Child of the Storm (13 page)

“
I
’
m Celeste.
”
She looked at the girl.
“
Who
’
d you think I was
talking to?
”

“
Gh
é
d
é
Nebo,
”
said the girl.
“
He leads souls to their afterlife.
”

Celeste
stopped rubbing her forehead. She didn
’
t think she wanted to
know much more, except one thing.
“
What
’
s he look
like?
”

“
Tall and dark with a
black hat. Wears glasses with only one dark lens so he can see into the world
of the living and the dead both.
”

The
mother offered a helping up hand to Celeste while
laying
a stilling one on her daughter
’
s shoulder.
“
Don
’
t you worry about Mr.
Nebo,
Celeste.
Too little knowledge can be a
disturbing thing, Aurore. Remember that.
”

From
where they left the streetcar, Celeste led them to Odette
’
s house, where Josephine stood, hands
on hips watching them approach. Sensing trouble, Celeste thanked Miss Yvette
and Aurore and ran ahead to face Josephine alone and gauge the weight of her
trouble.

But
her circle of acquaintances in New Orleans was now greater by two.

Chores
at Aunt Odette
’
s were so different from those back
home. The garden in the courtyard was just for looking at and for growing a
little shade in summer at midday. Josephine lorded over the kitchen and kept
the house in order. Celeste had her own room now, and was expected to keep it
looking like no one lived there. And there was the low lying dust that came from
nowhere to grey the white painted trim work lining the bottom of walls or the
shapely pickets that held up the railing beside the stairs. Dust settled there
too, and it was Celeste
’
s job to keep it from
getting too comfortable. A lesson in patients and care is what Odette called
that chore, and Celeste got tired of hearing it.

But
those few chores didn
’
t amount to much of any particular day.
Most of the waking hours were spent in the school of Odette. Numbers, science,
art, and reading from that wall full of books that watched Celeste as she
toiled at the leather topped desk. She sat for hours, balancing on a stack of
buttoned pillows for added height and not allowed to slump over her work.
“
You
’
ll have better focus
and poise that way,
”
Odette explained when Celeste
suggested that just one elbow on the desktop would help.

Some
days, between lessons, Celeste would be offered the open door and a chance to
roam the streets, but when it wasn
’
t offered, Celeste
knew she always had the gap under the side gate and took her chances there,
careful not to be seen by Josephine. But on two occasions, she sensed something
in the air; attention focused her way, not unlike those times when she
’
d feel a prickling on her neck and turn
to see someone looking at her. The first time this happened, Celeste asked
Odette if her father was coming home.

“
Trying to, but it
’
s a long road,
”
Odette said.

“
I think someone
’
s coming to see me,
”
Celeste told her.

Odette
just laughed.
“
This city will fool you into thinking
that sometimes. But you can go sit on the gallery outside your window and keep
watch till dinner.
”

Celeste
did, and for an hour folks came and went along the street without stopping or
even looking up where she sat peering through the railings. Only when she
caught a whiff of cooking coming through the window from her room, sent up by
Josephine to let her know it was almost time to come sit at the big table
—
only then did Celeste see her visitor
coming down the street on mule back. She ducked through the window and
stampeded down the long stairs, screaming out to every living soul and any
passing ghost for that matter, that John Stone was coming. She danced before
the locked door until Odette arrived from the Parlor.

Her
father
’
s old friend stood outside with hat in
one hand and a brown paper package, bound in string under his arm.

He
’
d come a long way and smelled of time
spent on a working mule. Odette sent Josephine home and John Stone up to get
the road off him, and held Celeste at bay while the three of them ate. Only then
did she usher them all into the Parlor where the brown paper wrapped parcel lay
on a table. Celeste plucked anxiously at the strings holding it closed.

“
It
’
s for you to open,
”
John Stone said.

Something
in the way he said it kept her from ripping into it like she would a Christmas
present. Once she
’
d mastered the loose knot, the strings
fell away and the wrapping almost bloomed
A
scent
wrapped her face that took her back to better times. Odette stepped up to help
her unfold the quilt.

“
We found it,
”
John Stone said.
“
It was in a box, unharmed by the storm.
Sandrine cleaned it, and we
’
ve held it safe until
I could find a time to bring it here.
”

“
Your mother made this
for you, Celeste,
”
Odette explained.
“
I
’
d forgotten how she
worked on it over the years since you were born. Square by square.
”
The quilt lay open now and was
complete.
“
She managed to finish it.
”

Wrapped
inside the quilt was a small wooden box, a few hand spans long.
“
That
’
s Mama
’
s sewing box,
”
Celeste explained.
“
Papa made it for her.
”

“
It
’
s handed down to you now,
”
Odette told her.

They
brought the mule into the courtyard for the night and John Stone preferred
bedding down on the rug in the Library rather than sleep in a room upstairs.
Not that he was afraid of the long stairs, as Celeste thought he might be,
since he climbed them without complaint so Celeste could show him the gallery,
her high porch, and the longer views it offered up. But he stayed well back
from the railing.

“
Sandrine has been
worried about you,
”
he said, looking at the sky above the
roof across the street rather than the street itself.
“
I can say you are safe and well.
”

Celeste
could tell that he was looking at the stars. She pointed to those hanging low.
“
See those?
”
She traced a shape in the dark air.
“
That
’
s the Big Dipper.
Papa taught me that, only Mama called them the Great Bear.
”

“
The Great Bear,
”
he repeated.
“
My grandfather called it that. So many
shapes in the stars, but now, I only know that one. So much I was taught that I
’
ve forgotten.
”

“
I still see the bear,
”
she offered, then tapped her head.
“
When I dream, I sometimes see the bear.
The one I told you about. The one with my Mama
’
s eyes.
”

“
Even here?
”

She
nodded, but it was dark out and he was still looking at the stars, so she
added.
“
Most nights, and sometimes when my mind
wanders off to where she is. But I don
’
t tell Aunt Odette.
She might not like that.
”

“
Maybe not. But thank
you for telling me.
”

He
left early the next morning. Lead his rested mule out from the courtyard and
set off for home. It would be many years before Celeste would see him again.

For
a few weeks more, Celeste slept under the quilt with one window open, even as
the nights grew colder toward year
’
s end, thinking that,
somehow, her spirit guide might need the open flowing air to find her.
 
And the bear did find her as often as Celeste
looked, as she waited for her father to come home
—
to
the new home.

“
He is on a boat and
that
’
s all we can know for now,
”
Odette told her, day after day as
Christmas approached.

It
was the earliest part of Christmas Eve when the bear with her mother
’
s eyes sniffed the air of that bright
land where she and Celeste walked, and told Celeste she should listen to the
air as well. See if there was something in it she should be mindful of. Celeste
did and sensed it was time to leave the bear for a time and wake.

She
slipped out from under her mother
’
s quilt and to the
open window where the same air from the bright land called her to come outside.
From the high porch, she squinted into the dim light at the figure marching
toward her. She squealed out something to wake Odette but did not stop, flying
down the stairs and out the back door. Out through the courtyard and under the
iron gate
to the street where she found her father standing
on the sidewalk looking at the front door. When she reached him, his
gunny sack
dropped behind him and he went to his knees and
seemed to sag his whole weight unto her shoulders, and she took that load like
a colossus holds up the sky.
 

The
woman in the grey dress wasn
’
t from the
neighborhood, probably from the Quarter or Uptown since she looked around like
a nervous bird, head snapping this way and that. She stopped in front of the
shop on the corner and sized it up against the other buildings on the street
before going inside. At that time of morning the bakery was always busy since
anyone with sense knew to get there early when the bread was fresh. The grey
dressed woman stood back from the counter, sizing up the women behind it, much
as she
’
d sized up the face of the shop. One
woman in particular drew most of her attention, but that woman was occupied
with directing a girl at the counter. She watched this substantial woman with
the substantial voice that was perfectly pitched for cutting through anything
at all. But she was busy, so the grey dressed woman waited.

A
side door opened and another woman slipped through the action behind the
counter
—
slipped through like a pickpocket
through a crowd or like a ghost through a flock of mourners. This little un-noticeable
woman passed all the way through to the far end of the counter where it was
quiet, and continued to mull over the sheet of paper in her hand.

The
grey dressed woman approached her, all the while keeping an eye on the more
substantial woman who was now joking with a customer.

“
Excuse me. I was told
to come place a special bread order for an event Mrs. Broussard is having on
Saturday. I was told I should speak to Miss Dubois the owner, but she looks to
be busy. Do you think you could ask her to come have a word?
”

The
little woman behind the counter looked across the room to the substantial woman
—
twice her own size, surely; gave her a
good looking over as if she
’
d never really sized
her up before. What she saw must have perplexed her somehow. She turned to the
grey dressed woman, waiting to catch her eye before replying.

“
I
’
m
Celeste Dubois. How can I help you?
”

By
mid afternoon the bakery was closed and most of the staff was off for home but
Celeste sat in the little office, little more than a pantry with a desk wedged
against one wall between shelves. Annie stood in the open doorway and frowned
at her boss.

Celeste
recognized that look and knew it was just how Annie waited for someone to get
something off
their
chest. Always ready to deal with
whatever. Task oriented.

“
Why is it that
strangers find it hard to believe that I am who I am?
”
Celeste asked

“
The owner you mean.
The boss.
”

Celeste
nodded.
“
Never fails. Both of us out there, and
they
’
ll think it
’
s you.
”

“
I look the part,
”
Annie said.
“
Sound it too.
”
She frowned a bit more, then added,
“
And happy birthday. You forgot again.
Thirty, and that
’
s supposed to be a big one. Will be for
me, when that day comes. What are you planning to do? Nothing special?
”

“
Guess that
’
s so, since I forgot.
”

“
Want me to come
around later and drag you off somewhere lively? Maybe find you a birthday
present? Someone nice?
”

Celeste
almost laughed.
“
Maybe another time. Papa always
remembers, even if I don
’
t.
”

“
Haven
’
t seen him in the shop lately.
He doing
alright?
”

“
Been tired,
”
Celeste said.
“
Thinks there
’
ll be another war over in Europe.
”

“
He
’
s already served once and they don
’
t take men his age. Don
’
t take women either. Is it about your
brother? He worried he may want to fight again?
”

“
Maybe so.
”

“
Never any word?
”

“
No.
”
Celeste
’
s thoughts wandered
and it seemed to show.

“
Well don
’
t hang around here too long. Go see
what your Papa has planned.
”

She
let Annie finish up and head for home but she lingered a while longer herself.
Wouldn
’
t take her long to get home where her
father waited
—
staying home today at Celeste
’
s suggestion. From the bakery in The Bywater
to her house in the Lower Ninth was an easy bicycle ride and one she could
cover in ten minutes, give or take. The fastest run was well before sunrise,
crossing the Industrial Canal and down St. Claude to Piety. No traffic and only
the occasional stray cat to worry about. On the afternoon ride home she might
zigzag a different route, driven by whim
—
one
of her few deviations from strict routine. And if the St. Claude Bridge showed
its usual preference for passing ships over skinny women on bicycles, well, she
’
d just lean her bike and herself
against the railing and wait for the ship to pass the lock, passing to or from
the river.

The
bridge was an old friend by now, like those at the gates of water ringed
castles, only out of iron like her father had worked when a much younger man,
but iron on a grand and glorious scale. She called it the Colossus. Standing
there alone, watching her comings and goings without judgment. Mostly quiet.
Like her father.

He
’
d come home from the war to all he had
lost, but pushed on with life, saying he was bound to carry on with the dream
he
’
d had for his family, even though Marie
was gone. He owed that much to her and more. And he
’
d had enough of iron. Odette stood by
him in his plans since she was connected and drove with an unbending will. They
schemed together a lot in those early months after he got home. Mostly, they
schemed about bread.

As
the story went, Bernard had met a grateful baker in France who wrote down the
secret to his perfect bread and gave it to Bernard on a day when the unit was
trucked away to another town. He showed that paper to Odette and Celeste,
saying how he intended to be a baker.

Celeste
had liked the sound of that and so had Odette. But if Odette liked a notion,
she didn
’
t just like it. She put her mind to how
it could work out, and she pushed in that direction like the Mississippi pushes
mud. Her pencils worked the numbers and Bernard
’
s strong hands
prepared loaves of bread to sample every Sunday and sometimes other days as
well, until they had it right
—
like
his memory of the bread the Frenchman had given him as proof of the recipe
’
s worth.
  

On
Sundays, he would go on long walks with Celeste, exploring the city and keeping
an eye out for where his bakery might fit in. He found it on a day when he and
Celeste explored The Bywater, stopping at the monument being built in honor of
men who
’
d served in the war from the Ninth
Ward. There would be bronze plaques, filled with names when it was all done,
and then, Bernard would show Celeste where his name might have been, had he
been living in their new house instead of the old one where Marie had died. He
’
d say that, and each time walk on in
silence for a few blocks. Celeste could feel the regret pouring off him, every
time as strong as the time before. No mercy. No forgiveness, no matter what
anyone
said.

By
Celeste
’
s thirteenth birthday they moved out of
Odette
’
s house and into one of their own
beyond the canal, following the trail blazed by St. Claude Avenue
’
s new streetcar line, into a
neighborhood once connected to the city by streets, but now by bridges. Odette
didn
’
t care for that move, but Bernard meant
to build a new home. He could manage it across the canal and was used to a walk
in to work.

A
bigger house than the old one, but still small compared to Odette
’
s.
Just one level.
Just one porch and a stoop outside the back door.
It
also helped having an oak tree in the side yard of the new house
;
not the back yard but the skinny one between their house
and the house on their morning side. Not a great Live Oak either, but an oak
just the same and she was glad to have it.

Once
the bakery on Piety Street opened, Celeste joined her father on the early walks
in to work until she took a fancy to the sight of folks on bicycles and
convinced Bernard they should modernize their means of transport.
On and on, day after day.
Life sped up and moved forward.

She
was thirty now.

There
was movement by the door. Probably Annie
back
to reminder
her of something, only the voice that spoke wasn
’
t Annie
’
s
—
not
strong and full like chicory coffee with something sweet dropped in, but cold
and dry like a gritty doorstep in January.

“
Life passed you by,
has it?
”
the ghost said.
“
Well, that can happen when you
’
re too scrawny to turn a beau
’
s head, and you spend all of your time
working this place, piling up money I guess. Selling bread,
”
she passed a dry puff through her pale
nostrils.
“
I suppose it beats selling yourself
—
not that you
’
d find any takers.
”
The ghost raised a pale hand.
“
The truth is not always easy to
swallow, but it
’
s always for the best.
”

Celeste
slammed the ledger book closed, and the sound of it was enough to send the
ghost away
;
off to the corner to wait for another time
to have a little word or two. That
’
s how it worked, and
most times, Celeste could almost feel the visitation coming on. Maybe like her
mother
’
s Sadness, only different, since the
ghost didn
’
t linger for much more time than was
needed to get in a harsh lesson when Celeste felt down or troubled. Very
efficient and ever the surprise unwelcome guest.

She
went home by Burgundy, passing the monument her father liked to touch where his
own name might have been had things been different. She slowed but did not
stop, nor did the Colossus stop her on that afternoon. She passed beneath it
and thought how she
’
d slipped under Odette
’
s side gate all those years back
—
only a tiny girl, off to see whatever
she might, good or wicked. Just out to wander. Passing under the Colossus, she
thought of how her wanderings had lost the thrill of those early days in the
city. She laughed out loud, thinking of how innocent and foolish she
’
d been; a child from the country,
taking a morning stroll with a prostitute or escaping an angry drunk by ducking
into a cemetery. Might have died any number of times before her Papa could get
home. Would have made that homecoming all the sadder for him.

Their
house on Marais was much like any
other on that street, at least to the casual observer, but to anyone local it
had Bernard
’
s mark on it, plain as day. A sturdy
house, built by a man who knew how things should be made to hold strong, and
with just that eye to proper proportion. He
’
d been to Paris.
Everybody knew that.

She
dropped her bike onto the front porch and went in to find her father sitting at
the table, looking at papers in a house filled with the smell of baked
something. Celeste sniffed and could judge pretty close to what it was
—
not a cake since Bernard didn
’
t care for cakes of the usual sort. Something
flakey.
Almonds and honey.
He greeted her with a smile
as she came in.
That worn smile
of his. Almost worn
out and only in his sixties.