Child of the Storm (14 page)

“
Made you something
for your birthday,
”
he said.
“
We can have some before dinner if you
like. In case you wanted to hit the town in celebration. Thirty years.
Like a grown up now.
Maybe you could go out and kick up your
heels. Not right you should be stuck in this house with an old Papa.
”

Eaten
up with guilt, she thought, and not for the first time. That
’
s what made him look old for his years.
So much regret and guilt will eat you alive.

“
These heels don
’
t have any kick in them tonight,
”
she said.
“
I
’
ll celebrate being
all grown up here with you. Try out whatever you
’
ve been baking. Maybe
eat the whole thing and break out the wine under the sink. That
’
s the New Orleans way, isn
’
t it Papa.
”

“
I suppose so.
”

“
What
’
s that you
’
re looking at?
”

He
held up one of the papers for her to see.
“
You remember this?
”

The picture of a little bird, drawn by
a young but gifted hand.
“
My first drawing,
”
she said. He
’
d dig it out from time to time.

“
The only one of those
old home drawings I have. Good thing I took it with me off to war.
”
He laid it aside with something like
reverence and picked up another.
“
And this one too.
Done at Odette
’
s, once I got home.
”
It was of the old Climbing Oak in full
leaf, and every color built from just the three offered by the Frenchman. A
keen eye could spot the hint of something up that tree, hugging the branch.
A little bear.
Celeste took the painting from him and
examined it.

“
Sure wish you
’
d get back to doing your artwork,
”
he said.
“
I got you a little present by way of
encouragement.
”
He slid a small book to her.

She
opened it, and found blank pages.
“
A sketch book,
”
she said.

“
You
’
ve given up so much. Find some of it
again. Promise?
”

“
I
’
ll try.
”
        

They
did polish off the birthday cake and she told him he hadn
’
t lost his touch, which was so. They
dipped into the wine under the sink as well, but only enough to toast Celeste
’
s milestone, and then it was off to bed
for her father. But Celeste had too many thoughts in her head for that just
yet. After so many days and weeks on end, each about like the one before, this
day stood apart. All the usual things were there, like sleep and work and meals
and faces she saw all the time, but then, on top of all that, or squeezed in
between, were older things returning. Good and bad things returning. Old
drawing. Old ghost.

Her
head buzzed with noise like rumors and she slipped quietly out onto the front
porch, folded her legs up under her in one of the rocking chairs and sat
listening to the night noises until most of the buzzing in her head subsided.

That
stretch of street wasn
’
t as brightly lit as most. Old people
lived across from her, directly across and one up and down as well. No lights
burned late in those houses, so Celeste could let her eye grow familiar with
the dark until it would show off things to her.

Stars
in abundance filled her nights on the porch.
Sometimes a
shooting star and a wish.
Other times there would be the moon, building
up its courage until it was simply full of itself and then the stars nearby
would shy away. On this night there was no more than half a moon and the stars
shone out in spite of it.

She
closed her eyes and searched the air for that hint of movement, turning her
head just that littlest bit to catch the breath of air and moisture on her
lips; like tasting the breeze. It was when she could just feel the touch of
starlight on her closed eyelids and smelled something that might have been from
her old home that she knew there was something meant for her to see. Meant by
who or what, she didn
’
t know or much care, but it would be
wrong or foolish to deny it.

She
opened her eyes and saw the familiar shape of the Big Dipper hanging in the
sky. Such a familiar shape that she went for years not seeing it, even when it
was sitting right there as it was tonight. But that was Mama
’
s favorite bunch of stars. And when
Mama saw them she didn
’
t see a big pan, spilling starlight
into the sky. She saw a great bear.

“
I
’
m supposed to see the bear,
”
Celeste said aloud, but softly. It was
important to say it aloud so she could hear her own voice.
 
Make the lesson that much more real.

Her
birthday was the beginning of fall, or that
’
s what they said, but
it wasn
’
t so in New Orleans. September
’
s just another summer month, like all
the rest. Could be hot and sticky and so much worse for being at the trailing
end of a whole long line of hot and sticky weeks.
Enough of
them to wear anyone down.
Still, Celeste kept her mother
’
s picture quilt on the bed year round,
even if it was folded up lengthwise to hold down half the bed. After a
bothersome day, or one like this one where the usualness of it all was rippled
by unusual, she would rest a hand on the quilt and take comfort in its familiar
texture and the pattern of its needlework.

Her
arm was stretched out across the folded quilt and her fingers gently rubbed a
bounded square. Her mind eased toward sleep. Sinking. But instead of dream, or
oblivion, she found a vision. She saw herself, a child at her Mama
’
s knees offering up a yellow patch of
fabric.

“
This was from that
dress you used to wear when I was only little,
”
her child self said.

“
You remember it?
”
Her mother asked as her sewing work
went into her lap.

“
I remember you
wearing it when you danced with Papa, right over there.
”
The child turned and pointed to the
table set in the middle of the room.
“
Round and round the
table. It
’
s like I can still see you two dancing.
”
And then, like a conjured thing, the
vision of her parents dancing around that table appeared, playing out for
Celeste. She knew it was a dream. Recognized it but held onto it for long
enough to hear her
parents
laugh and see them stop
going round and round from dizziness.

Then
Celeste let go of the dream and woke, stretching backward with her left hand to
switch on the lamp by the bed. She looked then to her other hand, still
touching the quilt. Still touching that yellow patch of fabric.

The
day had laid on one last message.

The
chains whirred, the wheel spokes sang, and Celeste drove the pedals on her fire
engine red bicycle hard and fast. Thin as she and her bicycle were, they cut
through the air like a thrown blade, blurring past all the familiar porches of
the streets between her home and the bakery. Almost no one was out to see her
since the day was so young and weak that the darkness of the night held on and
on. But the stars were gone from the brightening sky. Celeste knew her way and
her eyes were keen. Three holes in the road waited for her at the last corner
like a trap, but she threaded among them without slowing, whipping around to
the rear of the building, only braking at the last. She spun the pedal back and
stood on it. The rear tire danced on loose stones and snaked through the dust.
She hopped off and dropped the bicycle against the back wall, catching the key
as it swung about on the string that looped around her wrist. She was the first
in. She was always first in and had been now for ten years. Maybe it was longer
than that. She didn
’
t think about it much. There was too
much else on her mind.
Too much else on her plate.

Soon,
there was a thump against the back wall of the building and she barely tipped
her head in recognition
;
George
’
s bicycle, next to her own. She had hired
him almost a year ago now and he was a good choice. He entered quickly and
mumbled his good morning to her as he always did.

She
didn
’
t look up.
“
Did you scratch my bike just now?
”
she asked him.

“
No, ma
’
am,
”
he replied.

“
Did you scratch your
own?
”
She only asked because she
’
d bought it for him, and she knew how
boys could be
;
careless with things.

“
No, ma
’
am.
”

“
Just sounded
especially hasty this morning, you dropping your bike off and stumbling in. You
weren
’
t trying to beat me here were you?
”
She looked around at him, but he was
set to his routine already and wouldn
’
t look her in the
eyes. Wouldn
’
t dare. She shook her head and smiled
wickedly.
“
No need to answer. I can read it in the
way your stand there. Course you could get up earlier or you could get those
boney legs moving faster and maybe you could show up ahead of me. That
’
s fine if you do, only mind you don
’
t land in a ditch and break something
we need you to have. You do that, and it would put me out of sorts with you
because I
’
d be the one who had to take up the
slack. All that extra work and all the things I have to do apart from this
…”
She looked at him squarely with her
eyebrows hiked up.

“
Don
’
t you worry about me,
”
he said, smiling back.

“
Oh, I don
’
t. I worry plenty about
me
.
”

Annie
arrived next and set to work at once without a word. Some people managed better
in the morning and some the evening. Annie was of the latter sort, so Celeste
never pressed her to be sociable until the sun was good and up, and Annie had
coffee in her. By the time customers arrived, Annie was a joy to behold, but
this early it was best to leave her to the tasks she could likely do in her
sleep. So there was no concern about including Annie in the conversation.

“
You know,
”
George began, speaking to Celeste,
“
I have aunts as old as you, but they
don
’
t talk to me the way you do.
”

“
Hmm,
”
Celeste said.

“
And I
’
ve got sisters older and younger than
me and none of them talk that way either.
”

“
No brothers.
”
She guessed she knew that, but George
was short on sharing.

“
Not one, and no
cousins either.
Except more girls.

“
I
’
m sorry for you. That puts an extra
load on your father.

George
shrugged.
“
What about you? Did you grow up with
sisters or brothers or what?

“
I have a brother. But
he went away up North and never came back.

“
He
die
?
”

She
clicked her tongue. What a question. The sort a boy asks.
“
Didn
’
t say he died. Just
said he never came back. Men and boys do that sometimes.
”
She paused, thinking about that.

George
glanced at her to see if he had asked something he shouldn
’
t have.
 
“
So how old would he
be now?
”

“
Thirty seven,
”
she said without having to think about
it.

“
So he
’
s your older brother.
”
George had no idea how old Celeste
was, only that she was a lot older than he was, and it was maybe a safe bet she
wasn
’
t older than her brother. But Celeste
was the kind of person who could look ancient one minute and young as spring
the next.

“
Older brother,
”
she said, taking no offense.

George
fell silent and concentrated on the dough before him on the floured table. But
Celeste was on another line of thought. She knew how to be a daughter, and with
Augustin gone, she thought at times that she filled the role of son to Bernard
in many ways. She knew what it was like to be a little sister, even if only for
those few years. There was Odette, that now ancient aunt who had loomed over
her early years like a queen of fable; part teacher, part prophet,
part
stern mystery. Like a legend, she had grown in some
ways and diminished in others. Her circles were smaller now. She had set lives
in motion and almost seemed content to watch them take their different courses.
Almost. So maybe she
was
playing the part of big brother to George. It
was a role she had never played before and maybe something he needed. But she
would never share this thought with him. From what she knew of boys, he would
never agree to such a thing, but a need can be filled without making fuss over
the filling.

By
opening time the kitchen staff was dancing about each other under the eye and
well chosen
words of Bernard who had caught the streetcar
in, having given up on the bicycle after a fall. The smell of bread drifted
from the windows and down the street calling to the hungry and the faithful
customers alike. Mrs. Darrow was always first outside the door, where a chair
was set, just for her. The walk always did her good and the bread was her
reward. Being a kind woman, she shared it with her husband who was less up-and-about
than she. Celeste opened the door and greeted her, but left it to others to
tend the counter.

She
thought about her father. He had gone to war and done his duty. She had her own
duty; baking bread, sustaining the good reputation of the bakery. And that was
important to her. She endured the ghost
’
s taunting and maybe
that was duty too in some twisted way. But maybe there should be less of that
and more of something else. Duty
’
s a hard thing to lay
aside once you
’
ve picked it up and set it squarely on
your shoulders. She wondered now as she had before, about whether she was so
wedded to it that she was otherwise single.

No
husband. No regular boyfriend in her life.
Few acquaintances
apart from customers and neighbors.
Reaching all the back to childhood
she
’
d had her brother and Neighbor as
confidants.
 
Now she had friends,
linked to her by work, and only one outside of family and her bakery people who
she felt close to.

She
shook her head at all of this pointless thought. Set it aside so she could
concentrate, but she
’
d come back to it in time. Always did.