Child of the Storm (4 page)

She
woke. Her wrist felt hot
—
the
wrist that the teacher had taken hold of. She sat up and felt her breathing
slow and her forehead cool a bit from the breeze coming through the window. The
breeze, the familiar shape of the window in the dark room calmed her, told her
she was safe. Branches of the great Climbing Oak patterned the night sky.

Within
a week, the teacher, Miss Bolton, was too ill to teach and lay in her bed at
home. Within a month, she was dead and lay in the earth.

Celeste
suspected she had brought that on, but confided in no one and hoped nothing
more would come of it.

Celeste
’
s seventh birthday was not long past
and fall was coming, but it would be weeks or months before the leaves would
drop from those trees that let them go each year. Still, it was a cool day
compared to the peak of summer. It always seemed to go cool for some few days
about this time each year, just a tease before the heat settled back in for a
while more.

An
early cool day when her brother burst into the house one evening, followed
immediately by John Stone, who quietly closed the door, removed his hat and
pardoned
himself
to Marie. There had been a fight.
John Stone had been the one to break it up. At the heart of it
was
Augustin
’
s job and the fact he
could read. A certain white boy in town took exception to both of those things.
Made him mad to see Augustin working there and making money doing it, and able
to read better than he could on top of it all, which was something of a crime
in the white boy
’
s eyes. That was the basics as Celeste
could gather from what little her brother would tell her as she sat beside him,
over by the dark window while Marie spoke to John Stone.

There
was a cut below her brother
’
s eye, and a smudge
of blood where he
’
d been swiping at it when it ran down
his cheek. Two boys had jumped on him after work. Had to be more than one since
her brother was more than a match for any one boy his age. More than a match
for even most men a good bit older. John Stone happened to be leaving town for
home when it all happened and happened fast. He pulled off one boy and Augustin
put the other one on his butt in the dirt.

It
wasn
’
t too long before her father came home
in a heated rush. He
’
d heard like just about everyone else,
though he hadn
’
t heard if his son was injured. Seeing
he wasn
’
t, apart from that one cut, he took him
to the back porch for a talk as John Stone took his leave out the front, taking
with him as much gratitude as he would allow to be offered.

While
Marie prepared something over at the stove for when they came back inside,
Celeste sat
cross legged
by the wall as near her
father and brother as she could, with only a little hole in the siding between
them. A little hole set in the shadows where she
’
d once seen a mouse
squeeze through. She could catch a few words through that
mouse
sized
hole, but they were words of huge importance.

“
I was afraid it might
take this sort of turn,
”
she heard her father
say.
“
We
’
ll see what Odette
has to say.
”

Two
days later, a man and his wagon brought Odette soon after nightfall, summoned
by a wire sent from town. He dropped her off with her one stout bag and bad
temper. She
’
d clearly stewed over the situation the
whole way out from New Orleans. She took Bernard and Augustin to the front
porch. Celeste wanted to go too, but Marie held her back and sat her down with
something designed to keep her from listening at the door. She sorted scraps of
cloth, like with like by color, all the while straining to hear anything at
all.

When
after an eternity they came back in, her brother looked torn between eagerness
and regret, but it was Odette who spoke, in case there was any resistance from
Marie.
“
Augustin will come stay with me a
while,
”
she said.
“
I think it
’
s best for all concerned.
”

Celeste
looked to her mother for rebuttal, but there was only one slow nod, accepting
the judgment. So Celeste spoke up.
“
We should all go.
”

“
That
’
s not how it works,
”
her brother said.

“
Your father has his
job here, Celeste.
”
That from Odette.

“
And I need you here
with me,
”
her mother added.
“
Augustin is big enough to handle so big
a place
—
if that
’
s how it has to be.
”
Her voice grew soft and then she was
quiet.

In
the morning, the man with the wagon returned, and Odette and Augustin loaded
on; Odette sitting beside the man while Augustin sat behind them. There was a
train to catch in New Iberia, so goodbyes were short. Celeste stood before her
mother, held tight enough to her that she could feel the little tremor that
might have been her mother crying deep down, almost hidden. And deeper still or
farther off, she could feel something coming on that might have been the
Sadness returning.

“
I
’
ll write to you,
”
her brother told her. And so he would.
“
And I
’
ll come see you too
when I can.
”
But that, he never
did.

There
was an early morning some weeks after her brother
’
s departure when
Celeste walked into town with her father.
A crack of dawn
walk.
Marie needed it to be so and Celeste didn
’
t quarrel since it was a welcome
change, and first light always called her out of sleep. Marie had something to
do and was in sound spirit if not joyful.

But
by noon, Celeste was tired of the smoky shop and the din of iron on iron and
asked to go home again, walking with Sandrine who stopped by and was going that
way. Sandrine would come to their house sometimes to visit with her mother and
talk as they sewed. She was older than her mother and heavier. When she
’
d sing to herself, it poured up like
something out of a good dream; like honey from bees
who
know where all the best flowers grow. She
’
d lay down a soft,
deep song that sometimes drew Marie out to sing along, her own voice light,
sweet and fragile like flowers hovering above the rich and supportive earth
that raised them up to see the sun. Celeste knew that her mother thought of
Miss Sandrine as her closest friend.
        

It
was a cooler day than the day before, so Celeste was wearing her new coat, a
gift from Odette, buttoned up since she was so thin, and the brisk air could
get right through to her bones without something to keep it out.

Bones
.

The
thought of being chilled to the bones came into her head just as they
approached the corner where the white cemetery sat beside the white church.
They turned down the little side street leading down to the black church which
had its own little cemetery beyond it, farther off the main road. The black
church was where Sandrine was headed first and she suggested Celeste join her
inside, just for a minute or two while she dropped something off, but Celeste
declined, saying she
’
d be just fine outside. Sandrine didn
’
t push because she understood.
“
Don
’
t wander off,
”
she said.

Marie
didn
’
t attend church so neither did Bernard
or Celeste. She
’
d asked her father why that was, but he
got thoughtful and quiet. Couldn
’
t be like the school
since this was a church full of black people around town. Had to be something
else.

She
edged along the white cemetery fence but not far enough to reach the main road.
The cemetery was a neat but lonely looking place.

Bones
.

Lots
of people cold to the bones in there, Celeste thought. She lingered by the
wrought iron fence and stared at the markers, etched with names and sentiments.
Her mind wandered off somewhere.

“
Think that new coat
makes you something special, do you?
”
called a dry voice
from the cemetery.
“
Makes those shoes of yours look
especially worn and shameful.
”

Celeste
looked about to see who had spoken, though she suspected who it was from the
dry cough. And there, standing behind the little monument that was all she had
for a home now
—
standing behind it just as she had
stood behind her desk, was the teacher, the late Miss Bolton. She looked
especially pale and bitter today. Death hadn
’
t softened her at
all.

“
I hear you managed to
learn to read,
”
the teacher said.
“
Learned from those parents of yours and
not in a proper school.
”
She chuckled
wickedly.

Celeste
nodded slowly, but would not speak. She had heard her mother say that people
didn
’
t care for those who spoke to the
departed. Maybe just listening to them wouldn
’
t be a problem.

“
No, of course not.
”
The teacher looked down her long nose
at Celeste, but stayed where she was, unable to roam too far away from her
grave, Celeste hoped. The teacher leaned forward and traced a cold finger
across the carved letters on her monument.
“
Rest
in Peace
, it says. But how am
I to rest peacefully when the likes of you goes walking by?
”

Celeste
was silent.

“
I hear you do
drawings,
”
the shade continued.

Celeste
’
s eyes widened and she wondered how a
ghost could know such a thing, unless she was freer to travel than Celeste
thought.

The
teacher noted her surprise.
“
Oh, I know a great
deal about you, even now. That arrogant brother has been taken off, and good
riddance. Your father will most likely end up without means of providing for
you and that sad mother of yours. Should have left those books alone and tended
to what you were meant to do. Should have minded your place.
”

Celeste
could feel her own heat chasing the cold air back out of her coat. The heat
built and built, but she held her tongue.

The
teacher pressed further.
“
I wonder what will
happen if your father loses his job. Can
’
t imagine that will
help your mother
’
s
…
condition. Maybe she
’
ll be put away. Put away somewhere they
put people like her
;
somewhere sad and far away where
no one will have to see her.
Some lonely little room.
And your father might just think you
’
re too much to handle
and send you away to some orphanage where you can spend your days with other
children no one wanted. Maybe you could draw them little pictures to cheer them
up. Only your pictures aren
’
t
really
very
good, now are they?
”
She ended with another dry and
bloodless cough

Celeste
lost control after all this talk about her parents. She grasped the cold
pickets of the fence and heaved against them; heaved back and forth like a
prisoner in a rage.
“
You
’
re
DEAD
,
”
she screamed.
“
Just shut up! Just
s
hut up and let the worms eat you
!
”

“
Celeste?
”
said a soft and living voice behind
her.

Celeste
turned quickly. It was Miss Sandrine.

“
Are you alright
Celeste?
Who
were you talking to?
”
She was scanning the cemetery for sign
of anyone.

Celeste
stammered something incoherent about it being nothing and she thought she
’
d seen someone, but nothing that made
sense of her outburst. She too, looked back to the cemetery
;
to the grave of the teacher Miss Bolton, but she had slipped away again, only
wanting to share her wicked words with Celeste.

Sandrine
didn
’
t press.
“
Ready to go home?
”

Celeste
nodded.
“
Yes, ma
’
am.
”

Sandrine
hummed in her deep and heartfelt way when it suited her. Then as they came in
sight of Celeste
’
s house, Sandrine stopped and Celeste
stopped beside her.

“
You know,
”
Sandrine began, in that same manner of
speaking she used when speaking to Marie.
The manner of talk
between friends.
“
Many a time, I
’
ve raised my voice at those old graves.
Not that it changed anything, but it sure felt good to do it. Mind you, I was
always careful not to raise it
too
high, and I
’
ve got a voice that could raise the
dead I
’
m told, though I wouldn
’
t want to raise a single one of them,
the good or the bad. What
’
s gone is gone.
”
She turned her face into the breeze
and breathed it in.
“
Some in that cemetery were mighty keen
on reminding others of their place, but judging by where they are now, I
’
d say I
’
m happier to be who I
am this very day than to be on
their
side of the iron fence.
”
She looked down at Celeste with a
smile as warm as her father
’
s shop.
“
Mind you, I wouldn
’
t quote me too freely on that. And mind
how often and how loudly you go yelling at the departed. Especially those.
”