Child of the Storm

by R. B. Stewart

  “What’s it like down that road to the west?” George asked.

  “Can’t speak to that way,” he confessed. “Doesn’t look too bad, except for the church and that wrathful steeple. But there’s two yonder that could tell you, assuming you can speak to ghosts.” He jerked his head toward the field beyond, out toward the tall magnolia tree. “They drifted through yesterday late and looked like ones who’d been through hell. Most likely had been and trying to find a way back. Ghosts always try to get back. Well, every door in town was closed against them, as you might expect. So I cleared out from where I’d taken shelter the night before. I moved out and they moved in. Spent my night under the stars. Funny how bright the stars can be on the heels of a storm like that.”

  “Did you speak to them?” Celeste asked, as she climbed down from the truck, leaving her shoes behind and almost shoving Aurore out, as if there was an urgency.

  “No point in talking to a ghost. But that’s just me.” He spoke to Celeste as she wandered out into moist dirt of the road and studied the field.

  “Soft ground,” they heard her say. “Too soft for the truck I guess.” It was like she was speaking to herself. Her toes worked the mud. Fresh blooms were sprinkled among the dark leaves of the magnolia. Like familiar stars in a night sky. “I love the smell of magnolia blooms. So comforting.”

  “It’s the smell of those blooms that draws a ghost in,” old man said. “A heavenly smell, magnolia is. Just heavenly. Suppose that what draws them. You suppose?”

  “Maybe so”, Celeste said, still gazing at the bloom covered and scented tree out across the muddy field. Her eyes tracked along a faint line, little more than parallel smudges across the sagging grass. Right to where Celeste stood. She was looking straight down now; between her own bare feet where the ghost of a depression held a thin film of standing water. A footprint between her feet and pointing out to the magnolia tree.

  This is no time to go drifting off into some less than useful frame of mind, she told herself. Only half the day gone but it feels like a week at hard labor. We’re here for a reason and not to entertain an old character of the open road, or gawk at tumbled bells like some tourist in the Quarter, or dwell too long on the lovely smell of blooms. We’re here for a purpose. We’re here to find Aurore’s missing family. Here to collect those poor twins and take them somewhere safe.

  She sensed Aurore at her side.

  “What is it Celeste?”

  “I can’t seem to move from the spot. Think I’m fine, but I need you to go out to that tree.”

  Aurore set off without question, across the field and disappeared among the branches of the magnolia and time passed under the climbing sun before she pushed back through again leading two young women. Identical twins. No one else followed them.

  The old man removed his hat to let the breeze flow over his bare scalp. “Well that’s something. Almost like the Lord and Lazarus.”

  The twins weighed on Aurore’s arm until George could reach them to help. They settled the girls into the back of the truck, where they seem to drop back into sleep, though a sleep that could as well have been death, as still and tormented as they lay there. Celeste emerged from her state of mind and followed.

  “I swear to every mystère I could name, it’s a wonder to me how you knew to bring us here. Knew it or felt it,” Aurore whispered to Celeste as George sought out a blanket of sorts he had stuffed into the truck cab. “These girls lost both their parents in a flash flood, and it’s a miracle they survived at all. Wouldn’t have for long, if you hadn’t led us here. We need to get them back to New Orleans as quick as we can. I’ll figure out what to do by the time we get there.”

  “You sure you can get us back home?” George asked Celeste. “I can’t be sure that I could.” He spread the blanket over the girls.

  “I can get us home,” Celeste said. George climbed in and Aurore went round to the back to be with the twins. The old man stood outside Celeste’s open window, holding his loaf of day-old bread.

  “Hop in the back,” George called from his side. “We can take you as far as New Orleans if you want.”

  “Thank you, no,” he said. “I’ll stay here a while longer now the storm is gone. Someone’s got to haunt this town now you’re taking away its ghosts.”

  Celeste did bring them back out again, never missing a turn, guided by landmarks large and small, and by the angle of the sun. “Navigating like a bee,” George later said of it to others.

  When she wasn’t needed for navigating or the rare call for conversation from George, who seemed to have all he could manage driving and sorting through all that they’d seen that day, Celeste drifted away into thoughts of how she might be able to take the twins in, give them her father’s empty room and bring them along at the bakery—give them a new life and a living.

  But that wouldn’t be. “New Orleans will be too much for them,” Aurore explained at a stop half way home. “They have family in Hattiesburg, a smaller town where they can heal and get their feet under them again. You understand, don’t you? It needs to be this way.” She was a sensitive woman like Celeste. Had to be to do what she did.

  Celeste did understand, and she let it go.

  Ditch

  “What will you do with the time you spend keeping me company after I pass on?” Odette asked as she held out a book she wanted read to her.

  Celeste took it and moved her chair right up close so she could rub Odette’s arthritic hand while managing the book with her other. “If I was one to gamble, I would put my money on you being the last one standing. I thought that was your job.”

  “Not my job, child. I think I’ve done about all the work there is in me to do.”

  “You love New Orleans too much to leave it.” Celeste left the book lying unopened, sensing there was a need for talk first.

  “She has fed me all my life. Filled me up and carried me forward. That is true. But I can’t give her back as much as I used to. I can’t get out there and keep up with all she’s doing either. At some point I’ll just step aside and make room for others who can. I’ll just take my memories and go. You could take my place here and spread out a bit. Think of all these walls filling up with your art.”

  “My house suits me.”

  “I know about attachment,” Odette said. “Not a bad thing, but not always for the best either. You know I didn’t agree with your father’s choice of where to build that house.”

  “You didn’t like that he built on the other side of the Canal.”

  “I didn’t like that, no. But mostly I didn’t like that he built on land that was low, even in a low lying city.”

  “Flossy didn’t do too much out my way,” Celeste said, but not to shut the subject up. Odette might be old, but she still had a sharp mind. Sharp from sound use.

  “Nor here either, but I’m on high ground the river made. Any water that falls here flows to the lower ground and makes its way to the canals for pumping out. Flossy passed to the east far enough to slosh water in and do a little damage. Audrey was worse, but kept well off to the west. What if another falls in between, like it did in 1915?”

  Celeste never mentioned her trip out into the aftermath of Audrey and wouldn’t confess it now. “That was a bad one. You told me, but not until I was older. I guess you didn’t want to scare me then.”

  “And that’s not what I want to do now, but it was the worst in my lifetime. Blew down buildings, tore things up, killed people, and it shoved lake water right up the canals after the pumps went out. Flooded parts of Mid City. Winds are bad, but the waters are worse. Especially for those who live in the low parts, and you have a lot of company there.”

  “That’s true. So should I leave because it’s not safe? Maybe sell it to someone else—so they won’t be safe there?” She stroked Odette’s hand. “I know you’re still trying to look after me, like you always have.”

  “Well, don’t be surprised if I bring it up again. That’s the way I am, and I know a bit about
how things work—where there’s money to be made. People have ideas, and sometimes those are good ideas and sometimes they’re only good for the ones who have them. The wisest men can’t always tell the difference between the two, and can find themselves led down a bad road. Snake oil salesmen come in all sizes. The bigger they are the more harm is done from taking the tonic.”

  “Sounds like you have a tonic in mind,” Celeste said. “Maybe one I should know about?”

  “There is another Ditch being dug. A big ditch to tie in to the last one. This one will be longer. I’ve seen a map.”

  “I’ve heard,” Celeste said. “Dredging through the wetlands for ships.”

  “I just don’t like ditches that big. They can bring in more than ships.” She closed her eyes as Celeste continued to stroke the ache from her hand. Like she’d done for her father.

  Celeste stroked Odette’s long life line. A deep line crossed by many smaller ones.

  “You’ve never told me your story,” she said to her aunt.

  “That’s because it’s all written down. The only way I could be sure the story stayed straight and wouldn’t wander in the telling.”

  “Are you going to let me read it?”

  “Not till after I’m gone.” She tipped her head toward the bookshelves. “It’s up there with all the other books I own, but I can’t recall exactly where. If you’re interested, you can find it when the time comes—assuming you’re still interested.” Her attention lingered on the books—on her Book. “Your mother called you her child of the storm.”

  “Yes she did.”

  “Since a child of the storm you are, and a child so often in their path, how much do you truly know about hurricanes?”

  “About what most people know, I guess,” Celeste said, being modest.

  Odette huffed. “That’s precious little.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Do you still accept me as one of your teachers?”

  “Always have and always will.”

  “That’s good, because I have someone I want you to meet. Someone who can broaden your understanding of hurricanes. He knows who you are, though I doubt you would know him in return. A customer of yours and an acquaintance of mine. A climatologist. Nice white gentleman.”

  “So I’ll finally get some white schooling.” She teased Odette, but thought of the ghost.

  “Insights from a nice, knowledgeable man, on your own turf. He’ll come to Dubois’ since he knows where it is. Pay him for his time with something he likes. He’s a loyal customer. But learn what you can.”

  Celeste arrived early at Dubois’, slipping in through the back before the front door was opened. George was there early too and annoyingly curious about why she wanted to meet the man he already knew but didn’t realize she knew. Celeste kept him in the dark, calling on her prerogative.

  “He’s a climatologist,” George said to her as she eyed the racks of loaves.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “He knows about hurricanes.”

  “Is that so?” She moved on to observe one of the younger employees stock the shelves.

  “He showed me how to track hurricanes from the coordinates.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I call you when there’s one about.”

  One of the staff waved to George, calling him over. “I’ll let you know when I see him come in,” he said and left her.

  Celeste sized him up; a relaxed and pleasant enough looking middle aged gentleman, thin at the top and a bit thicker around the middle. A good customer indeed, and he recognized her.

  “Miss Dubois? I’m Mr. Cooper. Have I come at a bad time? Odette said you were an early riser too.

  “Always have been,” she said, and invited him to head back outside where the small café table sat. “It will be quieter out here.”

  “So, what would you like to know about hurricanes, Miss Dubois? Do you want the whole dry and technical truth, or just the big picture—my nickel tour for laymen?”

  “I don’t want to impose too much on your time, Mr. Cooper, but mostly, I’d like a better understanding about what shapes them. What makes them behave as they do.”

  “You want to know what you’re up against.”

  “Something like that. Living here, you think you know, but mostly you don’t. So why not start where you think best.”

  Old Mr. Douglas was back in the bakery for decent bread and Celeste intercepted him on his way out; invited him to join her at the little café table. Mr. Douglas accepted because there was shade and Celeste sweetened the offer with lemonade.

  She laid out a small map of the city she’d been augmenting with strokes of watercolor. Green brush-strokes ran along the river, the lake and around the Canal. A broader red line stretched east from the middle of the Canal toward Lake Borgne then southeast toward the Gulf.

  “I had a nice long conversation with a man who studies hurricanes, Mr. Douglas. Learned a good bit about what makes them tick and the sort of mischief they could work on us here. Some time back you said there were levees you didn’t feel good about. Now I may not have all these levees right, but I think I have most of them colored in, at least on this side of town. Just curious if you could show me some of those you liked less than others. Ones your feet told you weren’t all they ought to be.”

  Mr. Douglas rolled the cool glass between his hands and eyed the map, especially the long red line. He eyed it for a good while before replying. “I’ve seen a lot of things in life, Miss Dubois, but you want to know the worst thing I ever saw?”

  “Tell me, Mr. Douglas.”

  “There was this young boy, leading a bunch of cattle down a street. What fool’s idea that was, I don’t know, but it looked like a parade. Looked that way until something spooked those cattle enough to send them charging down the street, right over that young boy. Crushed him to death. Worst thing I ever saw.” He traced the red line with a damp fingertip. “There’s another fool thing for you.”

  “The Mississippi River Gulf Outlet,” Celeste said. “My aunt doesn’t like it either.”

  “She’s a smart lady.” He traced it again from Gulf end up to the Canal. “Mr. Go. That’s what some are calling it. Now don’t that look like a big parade street for the Gulf to charge along?” He smacked his hand down over the east side of the city, covering the map up where Celeste’s home sat. “Bad storm could rile up the Gulf and send it right up that big red line to trample us flat. Just like that boy. You picked the right color for that line, Miss Dubois. A nice angry color.” He waved his old finger at the green lines over near it. “With that thing joining the neighborhood, I like most of those levees less and less.”

  Test

  No skill worth having comes without work and time. It had been so for her since childhood. It was so with her drawing and painting, and with her sewing. Skills built on skills and most were kin to each other in one way or the other. She knew of cause and effect from experience. So all of those years, listening and watching and smelling and touching, amounted to a good place to start for a sensitive woman who had mastered the pencil, the brush, the needle and the oven, and now had turned her thoughts to bending a hurricane to her will.

  The first time a leaf quivered in the little breath of wind, as she expected it might, it surprised her so, that she said some words out loud that she wasn’t known to speak where others might hear. Surprised her so that she told herself it was nothing unless it could happen again. When, after a time, it did happen again, she held her tongue, but also her judgment since three times is a charm. And charmed it was. The little leaf and others around it quivered in the breath of air she’d inspired. It was the work of a whole Saturday, devoted to nothing but sitting near the back corner of her house where almost no one might see her, and slipping back and forth between her two worlds, working her connections and learning the baby steps.

  She was deeply pleased and almost as deeply tired when she turned in that night and let the bear entertain her with tales and visions.
It was four years since Audrey.

  Most days still found Celeste at Dubois’ providing direction, like a watchful mother hen or Zen master, watching the quality of what came out of the ovens, how it was presented on the shelves and how the staff attended to the customers. George and Annie didn’t leave her much room for concern. They had all learned well. This was the nearest thing to family she had, so it was as much to see them as to see the bread. Sometimes she was just there to hear them talk since there was no one to talk to at home. Not while she was awake.

  “Millie wanted her party to be outside,” Annie explained to those around her one morning almost six years past Audrey. “Why outside on a summer afternoon when the showers can just come out of nowhere, I’ll never know. I let her say when and where, and never left myself room to say no. But if it rains and ruins all my work, it will be poor Millie, and not a thought for what I had to do, and all for nothing.” She sighed like a martyr facing the stake. “It’s this evening, so we’ll know soon enough.”

  Celeste praised Annie for being so long suffering for her friend and went to the office to check in with George. Business was fine, but that morning he wasn’t concerned about business. He was concerned about a tree.

  “I raised that tree from not much more than a stick with a leaf or two on it,” he explained. “Could have left it in the pot longer, but it would have died there for sure. I can keep water on it, but it’s like it doesn’t want it from the spigot; it wants it from the sky, like it could tell the difference. But the rain falls everywhere but on my place. That’s how it seems.”

  She told him it would be alright, much as her own mother had told her things would be alright. She left the bakery some time later and went back home to sit on her porch without stopping to eat anything that might make her drowsy on a summer afternoon. She did nothing that might muddle her readings. For a part of the afternoon she sat there watching the sky and the air in the sky, and the breath in the air. There were no clouds, but there were the first notions of clouds if you knew how to look for them, and knew how to read the breath of the river and the lakes and most of all, the blue-green Gulf where some things begin and others end.