Child of the Storm (18 page)

“
Then I guess I
’
m just in time.
”

The
room seemed so much smaller than she remembered it, and with the front
vestibule removed they came in by another door so she was disoriented for a
moment. But it was the same room. The green slate chalkboard was still as she
remembered it. The student desks were gone and a hodge-podge of chairs sat
along the wall waiting to be assembled. New lights had been added and a ceiling
fan hummed as it stirred the air.

A
lopsided looking boy appeared at the door to the old classroom and looked first
at the flowered teacher, then at Celeste quizzically, then back again at the
teacher.
“
Mrs.
Keetchum
’
s
looking for you,
”
he said.

“
What about,
”
she asked, but the boy was at the
limit of his information.

“
Make
yourself
at home,
”
she said to Celeste
and followed the boy out.

Celeste
assumed she wouldn
’
t have much time and began moving
through the room methodically, looking for something she could use in the
teacher
’
s spirit box. Something small.
Something that wouldn
’
t be missed but also something that the
teacher might have touched. She knew it was a stretch. What chance could there
be that anything remained from that time? But the room was mostly cleaned out
and strange ideas of prying up a splinter from the floor flitted through her
head. Or what if there was some lingering white dust from the rail of the
chalkboard?
Just a few flakes tucked into a corner.
But there was nothing, and she scolded herself for being silly.

Then
she found it, sitting in clear sight at the end of the room, but opposite the
chalkboard
—
not where she expected it would be. She
didn
’
t recognize it at first. It was a desk
stacked high with books and assorted boxes, and beside it stood a chair. This
was a teacher
’
s desk. It was
the
teacher
’
s desk, or so every sense told her.

Light
streamed in through the tall side windows and weightless flecks of dust floated
through it like the wandering thoughts of bored students, trapped year on year
in the lost classroom. Celeste plunged through, sending them swirling in her
wake.

“
Back again, and up to
what this time, girl?
”
whispered a voice no stronger than the
floating flecks and nearly drowned by the whir of the fan.
“
Come to pay your disrespects?
”

Movements
caught her eye and as quickly disappeared. She could feel the wrath pulsing in
the room and knew she would need to keep her focus. She reached the desk and
scanned it quickly. None of the books looked new, but she wouldn
’
t be able to tell for sure. She reached
for the long drawer, but it wouldn
’
t open so she moved
on to the smaller drawers stacked one above the other. One by one, she opened
them and gave a quick look while keeping an ear out for the return of the
flowered teacher. Each of the smaller drawers opened with ease, but none held
anything of use if they held anything at all.

“
And what are you
looking for in my desk?
”
whispered the voice,
straight into her ear, and she cringed.
“
No respect for
property and no respect for authority.
”

It
had to be in the long drawer, Celeste told herself.
The one
drawer that wouldn
’
t open, or was being held against her.
Or was it just
wedged? She gave the drawer a shake. Something hissed in her ear. No words,
only the warning of a snake. Celeste ignored it and felt along the edge of the
drawer, noting that it was not sitting true. It had been jammed in crooked.

“
Leave it!
”
hissed the ghost and Celeste felt her
own hands go cold as though dead hands were laid over them.

With
one sharp move, Celeste punched the heel of her palm against one side of the
drawer, setting it back in its track, then grasped the drawer with both hands
and pulled hard, and the drawer shot open by a hand
’
s span before catching once again. And
something rolled forward from the back of the drawer, coming to rest at the
front. It was a fragment of a chalk stick, no bigger than the end of Celeste
’
s little finger.
A
tiny fragment of chalk.
Her
chalk. White and dry. Just the thing
she needed.

Footsteps
outside. Celeste eased the drawer almost shut again and turned. It was the
flowered teacher.

“
What else would you
like to see?
”

Only
one thing came to mind.
“
Old friends of mine
used to live out at the edge of town. Her name was Sandrine and he was John
Stone.
”

The
woman nodded.
“
Didn
’
t know her well. She
passed away a few years back. But Mr. Stone lives in a boarding house, just a
block away.
”
She pointed.

It
was a nice day for taking a walk. It was a nice day as well for sitting on a
front porch to watch people coming and going and remember you were still a part
of it, to some degree. She found John Stone sitting there on the porch by
himself. She almost didn
’
t recognize
him,
except for that deep quiet he had about him.
A very still and quiet man.

He
didn
’
t recognize her, but he nodded politely
as she came to the edge of the porch.

“
John Stone? Do you
remember me? Celeste Dubois?
”
she said.

He
moved to rise, but she motioned for him to keep his seat and joined him,
perching on the railing so he wouldn
’
t have to turn.

“
I do,
”
he said.
“
You
’
re taller now, and I
’
m older. Sandrine is gone.
”

“
I was told. I
’
m sorry. Sorry I never got back here to
see her again.
”

He
nodded.
“
I spend hours out here just visiting
memories of her and memories of your parents. Your father?
”

“
Gone now, too.
”

“
Most everyone I know
is gone.
Maybe waiting for me somewhere.
Hard to say.
”

“
Yes it is.
”

Something
in her tone seemed to prod a question he
’
d wanted to ask for
years, but hadn
’
t the chance.
“
I think about you too. Think about you
and your spirit guide. I sit sometimes just hoping it
’
s been a good companion and has shown
you things
—
good things.
”

Heat
blushed her neck and cheeks. Embarrassment she hadn
’
t expected. For a moment she thought of
just saying that she
’
d had that companionship all this time
and seen such wonders she could hardly put into words. Thought of treating him
like a child to be played with instead of like a grown man, old and tired out,
but deserving a proper respect.

“
Oh John, that was so
long ago. Lot
’
s gone on and maybe passed me by. I
’
ve been so busy. So distracted by this
and that. You know how it is.
”
She could see
something in his expression dim. Disappointment, she supposed. Maybe he didn
’
t know how it was, or maybe he did
indeed, but kept her memory near at hand for the sake of hope.

“
The spirit had your
mother
’
s eye,
”
he said.
“
Guess you needed that being a little
lost child.
”

“
Guess I did.
”

“
Maybe spirits are
patient things. Maybe could see your life was so full up and busy. Patient and
waiting,
”
he said.
“
Couldn
’
t hurt to look again.
See if it
’
s still out there. You
’
d tell me if it was, wouldn
’
t you?
”
He turned about
enough to point out the house number on the
door jamb
.
“
You could just post it to me at that
number.
”

He
’
d given her an easy way out.
“
I
’
ll be certain to do
just that.
”

From
there, he steered the conversation to simple things like the history of the
town since she
’
d left it. Nothing weighty.
Nothing as important as spirit guides or dreams.
When the La
Salle rolled back into town, tooting its horn to call Celeste out for her ride,
she left John Stone on his porch, promising one last time that she would write
to him.

“
Well,
”
Aurore said as she pulled away from
the curb and took them out of town again.
“
Did you get what you
needed?
”

“
We
’
ll see,
”
Celeste said.
“
Maybe more than I expected.
”

Aurore
’
s family sounded like it was spread far
and wide, like that family of myst
è
res she served in her
official capacity. This branch of her earth bound family was of poorer means
than some who lived elsewhere, and seemed to be one she felt drawn to help more
than others.
A niece and her husband, and two little girls,
five years old and identical twins.
After taking care of some request
for help from her niece
—
for
some of Aurore
’
s highly valued advice and a touch of
treatment for a minor bodily ailment, Aurore sat down with the little twins and
suggested they needed a good palm reading. Celeste observed, but could tell
from Aurore
’
s wink that this would be a reading
tailored toward entertainment more than authentic information.

The
twins offered up chubby hands and Aurore cut her intently squinting eyes, back
and forth between their palms, reading them as if the lines were as identical
as the faces looking on in wonder. The nail of Aurore
’
s little finger lightly traced the long
lines, bringing out tickled laughter.
“
You will both grow up
to be taller than my friend Celeste,
”
she said,
“
and prettier than your old Aunt Aurore.
”
So far so good.
“
You will get new dresses
…
soon, I think.
”
Sounded like privileged information to
Celeste. Aurore looked deeply at a tiny wrinkle and frowned thoughtfully.
“
There will be travel.
Stormy days and starry nights.
Days when you
’
ll get what you want and others when
you
’
ll get only what you need.
”

Then
Aurore took those little palms and tipped them toward Celeste.
“
Anything I missed?
”
she said to her friend.

Celeste
reached forward and took each hand in her own, lightly pressing her thumbs into
those palms and rubbing gently.

“
I can
’
t read them the way you do,
”
Celeste said.
“
Need to feel to read.
”
She rubbed a bit more. Not so lightly
as to tickle.
“
These are good hands.
Small but open.
Hands need to be open to give and receive.
Feels like they
’
ll do a good bit of both.
”