Child of the Storm (30 page)

Something was taken out of Celeste that
took a good while to replace. Where before the storm she had only a sprinkling
of grey, she now had only a few last holdouts of the deep, deep brown hair of
her youth, and the grey was being visited by white.

“
I
’
m sixty two years old
and it
’
s time I start thinking of what comes
next,
”
she said to the bear.

“
What does come next?
”

“
Long, long walks, for one. Maybe
travel.
”

“
And the storms? What if they come this
way again?
”

Celeste traced the bear
’
s ear.
“
We
’
ll see.
”

One night, she dreamed about missing
her friend Aurore, as if she was gone. She sat up in bed, reminding herself
that Aurore had been off to visit her family in Hattiesburg and would not have
returned until a few days ago, but as early as she dared the next morning, she
was over at Aurore
’
s house. A young woman was standing on
the front porch, seemingly lost in thought. The front door to the house was
open and Celeste could hear voices inside. The young woman turned to look at
Celeste as if expecting her.

“
You
’
re here to see
Aurore?
”

“
Just a friend checking in on her,
”
Celeste said. She stopped at the steps
up to the
porch,
unsure whether it was appropriate to
go farther. Something in the way the woman stood suggested it might not be.

“
I
’
m sorry. Aurore
passed away last week.
”

Celeste steadied herself with a hand on
the rail.
“
What?
”

“
A car accident. Maybe a stroke, we can
’
t know. She was driving back to New
Orleans. Are you a friend, or one of her
…
congregation?
”

“
She
’
d been my friend for
a long time. We met when I was a girl.
”

The woman motioned for her to follow
and they entered the house.
 
There
were at least three others inside. One was the young woman Aurore was bringing
along to be her replacement
—
when
she retired. The new Voodoo Queen looked weary but focused. The others were
helping her sort through things. Maybe they were family of Aurore
’
s. She couldn
’
t tell.

“
I
’
m Aurore
’
s niece, Ester.
”
The woman offered her hand.

“
Celeste Dubois.
”

“
Oh yes. Aurore spoke of you. I would
have come to your house if you hadn
’
t come by. Aurore
seemed to think you would come here.
”
The woman motioned
for Celeste to follow her into Aurore
’
s consultation
parlor. She opened the top drawer of Aurore
’
s desk, drew out an
envelope and showed it to Celeste. There was the simple outline drawing of a
sailboat, and her name below it.
“
The Will mentioned
this envelope.
”

Celeste opened it and drew out a small
note card.

           
Since
you are reading this now, it proves I was right that you would out live me. I
’
m so sorry to have left you since you
’
ve lost so many already. I hate to be
one who adds to the burden. I have felt so fortunate to be your friend and to
watch your powers of sensitivity grow over the years. It often confirmed my
better opinions of what was possible and what was meant to be.

           
Find
those who were lost, and take this little gift as help along the way.
      

                       
Aurore.

There
was something else in the envelope and Celeste poured it into her hand
—
a light gold chain, a necklace with a
small charm attached
—
a tiny figure with armor, sword and
wings.

“
I don
’
t understand,
”
Celeste said.

“
It looks like St.
Michael,
”
said the woman.
“
But I
’
m Catholic, so
…”

The
new Voodoo Queen stood at the door to the room, eyeing the gift.

“
That
’
s
Ogou
; a
myst
è
re and a warrior,
”
she said.
“
Aurore spoke of you that way.
”

Back
home that evening, Celeste found herself drawing a picture of Aurore. Drawing
from memory with a single flowing line. The little winged charm hung about an
old wooden
candle holder
that was dark with age and
dabbed with wax. The little figure reflected the candlelight and Celeste
puzzled over it from time to time. Aurore was gone and gone much too soon.
There should have been many aging years ahead for slow talk and good humor
between them.

Celeste
’
s world was thinning out much too fast
for her liking.

Before
turning in, she penned a short note to Jonathon Hogue for posting in the
morning.

Celeste had company and was prepared
for more, someone sent her way by George, even though he was supposed to be
retired now. His daughter complained that she couldn
’
t get him to stay home and leave things
to her. Celeste knew it wasn
’
t as bad as that.
George wasn
’
t meddling too badly as a rule, but
when his gardening hobby work was slow
—
and
it was often slow, being nothing much more than two old barrel halves with a
changing cast of plants growing in the narrow courtyard and a few baskets
trailing flowers on the gallery rail
—
well,
he tended to slip away to the bakery just to check in. His wife didn
’
t keep a short leash on him, according
to their daughter, but now that he was into his seventies, he could be just a
little too cute for prolonged periods of confinement with more serious folk. So
he was allowed to slip away to be cute somewhere else.

Celeste had put on a dress without
watercolor stains and wrinkles, and looked in the mirror, smiling at herself,
admiring teeth that were still her own, roots and all. Her hair was a tight cap
of white. She let her eyes roam to the top of the tall and narrow mirror, tall
so her father was able to use it without stooping down. He had used the upper
part while she had used the lower. Celeste always gave the top part a looking
over each morning, just to keep things balanced.

By the time her guest arrived, Celeste
was seated on the front porch waiting for her; seated there next to a girl of
five; a tiny little thing with eyes as big as Celeste
’
s had been at that age.
Big, bright eyes and a squirm that always showed up after about an
hour
’
s
worth of reading together on the front porch.

The young woman approached on foot from
the west
—
coming from
Dubois
’
.

“
Ms. Dubois?
”

“
Miss Girard,
”
Celeste replied. She closed the book
that she and the child were reading, and the child shifted forward to the edge
of her seat, sensing the end of a session.
“
George said you
’
d be coming by. Said you were looking
for a place to stay.
”

“
Yes ma
’
am. Please call me
Gabrielle.
”

“
Have a seat, Gabrielle. Tricia here
’
s had just about as much reading lesson
as she can stand for today. That right, Tricia?
”

The child wasn
’
t sure how to answer that one politely,
so she just said thank you and leapt off the porch, setting off for home.

“
Your granddaughter?
”
Gabrielle asked, nodding toward the
disappearing little girl.

“
No children and no grand children. She
’
s just one of those I help with their
reading. Lucky for them, they have schools to go to and don
’
t have to count on the likes of me.
”
She pursed her lips.
“
But sometimes school can
’
t give all that
’
s needed. Mostly, I try helping the
youngest ones. They put up with an old woman, and they just learn so quickly.
Learn a language, read a book, read the clouds. Whatever you offer up. Like
eating up soup with a big spoon. Helps if they
’
re sensitive.
”
She reinforced the need for Gabrielle
to take a seat, patting the arm of the empty chair.
“
I
’
ll need to know
something about you if I
’
m to suggest
somewhere proper for a girl your age. Eighteen is it?
”
she asked.
“
Born in 1979, George says. Same year as
Hurricane Frederic.
”

“
Yes ma
’
am. Same years as
Hurricane David too.
”

Celeste nodded as if hearing the name
of an old friend or adversary.
“
David never came this
way. Stayed out in the ocean. Kept an eye on it though, you might say.
”
Then added, as if an afterthought.
“
We all did.
”

“
That
’
s the way it is,
living with hurricanes.
”

Celeste nodded, agreeing.
“
And you
’
re not from around
here. From the Islands.
”

“
Born in Dominica. Born the day David
hit the island. But I don
’
t recall much about
Dominica. Mother brought me to the U.S. when I was a baby.
”

“
And your mother?
”

“
Passed away last year. We lived in
Savannah. I
’
ve been on my own since then.
”

“
No other family?
”

“
None that I know of. I never knew my
father.
”

“
It isn
’
t easy being on your
own.
”

Gabrielle shrugged.
“
I do alright.
”

“
What called you to New Orleans? You
didn
’
t like Savannah?
”

“
It was nice enough. It was fine.
”

Celeste said nothing more about it and
the girl continued.

“
So would you know where I could find a
place to stay? I can
’
t afford much. At least not for a
while.
”

“
I have a spare room here. It was my
father
’
s room, though I hope that wouldn
’
t make you ill at ease.
”

“
It wouldn
’
t make me ill at
ease. How much would it be?
”

“
Nothing. The house is my own and I
’
m comfortable. You could stay here for
a while. Come and go as you please. You
’
d find I don
’
t impose, as long as you take care of
picking up after yourself. We can share the cooking, as long as you
’
re any good.
”

A tempting offer.
“
I don
’
t like imposing either,
”
Gabrielle said.
“
But it
would
help to have a
place to stay a while, until I can get established.
”

“
It comes with a bicycle,
”
Celeste said.
“
An old bicycle, I
’
ll admit. It was mine and I put many a
fast mile on it. Nearly died on it once, but that was me and not the bicycle.
”

So the arrangement went and Gabrielle
moved into the spare room and rode the old bicycle to and from work at
Dubois
’
, and wherever else she needed to go
around the city. True to their words, neither imposed much on the other.
Gabrielle was a good enough cook that Celeste let her take her turns at fixing
meals for them.

Most days Celeste was waiting on the
front porch for her when she pedaled back from work and, though nothing was
said, it seemed that this was where Celeste preferred to socialize when weather
permitted. Gabrielle often washed up after work and returned to the porch,
unless she had something else planned.

That was how it went through spring.
Until hurricane season began.