such a mess, when all I would truly
need are three.
Three colors
—
yellow, blue and red.
 
Just three to mix any
other.
Will you remember that?
”

Celeste
said that she would.

“
And did you watch me
paint enough to know how to start?
”

She
said that she had.

“
You have keen eyes
and a sensitive soul. This drawing tells me that.
”
He traced some of
her pencil lines with an old paint tinted fingernail.
“
With such keenness and sensitivity, all
the world belongs to you. Touch the world with your art.
”

When
she could see the spot where she had boarded the streetcar with the lady,
Celeste said goodbye to the French watercolorist and retraced her steps back to
the little
iron gate
, the back door, and up to her
room without waking Odette.

After
a breakfast made by Josephine, Odette sat Celeste down in the Library to
discuss chores. Some, she would need to do because it was expected and good
habit, but there would be others Celeste might choose to do for spending money.
As Odette explained it, there were things in a city that were free, like a
stroll down the street or the enjoyment of a cool breeze, but there were other
needful things or things desired that required payment to someone, and she
would either need to have enough to pay, or learn to want less.

Celeste
reasoned that paint might not be free like a stroll or a cool breeze, and she
did want paint.

Days
passed.
Days full of chores and lessons.
Mornings and
evenings spent on the high porch watching for her father to return. Nights
spent with the bear in that other world where bears could have her mother
’
s eyes and her mother
’
s voice.

There
was another before-the-crack-of-dawn morning when Celeste was awake and
restless, the air outside was tempting, and Odette slept soundly under the soft
weight of her clear conscience. Another morning that promised rain but not too
soon, so Celeste slipped downstairs to the back door and the narrow passage
where the gate waited with its hem hiked up just enough for her and no other to
pass.

She
had a few coins in a little purse, stuffed deep in a pocket, just in case a
streetcar happened by, going her way, but she was more inclined to walk. Walk
wherever, but not back to that square where the Frenchman had showed her how
painting was done, and the lady had showed her a bit about politeness. That had
been a special thing for that day and her mother had taught her that if a nice
thing came along, she should just enjoy it but not expect a second visit. Don
’
t be looking for the last nice thing to
show up, or you might miss the next one. Celeste was out for a morning walk,
keeping an eye open for the next nice thing.

She
found nuns. Not that she recognized them as nun, but she saw two women up
ahead, neatly, if not as finely dressed as the lady from her previous morning wander.
They stood with their backs to her as she approached so quietly, that even two
nuns couldn
’
t hear. Identically dressed women with
hats like flying gulls, stopping to talk about something on the other side of
where they stood, blocking the sidewalk to Celeste
’
s view. She drew up close enough to
hear, but not be heard.

“
He was here yesterday
as well,
”
said one.

“
Poor soul,
”
said the other.
“
Poor lost soul. Lost without his
family. His children were his life.
”

“
Influenza is hardest
on the young and the very old. Not so easy for even the strong, but for the
weak
…”
The first nun shook her
gull winged
head.

“
And for his wife to
just leave him, as if it was his fault. Still, I don
’
t know what was in her heart.
”

“
He drinks to forget,
but the drink only deepens his sadness. Poor lost soul.
”

The
women swayed apart from each other and through that cleft, Celeste could
glimpse the man lying on the sidewalk. For an instance, she thought it was her
father. As quickly as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it wasn
’
t so. This was another man.
A man lying on the sidewalk asleep, trying to hide from Sadness.

A
feeling slipped up on her from behind.
A sudden rush of a
feeling.
Something like anger but not quite the same either. She surged
forward, parting the nuns like tall grass, pressing on to where the man lay.
She tugged at his dirty shirtsleeve, firing a look back at the mystified
sisters.

“
He
’
s not lost!
”
she shouted at them.
“
He
’
s just sad and needs
to rest!
”

The
man stirred but did not wake.

Celeste
shot back the way she
’
d come, giving the nuns a wide berth.

It
was autumn but still warm, and an evening breeze sighed through the house. In
through the Library
’
s tall windows off the courtyard, past
Odette in her chair, past Celeste seated at the desk and on through the house,
up and up to the windows off the gallery. Celeste was applying paint to paper
and careful not to lose any on the leather top. She
’
d been painting for weeks now and
thought it was going well. Odette agreed. Agreed too, that Celeste was doing
well with studies and chores, so Celeste felt emboldened to ask the question
she tried not to ask too often.

“
When
’
s Papa coming back?
”

“
When the war is over,
”
Odette said. She folded the newspaper
into her lap and looked up at Celeste, who was watching her and wanting more
than the answer she
’
d heard before. So Odette expanded that
answer.
“
We are winning the war.
At last.
Maybe word will come any day that it is over.
”

“
How will word come?
”

“
By the sound of
church bells and cheering in the streets.
”

As
it happened, that day was the next day. Celeste had gone to her room to find
her shoes when the bells began ringing, the horns from passing cars, driving
fast, blared between buildings and people came out into the streets as if
fleeing fires. She went out onto the high porch and listened until she knew it
was the day Odette described. Then she went downstairs to find Odette, and ask
her question again.

Since
Odette still could not say for sure and certain, Celeste dreamed of her father
steering a boat like the one that had helped bring their train across the
river. She could see it was hard going and things were in his way.
So many boats crowding to get through.
Every one captained
by someone wanting to be home. She could see this, even though she was on the
shore so, so far away
—
standing on the shore of the brown
river, watching with her sharp eyes.

The
bear watched too, standing close by at her right hand where Celeste could trace
her ear and not worry so, since it was only a dream.
“
Be ready,
”
said the bear.
“
He will still be your Papa, but he will
not be the same as you remember.
”

“
Why not?
”
Celeste asked the bear.

“
Because you
’
ve both changed.
”
  

“
Will he know about Mama?
”
Celeste asked. She had wanted to ask
before, but didn
’
t want to hear the answer.

“
He knows,
”
Odette said.
“
I had to let him know.
”

“
Will Augustin know?
”

Odette
looked at the book in her lap.
“
If he knows, it will
not be from me.
”

It
felt like any more questions wouldn
’
t be welcome, so
Celeste let it be. But she
’
d remember where she
left off. Remember till next time. She waited through chores and painting and
drawing and sleeping
—
for days on end, and most days spent
hovering as near the front of Odette
’
s house, up near the
open windows where she could hear anyone coming up to the door to knock.
  

One
extra early morning whispered to her from outside, so softly that at first, she
mistook it for the faint sound of Odette snoring from her room down the hall.
That morning whispered in a voice so soft she couldn
’
t place it exactly, though it sounded
familiar. Whispered that she had more lessons to learn, out where she
’
d found other lessons on other
wandering mornings. She slipped downstairs and under the
iron
gate
, pausing on the sidewalk for only long enough to tell she
’
d need to turn left this time.

A
streetcar waited for her on a nearby street corner like a polite lady, and
Celeste had coins in her little purse stuffed deep in a pocket just in case she
needed to ride somewhere for a lesson. The man driving the streetcar might have
been sleeping or just waiting for anyone to show up. Hard to tell, but he took
a coin and waited for her to sit before setting off. Block after block,
rumbling along the rails until she got nervous she was leaving New Orleans and
might not get back, so she spoke up and climbed off at a street corner by a
high, blank wall.

When
the streetcar was gone, she was alone on the street lined with houses more like
her house back home than Odette
’
s with its stairs and
high porches. These were houses with simple porches, just off the ground, and
every one of those houses asleep. She stood alone, admiring those houses set
all so close together, her back to the high blank wall, until a man came around
the corner, his steps clumsy and wandering. He stopped when he caught sight of her;
stopped and swayed a bit as he took a good hard look at her. Even from half a
block away, she could feel the anger coming off him like heat coming of a mule
fresh from a worked field. He spoke but his words didn
’
t carry
—
only
the angry tone.

She
had wandered into the woods and met a wild thing.

His
voice rose to be heard.
“
Standin
’
there
lookin
’
at me that way! Bitch of a kid! Don
’
t you look away when I
’
m
talkin
’
to you!
”

Celeste
had glanced back along the street the other way and saw the end of the wall but
no door. No one was on
their
porch to see her.

He
advanced.
“
Tellin
’
her mama lies about me. Saying I was
doing things. She
don
’
t
know!
Just a
kid.
What the hell does she know? What the hell do you know about me,
little bitch? What the hell you
doin
’
out this time of the morning anyway.
Whoring at your age! Ought to be taught a lesson! Get over here you little
bitch of a kid!
”

It
was worse than facing the storm up the tree. At least there, she hadn
’
t been alone. But she wouldn
’
t wait for this shuffling man to get
any closer, and set off the other direction fast. She could hear his steps
quicken, broken by a stumble that only made him angrier. At least he stopped
yelling; too drunk to manage it and running. Ahead was nothing but more empty
porches, so at the corner she turned sharp left and found another block of high
wall at her side, but at least on this face, there looked to be an opening. So
she made for that.

She
was fast, and it sounded like the man had fallen on taking the turn, but when
she reached the opening, it was closed off with a tall iron gate, too close to
the ground for squeezing under and too high for climbing. She threw herself
against the gate and the chain holding it rattled and held
;
locked tight. But the gap between was a hair wider than the space between the
bars, which were spaced just too closer for her head to get through.

The
man was closing. She
’
d have only one shot at getting through
before she
’
d have to give up and run for it again.
She wedged in hard, her back to one side of the gate and her belly to the
other, and she grabbed the edge of the gate with both hands and pushed hard,
feeling it flex just the tiniest bit to let her belly through, while her
temples caught and smarted. In that little instant of pain, she somehow sensed
that the gate was flexing out more at the bottom
;
pivoting at the chain. Not much. Not enough to see, but enough for her to know
what to do.

The
man reached the gate just as she slid down, buckling at the knees and dropping
through the gap and away. The gate bounced back together onto his reaching arm,
catching him at the elbow and making him swear. He fell backwards onto his tail
and then onto his side, rolling clumsily back to sitting almost upright. He
scooped up a handful of grit and slung it at Celeste, spraying the iron of the
gate and Celeste
’
s retreating legs.

Inside
the gate, inside the high wall, it was streets and houses again, but
of
a different scale and different sort. She recalled the
train ride
into New Orleans and the sight of a strange white
walled town sprawling near the tracks. Remembered too how Odette had said it
was a cemetery. She wasn
’
t in that town now,
but one much
like
it. She pressed on and turned a
corner, trying to get away from sight and sound of the angry man, who was still
at the gate, cursing at her.

Walled
in with the dead, and a nasty man guarding the gate.

Her
fright had made her legs weak and she dropped down at the corner of one of the
little house that looked like its owner might not care. A stone angel
—
wings neatly folded and eyes downcast
in Celeste
’
s direction, stood above the door.
There was a narrow ledge down at the bottom, just big enough to sit on, which
suggested visitors were welcome. She would just rest a bit and give the man
time to forget about her and move on again. She
’
d slip out then and
head back to Odette
’
s. The stone was cold and dry, where
she
’
d thought there might be morning damp.
Cold enough to reach through her dress and skin to wash out the heat of her
scare and settle her down. Numbing her thoughts, but not her feelings
—
or her old fears.

“
Here to disturb the
peace. That it?
”
asked the dry voice beside her; maybe
coming from just around the corner where anyone might easily have slipped up to
take a seat without notice. Anyone could do that and not be heard, if they
walked on dead feet.
Dead and quiet feet.

Celeste
would not turn her head to look. She would not speak either.

“
A girl that walks the
street
’
s not a proper girl. You should know
that, even at your age.
”
The tone of the
ghost was not harsh, but there was that tone of disapproval that hinted at
deeper and darker feelings.
“
But you
’
re just an ignorant child.
Little know-nothing girl from the side of a dusty road who dug in
the dirt as black as herself, just as she should, until she got notions of
fancier things.
Used to just tag along behind her papa or sit on her
mama
’
s knee for dreamy talk. But then he ran
off and she died. Crushed in her sleep when she should have been up tending to
things. Isn
’
t that so?
”

The
cold lost its grip on Celeste and the heat flashed up in her head, all at once
like a knot exploding in a slow burning log.
“
You go back to hell!
”
she screamed. She
’
d never used such language before, but
she
’
d heard it and knew how.
A skill like poker.

The
ghost went. Celeste could hear her footsteps, only they weren
’
t leaving, they were coming closer.
Too many feet for one ghost.
Maybe other
ghosts coming from the opposite side with louder feet.
Shoed feet.
Curious ghosts.
Angry ghosts who
’
d been resting
peacefully until Celeste screamed out Hell and brought down a nightmare on
everyone
—
everyone
but Miss Bolton.

She
tried to open her eyes to see who it was but they fought it hard, maybe knowing
what was best. Best not to see ghosts, or they get in your head and live there;
maybe take up too much room and crowd out what you want to remember. Then she
forced her unwilling eyes open only to find they wouldn
’
t see straight and everything was a
blur. Best not to see them at all, but for sure don
’
t see them clear as day! Two shapes
were standing there looking down at her, waiting for her to see them and be
polite. Two dark shapes, so maybe cemeteries could have black folks in them
too. One was tall and the other shorter.

A
terrible thought came to mind. Her mama was dead and her papa wasn
’
t home. What if he
’
d been on the way and something had
happened and he
’
d died too. Died on his way home, so he
kept on coming till he got here. Came back a ghost and found Mama
’
s ghost too, so now they
’
d found her in a cemetery where she
shouldn
’
t be, and saying things she shouldn
’
t. Making them sad to see how she was
now and they were gone and couldn
’
t help.

“
Open up and let me
see!
”
she fussed at her eyes. They listened
but only some, shaping up the shapes a bit more, but only enough to see it wasn
’
t her mama and papa.
Still,
someone tall and someone short, and both dark.

“
Did you come to take
me on to the other side?
”
she asked Neighbor
and the bear.

The
two conferred in whispers.
“
Is she talking to Gh
é
d
é
Nebo mother?
”
said the shorter shape.

“
That
’
s hard to tell,
”
replied the taller.

The
voices weren
’
t familiar, but she knew it was safe to
look. No harm since they weren
’
t ghosts. Celeste
looked up at the woman watching her, and the girl not much older than herself.
Mother and daughter, clearly.

“
I
’
ve heard a lot of conversations in the
cemetery, and most of them one way, but none like yours, child. What are you
doing in a locked up cemetery? Get locked in? No wonder you
’
re shouting at shadows.
”

“
Wasn
’
t locked in,
”
Celeste explained. There was a small
pain between her eyes that she rubbed with her whole palm, round and round,
trying to push it back out again since maybe it had come in through the back of
her head from the white stone.
“
A man was chasing me
and I squeezed in through the gate to get away. Might still be out there.
”

“
He
’
s not,
”
said the woman.
“
Took off when he saw me. Afraid of a
Voodoo Queen I suppose.
”
She smiled down at
her daughter.
“
This is Aurore, and you can call me
Miss Yvette. Most do.
”