Gabrielle traced the line herself, up to the red circle. “Like it bounced off something in the way.”
“And not something big either,” he said. “Just a little something.”
Celeste clicked her tongue again but said nothing.
“But then it was quiet around here for another number of years until 1985.” He followed a line that slipped into the Gulf and headed in a direction toward New Orleans before taking a sharp turn east toward Florida, only to loop back tightly and march northwest again. “Elena. Strangest storm I’ve ever seen. All confused, and had folks scrambling away from the coast and back again. She’d lost a lot of strength by the time she ran aground near Biloxi.” He moved on. “Same year but late—November, along comes Kate. Sort of followed Elena’s path, only this one cut back toward Florida and landed there.” He tapped the red circle drawn in on that path. “Might be a stretch to have that one down here, but could be—could be.”
“Could be what, Mr. Bledsoe?” Gabrielle asked.
George cranked around to see if Celeste was paying attention, and found she was, and found he was being given a cautionary look.
“Could be some sort of phenomenon that no one’s figured out,” he said, taking the hint. “That’s what my old friend told me. Sometimes there’s just a phenomenon involved.”
“He’s trying to say that weather’s a complicated thing,” Celeste offered.
“Andrew’s one I puzzle over too,” George continued, squinting at Celeste, but still speaking to Gabrielle.
“Andrew tore through Florida,” Gabrielle offered. “That’s all I remember.”
“That’s so,” he said. “Then went on to hit the coast off west of here.”
“Near where I was born,” Celeste said. “Not much out that way. Not much big.”
“Just had a sense I should be worried about Andrew,” George said, turning back to the map. “Not sure why.”
“And what about Georges,” Gabrielle asked. “How does that one fit in?”
George turned back to his chart, bending over it to add the storm in, based on the numbers. “Not a big storm, but big enough to put the fear into folks. Evacuation. But here he comes,” he said tracing Georges’ path up to a point where he added a neat red circle with his pen, “and away he’ll go. Probably to pitch a fit along the Florida panhandle.”
“So we’ve been lucky, ever since Betsy,” Gabrielle said.
“Maybe luck and maybe not,” he said.
Celeste sighed and wandered off to view the ovens.
Ivan
More years passed and Celeste crossed from one millennium to another. Gabrielle went off to Tulane across town, and the spare room was spare again. Celeste figured it would likely stay that way, at least on a regular basis. But she kept it ready for whenever Gabrielle had need of it.
In the Spring of 2004, Gabrielle graduated, and Celeste was there to see. She started up a little gallery in The Marigny; nothing fancy but not a bad thing for a young woman to manage either, especially one not born and bred of the city. Still, it wasn’t like Gabrielle had moved across the wide country or even across the Lake to the North Shore. Or away to England. The Marigny was closer than the Quarter—almost on her doorstep.
Celeste slipped back comfortably into her retirement, enjoying her seclusion, her painting and drawing, her awareness of the city but also her need to detach for a time, whenever her sensitivity to all that buzz of life began to drown out a private reflection. Sometimes just sitting quietly at her table, flowing color across blank paper was enough to close the door on all that energy knocking to get in. Sometimes she would find that noise in her mind blocking her way to sleep, and she might rise to sit on her dark porch, but times were different now. Her part of the city was feeling the press of tough times, and that could bring out the better side of people, but it could also do otherwise. Some nights she could feel a roaming restlessness and anger from some young hearts, and she would stay inside to let it pass by. Shifting a storm was best done early on and it was so with the personal storms as well. Just a little nudge can do so much good early on in a life. Wait too long and your work is cut out for you.
It had been some years since she’d had a serious wrestle with a storm and she was happy for the change, but knew it couldn’t last. “Armed to the teeth with experience,” she said to her mirrored self and flashed those teeth that were still her own. “But warriors retire sooner or later. One way or the other, and who takes their place?”
A busy season to have such a late start. The oceans high and low churned out children again and again, and some of those grew up to be big deals while others just seemed aimless. Soon, Celeste paid more attention to the air and even begged a ride up to the Lake so she could indulge an old fondness for standing knee deep in the water and listening in, like someone with keen ears off on the edge of a gallery full of stories.
August brought unusual guests to the Gulf. Bonnie dressed herself up like a grownup with a mischievous eye but no legs or head for real work. She found her way to Apalachicola, raining out and turning into a tornado tantrum. Celeste followed her progress, but declined interference.
Charley crossed Cuba, pumped himself up full of Gulf heat and got mean quick, turned like a flagged bull on Florida and cut a long diagonal through her, making a run for the other shore and taking aim on South Carolina as if something needed to be settled. Again, Celeste kept still.
Earl was shy and confused, wandering way off south like someone bullied until he went ghostlike across Mexico and found an ocean more to his liking and changed his name to Frank. Celeste just shook her head.
Frances crossed the “X” on Florida started by her older brother Charley—crossed it good and slow for emphasis, marking southeast to northwest. Tornados pelted her dying path in numbers no other hurricane could boast. But Celeste could read in Frances a doom without need of assistance.
All of that after a late season start, and they were only clear of August when something boiled up off of Africa with grander ambitions. Ivan strode across warm Atlantic waters, taking up the crown of Hurricane early on and holding his head high with it all the way into the Gulf, barely noticing Cuba as he passed. There was a track line in the cards that made Celeste wince, and she decided it was time to brush off the talent and put it to work.
It was the end of a short retirement.
Her sense of Ivan built up, layer on layer, and she laid down her watercolor impressions, seated at the kitchen table now that she lived alone again.
She turned in and was soon asleep. The bear was waiting for her, and they set to working a small but powerful suggestion into the winds.
“I do worry a bit extra over these big sprawling storms,” Celeste said to the bear. “They just call for so much care in keeping them at arms length.”
“You’ve always favored a measured response,” said the bear. “Are you growing bolder with age? More ambitious?” The tone sounded both cautionary and encouraging. Ever true of the bear.
Celeste grimaced at the thought of experimenting. “A little twist to the path and a pinch out of his steam. Maybe just this once, and not too much.”
Ivan did turn, just enough, and even weakened before landfall, but had such a head of steam built up that he charged inland clear up to the ridges of Birmingham. Little Clarence still lived in Birmingham, all grown up now. She hated the thought she might have done harm to him, especially if he wouldn’t have seen it coming, and reminded herself again about the dangers in tinkering with well-connected things.
Twelve
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 al
l 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.
Soup
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 Ce
leste 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?”
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