Child of the Storm (33 page)

Her tussle with Ivan took her energies
down a few pegs, so she was glad there was little need for action the rest of
that season. Hurricane Jeanne delivered another beating to Florida
—
continuing what appeared to be the
major theme overall and made her wonder what that state had done to deserve it.
Maybe they could have used her help, but she loved New Orleans so. Only little
Matthew caused concern, but he never quite achieved status and wept bitterly
from south Louisiana all the way up to Arkansas.

Celeste wintered with the bear,
who
never cared for hibernation, and she dwelled on all she
had learned and how it felt like there were changes in the shape of things.
More heat and agitation.
That
’
s how it felt, in a
nutshell. So much hot noise that readings were becoming a strain
—
on top of the complications from being
ancient. Sort of like having a conversation with someone
who
’
s
had more than their fill of coffee. Days could still be draped over with an
easy, settling heat or deep soaking rain that had no greater purpose than to
linger and be noticed
—
like a pretty girl might do; one who
knows she
’
s pretty. But those days weren
’
t as plentiful as they once were. Not
to her, a sensitive woman.

It snowed for Christmas, just as it had
done fifty years before
;
a rare thing, and unheard of
at Christmas proper. So what did this new dusting of her city mean, or was it
just something pretty and cold? She wrapped herself in the quilt and sat on the
front porch to listen, and the cold, dense air helped her hear far and wide
without straining so hard.

“
It
’
s a sign I should
continue my rest,
”
she told herself.

Celeste had acquired a hatred for
grass. Only because it enslave men and called for an unholy din just to keep it
manicured in a socially acceptable fashion. And it was a weak, unnatural
lay-about that drank water that could have gone to more durable,
self-sufficient plants like trees. She was reminded of this hatred as she
watched a neighbor tugging furiously at the chord of his lawn mower. Unless the
thing was just out and out dead, it would eventually catch and roar its way to
real business, but for a while it just played with him, sputtering and coughing
enough to keep his hopes up.

The shaping of 2005 felt like that
lawnmower. Oh, it would get to work on the Gulf, but it was off to a stumbling
start in her area of the world. Stumbling, but furiously busy, and that much
activity always leads to something, and the storm season wanted a hold on
Celeste
’
s attention, and got it.

Arlene had intentions for New Orleans.
Celeste could see that even if no one else could. She turned in New Orleans
’
direction as all signs pointed toward
hurricane standing, but Celeste thumped her, maybe harder than needed.
“
Just getting started,
”
she chastised herself.
“
Don
’
t get spent so soon.
”

Cindy was born off of Africa but
slinked across the ocean in so low-key a manner as to avoid notice, dragged
herself across the Yucatan,
then
headed for Louisiana.
It was a dangerous line she traced, but without enough wind to dislodge a
veteran like New Orleans. Celeste watched her come in, studying her little
ways, but not raising a finger. Cindy waded in at Grand Isle but carried no one
there away, though maybe she left a child. Who could say?

Dennis was like some crazed brawler you
could knock down, but he wouldn
’
t stay down. Trampled
on Cuba twice coming in, and each time picked
himself
up for another go. Once into the Gulf proper, he went berserk, drunk on hot
Gulf water and made for land. Never really aimed at New Orleans, but something
about him reminded Celeste of Ivan, bound for Birmingham and her Clarence. So
she did just a little something to trip Dennis up. Took him down a notch before
landfall. You ought to look after family.

The bear watched Celeste as keenly as
Celeste watched the storms.
“
Watch that you don
’
t overdo,
”
the bear cautioned.
“
There
’
s only you, and these
storms are flying thick.
”

Celeste said she would do just that,
then
did to Emily as she
’
d done to her brother
Dennis. Here was a storm that made no bones about becoming a hurricane and a
ripping strong one. She marched in from the wide ocean as bold as could be, not
caring who might see her
—
even
a child of the storm. Dennis had left her a warm wake to wade through and she
drank that in as she marched like Sherman through the South without much to
worry her but the tip of Yucatan.
So straight and strong a
line that Celeste wondered if she wasn
’
t being hailed in toward Mexico by some
conjuror.
Everyone said she would get stronger before landfall, but that
didn
’
t happen. Celeste worked her own
influence and Emily slowed and staggered just enough to calm those winds.

That was a far reach toward something
heading away. Something a little different that staggered Celeste herself for
some days. Lucky for her and New Orleans that the storms that kept firing up
out of that awful season mostly bothered fish in the far off Atlantic.

If asked, Celeste would have said she
was feeling fine, with no complaints, but she did feel a little thin on
reserves and kept to the shade more than usual. Even so, she did continue to
help her little neighbors with their reading.

One of her favorites, a tiny little
thing with more need of tutoring than most, showed up at her porch with a
sniffle that only got worse the longer she struggled with the words on the
page. Just as Celeste had decided it would be best for them both if the child
called it a day and went home to be nursed, the poor thing exploded with a
sneeze that might have come from someone five times her size. Worst of all, she
’
d just turned Celeste
’
s way.

That night Celeste dreamed again of the
shouting woman in the desert.

Within two days, there couldn
’
t be any doubt that she had caught
whatever the child had.
Just a cold maybe, but a cold at the
worst possible time.
Her sleep would be poor. Worse still, her dreams
might be just like anyone else
’
s, until she felt
much better. Worst of all was how the sickness got in the way of her readings
of the elements. Her sense of smell was off, her eyes felt like they were
veiled, and even her skin ached. She couldn
’
t feel a useful thing
for all the bodily complaints.

George called her on Tuesday after she
started feeling sick and gave
her the
news she didn
’
t want to hear but somehow knew would
come.
“
Nothing much yet,
”
he explained over the phone and she
had to ask him to speak up since her ears felt like they were stuffed with
cotton.
“
It
’
s a tropical
depression off Africa. The
twelfth
one this season, can you believe it?
Their
calling it Number Twelve for now. It
’
ll get a name if it gets strong enough
to be a tropical storm.
”

“
Thank you George. Call me if anything
changes.
”

Maybe it will weaken and never grow up
she thought after she hung up and went out to the porch for fresh air. Maybe it
will drift away in the ocean and never find its way to the Gulf. Give her the
time she needed to recuperate.
She thought this, wished it mostly, but
something connected deep inside told her that wasn
’
t to be. That wasn
’
t a wish to come true.
    

She wasn
’
t hungry, but she
’
d always heard you should feed a cold
and starve a fever, so she ate, even though there was no taste to anything but
the most intensely seasoned food. Celeste didn
’
t have a taste for
the Cajun end of cuisine, but it was probably the right thing for her
convalescence.
 
Something to lift
her spirits and help fuel the fires of struggle against an unseen enemy within,
and the one she feared might be shaping up over the deep waters.
An enemy that had no name
—
until that day.
She was on
the front porch hoping to sense something of the weather beyond, but having no
luck, when Gabrielle arrived to check in on her and to bring news.

“
George called me at the gallery just
before I came over. That storm he told you about yesterday has a name now. It
’
s Katrina, and looks like she
’
ll hit Florida. He
’
ll keep you posted on it. But he also
said to get well soon.
”

The meaning behind the sentiment was
obvious. Celeste rapped her knuckles restlessly against the arms of her rocking
chair.
“
I can
’
t stand this. Can
’
t sense the streams in the weather and
can
’
t recognize my own dreams.
”
This she muttered more to herself than
to Gabrielle, but then added more loudly for anyone to hear.
“
Useless. That
’
s what I am. Useless.
”

“
How can I help?
”

“
I haven
’
t been sick like this
before.
”

“
Ever?
”

Celeste looked at her as if the
question made no sense.
“
No. Not like this.
”
She stopped, noticing the little
plastic cooler Gabrielle was holding.
“
What
’
s that you have there?
”

“
It
’
s for you. Something
from Ms. Rosen.
”

“
She bought two of my paintings.
”
Celeste had allowed some of her works
to be hung at the gallery once when another artist failed to pull together his
show in time. An emergency that Celeste suspected was engineered. Over half of
her works sold. She was so unnerved by the success and notoriety, that she
immediately sequestered herself at home for a month and gave the proceeds to a
church a few blocks away, raising money for worthwhile causes in the
neighborhood. She got it there anonymously to avoid any further attention.

“
When she heard you were sick, she sent
you something to help you get better.
”

“
What is it?
”

“
Chicken soup. Her own recipe and she
swears she
’
s cured everyone in her family with it
several times over.
”

“
But don
’
t they say artwork
gets more valuable after the artist dies?
”

“
It helps if the artist is famous first.
We
’
re still working on that and you aren
’
t very cooperative.
”

“
Okay. Let
’
s try it now. Maybe
she
’
s on to something. I was almost raised
on chicken soup as a girl. Got plenty tired of it, but maybe I need to return
to my roots.
”

Gabrielle followed her back inside,
settled her in at the kitchen table and heated a bowl full of the soup. Celeste
sipped it thoughtfully.
“
It
’
s good. I can taste it so it must be
more than the thin broth I remember.
”
But that struck her
as disrespectful.
“
Of course we were poor and it was the
best she could manage.
”

“
If you run out, I
’
ll tell Ms. Rosen.
”

“
Katrina, you said. Another strange name
to me.
”

“
Katrina. Like Katherine, I suppose.
”

“
Never knew a Katherine,
”
Celeste muttered and blew on the soup.
“
I have a bad feeling about this.
”

Gabrielle left her with the cooler and
the soup.
“
I
’
ll be back tomorrow
unless I hear from you before then.
”

Celeste went to her room and piled up
pillows at the head of the bed where she propped herself up and folded a corner
of her quilt over her knees. She thought about the bear.
“
Maybe we
’
ll laugh in a few
days time when I
’
m better and things are back as they
should be, but then I start thinking about what if this is just the start of
the way it will be from this point on. What if I
’
ve lost that way of
being there in my dreams and knowing it? What if I can
’
t be that way anymore? Then again, what
if it isn
’
t that at all, but even worse? I think
of those who lose their memories of those they love most, bit by bit like a
painting washed away by rain. What if it
’
s that? Who would be
there for you since I
’
m the one who knows where to find you?
”

She wiped her nose and her eyes.
“
I
’
m older than anyone I
know. Older than I think anyone I know ever got to be. I
’
ve been a foolish old woman to think
this could go on forever and not give any more thought to what would become of
you if anything happened to me. You
’
ve asked for nothing
all these years while I tied you in to saving
me and this
place from storm
after storm. Maybe I should have moved on and taken you
along to somewhere else, somewhere without storms. Somewhere we could just
be
!
Go somewhere and let someone else take up watching over this place.
”
She caught her breath. Why had she
said that? Why think something of the sort? But the words were said and
conjured other thoughts and memories that she drifted in and out of until her
visitor arrived.

Gh
é
d
é
N
é
bo
took a seat on the far edge of the bed and looked at her through that one lens
of his glasses while the other eye behind its dark lens looked who-knows-where.
Maybe also at her.
She couldn
’
t tell.

“
Looking poorly, Miss Celeste,
”
he said with that broad, genuine and
most unsettling smile of his.
“
But not so poorly
that you should be talking that way. Maybe that chicken soup will help. Makes
me hungry just thinking about it, but I
’
d settle for a drink
if you have any. The kind I like. You know?
”

“
Aurore said you liked rum with peppers
in it. But I don
’
t have any of that on hand. There
’
s a little wine in the kitchen and you
’
re welcome to it.
”

The myst
è
re made a face.
“
I know what kind you
’
ve got in there and I
’
m a bit too particular for that. Still,
you need to get your spirits back up where they should be. Stop all this talk
of leaving the city to someone else to care for. You know we talked about that
before and I don
’
t fancy that much work coming my way
all at once. Give that some thought and we
’
ll talk later. I
’
ve got another appointment calling from
the other side.
”

“
Anyone I know,
”
Celeste asked.

“
That
’
s a confidence I can
’
t share, Miss Celeste.
”