Child of the Storm (15 page)

The
bicycle was for business. If she absolutely had to get Uptown, she
’
d catch the streetcar but didn
’
t care for the seat assignments. If it
was
just a day-off wander, she
’
d go on foot to help
sort her thoughts.
Safer that way and easier to notice the
simple things.
 
Simple things
like the staring dog.

It
was her opinion that nice dogs might gaze in a hopeful way, but never stare.
Yet here was some sort of small black dog, blocking her way down North
Claiborne. It stared at her till she was only feet away and then trotted a few
doors down before turning to stare again. But at the next cross street the dog
turned north, out of sight. So Celeste made a point of looking that way once
she caught up and found that the dog was just standing there waiting.
And still staring.

She
followed out of curiosity; since there was no place in particular she needed to
go. It led her down a street, then turned, on again for another block or two
and turned again, till it found where it meant to take her and trotted up onto
someone
’
s porch and stretched out in the shade.
Celeste joined it there, choosing one of the rocking chairs on the porch she
knew well enough already.

When
the owner of the house came out to check who was sitting on the porch, she
found Celeste and the dog still watching each other. Celeste spared the woman a
glance by way of acknowledgement.

“
So he brought you
here, did he?
”
the woman said.
“
He does that sometimes. Always finds
someone who needs advice
—
or
so
he
thinks.
”
She looked at the dog, but the dog
only had eyes for Celeste.

“
So what advice does he
have for me?
”
Celeste asked.

The
woman snorted.
“
That dog
’
s got no advice for
anyone. He
’
s just a delivery dog.
”

“
So I
’
ve been delivered here? Thought I was
just out for a stroll.
”

“
Maybe some myst
è
re is riding him for a purpose.
”
The woman gave Celeste a sly look and
waited for reaction.

“
Myst
è
re, you say. So this is some Voodoo
dog, or a dog under the influence. Is that what I
’
m hearing?
”

The
woman laughed, full out.
“
We
’
re all under an influence of one sort
or the other. Might be myst
è
res. Might be the
weather, or maybe the influence of our own cooked up notions.
”
She shooed the dog off the porch
before taking a seat in the second rocking chair. Beads around her neck clicked
softly. Her feet were bare. There were smudges of chalk on her expressive brown
fingers.
“
Everything touches everything else,
”
she said.

Celeste
nodded because she knew it was so. Much the sort of thing her mother had taught
her as a child.

The
other woman joined her in that nodding.
“
It
’
s been about twenty years we
’
ve known each other. Is that right?
”

“
About that.
”

“
Longer than I
’
ve known just about anyone else. Since
we were girls and my mother was still around and a Voodoo Queen that scared the
wits out of most children who would have been my friend, but not you. She
figured you were about the most unusual child she
’
d ever met, but here
we are, twenty years on and you
’
re still hovering
around at the edges of Voodoo; interested, in your own way, but not buying in
either.
”

“
That
’
s all true, Aurore. But I hover around
any number of shop windows for a curious look without buying. Was sad when your
mama passed and proud to see you step up to fill her shoes, but as interesting
as it all may be, with that great big family of myst
è
res you serve, I
’
m just not one for joining. Like my
mother, I guess, but no disrespect intended.
”

“
And none taken. I
’
m unorthodox in my own way, so I
sympathize.
”
Aurore rarely pushed her friend. Knew
it wasn
’
t the way to get Celeste anywhere.

“
Still, there
’
s this matter of that dog delivering me
here, as you say. Just what do you make of that?
”

The
Voodoo Queen noticed the chalk on her hands and rubbed it off.
“
I might make any number of things about
it, but why don
’
t we stick to laymen
’
s terms and steer clear of Voodoo? I
’
d say you have something on your mind
and want advice. Since that
’
s what I do and I
’
ve offered it freely to my oldest
friend, it might be a myst
è
re riding that dog or
it might just be your own intentions. About all I can offer for now.
”

“
That
’
s fair,
”
Celeste agreed.

“
So what
’
s troubling you, friend?
”
Aurore pressed.

“
It
’
s complicated,
”
Celeste said.
“
But sticking to the basics, I
’
m not getting any younger.
”

“
Nor am I.
”

“
I
’
m not clear on what my path should be?
”

“
You
’
re the best baker around, except for
your father, maybe. Everyone says so.
”

“
That
’
s what I do. There should be a
difference between your job and life.
”

“
True. Your father
’
s getting on in years and you have no
husband or children. Is that where you
’
re headed?
”

“
I wouldn
’
t say so. Not sure what I mean. Just a
feeling that
’
s taking root.
”

“
I see. Not much to
work with. Not love or children or career. Most of those who look to me for
help as their mambo expect help and healing from Voodoo, whether that
’
s what I draw from or not. More often
than not it has to do with love and family, yet here I am, a single woman too.
Guess they put more faith in Voodoo than in my personal life experience. But
that
’
s everyone but you, unless you think
its Voodoo that might apply.
”

Celeste
considered this a good while before replying.
“
I
’
d say I
’
m haunted.
”

“
Haunted? Wasn
’
t expecting that from you. You of all
people.
”

Celeste
shrugged.
“
Maybe not, and maybe it
’
s something else. You remember me
telling you about my run in with that teacher, back when I was a child?
”

“
The teacher who died?
And that
’
s the ghost you picked up?
”

“
Maybe it was just
innocent guilt early on, but she
’
s stuck with me even
after I laid that guilt aside. Rides me, maybe like these myst
è
res of yours.
”

“
All these years.
”

“
All these years, but
some worst than others. Given my mother
’
s condition I just
never felt good about sharing that part with anyone else. Not even with Papa.
”

“
You worry you might
share here Depression.
”

“
Or something kin to
it. Mama never spoke of it so we never knew what she really saw or felt. She
couldn
’
t hide it, but that was just the
outside. Once I got older I knew it must have been so much worse for her when
she was alone with it.
”

“
I wish I
’
d known this sooner, friend.
”

“
It
’
s because you
’
re my friend that you know at all. But
don
’
t go worrying too much about it now that
you know. Just give it a thought now and then and let me know if you have any
suggestions. I can
’
t promise I
’
ll take my medicine, but I
’
m always open to suggestions.
”

“
I
’
ll see what I can do.
”

“
And I
’
ll keep her at arm
’
s length until you come up with something.
I
’
ve managed her this long. Provided it
’
s just her with the same old material,
I can still manage.
”

“
Fine,
”
Aurore said.
“
Just let me know if she picks up new
tricks or settles in for too long at a time.
”
    

Across
the ocean, the World War ground on, and that grinding took a deepening toll on
Bernard. He sifted through the newspaper and hung on every word of reports from
the radio. Even when the tide turned and Europe was being taken back again, he
was gladdened to hear it, but he was draining of health and strength like a
rusted out cup. Celeste found a doctor who
’
d come by to see him,
since he wouldn
’
t agree to leave the house for an
office call. When he was done checking Bernard out, he took Celeste aside out
on the front porch to tell her what she knew was true but had hoped wasn
’
t so. Her father was dying.
Just wearing out and shutting down.
That was about the sum
of it. Mostly his heart
;
worn out and ticking off the
days.
 

Two
days after the doctor
’
s visit and exhausted though she was, Celeste
was up earlier than usual, peddling in to the bakery. She arrived before George
and set to work at once; diving into the routine she could do almost without
thinking. But a wandering part of her mind dwelled on troublesome thoughts and
the ghost was invited in through some dark back door.

It
stood quietly by, waiting until Celeste came to a halt between tasks, her mind
refusing to move on to the next as the fatigue caught up with her again. The
ghost expected that, and it spoke to Celeste in its sharp and brittle voice.
“
Here your sad old papa is edging toward
his grave, and you can
’
t stay at his side. I swear to Heavens
I
’
m glad I never had a child for fear it
would have been as heartless as you.
”

Celeste
staggered against the
work table
on hearing the hated
voice so near.

“
Just so focused on
grabbing up all the money you can from this store of his,
”
the ghost continued as she crept
closer to Celeste.

Celeste
wanted to clasp her hands over her ears, but it would have done no good. Her
weariness just made the ghost that much stronger and more venomous. This wasn
’
t to be a lesson. It was meant as a
lashing.

“
Just waiting for the
day your old Papa will pack it in. That
’
s what I expect,
knowing you like I have all these wretched years. Being the good teacher, I
’
ve just tried to show you what you
really are. Nothing but the truth, so help me God. But some folks don
’
t learn. Some just insist they know
best. Well, I
’
ve never given up on a pupil yet. Even
the ones unsuited to my classroom as you were.
”

The
ghost drifted up closer than she
’
d ever been allowed
before and its malice took Celeste
’
s breath away as it
hissed into her ear.
“
I
’
ll ride you to your
death, missy. I
’
ll ride you through Death
’
s Gate and straight through to
Evermore.
”

There
was a bump from outside and the ghost dissolved. Celeste shook herself free
from the spell just as the door opened and George entered, looking apologetic.

“
Sorry Miss Celeste, I
lost my hold on the bicycle and it hit the outside wall. Hope I didn
’
t startle you.
The
bicycle
’
s
okay.
Sounded worse than it was.
”

“
It
’
s okay George. It just startled me a
bit, but only because I
’
m too tired to think
straight.
”

“
I can cover things
here. For as long as you need time away.
”

“
We
’
ll see. Might need you to open the
place up for a while.
”

It ran against her nature to
leave the opening of Dubois’ to George, and not because she didn’t trust him.
Opening up shop was daily habit and she’d become a creature of habit.
Too much so now, she thought.
Especially since her father’s
time was running out and she would be alone.
Alone with her
habits and the ghost.
Stuck up to her chin in the mud.

Bernard’s sleep was scattered.
Some mornings she would find him up by the time she rose. Other times, he would
be restless, and would sit out on the porch till all hours or at the table with
a book to distract
himself
from discomfort or worries
over things left undone.

So it was on that night when she
found him seated at the table around midnight, pouring over the contents of his
little box of memories. Something in the way he sat and the arrangement of the
chairs suggested she was being invited to join him. He seemed alert and
purposeful, and she assumed the same demeanor for herself, like she would do
when visiting Odette

“You remember this?” He passed
an old bit of paper to her. A drawing.

“Of course I do. Maybe the first
one I ever drew and you took it with you to the war.”

“That’s right.” He took it back
and stretched it between his fingers. “You know, there were times during the
war when I would look at this little picture to help me remember so many other
things that should have come to mind without any help at all. It was bad enough
just being separated from home, even though it was the choice I made.”

“You did what you thought was
best at the time, Papa.”

He set the drawing down and
picked up a small square from a quilt, a single square only a hand’s span
across, its face formed from four rectangles of different cloth set about a
small square at the center. “You remember this don’t you?”

“I do. Mama made that for you
before you went away.
Something small enough for you to carry
but maybe tough enough to hold up to wear.
Something to remember us all
together by.” She touched each corner of the little quilt in turn. “Mama and
you, Augustin and me.”

“Only the two of us left now,”
he said, placing it down in front of her. Removing his glasses, he drew his
hand over his face like a man wiping away blindness. He breathed in deeply and
let it go, preparing himself.

“What do you mean, Papa? What
about Augustin? Has something happened?”

“A long time ago.” He returned
to the little box and fished out two metal disks. One of them she recognized.
The other, a damaged one was something she had never seen before. “We lost him
a long time ago. Your mother never knew and I guess I felt I was keeping a
promise to him by not letting you know once I returned.”

The day tips from side to side
at midnight. She’d heard Annie say this once, and it came to her now. To keep
herself still, she drew the two little disks over in front of her and studied
them while her father watched. He knows how I am and will wait till I’m ready.
Always that way with Mama and with me as I’ve gotten older. “Dog tags from the
war,” she said. “I remember this one from when I was little, after you came home
and I saw you in your uniform. Don’t recall this damaged one.”
A simple thing with only numbers and part of a name remaining.
Dubois
. The first name was gone with the part that was lost. She
scrubbed the metal between her fingers. She looked at the other tag. Read the
numbers. They didn’t match.

“It isn’t yours,” she said. “It
says Dubois, but it isn’t yours.”

“Not mine,” he said. “Augustin’s.”

“But he went to New York.”

Her father nodded. “He enlisted
there. Got in the Guard and found a way to fight.”

“They wouldn’t let us fight.
That’s what you told me.”

“
Our
country wouldn’t,
but the French would. Had no problem fighting beside black men. Our army
loaned
some of us out. Augustin was with them.”

“You knew he was there?”

“I got wind of it later, even
managed to get closer to the lines. A blacksmith can come in handy near the
front—for the horses, trucks and those big tanks. Arranged a letter
between us now and then, but he made me swear I wouldn’t tell you or Marie. He
said if all went well, he’d come home to tell you all about it. He was just
that proud of the chance. I was proud of him, but scared to death, knowing what
he was faced with. Never got to fight, but knew enough from men who had. Knew
it was real bad.”

“What happened?”

“He was wounded once. Not so bad
that he could be sent home. It was getting near the end of the war. We could
tell it was so, and I just hoped he would be out of the fight until it was full
over. But that’s not what he wanted. Got back on his feet and back to his unit
in time for the last push.”

“So he died over there.”

He nodded. “I was given his tags
and a final letter along with them. It was Augustin’s idea—in case
something happened to him, I was to know, but not you. Not your mother. Said
he’d rather you keep thinking he was living the big city life, in hopes you’d
keep your own dreams alive, and not have them run down by old ghosts of
disappointment. He didn’t know about your mother. I found out about her passing
not so long before I learned of his.”

There was silence between them
for some time as they both struggled.

“Might have been easier on you
had you shared this with me long ago, Papa. That’s a hard thing to bear alone.”

“You had enough to carry,
especially with what I laid on you by going off they way I did. Least I could
carry that one thing this far.”

“Well, that’s all behind us
now.”

He didn’t hear. “Don’t even know
where he was laid to rest. I guess it was France. Often thought about going to
find out, but time slips away. Things always have to wait and then there’s no
time left. And then this war comes along.” He wrestled with a thought before
speaking again. “You can’t imagine how torn up the land was by the first war.
Earth churned up by a plow from Hell and nothing to sow but the dead. The
thought of his rest being violated by that happening again, happening to the
very ground he lies in has brought me out of sleep days on end.”

“The dead rest peacefully in
loving memories. Not the earth,” she offered.

“That’s so. That’s what your
mother would have told me. She was always so keen on continuance. She had her
own notions about things, your mother. I’d put that down to a lot of reasons,
but I couldn’t say where some notions came from. They were just part of her,
like her saying you were her child of the storm, meant for something special.
I’d ask her what the special something was, and she’d say it wasn’t up to her.
Up to Celeste, she’d say. I’d press her to say what her dream for you would be
and she’d just smile, shake her head and say ‘On and on.’ That’s all, just on and
on. Became a game between us. Where’s Celeste, I’d say. And she would answer,
‘On and on’, then laugh. Always looking at something. Always wandering around,
noticing. That’s how you were.”

“And what about Augustin?”
Celeste asked. “What did Mama have to say about him? When he was little.”

“Always up ahead. We’d walk and
he’d be up ahead. Your Mama said he was getting things ready. That’s how she
put it. Worried her he’d get lost, pushing on that way. Always pushing. Pushing
to go to school, pushing to leave home, pushing to fight. But that was his
way.”

“I hope you don’t think of him
as lost,” she said,
then
wondered why she had said any
such thing. The day had tipped and she hadn’t found her balance.

“I do in some ways. Mainly
because I didn’t make it over there to find where he was laid to rest and maybe
find some folks who might have known him there—to tell me how he was and
what sort of man that place had made him. I have those few letters that I’ll
pass to you, but I’d rather not do that until I’m gone.”

“I need to know
your
story Papa.” She placed everything back in the box and closed the lid. “Lots of
good times and good memories I need for you to share with me. Memories of when
you met Mama, and before I came along.”

He nodded. “I can do that. Where
do you want me to start?”

“It’s your story, Papa. You tell
it however you think best.”

By spring, Celeste was coming
home to an empty house.

She considered the quilt where
it lay across her bed.
Her mother’s art.
A simple and
beautiful work like most quilts of that sort, but most beautiful and meaningful
to her since she could read its story, even though it wasn’t a story quilt in
the strictest sense. There was the square made from material that had once been
her great-grandmother’s, the heart and starting point of the quilt, if only
because it was the oldest part. Patches of fabric that had once been in a
garment that may well have been fashioned from another garment before it, and
now, grafted into a whole that was this picturous quilt. It embodied a power,
comforting, reassuring, charged with meaning and protection. It was like a soft
voice from her mother, her great-grandmother (whom she had never met), her
brother, and now her father.