Child of the Storm (19 page)

Back
home again, late, Celeste faced unfinished business before she could sleep,
tired as she was. There was a ghost to bind. She sat at the table, placing the
spirit box in front of her. She set the bit of moss-bound stone beside it on
one side, and the piece of chalk on the other. As she mulled over what to do
next, it struck her that there should be three things in the box. Three was a
better number if you were binding. But as hard as she thought about what else
could go in that represented the ghost, nothing offered itself up. So she found
her drawing paper and her pencil and she began to draw the teacher. She drew up
the clearest memory of that day in the old school
—
a
powerful memory, though not so very clear in the details. Without details, the
feelings of that day had to guide her hand, and she dredged up those feelings
and fashioned a face around them with exquisite care over every hate filled
line in that memory from long ago.

The
night was so quiet and the room so still that she could hear something moving
about outside. The work of drawing the teacher brought on a strange chill, and
she brought out the picturous quilt and draped it over her shoulders,
protecting herself.

The
picture done, Celeste laid it out between herself and the box. She placed the
mossy stone and the forgotten chalk onto the picture, and she folded the paper
over them like a shroud. Something tapped against the glass of her window.
Maybe it was one of those flying bugs with their hard shells and hard heads,
attracted by the light. Maybe so, but she wouldn
’
t draw back the
curtain to find out. She set the parcel into the spirit box and closed the lid.
For the bind, she had first thought of rope, but rope wasn
’
t something Celeste used or felt
comfortable with. Instead, she fashioned a band of black cloth as wide as her
palm and long enough to go round the box with just enough left over to stitch
it together. This she did and set it aside.

“
So ghost. I
’
ve bound you tight away and don
’
t mean to see you ever again.
”

The
deed was done. The old ghost, maybe boxed up for sure and certain, but there
would be no sleep until she had tested it out, because the ghost showed up
where it was to its advantage, and that might be anywhere. The old thing had
expanded its territory over the years. Even so, there had always been favored
hunting grounds.

This
would be a long night for Celeste.

For
starters, she pedaled out across the Canal
—
parking
off to the side under the Colossus to see if the ghost might be there, knowing
how fond Celeste was of the bridge. No traffic on St. Claude or on the River.
Lights reflected on the water in the lock, but there were no words from the
ghost. No sight of it loitering by the railing.

For
the first time in years, she opened the bakery before George, and went first to
the little office, switching on no other lights than the little beat up desk
lamp. She leaned back in the chair, making it squeak like the door to a crypt,
and watched the dark doorway as if waiting for a recent hire to come in for a
talking to after he
’
d been seen dipping into the till. Not
how it works here. Not in this shop.

Need
to drop that guard, she told herself. You know how the ghost liked to work. So
she
lay
her arms in her lap, palms up and closed her
eyes. Got out of her own way like old Mr. Lin tried to teach her as a girl.
Might have dozed off but didn
’
t, or didn
’
t for long. The feel of the room stayed
true and she opened her eyes. Still no ghost, so maybe she
’
d bound her up right.

Maybe.

Into the backroom.
More light and more
to do.
Her hands itched to be doing, and what they wanted to do was make
bread.
Water, salt and flour.
Just
three ingredients to make good bread.
Just three
things to work those ingredients
—
yeast, herself and the air.
And the air worked by heat and by moisture, and even by the weight of it.
Threes upon threes.
Her own
hands
guided by past, present and future. How well had she learned, how hard did she
try and how much did she care.

By
the time George and Annie arrived, there was finished product sitting out
waiting for them, and they eyed her for signs of trouble.

“
Couldn
’
t stop myself,
”
she explained inadequately, but also
without any feeling she needed to explain more.
“
There
’
s not enough of it to get you off the
hook for a morning
’
s work, but enough to share around with
the staff as they show up. Let them taste what good bread a Dubois can whip up.
Show them why I
’
m boss.
”

“
You okay?
”
George asked.

“
Just fine. I just
have things to do.
”
She stuffed some of the bread in one
of the delivery bags and left the bakery to George and Annie.

She
set off through the narrow streets of The Bywater, pedaling easy
—
pedal and coast, noticing the pre-dawn
sleepy fronts of houses, until she braked outside of Mr. Allgood
’
s establishment. The light was on,
inside and out, and that one pretty little neon beer sign hummed. Mr. Allgood
was a Dubois
’
customer like so many inside a
respectable radius. She
’
d never returned the
favor since he plied his trade while she was sleeping. She poked her head in,
knowing the ghost wouldn
’
t approve, but there
was no ghost unless you counted the hazy blue smoke haunting the ceiling. It
boiled as she opened the door, letting in a pulse of living air. Disturbing its
peace.

“
Is that you Miss
Dubois?
”
Mr. Allgood was the large man hemmed
in by the swabbed down bar. Another man was folded over the counter, face
turned away from her.
Dead drunk.

“
Saw your light on Mr.
Allgood,
”
she replied, careful not to let the
door slam shut behind her.
“
Didn
’
t know you carried on till such an
hour.
”

“
Shouldn
’
t still be here, but Mr. Lincoln
’
s in a bad way and I can
’
t just toss him out.
”
He indicated the sleeping man.
“
One trouble on top of the last. Job
gone. Wife gone. You know.
”

“
Can
’
t say I know Mr. Lincoln. I hate to
hear that about anyone
’
s fortunes.
”

The
smell of the place brought back memories from her younger years, and not all of
them bad. Still, such a stinky place and she was inclined to wave a hand in
front of her nose, but that would have rearranged things that wanted to be
still. The ghost had never approved of bars or drink. Just two on that long
list of disapproved of things and people.

She
accepted an offer of a drink from Mr. Allgood; the smallest glass he had, and a
bit of red wine that he had to poke around to locate.

“
Anyone you know who
could come collect him?
”
she asked. Either
the wine was especially bad, or the tobacco smoke was influencing the taste.

“
Thought of calling a
cab, but can
’
t see that working out. No telling
where he
’
d end up. His own doorstep if he
’
s lucky. Thought of calling for Tad
Newcomb. You know Tad Newcomb? Policeman who patrols around here.
”

“
I know him. Know his
mother too.
”

“
Don
’
t need any more trouble for Mr.
Lincoln. Don
’
t need it for me either, still being
open this late.
”

Celeste
gave the wine another chance to prove itself.
“
If you can get him
here, I
’
ll make sure it all goes okay.
”

It
went just fine. The officer collected Mr. Lincoln and made no mention of the
hour of Mr. Allgood
’
s closing. Celeste pedaled behind the
patrol car to Mr. Lincoln
’
s house and did the
finesse work of settling him in on the sofa in the front room where he
’
d clearly been sleeping lately.
Thinking of those last days of her father
’
s life, she was
efficient without compromising the care. The officer stood by patiently and
without comment.

She
left bread on the table and offered some to the officer, then leaned over Mr.
Lincoln to whisper some words of reassurance, but he stirred; brought up a hand
to ward something off, his fingers trembling.
“
Don
’
t say that,
”
she thought she heard him say, but his
face was almost into the cushions and his voice was low and muffled.

“
I
’
ll swing by tomorrow evening,
”
the officer said.
“
He
’
ll need till then to
sleep it off.
”

The
patrolman departed, turning down Burgundy. She stood astride her bicycle and
waited outside Mr. Lincoln
’
s door, sampling the
air and feeling invulnerable despite the late hour. She challenged the darkness
huddled all around, with a look that might have come from the wine.

“
Any ghost wanting an
unkind word with Mr. Lincoln should just move along before I do. Move on
ghosts, or get boxed up.
”
She tapped her heel
against the kickstand and set off. She might have turned for home but it didn
’
t feel right to do that. It didn
’
t feel right to go pedaling around New
Orleans for the balance of the night either. She needed to slow down, to rock
back in a chair where she could admire some stars, let the dark air settle
around her for an hour or so until the dawn could lift it off again.
Someplace safe and still and wrapped up with deep unknowable
things.

Someplace
like the porch of a Voodoo Queen, where you might leave a nice gold watch just
lying out in plain sight and expect to find it untroubled a day later. Celeste
eased into the corner rocking chair, meant for guests, stretched out her legs
and crossed her arms over herself
—
wrapping
up like in a cocoon. She watched her mind run off to explore. Watched it like a
proud mother would watch her little girl at play. Exploring. Looking for a lost
treasure.

Old
John Stone was a porch sitter now. Not this late or this early, she guessed,
but who could say. Nighttime can be hard for those past a certain age. Less
welcoming. Hiding too much. But not for John Stone, she assured herself. He
wouldn
’
t be one to fear the night or the dark.
Not him. Or not the John Stone she knew when she was young and Sandrine was
still alive and singing. Maybe the dark was full of good things for him. Good
ghosts. Good visions.

Like
for a bear in winter.

Thoughts of the bear.
The last thing before sleep and
dreaming, since, if the bear was out there at all, it would be in some special
dream.

This
was a dream now, surely. Rocked back on Aurore
’
s porch. That much
was real. But the sky held a star drawn bear, seen through that still
remembered pattern of branches from her old Climbing Oak; like it had settled
in where Aurore
’
s house sat with the Voodoo Queen
asleep inside, not even knowing she had a great big dream tree sprouting up
from her parlor. Or maybe she did know, and this was a dream gift.

The
night rolled on and the starry bear rolled with it
—
down through the branches of the oak,
and into the warm light of sunrise.

Celeste
walked to the center of a field of plowed up earth.
Red earth
like she
’
d
never seen before; a field ready for planting.
At the edge of that
field, surrounding it, stood trees in full leaf. Leaves more truly yellow than
the yellow of new growth or that of leaves before winter and a last plunge. The
trunks danced in the shadows, squiggles of black. Above it arched the pure and
deep blue sky. One figure stood in the midst of that field
;
not working it or guarding it, but offering it to Celeste. Neighbor stood their
in all his grinning and well stuffed generosity, his arms forever flung wide as
if to say, since he was the dark and silent type, that all of this was for
Celeste.
The red, the yellow, the blue
—
all of it for
her.