“Read aloud,” the teacher said.
Celeste’s face grew warm and then hot. She squinted at the first word, trying with all her might to squeeze the meaning out of it, but under the cold eyes of the teacher there was nothing there, nothing the words would say to her, like they were afraid to speak because the teacher wouldn’t allow it.
After a short silence, the teacher’s voice came down on her again, low but not soft. “It kills something in me to see a child who will not learn. A child who chooses to be ignorant.”
Celeste saw the teacher’s finger tracing across the lines she had failed to read. The teacher’s finger traced the lines as she spoke as if reading them herself. But as the finger moved across the page, it left a smear of blood.
“But for you,” the teacher continued, and her slow but steady voice became rasping, “the ignorance is not a choice. It is simply who you are. I might as well bring in the dog from the street or the mule from the field and expect the same. You weren’t meant to be here, because this is not your place.”
Celeste was burning hot and she could feel the sweat on her back where it was pressed against the chair. Though she did not want to, she began to raise her eyes, following the teacher’s pale hand and up her long, thin arm to her shoulder. In a moment, she would be looking into the teacher’s face again, and she did not want to do that. She fought, but her eyes insisted that she see it, and she knew it would be a terrible thing.
She woke. Her wrist felt hot—the wrist that the teacher had taken hold of. She sat up and felt her breathing slow and her forehead cool a bit from the breeze coming through the window. The breeze, the familiar shape of the window in the dark room calmed her, told her she was safe. Branches of the great Climbing Oak patterned the night sky.
Within a week, the teacher, Miss Bolton, was too ill to teach and lay in her bed at home. Within a month, she was dead and lay in the earth.
Celeste suspected she had brought that on, but confided in no one and hoped nothing more would come of it.
Fight
Celeste’s seventh birthday was not long past and fall was coming, but it would be weeks or months before the leaves would drop from those trees that let them go each year. Still, it was a cool day compared to the peak of summer. It always seemed to go cool for some few days about this time each year, just a tease before the heat settled back in for a while more.
An early cool day when her brother burst into the house one evening, followed immediately by John Stone, who quietly closed the door, removed his hat and pardoned himself to Marie. There had been a fight. John Stone had been the one to break it up. At the heart of it was Augustin’s job and the fact he could read. A certain white boy in town took exception to both of those things. Made him mad to see Augustin working there and making money doing it, and able to read better than he could on top of it all, which was something of a crime in the white boy’s eyes. That was the basics as Celeste could gather from what little her brother would tell her as she sat beside him, over by the dark window while Marie spoke to John Stone.
There was a cut below her brother’s eye, and a smudge of blood where he’d been swiping at it when it ran down his cheek. Two boys had jumped on him after work. Had to be more than one since her brother was more than a match for any one boy his age. More than a match for even most men a good bit older. John Stone happened to be leaving town for home when it all happened and happened fast. He pulled off one boy and Augustin put the other one on his butt in the dirt.
It wasn’t too long before her father came home in a heated rush. He’d heard like just about everyone else, though he hadn’t heard if his son was injured. Seeing he wasn’t, apart from that one cut, he took him to the back porch for a talk as John Stone took his leave out the front, taking with him as much gratitude as he would allow to be offered.
While Marie prepared something over at the stove for when they came back inside, Celeste sat cross legged by the wall as near her father and brother as she could, with only a little hole in the siding between them. A little hole set in the shadows where she’d once seen a mouse squeeze through. She could catch a few words through that mouse sized hole, but they were words of huge importance.
“I was afraid it might take this sort of turn,” she heard her father say. “We’ll see what Odette has to say.”
Two days later, a man and his wagon brought Odette soon after nightfall, summoned by a wire sent from town. He dropped her off with her one stout bag and bad temper. She’d clearly stewed over the situation the whole way out from New Orleans. She took Bernard and Augustin to the front porch. Celeste wanted to go too, but Marie held her back and sat her down with something designed to keep her from listening at the door. She sorted scraps of cloth, like with like by color, all the while straining to hear anything at all.
When after an eternity they came back in, her brother looked torn between eagerness and regret, but it was Odette who spoke, in case there was any resistance from Marie. “Augustin will come stay with me a while,” she said. “I think it’s best for all concerned.”
Celeste looked to her mother for rebuttal, but there was only one slow nod, accepting the judgment. So Celeste spoke up. “We should all go.”
“That’s not how it works,” her brother said.
“Your father has his job here, Celeste.” That from Odette.
“And I need you here with me,” her mother added. “Augustin is big enough to handle so big a place—if that’s how it has to be.” Her voice grew soft and then she was quiet.
In the morning, the man with the wagon returned, and Odette and Augustin loaded on; Odette sitting beside the man while Augustin sat behind them. There was a train to catch in New Iberia, so goodbyes were short. Celeste stood before her mother, held tight enough to her that she could feel the little tremor that might have been her mother crying deep down, almost hidden. And deeper still or farther off, she could feel something coming on that might have been the Sadness returning.
“I’ll write to you,” her brother told her. And so he would. “And I’ll come see you too when I can.” But that, he never did.
Ghost
There was an early morning some weeks after her brother’s departure when Celeste walked into town with her father. A crack of dawn walk. Marie needed it to be so and Celeste didn’t quarrel since it was a welcome change, and first light always called her out of sleep. Marie had something to do and was in sound spirit if not joyful.
But by noon, Celeste was tired of the smoky shop and the din of iron on iron and asked to go home again, walking with Sandrine who stopped by and was going that way. Sandrine would come to their house sometimes to visit with her mother and talk as they sewed. She was older than her mother and heavier. When she’d sing to herself, it poured up like something out of a good dream; like honey from bees who know where all the best flowers grow. She’d lay down a soft, deep song that sometimes drew Marie out to sing along, her own voice light, sweet and fragile like flowers hovering above the rich and supportive earth that raised them up to see the sun. Celeste knew that her mother thought of Miss Sandrine as her closest friend.
It was a cooler day than the day before, so Celeste was wearing her new coat, a gift from Odette, buttoned up since she was so thin, and the brisk air could get right through to her bones without something to keep it out.
Bones.
The thought of being chilled to the bones came into her head just as they approached the corner where the white cemetery sat beside the white church. They turned down the little side street leading down to the black church which had its own little cemetery beyond it, farther off the main road. The black church was where Sandrine was headed first and she suggested Celeste join her inside, just for a minute or two while she dropped something off, but Celeste declined, saying she’d be just fine outside. Sandrine didn’t push because she understood. “Don’t wander off,” she said.
Marie didn’t attend church so neither did Bernard or Celeste. She’d asked her father why
that was, but he got thoughtful and quiet. Couldn’t be like the school since this was a church full of black people around town. Had to be something else.
She edged along the white cemetery fence but not far enough to reach the main road. The cemetery was a neat but lonely looking place.
Bones.
Lots of people cold to the bones in there, Celeste thought. She lingered by the wrought iron fence and stared at the markers, etched with names and sentiments. Her mind wandered off somewhere.
“Think that new coat makes you something special, do you?” called a dry voice from the cemetery. “Makes those shoes of yours look especially worn and shameful.”
Celeste looked about to see who had spoken, though she suspected who it was from the dry cough. And there, standing behind the little monument that was all she had for a home now—standing behind it just as she had stood behind her desk, was the teacher, the late Miss Bolton. She looked especially pale and bitter today. Death hadn’t softened her at all.
“I hear you managed to learn to read,” the teacher said. “Learned from those parents of yours and not in a proper school.” She chuckled wickedly.
Celeste nodded slowly, but would not speak. She had heard her mother say that people didn’t care for those who spoke to the departed. Maybe just listening to them wouldn’t be a problem.
“No, of course not.” The teacher looked down her long nose at Celeste, but stayed where she was, unable to roam too far away from her grave, Celeste hoped. The teacher leaned forward and traced a cold finger across the carved letters on her monument. “Rest in Peace, it says. But how am I to rest peacefully when the likes of you goes walking by?”
Celeste was silent.
“I hear you do drawings,” the shade continued.
Celeste’s eyes widened and she wondered how a ghost could know such a thing, unless she was freer to travel than Celeste thought.
The teacher noted her surprise. “Oh, I know a great deal about you, even now. That arrogant brother has been taken off, and good riddance. Your father will most likely end up without means of providing for you and that sad mother of yours. Should have left those books alone and tended to what you were meant to do. Should have minded your place.”
Celeste could feel her own heat chasing the cold air back out of her coat. The heat built and built, but she held her tongue.
The teacher pressed further. “I wonder what will happen if your father loses his job. Can’t imagine that will help your mother’s…condition. Maybe she’ll be put away. Put away somewhere they put people like her; somewhere sad and far away where no one will have to see her. Some lonely little room. And your father might just think you’re too much to handle and send you away to some orphanage where you can spend your days with other children no one wanted. Maybe you could draw them little pictures to cheer them up. Only your pictures aren’t really very good, now are they?” She ended with another dry and bloodless cough
Celeste lost control after all this talk about her parents. She grasped the cold pickets of the fence and heaved against them; heaved back and forth like a prisoner in a rage. “You’re DEAD,” she screamed. “Just shut up! Just shut up and let the worms eat you!”
“Celeste?” said a soft and living voice behind her.
Celeste turned quickly. It was Miss Sandrine.
“Are you alright Celeste? Who were you talking to?” She was scanning the cemetery for sign of anyone.
Celeste stammered something incoherent about it being nothing and she thought she’d seen someone, but nothing that made sense of her outburst. She too, looked back to the cemetery; to the grave of the teacher Miss Bolton, but she had slipped away again, only wanting to share her wicked words with Celeste.
Sandrine didn’t press. “Ready to go home?”
Celeste nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sandrine hummed in her deep and heartfelt way when it suited her. Then as they came in sight of Celeste’s house, Sandrine stopped and Celeste stopped beside her.
“You know,” Sandrine began, in that same manner of speaking she used when speaking to Marie. The manner of talk between friends. “Many a time, I’ve raised my voice at those old graves. Not that it changed anything, but it sure felt good to do it. Mind you, I was always careful not to raise it too high, and I’ve got a voice that could raise the dead I’m told, though I wouldn’t want to raise a single one of them, the good or the bad. What’s gone is gone.” She turned her face into the breeze and breathed it in. “Some in that cemetery were mighty keen on reminding others of their place, but judging by where they are now, I’d say I’m happier to be who I am this very day than to be on their side of the iron fence.” She looked down at Celeste with a smile as warm as her father’s shop. “Mind you, I wouldn’t quote me too freely on that. And mind how often and how loudly you go yelling at the departed. Especially those.”
Scrape
As the days grew shorter toward year’s end, Celeste’s father was coming home after the sun was nearly down. He would come in through the front door and come to wherever Celeste was. He would smudge her nose with his sooty hand before washing up and greeting Marie. It was a ritual that rarely changed.
The first day of winter was different. Christmas was only days away. Celeste was hopeful in spite of missing her brother, and sat at the table drawing things she had never seen before; snowflakes, reindeer and angels. Sandrine had told her a little about angels, but it was hard to follow. The sun was still up and there was time to finish before helping fix dinner—before her father would be home to smudge her nose and admire her work.
There was a noise in the back yard, not a loud one, but on a quiet afternoon it stood out. She looked up and caught sight of her father through the window. There was something odd and unsettling about seeing him there since he should have come in through the front door and smudged her nose. Something made her hesitate. She looked to the door of her parent’s room but her mother did not appear at the door, and there was no sound of her. Days had passed since a letter from Augustin had lifted her mother’s spirits for a while, but then she started getting tired again. As the sun would drop and the shadows leak into the house in late afternoon, her mother would often slip away to her bed to lie down, rubbing her forehead and looking sad and old.
“Just need to lie down a moment before your father gets home,” she would often say. “Wouldn’t want him to see me all run down.” And she would sleep for an hour or more until the sound of the front door closing behind him would wake her. Today there was no sound of a closing door, and she continued to sleep her troubled sleep. Celeste got up quietly, and just as quietly slipped out the back door to see about her father.
A mist was moving in through the trees; the wet breath of the Gulf turning thick and visible in the cool air of December. Her father saw her at once and motioned for her to come out to where he stood under the Climbing Oak.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it.”
It wasn’t like her to be so forward, but this was strange and she was frightened. His right hand was scraped across the knuckles and red with blood. Not a lot, but still not something she was used to seeing. He was careful about his hands since he made his living with them.
“You hit somebody?” she asked in a whisper.
He looked at his knuckles then cast a nodding glance back to the house. “Your mama’s sleeping?”
Celeste nodded. Nothing needed to be said. They’d seen the Sadness coming on.
Bernard nodded as well, then inspected his knuckles. “I didn’t hit anybody. Got mad and hit the wall. It was stupid but I was just too angry not to.” He took a long deep breath and let it out slowly. “Things will be fine child, but we have a rough patch to get through coming up. I hate it came along at Christmas-time, but it was bound to come along sooner or later. I just hoped it would be later and I’d have a chance to sidestep.” She saw his jaw clinch for a moment before he continued. “The boy your brother fought with wa
s the grandson of old Mr. Franklin who owns the shop where I work. Did you know that?”
She nodded. Augustin had told her.
“Well, the boy’s father isn’t like old Mr. Franklin, and it seems he’ll be taking over ownership and running of the place. Old Mr. Franklin valued my work, but seems his son isn’t of the same opinion, no matter how good my work is.”
Celeste thought she followed. “Like Augustin and that teacher Miss Bolton.”
“Near enough,” he agreed.
“So young Mr. Franklin won’t let you work there any more. Is that it?”
“I’m afraid that’s it. He came in this afternoon and sent me away. Just like that.”
“So what’ll you do now? Will you find somewhere else to work?” She knew it would be seriously bad if he couldn’t and the words of Miss Bolton’s ghost came back to haunt again.
He sat down on the ground in front of her to put them more eye to eye and studied her face. “Don’t you worry about that. Not for a minute.”
“You won’t have to go away like Augustin did?”
He considered this a while before answering. “If I can’t find something near home that provides enough for us to live off, then I might have to look farther away and send money home. My father had to do that for a time, but he came home when he could and he came back for good once times were better. It’s not what I want. The thought of being away from home for even a day is painful to think about, but if it has to be, then it has to be. I’d expect you to look after your mother and you’d have to draw me a picture of the two of you for me to keep.”
Celeste listened but only some of it got through. It was like he had already decided that he would have to leave—just like Augustin. She was getting lightheaded and didn’t realize she had gone tense and rigid, almost holding her breath until her father reached out and took her gently by the arm. She gasped.
Child of the Storm Page 3