Child of the Storm (2 page)

The storm that brought Celeste
rolled in on Louisiana from the Gulf, September 21, 1909—a genderless,
height of season storm that left New Orleans free to breathe easy for another
day, passing west of her to cut through poor St. Mary Parish, rushing over
Berwick Bay, drowning the land as it waded through the low lying woods,
marshes, and farms before giving out. Dying from the moment it touched shore,
but with enough steam to make it a lingering death and a violent one. Leaving
in its wake a pile of destruction, a few people and even more cattle dead,
plenty of heartache, and at least one newborn baby. Marie’s baby girl; born as
the storm’s western side pressed hard against the small, thin walled house
they’d built with their own hands, on an acre of land that was theirs. Flat
ground but dry, inland enough not to see the Gulf, but close enough to know it
was there; feeling its breath, accepting what weather it conjured.
A quiet place, apart from the background buzz and hum of nature,
flying in the sky, crawling in the grasses, prowling the woods.
Peaceful
and quiet except on that howling day when the nameless hurricane came in,
bringing Celeste.

The
storm passed and the child was born. Marie
’
s husband Bernard
slipped off to the other room to tell their young son Augustin that it was all right
now. The storm outside, and inside too, both were done, and he had a new baby
sister
—
like it or not. Marie could hear their
voices for a little while, until sleep made them quiet down again. In time, she
’
d sleep too. But a new child needs
naming and this child was hers to name.

A
star shined down from the clearing sky
—
shined
down through the branches of the old Live Oak out back of the house and in
through the window where Marie lay holding her little girl whose eyes weren
’
t even open yet. But maybe her ears
were open to strong first words Marie had saved until she could say them right.
She let her voice just wash over her daughter.
         

“
Celeste. You were
born out of the west side of the storm. That makes you a powerful someone, but
gentle too. Gentler than if you
’
d been born out of
the east side.
”
She turned her
new
born
child just enough to let a bit of night light fall on her closed
eyelids.
 
“
It
’
s all yours, Celeste.
Everything you can hear and see and touch and smell is yours. Maybe not for the
taking, but for the touching.
”

Celeste
grew, but not as quickly as her big brother Augustin had done. She ate, but not
so much as to grow fat. She neither cried nor laughed so much that anyone was
bothered. She crawled and then walked, but not so fast or so far as to be of
concern. Her great brown eyes sucked in the world, and her brown fingers
grasped whatever they could reach. She would notice and feel until her brain
would have to rest to digest it all. Then she would sleep. And she would dream
—
deep down, far and wide.

By
age three, she was not much bigger than she was at two, but her world was
bigger. She had taken the clouds and sky to be just another somewhere,
alongside the land where her house stood, and she played with the rain and wind
sent her way as if they were children like her, since there were no other
children around.

Marie
let her roam free, tethered only by a line of sight, unless there was
lightning. Rain would gush out of the unmoving clouds, down through the still
air, down through the thick leaves of the great oak tree and onto Celeste
’
s upturned face. She had to squint to
see, and still the water would flood her eyes and turn the green canopy all
soft and runny, but she didn
’
t move.
 
Great drops smacked her between the eyes
or on the nose to make her laugh aloud and then sputter when more fell clear
down her throat. When the rain in her eyes became too much to blink away, she
closed them altogether and just felt the rain come down until she was simply
melting into the downpour.

Another
time, it would be a big long wind that seemed to go on forever. It ran alone,
invisible. But Celeste grabbed for it anyway. Grabbed without catching it, but
feeling its texture just the same. The wind ran under the sun, and Celeste
stood in its way and felt it pass. She watched it play with whatever it could
touch, just as it had touched her.

Once
Celeste was old enough to know what they were, she was given appropriate
chores. Since her brother had chores to do, and she worshiped him, she accepted
the end of leisure with na
ï
ve eagerness, and
then it was too late
—
she was on that long road of labor.

Augustin
took over most of the gardening by the time he was nine, sewing, picking and
guarding the crops
—
such as they were. The guarding, he
delegated to a scarecrow. Marie fashioned its clothes from discards she could
not, or would not use; dark material she hated, but suited to the scarecrow.
Bernard forged it a backbone that might have lasted forever, and painted two
leering faces with mismatched eyes on a stuffed sack of a head that sported a
brimmed black hat. One face watched the road and the other watched the woods.
The likeness of something out of stories from his youth.
Augustin kept the body stuffed and puffed up with menace. Celeste supplied its
name.

Neighbor.

He
was quiet but articulate, with
corn husk
and corn silk
hands and feet that gestured in the simplest breeze. Decay took its toll and
bits of Neighbor slowly rained down on the strawberries below his dangling
feet. Augustin refurbished him constantly, assisted by Celeste, who, in doing
so developed lasting notions about the nature of existence and renewal.

Weeding
was something she took too more slowly. When Augustin explained how the weeds
would choke the life out of the garden if left unchallenged, she squirmed and
said she couldn
’
t hurt those poor little weeds. When he
allowed them to thrive around her beloved beans, a sterner something sprouted
inside her and she pursued the chore with ruthless and cunning fingers,
gathering bags full of weeds down to their finest, almost invisible roots, but
would dump them with a last minute tenderness on well removed and shaded dirt,
as if there was any hope for a new life there.

She
lived among giants.

Tended
by giants who were her family and washed by the giants of the sky, sent her way
by the Gulf. Of the giant, New Orleans, she knew only what her brother told
her, and that he knew of second hand from one who lived there, bringing word of
it and worlds beyond. She was Odette and a Great Aunt, according to Augustin.
The only one of her kind, and Celeste enjoyed her visits in much the same way
she enjoyed a fierce thunderstorm.
 

Odette
was coming all the way from New Orleans by hired carriage. She was coming
because she chose to, but she might be grim and uncomfortable when she arrived.
Celeste was five years old and knew she
’
d changed because it
was marked on the wall, showing how she
’
d grown, but never
enough to catch up to Augustin.

           
Since
Odette
’
s last visit, Celeste had taken to
drawing after seeing her father sketch out a thought for a shape in iron; a
sinuous notion inspired by something he
’
d read. An image
brought to mind from a book left by Odette. An inspiring book, an inspired
sketch and Celeste was now an artist
—
drawing
a bird from memory.

When
the carriage drew up outside, Celeste could hear it through the gap under the
door. There was a knock, sharp and brief. Marie called out that it was
unlocked, and Odette entered, bearing books. She was a head shorter than Marie
and might have been called petite by a stranger, but she filled a room when she
entered it. Filled it with an intensity that seemed to beam from her eyes.
Odette dressed well and reeked of the city and some amount of wealth, even though
when traveling to St. Marie Parish, she dressed for the road.

“
How are you Marie,
”
she asked. The meaning was clear.

“
Doing fine today.
”
Marie smiled, but it wasn
’
t her mother
’
s fullest smile since the Sadness had
only moved on the day before. Celeste had learned to read her mother as she
’
d learned to read the sky.
Six years old and reading almost everything around her, except books
from Odette.

Marie
set her sewing aside, greeting Odette without getting up.
“
I finished the book.
”

“
And what did you
think,
”
Odette asked

“
It was difficult.
Harder than the last one.
There were times when I wasn
’
t sure I could make it through.
”

“
Life
’
s that way for most of us. A book
’
s a journey.
”
She smiled as Marie held out the old
book to be taken away.
“
Glad to see it gone,
are you?
”

Marie
nodded.
“
But I appreciate it, as always.
Appreciate what you do for us.
”

Odette
took the book and handed it off to Celeste to hold as she fished inside the
satchel.
“
I
’
m not done yet.
”
 
She straightened again, holding two books as she glanced around the
room.
“
And what about Bernard. How
’
d he manage?
”

Marie
looked proud and grew before Celeste
’
s eyes, reclaiming
just a bit more of what the Sadness had taken on its last visitation.
“
Managed fine. Finished his book days
ago.
”
She pointed to the table across the
room and Celeste took the cue and leapt after it.

“
Good man. A book
’
s like an opportunity. It doesn
’
t do you any good unless you pick it up
and accept what it has to offer.
”
She handed one book
to Marie and set another on the table next to Celeste
’
s drawing.
“
And what of Augustin?
”
she asked.

“
Still reading too.
Picks up whatever Bernard reads. Does it when his papa
’
s not reading, so you may need to bring
him his own book next time.
”

Odette
turned her attention on Celeste and her drawing. Her eyebrow ticked up.
“
You have a good eye,
”
she admitted before turning back to
Marie.
“
She and Augustin are still close?
”

“
Almost inseparable.
Like they were twins, but born so many years apart. Like she was held back
until that storm brought her.
”
She smiled at Odette
who was giving her that look she had for things she thought frivolous.
“
Twins do run in the family,
”
Marie added.

“
They do, but they don
’
t run that way. Still, I suppose that
’
s a good thing they
’
re close.
”

“
I think so,
”
Marie said softly.
“
Celeste sees so much more about things
than we see. And such a sweet child.
”
She smiled at
Celeste.

“
Hopefully, not too
sweet to stand strong.
”
Odette said.
“
We hope for the best and expect less in
return. Don
’
t be na
ï
ve. When life is
tough, you endure. If you have the power to change something for the good, then
you use that power.
”

Celeste
wasn
’
t sure who this was meant for
—
maybe for her, but her mother took it
onto herself as she always did. Always bore the load, even when it pressed her
down.

Marie
sighed.
“
I endure the best I can. Only now and
then you need a little time away from it all.
”
She looked at
Celeste and sang softly as if sharing a secret.

“
Falling
star, Falling star,

Fall on me
,
Fall on me

Fall down once,
Fall
down twice,

Make me shine, Make me shine
.
”

Celeste
’
s eyes laughed for her mother as they
always did when she sang that song.
A passed-down song.
Passed from mother to child, time and again
—
from
too far back to know the names. Family members lost to time, lost from memory,
except maybe in that simple song. A long line of women singing that song down
the years, passing it forward with maybe just a little something of themselves
in it, like something inherited; the shape of the eye, the length of the hand.
A musical tone.
A shade of brown.

“
What
’
s it about?
”
Marie asked, nodding to the book on
the table by Celeste.

Odette
answered Marie, but her gaze was on Celeste.
“
About a man finding
his way home, but finding it the long and difficult way around.
”

Marie
sighed.