Child of the Storm (27 page)

Celeste
sat in Odette
’
s Parlor, tapping on the arm of the
chair, hearing the murmur of voices from the other room but not listening to
what was said. Less than a month had passed since she had sat in this same
chair, stroking Odette
’
s arthritic hand while reading to her.
She
’
d read to her for years
—
since she had been a young woman.

A
funeral. Meeting relatives she never met before and had no clue how they were
kin
;
all of them in town to pay their respects to
Odette. That part was okay, but not the part when everyone learned that Odette
had left her nice house to Celeste. Everything else would be handled by sale of
estate and the proceeds parceled out to the family by a formula laid out most
specifically by Odette in her ironclad Last Will and Testament.
A surprise to everyone, especially Celeste.

Her
inclination had been to forgo attending the estate sale, but Odette
’
s Will made it plain she was to attend,
and Celeste wasn
’
t about to cross Odette on that point;
even a late Odette. But George had expressed an interest in going and maybe
picking up an item or two for his family, so she told him when to be at her
house with his truck. They arrived early to a throng of people, only a few of
them family or others she recognized from the funeral. Most of the relatives
had huffed off back home, but there were still the ones from Birmingham,
loitering and complaining in the front room. She dreaded moments with them.
Only their little boy, Clarence was pleasant, though painfully shy.

Celeste
pushed through the crowd, hoping for a quiet corner somewhere to wait it all
out and, from habit, passing straight back to the Library. It was quieter there
—
maybe because it was a Library and
people naturally got quiet in a Library, or maybe because there wasn
’
t as much there for people to pick over
and buy. The desk already sported a sold tag.
The spot where
she had done her earliest New Orleans artwork.
The chairs where she and
Odette would sit for their readings still sat together but had been spoken for
and would be gone the next day, and little hand written signs were also placed
along the bookshelves at roughly eye level. Each book cost a quarter. You could
have the lot for two hundred and fifty dollars. Celeste did a quick estimation
and figured Odette hadn
’
t planned on much of a
bulk discount. Books weren
’
t beans to Odette.

A
studious looking man
—
studious, or at least thoughtful
—
was looking the books over and had already
selected two from those he could reach. Two books getting ready to leave the
flock, she thought sadly. And for some reason, it occurred to her that all
those books packed in so close to each other, were like the people who made up
the city, and sometimes a few would leave, by death or by choice. With Odette
gone, any holes in the ranks of those books would never be filled.

Without
Odette
…

Somewhere
up on the shelves was the Book of Odette, penned by her and placed somewhere
specific but unrevealed. Should someone come in and buy the lot, it would go
away and only be found by someone, someday and thought a quaint oddity. And she
couldn
’
t let that happen. She
’
d noticed the man and woman seated at
the table in the hallway collecting payments and went to them now, approaching
the woman since she
’
d been to Dubois
’
and would know her and know her
connection to Odette.

“
I
’
ll take all the books in the Library,
”
she told the woman.
“
Two hundred and fifty for all of them
is what the sign says.
”

The
man with the two books approached the man at the table, and Celeste thought for
a moment about trying to beg or buy them from him, but she held herself back.
Those had been thoughtful choices and would be in good hands. Better to let
them go their way.

The
woman rose, taking a little Sold sign and following Celeste back to the
Library. She accepted a check from Celeste and only then confessed that she
doubted they
’
d have sold even half, much less
everything at once. By the next day, the books might have been half that much.
Celeste knew that couldn
’
t be helped. The
books had to stay.
Too many associations to let them get
away.

           
So
the morning had gone
—
a whirlwind and then a quieter
afternoon as she steered clear of everyone as best she could and fought back
the temptation to pick up more of Odette
’
s things.
 
Once there wasn
’
t anything left unsold in the Library,
no one much came back that way, and she sat in one of the spoken-for chairs.

George
entered the room looking dazed and a little stiff. He slumped into the chair beside
her. She took his left hand and began to rub it.

“
It
’
s been some years since you used your
hands for much more than paper work,
”
she said.
“
Paper work, changing diapers, shaking
hands with customers
…”

“
Not to mention
crossing forty,
”
he added.

Still
touching his hand, she sensed some impatience. He was more than ready to head
home
—
get back to his family.
“
You need to get home,
”
she said.
“
I think I
’
ll stay here tonight.
”

“
I don
’
t think they left you a bed to sleep
on. The big sofa
’
s gone as well. About all you
’
ll have is a chair to curl up in. Sure
you want to do that?
”

“
I
’
ll be fine. May curl up in a chair or
on one of Odette
’
s fine rugs
—
curl up with a book. Always liked the
feel of those Asian rugs she had.
”

He
rose and dug a fist into his low back.
“
I
’
ll swing by in the morning with a truck
and some help to load up that big dresser thing I bought. Might see if Nathan
can come too so I can give him the heavy end coming down those stairs.
”

“
You do that. I
’
ll wait around till you show up.
”

“
Sure you
’
ll be alright here alone?
”

“
I
’
ll be fine. Any ghost I might see
wouldn
’
t be a stranger.
”

There
was no ghost, but there was the book. She found it easily enough and might have
saved herself two hundred and fifty dollars had she only given herself a little
time before reacting. Still, she didn
’
t have a single
reservation over what she
’
d done. She wanted
them here and not scattered like people blown by a strong wind.

The
spine of the book was leather like most of the rest, but there was no writing
there of any kind. Maybe that
’
s what drew her to
it, or maybe it was at the height Odette could reach with ease, or just maybe,
Celeste could feel a sense of Odette most strongly there. She took it to the
remaining spoken-for chair, folded her legs beneath her, opened up to the first
hand written page and read Odette
’
s unmistakable long
hand.

It
was addressed to Celeste
’
s on the very first
page,

Your Odette

For Celeste Dubois

           
She
turned the page, and with the first sentence, she was offered up a revelation.

           
It
has always been a source of pride to have you call me your Aunt
—
your Great Aunt, but the truth is,
Celeste, I am not your aunt at all, great or otherwise, though I am bound to
you and your family closer than I am to my own.

           
Celeste
had to read that one three times before she could read further.

           
There
are lines by blood and lines by purpose, and the latter can be stronger than
the former, regardless of what old wisdom might say. I have spent the better
portion of my life teaching your family and walking beside them through all
these years, good and bad, knowing that we all need a champion and a guide if
we hope to find our feet along that path that leads ahead, and not down a
broken road to being lost. Hard though your parents worked and good as their
hearts might have been, that lost road might have claimed them. Finding them
and doing what I could, kept me off that lost road as well. That is how it
works, Celeste.

           
Though
I am not your aunt, I owe my place in your life to your true aunt who died
before you or even Augustin were born.
Your mother
’
s
sister, Beatrice.
Her twin sister, of whom you may
have heard from your father, but perhaps not the entire story.
To
provide that missing part, I will first tell you my own story
…

Odette
had lived in New Orleans all her life. Had come from a family that worked its
way up from basic trades to owning shops and dealing in properties. Always
industrious, Odette claimed she was the dimmest of the daughters, but learned
fast and seized opportunities like a proper thief. She married well; to a
Creole man who took her to Paris for education and polish. Never wanted
children and never had any. Maneuvered through what levels of society were open
to her, but claimed she
’
d never done it on
anyone else
’
s neck on the way up
—
at least not that she knew of or had planned
that way.

Everything
in her life, all lined up and marching along like a picture perfect parade and
then the Yellow Fever took the music right out of it
—
or changed the tune. Never touched her.
Not directly, but too close. It took her husband after a hard fight. He was a
Catholic man and let the Good Sisters tend to him in his struggle. A close
call, and the best effort anyone could have made, but close wasn
’
t good enough.

Odette
was never devout to the depth her husband was.
A good
Catholic but not the best, as she would say.
But she befriended a young
sister,
just a novice in the order that tended to her
husband and nearly pulled him out of harm
’
s way. This young
woman in particular had stayed with him more than anyone except Odette herself.
They grew close while they kept watch and fought the best fight they could for
him. Odette got to know her like family. Learned about her family out west of
New Orleans. A sister and her husband
;
poor and
illiterate, and that sister resented how she
’
d left her for the
church and the city. They
’
d been close
;
as close as twins tend to be. The young novice was just
waiting for that hurt to easy enough to open up the door again.

Yellow
Fever took her off before that time could come around, locking that door for
good.
Death points out the flaw in putting off.
But
Odette knew about Death and the side door he
’
d leave open, if one
was determined to find it. She tracked down the resentful sister and gave her
back the twin she
’
d lost, at least the truth of her. She
went one better and took the family on as her charge
—
repayment for the devotion shown to her
husband, even though it came to nothing but the death of patient and nurse. But
much more than nothing when you looked down the years and what came of those
connections.

Celeste
liked the feel of the rug. Touching it brought back that pleasant memory from
childhood. A rug from the
Orient,
spun by worms then
spun again by women, if she remembered right. She sang the old song she knew
from childhood and one known by her mother and her mother
’
s mother in their childhood too.
A passed down thing.
She sang it to herself and any dear old
ghost that might be listening.