Child of the Storm (17 page)

Celeste
admired Aurore
’
s automobile. She was just this side of
coveting it, but since she couldn
’
t drive, it seemed
senseless to take things that far. Its shiny skin was, to Celeste
’
s eye, the color of mist under the sun,
and there was about it the look of something alive and eager. It faced her with
alert and lidless headlights, its grand sweeping fenders, great vertical grill
and jutting bumper. It was a strange thing to see out front of her house.

“
I
’
ve never known someone to own such an
automobile before. At least not one that wasn
’
t black and spindly
looking
—
or a truck.
”

“
She
’
s a
‘
37 La Salle. I got
her as payment for a life-or-death problem I solved for a man who lives in the
Garden District. He was planning to trade up anyway. Traded up to something
newer in 1945 to celebrate the end of the war.
”

Celeste
peaked inside the car and whistled.
“
That
is
fancy.
Looks comfortable too.
”
She marveled at Aurore. To be a
healer, advisor, magician,
and
master a shiny beast like this all the
way to Lafayette and back.

“
She
’
s plenty comfortable. But I
’
ll let you judge for yourself. Load up
and climb in. The road calls and it
’
s time to answer.
”

The
La Salle zipped down the highway leaving New Orleans and heading west, its top
down and the wind flowing over its streamlined form, tripping over the
wind screen
to stir through Celeste
’
s hair as it passed. High speed was a
guilty pleasure Celeste had acquired in her rampaging morning bicycle rides.
For the first half hour of the trip she sat quietly watching the scenery blur.
People standing on the side of the road or in their yards stopped what they
were doing to watch the La Salle. Some waved and Celeste waved back.

“
People love to watch
this car cruise by,
”
Aurore observed.
“
Most of them know who I am along this
road, and the La Salle
’
s hard to miss.
”

Celeste
felt a touch of embarrassment since it seemed the waving people beside the road
were waving at Aurore and not at her. She smoothed the wind wrinkles out of her
skirt and rested her hands in her
lap,
palm up, to
keep them from doing more waving. Big hands for such a little lady, she
thought, and not for the first time. She brought her left hand up a bit. A big
hand, but nicely shaped, she added. Strong looking; but that just comes from
years of work.

“
Are you looking for
your future?
”
Aurore asked.

“
Excuse me?
”

Aurore
laughed.
“
Just wondered if you were trying to
read your own future.
”
She reached across and touched Celeste
’
s hand.
“
Palm reading.
”

“
Is that something you
do, being a Voodoo Queen?
”

“
Only for those who
ask. Remind me to read yours and I
’
ll show you how it
’
s done. Just the big picture.
”

“
Anything to it? The
future reading, I mean?
”

“
Can
’
t say, but sometimes I use it to add a
little weight to something I want them to hear? Maybe ease a concern. An excuse
to hold someone
’
s hand
—
someone
who needs it. Might take nothing more than that to help some folk who are cut
off from a kind touch. Remember that.
”

“
I will.
”

They
were off the paved highway and along a dirt road that looked at times like
someplace she knew and at other times totally unfamiliar. Celeste would tap her
fingernail on the windscreen, pointing at some landmark, a house or a tree at
the bend in the road with the ghost of an old scar in its bark where a
top heavy
wagon had once overturned when the driver came to
it too fast. Man and horse died, but the tree and the story remained for
Celeste to find. Soon after that, she spied two more familiar sights and
anticipated the third, and she knew then she was on the right path. She had
been nine years old when she left for their new home and her memories were from
a child
’
s height and a child
’
s pace. She and Augustin had walked far
along this road that led from their home into town, and to unknown lands at
untold distances in the opposite direction. She recognized the old home of
Sandrine and John Stone, repainted and added onto, but she didn
’
t recognize the younger adults outside
it. People move on or pass away.

Soon
after, she tapped excitedly on the glass and cried out;
“
Oh!
”
and Aurore stopped
the La Salle. On the right side of the road, a newly plowed field stretched off
to a distant tree line. To their left was a ruin set in the middle of mostly
bare earth. Beyond it, the remains of a once mighty tree stood, now only a
decaying trunk, its branches gone.

“
That
’
s my old home,
”
Celeste said, pointing to the few
piers of bricks and the toppled chimney. There wasn
’
t a stick of wood to be seen of the
rest of the house.
         
She
opened her door and got out. Aurore got out too and put the car
’
s top down again.

“
You changed your mind
and want me to stay with you?
”

“
No, I
’
ll be fine. You can go ahead with your
business. Shouldn
’
t take me long here, and then I
’
ll be down the road in town.
”

“
Two hours?
”

“
Two hours will be
plenty. Can
’
t say where I
’
ll be since I don
’
t know
what
’
s
left that I
’
d remember. But I
’
ll wave you down.
”

The
La Salle disappeared, trailed by a fine cloud of dust. Celeste stood for a
while at the edge of the road just looking at the remains of her old home, like
a ghost-ridden traveler pondering a graveyard. But she had things to do and
places to see, and she might never be this way again in her life, so she took a
few steps at a time until she was standing where her table would have stood in
the main room. There was nothing to see
;
not a scrap
of broken dish, no glint of an old tarnished needle in the dust. Nothing to
suggest anyone had ever lived here except the crumbling brick piers dotted
around the edge and at the footprint of the fireplace without so much as a bit
of char or soot to speak of the many fires that had once burned there.

No
hint that anyone had died here. It crossed her mind to feel badly that she
never visited the cemetery vault where her parents had been buried. A vault
provided by Odette, where her own husband had been buried years and years
before, along with the remains of other unknown family.

Their remains.
She hated that term. Their remains lay
in her, not some cold, stone structure. Even those short few years of Augustin
’
s life
—
those
she
’
d been witness to, lay in her.

A
breeze whispered through the leaves and the grasses, but the body of the
Climbing Oak was silent and still. She remembered all the time she and her
brother had spent in its branches or under them, talking, sharing stories and
telling secrets. She left the sad memory of the house and moved toward the tree
as the breeze fell off and in the new, deeper silence, she heard young voices
speaking softly. Was this an echo of her childhood? She stopped to listen but
the voices were silent. Then the face of a small boy peaked out from around the
Climbing Oak. He saw Celeste and his eyes were filled with terror. The little
stricken face disappeared again and a moment later she heard him cry out.
 
“
It
’
s her! She
’
s out of the house and
comin
’
our way!
”
Like a rabbit, he shot from behind the
tree and struck off down a path through the woods to the right, not daring to
look back to see if he was followed.

He
had no sooner disappeared than two more faces peered around the trunk of the
tree and spied her. But after a moment
’
s surprise, they both
stepped out and approached Celeste bravely, but maintained a safe distance as
well. The black girl spoke first, being probably twelve and therefore a little
older than the small white boy with his uneven
crewcut
.

“
Is this your
property?
”
the girl asked. It was a sensible
question, Celeste thought, and one she might have asked under similar
circumstances. It
’
s always good to know the legalities.

“
No it isn
’
t. And I didn
’
t mean to frighten your friend off. I
didn
’
t even know you three were here.
”

“
That was her brother,
”
explained the
crewcut
boy.
“
He doesn
’
t like coming here
since we told him about the ghost.
”

“
Ghost?
”

“
Yeah,
”
explained the girl.
“
Long time back, there was a lady
killed
in this house. A storm blew up and dropped the house on her and
killed
her in her sleep. When her ghost came back from wandering through the woods
while the lady was dreaming, it found she was killed. A ghost gets stuck to a
place when something like that happens. So when my brother saw you coming his
way from where the house stood, he must
’
ve figured you were
the ghost.
”

“
It was a negro lady
killed here,
”
the boy clarified.

“
I see. Well I hope
you
’
ll tell him it wasn
’
t a ghost he saw.
”

The
boy and girl looked at each other and the boy grinned.
“
Might be more fun if we don
’
t,
”
said the girl.

Celeste
raised an eyebrow at that but didn
’
t press the issue
since it was between a brother and sister, and was not for her to meddle in.

They
left her and went walking off toward the path her brother had taken in his
flight. Celeste walked to the base of the dead oak and looked up, recalling its
massive and welcoming branches and the dense canopy of leaves. She recalled the
day of the storm and pictured the frightened cub
’
s face as clearly as
if it had been in front of her right then. Better to picture that
…

“
So much is gone,
”
she whispered to herself.
“
So much that was good.
”

The
walk into town was much shorter than she remembered it, partly because her legs
had grown longer since she was nine and the edge of town had also moved outward
so there was less distance to walk. The houses and other buildings she came to
first were all new to her and she paid them little mind. The street that ran
through town was paved now, so the dust wasn
’
t coating everything
the way it used to. People were out walking or sitting on their porches. Some
greeted her as she passed, the way they do in small towns, but others ignored
her on purpose since she was a stranger or somehow unworthy.

She
found the cemetery much as she remembered it except that, like the town, it had
more residents than in 1918. No one living was about in the cemetery except for
an older man tending the grounds off in a far corner. She could hear the
clip-clip of his shears and his soft whistling as he went about his work. The
gate was open so she entered and weaved her way among the monuments until she
found the one dedicated to the teacher
’
s spot. A thick band
of moss grew along the bottom edge of the stone where it was always moist and
shaded. Celeste knelt and
pried
loose a chunk of the
moss with her finger tip and found that a fragment of the weather beaten stone
had come away with it. She placed it inside her handkerchief and tucked it all
away in her purse.

Either
she heard a sound or sensed something behind her. She turned, and though the
corner of her eye told her something was there, when she looked squarely, there
was nothing at all. The old man was still whistling in the distant corner. What
was it she had sensed? A question; a curiosity about what she was doing
lingered in the air around the monument and Celeste felt as if a cold finger
had run down her spine. She rose quickly and without looking back, left the
graveyard and even closed the gate behind herself. There was another stop to
make.

The
school was much grown and changed. Looking at it from across the street, her
back to the old Jeffers place, she couldn
’
t make out whether
the old schoolhouse was gone or simply swallowed up by newer construction. Even
though it was a Saturday, there was some activity at the school and the front
door was propped open as people came and went often enough for her to feel like
risking a visit.

As
she stepped inside she found a woman seated at a table sorting through
something in a box. She wore a dress of a blue that didn
’
t suit her. When she looked up from
what she was doing, the smile she had popped on for greetings dropped off again
on seeing Celeste.

“
Yes? Were you
delivering something?
”

It
recalled her first encounter with the teacher and her stomach knotted.
“
No, ma
’
am,
”
Celeste began politely.
“
I used to live nearby when I was young.
Just passing through and thought I would see how the town had changed.
”

The
woman looked at her blankly.

Celeste
was just thinking she had hit that obstacle she knew must be waiting for her
somewhere, and that her best bet was to backtrack and get what she needed by
other means, when another woman entered from inside the school and seemed to
sum up the situation at a glance.

“
Did I hear you say
you used to live around here?
”
asked the second
woman. She was younger than the woman at the table and obviously had a better
eye for color. Her dress was overloaded with a flower pattern, but the effect
was at least cheerful.

“
Yes, ma
’
am. My family moved to New Orleans when
I was a little girl.
”

The
flowered woman glanced at the woman in blue,
then
waved for Celeste to follow.

“
I
’
ll show you around if you like. It
’
s changed a great deal since you were a
child. I don
’
t imagine you
’
ll recognize much
…”
She stopped and looked at Celeste with
such deep embarrassment that Celeste felt obliged to help her out.

“
I did wander in once
and had a little run in with the old teacher at the time. There was only the
one room back then. I don
’
t suppose its even
still standing what with all of the progress. I was curious to see if it
resembled my bad memories or maybe I could see it in a kinder light. Maybe lay
an old ghost to rest.
”

“
Oh, but it
is
still here. They had to take the front off when they widened the street, but
the room is still there and probably not much different after all these years.
We use it for special things, meetings or town use. There
’
s talk of maybe tearing it down next
year to make way for more classrooms.
”