by Mia Sheridan
Jonah smiled, charmed yet again, despite the odor. "Why is your neighbor offering you liniment anyway?"
"Oh, I'm a ballet dancer. Sore muscles come with the job."
"You're a ballet dancer?"
"Yes. I'm an apprentice ballerina with the New Orleans Ballet. I just moved here a couple of months ago. I'm renting an apartment in The West Bank of Jefferson Parish from someone my teacher knows."
"Huh." He could honestly say he'd never known a ballerina before. "So no family here?"
"No, it's just me. My family—well, just my father now actually—lives in Ohio." Her words ended more quietly than they'd begun, a sort of defeat lying just beneath the surface. Jonah recognized that tone, knew it well. It was . . . sadness. Is Clara lonely too? he wondered, the small pinching in the region of his heart taking him by surprise.
"So, uh, any ideas on the whole wish discarding thing?"
She paused and he heard her moving as if she was adjusting the position she'd been sitting in, straightening perhaps due to the gravity of the subject.
He wondered what she looked like. A ballerina. He pictured someone slim with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. He’d already been able to tell by her voice that she was young, and now he was even more sure about that. From what he knew, ballerinas didn’t have very long careers. And from the sound of it, hers was just beginning.
"I do actually. I've been thinking about this all week, and I've come up with an idea."
"Okay, shoot. I'm all ears."
"Well," she started and her voice sounded so serious, so filled with resolve that he couldn't help smiling. It was tight and the muscles in his face hesitated awkwardly for a moment, but yeah, he remembered now what a smile felt like. "It's the wish that's important, but the paper it's written on must hold some sort of . . . oh, I don't know . . . power, too."
"Okay."
"Right. So the paper should be discarded in a way that's meaningful."
"Which is the case you made last week."
"Mm-hmm," she said, and he could see her nodding her head. She was a girl with a sweet laugh, a voice that was light and pleasant, a charm that captivated him, and a face he couldn't visualize. She sounded so pretty though. Is that possible? "So let's consider Angelina. You do know the whole story of Angelina Loreaux, right?"
"Of course. I've grown up hearing about the legend. My housekeepers, Myrtle and Cecil, swear they see her wandering in the garden."
"Oh." Her voice took on a breathy, almost dreamy tone.
Jonah felt like he should dispel the hope he heard in her voice. “Though Myrtle’s half-blind and Cecil, well, let’s just say Cecil pretty much goes along with whatever Myrtle says.”
Clara laughed and then was quiet for a moment. "Okay. In any case, you know that Angelina met and fell in love with John Whitfield in the rose garden, and that's also where she took her own life."
"In front of the fountain."
She paused. "Oh. I didn't know that." She sounded sad suddenly as if she were picturing the scene, Angelina's body lying prone in front of the fountain as the water cascaded and bubbled next to her, her blood soaking into the grass. At least, that's how Jonah had pictured it when he’d been told the story as a boy. And the image had stuck with him as childhood imaginings tended to do.
Clara cleared her throat. "Okay, so the rose garden was significant in Angelina's life as well as her death. What if you soaked the wishes in water and mixed them with the mulch for the flowers? Paper is biodegradable, after all."
Jonah frowned. "That's your idea?"
"Yes. What's wrong with it? It's meaningful. You'd be bringing the wishes to the place she's said to wander."
"It sounds like a lot of work."
She paused and then sighed. "I know. I'm sure you're busy—"
"I'm not busy. I actually . . . well, I'm the opposite of busy. Still, I don't do much in the way of gardening."
She was silent for a moment and just as he was about to call her name, she asked, "Why are you the opposite of busy? What do you mean?"
“Nothing. Plus, the majority of the pieces of paper are white. I don’t know that white mulch is a popular look.”
She paused and he had the notion that she was dejected. When she spoke, the tone in her voice told him his instincts had been correct. “You’re right. From the pictures I’ve looked at online, it’s a stunning property. I’m sure it’s important that it’s kept in tip-top shape.”
A pinprick of shame caused him to shift positions. “Well, honestly, I could probably do better on that front.” But the truth was, keeping the property the way it should be would require more help than just Myrtle and Cecil, and he didn’t want anyone other than them coming beyond the gate. And so in the time he’d been living there, the place had continued to fall to disrepair.
The further truth was, he liked her idea. Not because he would execute it—he did not piddle around in the garden—but because it spoke to a sweetness that only added to her charm. And she’d obviously spent time considering her answer, which meant she’d thought about him during the week and he couldn’t help liking that knowledge.
“Tell me about yourself, Clara.”
"There's not a lot to tell. Midwestern girl. I've been dancing since I was four. My"—she cleared her throat and Jonah heard her back slide up the rough stone—"dearest dream came true when I was chosen to join the New Orleans Ballet. We'll be performing Swan Lake in a couple of months and I was lucky enough to get a role. I'm one of the swans. It's a dream come true," she repeated, though her lackluster tone made him wonder if that was true.
"Then why do you sound so sad about it?"
Clara released a surprised sounding breath. "I . . . I'm not sad. It's a . . ." Her words faded away and he again heard the fabric of whatever she was wearing slide against the stone—in a downward motion this time. "My father, he has Alzheimer's. He raised me by himself on a bus driver's salary. He sacrificed so much so I could dance. He never missed a show—never. He was always there, with a single red rose after each performance. All the money for lessons, and then for shoes, costumes . . . When I was fifteen, I landed a big part in the local ballet theater. I was so proud, but it'd been a rough year. There had been a strike where my dad worked and he didn’t get paid for a couple of months and . . . I remember waking up early one morning and hearing him just coming home. I got up and looked out the window and saw him taking a pizza delivery sign off the top of his car. My fifty-five-year-old dad had taken an extra job delivering pizzas so he could pay for me to dance in that show. I never mentioned it and neither did he, but I never forgot."
She inhaled a sudden breath and then a small sniffle. Jonah’s chest tightened. There was something about hearing of Clara’s sorrow that brushed over every ache in his own heart. "Sorry," she uttered.
"For what?" Jonah asked softly.
"For . . . oh, I don't know. Getting emotional. You don't even know me."
That was the thing though. He sort of felt like he did somehow, or at least . . . he’d learned things about her he could have only learned after knowing someone in person for much longer. Was it because a different level of honesty existed when you didn’t meet and talk face to face? Or is it her? “That’s what we’re doing though, right?”
“Yes,” she said, and he could tell she’d turned her head so her mouth was closer to the crack in the wall on his left.
He lifted a finger, tracing around that small crack. He almost felt foolish, but she had no way of knowing and so what did he care?
"So," he said, after a moment, "your dad, who sacrificed so much for you to dance, won’t see the payoff for all that sacrifice."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, that's it. He has moments of clarity, but they're so few and far between now. He didn't even know me when I left, and it’s been weeks since I heard his voice on the phone and even then, he couldn’t place me, and God, it hurt. I should have told him more often how much I appreciated his sacrifice and that I realized how hard he worked f
or me. I never really got a chance to say goodbye even though he’s not really gone. And"—she paused for another small intake of breath—"it breaks my heart, Jonah. It kills me inside."
Jonah was silent for a beat, taking in her words. "I’m sorry, Clara. It must have been so hard to leave him."
"It was. I wanted him to come live here, but he insisted on staying in Ohio. It was one of the last wishes he spoke to me, and I really think he wanted to give me wings. But, some days I feel like I should quit all this and go back to him, to spend what remaining time he has left enjoying those last few lucid moments, even if there are only a handful left. Instead, I'm here—"
"Doing exactly what he'd want you to be doing, Clara. He'd want you here. I don't know your dad, but I'd bet anything he'd tell you that you're exactly where he wants you to be. Honor the sacrifice he made by dancing your heart out—for him. He wouldn't have wanted anything more than that.”
Clara let out a soggy-sounding laugh and her voice was closer again. “You’re right. Thank you, Jonah. Thank you for saying that. I needed to hear it. You have no idea—”
The sound of a car approaching and then the squeaking of brakes met Jonah’s ears right before the rustle of Clara standing. “My ride is here. I have to go.”
Her ride? “Okay. Hey, it was nice to talk to you.”
“You too.” She paused and Jonah found himself holding his breath. “I gave you my idea about the notes—failure that it was.” Jonah opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong. He’d liked her idea, but she let out a small laugh, continuing on. “But you didn’t fulfill your part of the deal. You were supposed to impart some historical information.” There was a teasing tone in her voice and his lips tipped.
“No, I guess I didn’t, did I?” She seemed to be waiting. He heard her breath ghosting through the crack in the wall right at his throat. “If you wanted to come back, I could—”
“Great. Next Sunday, then.” There was a smile in her voice and when she spoke again, it was from farther away. “Goodbye, Jonah. Have a great evening.”
He walked quickly to where he thought the car might be parked on the other side of the large barrier between them and brought his good eye to one of the larger slits in the rock. He couldn’t make her out well. He only had the vague image of a slim body in a white top and honey-blonde hair blowing sideways as she jogged toward the vehicle. Away from him.
He didn’t want to feel dissatisfied with the short amount of time he’d had with her, but he did. He did.
CHAPTER FIVE
He’d brought her peace—Jonah, the man behind the wall. The wish collector. Clara executed a perfect grand jeté, hitting her spot and coming to a standstill as one of the male dancers performed center stage.
That feeling of peace she’d been thinking about continued to surround her like a warm blanket. Yes, she thought. Yes! This is where her father would want her to be, nowhere else. Dance your heart out, Jonah had said, and that’s what she would do.
How funny, she mused. That had been her original wish—to find peace concerning the situation with her father. And she had. In one single moment, Jonah had found a way to grant her greatest desire.
She smiled to herself as she began moving again, the other dancers fluttering across the stage along with her. She’d called him the wish collector, but perhaps he had the ability to grant them too. At least in her case.
“Clara,” Madame Fournier said as Clara was exiting the building, her duffle bag slung over her shoulder. “You danced beautifully today.” She smiled, thin-lipped, an underwhelming display of expression, but Clara’s heart soared nonetheless.
“Thank you so much, Madame Fournier. See you tomorrow.” She grinned, letting the door swing shut behind her.
It was already seven p.m. and Clara had the sudden urge to go to the weeping wall, to call out Jonah’s name, to tell him about today and how he’d helped her beyond measure with a few heartfelt words. But of course, that was silly. They barely knew each other. He wouldn’t want her showing up at his house—even outside—without first being invited. After all, wasn’t he sick of all those people coming by randomly all the time as it was? Friends occasionally showed up unexpectedly, but they weren’t really friends? Were they?
Thoughts of Jonah, of the unusual bond she felt forming between them, kept her company as she traveled home, and when she stepped off the bus, she spotted the man who sold produce and flowers under a temporary awning on the corner, packing up his things.
A flash of red caught her eye and she saw that today, he had red roses. On a whim, Clara crossed the street, smiling as she approached the old man.
He smiled back, his wrinkled skin settling into a hundred folds, his eyes squinting with kindness.
“Sorry, sir, I know you’re closing, but do I have time to purchase a bouquet of roses?”
“Course you do. What color would you like?” The man gestured to the red bouquet and one of pale pink.
“The red please. They’re my father’s favorite.”
“Ah. A classic gentleman. I like that.”
Clara took out her wallet, tilting her head as she handed the man the money on the sticker. “He is. I just moved here from Ohio, but I saw the roses and thought of him. Sort of seemed like a little touch of home.”
The man waved her money away. “Well now, you consider those roses a welcome from me to New Orleans.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” Clara thrust the money toward the man, but again he waved it off, chuckling. “Best get home to put those in water before they start wilting.” He winked at her, his smile warm and kind.
Reluctantly, Clara lowered her arm. “Well . . .”
“And here”—he handed her a small flowering plant in a terracotta planter—“some lagniappe.” He chuckled at the confused look on her face. “It’s what us New Orleanians call a little something extra. Now you have something pretty for the inside, and a small something for the outside. Put that on your stoop. My mama always did say that the best way to welcome folk to your home was to show that you cared about decorating their first impression.”
Clara held the plant against her body in one hand and the large bouquet of roses in the other, inhaling their sweet fragrance and thinking she better leave before he started giving her more free things and causing her to feel even guiltier. Although . . . the truth was, despite being a person who always, always paid her way and dealt with others honestly, the two small gifts—gestures of pure kindness—made her feel warm inside. Lagniappe. This man might not know it, but he had a customer for life in Clara.
She grinned at him. “Thank you. Truly. I’m very appreciative. And by the way, I’m Clara.” She figured he’d know why she couldn’t shake his hand.
He smiled back. “Clara, very nice to meet you. I’m Israel Baptiste.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Baptiste.” Clara clutched her items close and walked the short distance home. When she got there, she stood in front of the door to her apartment. She didn’t have a stoop, per se, but there was a corner near her door just large enough for a plant. She bent, placing the terracotta planter down with a smile.
On Sunday, she’d go back to see Mr. Baptiste and purchase some fresh ingredients to make a vegetable lasagna. She wondered suddenly, if Jonah liked lasagna. She could . . . no, I won’t go that far, she decided. Not yet. She’d take one to Mrs. Guillot. But it was nice to know that when she considered cooking, she had a couple of people now who might want to share a meal with her.
She looked at the plant again, admiring the way the yellow blossoms brightened the once dismal concrete space. A touch of home. My dad would like that. She was settling in after all.
**********
On Sunday, as planned, Clara walked the few blocks to Mr. Baptiste’s stand, greeting him with a warm smile as she approached.
“Well hello, Clara. How are you this fine day?”
“Good, thank you. The roses still look as fresh and beautiful as they did a few days ago.”
&nb
sp; “Oh good. My wife, Marguerite, tends the flower garden at our house and does a mighty fine job.”
“She must love gardening.”
“She sure does. That woman could spend the whole day with those plants. Comes back in with dirt smeared all over her, looking just as happy as a lark.” His eyes warmed at the mention of his wife and Clara sighed inwardly. To have a man’s whole expression change when he spoke your name . . . it was something she could only dream of. “Do you like gardening, Clara?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done it.” She leaned her hip against the edge of the vegetable-laden table, the smell of ripe things and earth meeting her nose. “We had a small yard in Ohio, nothing but grass. My father worked a lot and didn’t have time to maintain more than that. And I was always busy with school. And here, well, I barely have room for a houseplant.”
Mr. Baptiste chuckled and Clara gave him a smile.
“I’m going to fill a basket with some of these delicious-looking vegetables,” she said, grabbing a basket and placing two large tomatoes inside. She glanced at Mr. Baptiste and considered something. He looked old—maybe not quite as old as Dory Dupre, who had to be close to a hundred, but definitely in his eighties or nineties. “Mr. Baptiste, have you always lived in New Orleans?”
“Yup. Born and raised.”
Clara nodded as she chose a couple of deep green zucchini. “I’ve been learning about the Windisle Plantation and the ghost story attached to the weeping wall.”
Mr. Baptiste frowned slightly. “Ah. Sad tale, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Clara put a vibrant yellow squash in her basket and then paused. “I’m completely intrigued by it.”
“I don’t blame you. There’s quite a bit of mystery surrounding that old place. It’s a shame it’s been abandoned.”
Clara opened her mouth to mention Jonah but then closed it, reconsidering. She wasn’t sure why she hesitated telling Mr. Baptiste that someone did live there, other than the fact that Jonah obviously preferred it that way since everyone believed it was deserted.