Child of the Storm (20 page)

So
she accepted it and began to paint, into this garden of shaping, every color
she could mix from just those three. Greens and
golds
in the field,
golds
and purples in the sky, sharing
and connecting tree to earth and earth to sky, all under the changing light of
the sun
—
changing as she chose for it to change,
all to show her colors in their best light. The field bloomed with color and
the trees burned with it. The sky ran and billowed. The clouds rained down
muted tones then cleared again. However Celeste wanted it to be.

The
work of minutes or the work of days; Celeste neither knew nor cared. It was
like the old childhood joy she
’
d find from those
long ago drawings at the old home under the Climbing Oak, or at the desk of
Odette, waiting for her father to return. Painting his way home. Or painting
for the bear.
The bear with her mother
’
s eyes.

“
So you remember me,
”
said that familiar but too long silent
voice at her side.

Celeste
looked down into those eyes and saw them differently now.
“
I do. But I
’
ve changed so much. You
’
ve changed too.
”

“
There
’
s no avoiding that,
”
said the bear.
“
Everything that
’
s connected at all is changed. Only
things cut off from connection remain the same and fade away.
”

“
As a child, I thought
you had my mother
’
s eyes. Thought you might be my mother,
come back to watch over me somehow.
”

“
Maybe I thought you
were my mother too,
”
said the bear.

“
How could that be,
”
Celeste asked.

“
Doesn
’
t matter now. As you say, we
’
ve changed. We
’
ve come far and have other things to do
now.
”

“
What other things?
”

The
bear tipped her nose toward the view of the field and the trees and the sky.
“
You belong to two worlds. It
’
s so because your Mama made it so. Your
Mama and others too.
”

“
Two worlds?
”

“
Dream and Waking,
Heart and Head, Hand and Word
—
call
it what you like, I don
’
t guess I know enough
to say. But you
’
ve prepared yourself so well in the one
world, it
’
s time you give this other world its
due share of attention too. Set aside distractions and come wandering here to
find connection. Connection is what you need.
Connection far and
connection wide.
Out to everything there is
;
this world and the other. Isn
’
t that what you
wanted so long ago?
”

“
I suppose,
”
Celeste said.
“
And you
’
ll be my guide?
”

“
Guide or witness.
Whatever
’
s called for.
”

Celeste
admired the flow of subtle colors across the sky. Admired them all the more
since she had prepared that flow. In the end, she had found the bear so easily
—
or maybe been found so easily.
“
Well I
’
m thirty nine now.
Not getting any younger,
”
she said.

“
I
’
m not sure that
’
s so,
”
said the bear.

Celeste
’
s eyes opened to find Aurore waiting
for her to wake. She had settled in to the other chair and looked bemused.
Celeste was still enjoying her own stillness and the joy the dream had left
her. She raised her eyebrows to signal to her friend that it was just fine if
she
wanted to speak.

“
I never wake someone
if the sleep looks beneficial or revelatory,
”
Aurore said.

“
Thank you for that.
”

“
And was it either or
both?
”

“
I
’
d have to say both,
”
Celeste admitted.

“
The ghost is bound
away?
”

“
That and more.
”

Now
it was Aurore
’
s turn to raise eyebrows in a
do
tell
sort of way.

Celeste
could read that clear enough. She rose slowly, smoothed her dress while
catching sight of her bicycle, set against the rail by the sidewalk.
Safe and sound.
“
Another time perhaps.
There
’
s a letter I need to write.
”

Later
that week, as Celeste stood off in a quiet corner of the bakery, watching the
customers and those who tended to them under her subtle guidance, she spared a
thought for John Stone, who was, even then, sitting on the porch of the
boarding house where he lived.

The
woman who owned the home came out to him, offering something just in by mail.
Something he almost never got since most everyone he knew was gone.
“
Looks like a letter from New Orleans,
”
she said.
“
Had no idea you knew anyone there.
Family?
”

John
Stone took the letter, studied the envelope and began to open it.
“
Almost family,
”
he said. His eyes were not as keen as
they used to be, but Celeste
’
s handwriting could
be bold when it needed to be. He read the letter.
A short
one, but plenty long enough.
He carefully folded it back into the
envelope, tucked it into his shirt pocket and rose, smiling.

“
Good news, John?
”
she asked.

“
Yes ma
’
am. Good news, long overdue. Think I
’
ll wander through town. See what there
is to see.
”
He gave a little backward wave over
his shoulder in her direction.
“
Back by dinner.
”

Every
few days, when time allowed and she felt a special need, Celeste would mail out
something to Jonathan Hogue. Sometimes just a note, other times a little drawing
she thought he might enjoy, drawn in that style she preferred. A single flowing
line to suggest a thing, a thought or someone she knew. A single line to
describe it all and how it was all connected up. Today it was the likeness of
John Stone at his leisure. Drawn from memory. She explained the drawing
sparingly so that it could carry the narrative itself. A drawing and a note
folded neatly into an envelope, addressed to far away England. And he would
send something back her way
—
a
nice note, maybe a clipping of interest and warm thoughts to tend their
connection.
   

Celeste
marked her forty seventh birthday quietly at home. She didn
’
t care for parties and no one was much
in the mood for one with a hurricane approaching the Gulf coast. Flossy would
be a late and unwelcome present. Even though the hurricane would slide by the
city on its east side, it managed to slap at her with wind and heave some water
over the levees. Not a lot of flooding and nothing so very deep or widespread,
but it was on Celeste
’
s side, so she took note.

She
’
d marked the passage of Flossy over at
Odette
’
s house
—
Odette,
her reclusive great aunt who needed a reader since her old eyes were dimming,
and Celeste was honored to oblige. But as the winds rose outside, and the rain
rattled the windowpanes, Odette wanted to talk, more than she wanted to be read
to.

“
It
’
s been quiet for a long time now,
”
Odette said.
“
No hurricanes to trouble us.
”

“
That
’
s so.
”
Celeste found it
difficult to concentrate with so much strong language pulsing in from the storm
outside.

“
Do you still have
memories of the storm that took your mother?
”

“
I remember most
things about that day, but some are gone, and maybe that
’
s best.
”
Celeste could feel
the pressure in the air change again, and the texture of the air change as
well. She scrubbed her fingertips together.

“
A hard thing for
someone so young.
”

Celeste
nodded. Could have been much worse. Could have been much better too. That
’
s how it goes. The wind shifted and she
could sense the faintest tremble roll through the house.
“
Maybe Mama shouldn
’
t have fought so hard against coming to
New Orleans. Guess it
’
s safer here inside levees. Lots of
people watching out after us here, but all on your own out there.
”

Odette
shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat. Celeste waited for a
pronouncement.

“
Maybe you
’
re right. Should be that way; people
looking after what needs to be looked after, only it
’
s not always that way. People get lazy
or people get greedy. I suppose you
’
re old enough to know
that.
”

“
I am.
”

“
An old, old story,
”
Odette continued.
“
People taking a little something for
themselves that
’
s meant for everyone. Just a bit here
and there until they acquire a taste, and then
it
’
s
only feeding time for them and the needful things get laid aside
—
left undone. And someone gets hurt,
because something important was left undone or shortchanged.
”
She folded her arms.

“
So what do we do,
”
Celeste asked.

“
We do what we can.
”

“
Flossy. Just why do
you suppose they name these storms after women?
”
Celeste and Annie
worked to clear away the last of the debris from around the bakery. It was
nothing major and nothing was blown off the bakery itself, though Celeste paced
up and down the street, hands on hips, trying to get a view of every portion of
the roof.

“
It
’
s just customary,
”
Annie said.

“
Customary,
”
Celeste repeated.
“
Well we haven
’
t had bad storms here in a good long
time and I
’
d like it to stay that way. I don
’
t want this kind of thing to become a
habit. Always liked the wind and rain, but the thought of the Gulf acting up
makes me nervous.
”

“
Well, Mama Celeste,
maybe you need to have a word with the Gulf. Straighten it out.
”
Annie laughed her high, light laugh
and went back inside, leaving Celeste out in the street.

That
night, Celeste dreamed with the bear, but Annie
’
s words came through
with her.

Years now, wandering in that other
world with the bear.
Creating
it
as they wanted it to be, not worried about
the particulars of why or how, since it was their world and suited them. But
not so disconnected from Celeste
’
s other world, where
bread had to be baked, friends indulged, endured and cared for, paintings of
water and pigment created until the walls of her small house were papered with
them, and the spirit box sat uneasily on the dresser. Her time in one world fed
her time in the other. Just as the bear said it should be.

“
We never talk about
magic and powers,
”
Celeste said to the bear on that night
after Flossy tampered with her home. When she hoped for guidance, Celeste
favored a less expansive setting and often chose a dream counterpart to her own
porch on the waking side. A porch with a chair for her and a space beside it
for the bear, with a sky of stars or of meaningful clouds to watch but not
worry over. The bear would sense these times and let Celeste trace her ear with
a long finger.

“
We never do,
”
the bear agreed.
“
Are they things we need to talk about?
”

“
Some believe in magic
or having power over things.
”

“
Power over what
manner of things?
”

“
Just about
everything, if you believe the talk. Health, love, death
…
the weather.
”

“
You don
’
t believe the talk.
”

“
Never did. Never
believed in anything I couldn
’
t see or touch or
smell or taste. Or feel deep down.
”

“
Like you felt your
father when he was away, or your mother when she had passed, or even me, when
you were lost in distraction.
”

“
Yes, like all those
things.
”

“
And now, having felt
those deep down things, you wonder what else lies deep down, or deeper, where
you might find powers over love or death? Is that what we are meant to find?
”

Celeste
sat in silence for a time, gathering her thoughts, her words and her motives,
and the bear did not interrupt.

“
I
’
m a simple woman,
”
she began.

The
bear interrupted.
“
You think so?
”

“
I want simple things,
”
Celeste began again.
“
I have the life I need since I have
made it or accepted what
’
s come my way without
complaint, since none was warranted. Love, I
’
ve had and still
have, of the kind I can manage well. Death has walked so near as to be no
stranger. I want to see things done well, and proper care taken. I don
’
t want to shrug off what is mine to do,
if it
’
s something I
can
do
—
or could do if I only knew how to go
about doing it.
”

“
And what is it you
would do?
”

“
If everything is
connected, and changes by being connected, well, it occurs to me that what can
change me, could be changed by me as well.
”

“
Seems only fair.
”

“
When the sun is hot,
I change to the shade. If the rain falls, I step out to feel it. Each touch
changes my path in life, even by just the tiniest bit. Sometimes for the good.
”

“
Bound to be so.
”

“
I want to touch back.
I want to see if all this touching and seeing and feeling might give me the
chance to touch back and touch the course of the wind or the clouds.
”

“
And this has to do
with powers?
”
asked the bear.

“
No,
”
Celeste said, thinking of that great
big Gulf and its stormy and wandering children.
“
This has to do with
protecting those I touch and love.
”