Annie relented, hands raised in surrender.
Celeste had the cramped office to herself again. What Annie didn't understand was the deep waters. And the deep waters can run fast and they can run cold. You can find things in those waters. Things you expect and others you don't. Good and useful things like gifts. Hurtful things like ghosts.
Jonathan was like her father in that he bottled up his pain and covered his scars from view. He wanted the sun on his face, maybe to draw light down to those shaded corners of his pained soul. Annie and George wouldn’t see that. Not many would since Jonathan wouldn’t show it. Comfort or even a hope of healing might come from friendship, and Celeste offered it freely, but there are things that gnaw and will not stop for love or comfort. Those gnawing things must be dragged out or sliced away. Burned by cleansing fire or drowned in cold brine. The work of mysteries, mindful of vital connections. That was Aurore’s job. Celeste was no surgeon.
Jonathan was willing, even eager to go; a welcome if unexpected response, but not so surprising that it slowed Celeste down. She sent him on a bike that had been her father’s.
Aurore would go where needed for the sake of a cure. She was a preemptive healer for those under her care, assuming they confided. On the afternoon following Hogue's consultation, she appeared at Dubois' right at closing time, letting George know, and he let it slip to Celeste. George was a loyal employee and Aurore knew that. Celeste allowed her to settle in the office while her back was turned tending to a distraction. Then she joined her friend, taking the seat behind the desk.
"I don't want to know what you discussed with Jonathan."
"I wouldn't."
"Well then."
"You enjoy his company."
"I do."
"Good."
"You came here just to approve my friendship?"
"No. I came by to encourage it."
"Why?"
"Because both of you deserve better company than unpleasant ghosts."
A month of fine weather followed, free of the ghost for Celeste and she hoped the same was true for Jonathan; whatever manner of ghost might have ridden him. He’d taken simple lodging in a house near the river in The Bywater. Close to Celeste rather than the heart of the city or the docks where he had come ashore.
He came to know her schedule well enough to anticipate when she would free up to join him, sitting on Dubois’ front porch for bread breaking and simple talk. She let him keep her father’s bicycle and they explored the city clear up to Audubon Park. The last time she had ventured that far afield had been with her father to see the new elephant at the zoo, back when she was in her teens. He was accustomed to traveling alone, but preferred company now. Celeste’s company.
All well and good, but everything’s connected and strands tug from far away, testing bonds that might resist separating if only given the time to strengthen. When he arrived at her house she was on her porch, watching the sun dip into the city, setting up for a fine show of colors. He stopped on the street, waiting to see what his welcome would be since he had never come by so late and unexpected.
“What is it Jonathon?” Had he looked other than he did, she wouldn’t have asked but might have greeted him differently. Something was wrong. She waved him up to take the other rocking chair and he joined her there, a brown bag tucked under his arm.
“My father has died,” he said. “I didn’t know he was ill, but we had not been close for years. He had wanted me to join him in his business after the war, but it wasn’t something I could do. My mother may have understood but…”
“And your mother?”
“She isn’t well.”
"She will need you there. The business may be something you can take or leave, but family's different."
"I leave tomorrow. A train to New York and then a ship."
"That would be a nice trip, under different circumstances."
"Better if I wasn't traveling alone."
She squeezed his hand. "What's that you have in the bag."
"A bottle of wine. Just a thank you gift. I hope it's good."
"I'm sure it is, though I may not be a good judge. My father kept a bottle under the sink for personal occasions. Birthdays mostly. We always joked it might go bad, as long as it sat there between sessions."
"We could open it and see what you think."
"We could, but not just yet. Never drink on an empty stomach; something I learned by a hard lesson when I was younger. I'll cook if you help."
"I can do that."
"But first, we need to see what this sunset has to offer. I was watching it develop while you were on your way here."
He relaxed into his chair and turned to watch the sky bleed and blaze. Watched it in near silence with only the simplest of gestures or mention of color until it was only an up lit sky vault, studded with early stars.
She would wait until after they had prepared their meal together, eaten it and tried the wine, which was the best she had ever tasted, before telling him she couldn't follow him home. He had his duty and she had hers. At least for a time, she told herself.
In the morning, she rode in to the bakery and he rode to the station. George would collect the bike another time. She asked Jonathan to write and remember. And she promised to do the same.
Box
Celeste answered the early morning knock on her door and found Aurore standing on her porch. She’d paid visits before, but never one that was unannounced.
“Thought I should come check in to see how you are,” her friend said. “Losing your father and now Mr. Hogue.”
Celeste shrugged it off. “It was nice having Jonathan around. I told him I would write.”
Aurore stood in the middle of the main room and took it in with a keen eye. “Doesn’t do any good to ask you how you’re doing,” she said. “I’ve never seen someone so lacking in complaints. But there are other sure ways of telling. Ways that don’t require the spirit world.”
The room was in good order as it always was, apart from the few items on the table that spoke of Celeste’s projects or readings. Celeste likewise surveyed the room and then turned to Aurore. “I’m doing well enough,” she said. “Still getting accustomed to being on my own, but I’m adjusting.” She pulled out a chair at the table for her friend and one for herself.
“You’re starting a new chapter in your life,” Aurore said as she settled in. “I’ve seen a lot of folks start such a chapter. Most need help. Some take it, others don’t.”
“I appreciate that. And you’ve always been there for me.”
“That goes both ways. But you’ve lost all your family now, or lost the ones closest to you. Now your Mr. Hogue is gone as well. That takes a lot of good out of your life, even if you have the memories to keep.”
“Those I have,” Celeste agreed.
“It’s tough being alone. But sometimes it’s better to be alone than to keep bad company.”
Celeste looked perplexed.
“I’m talking about the ghost,” Aurore added. “She stayed away while you had Mr. Hogue? Has she appeared now he’s gone?”
“Promptly. But that’s her way.”
“I hate to hear that.”
“So you have a cure?” Celeste smiled at Aurore. A friendly sort of challenge.
“I suggest you put her away, and I’d like to get to doing that sooner rather than later. We’ve got a full Saturday and a Sunday before us. What plans have you got that can’t be changed?”
“None at all, I guess—since it seems that’s the answer you need. Where do we start?”
“We need a box. A smallish one, about so big.” Aurore indicated something about a hand span wide and two spans long. “What have you got around here like that?”
Celeste got up and poked around in cabinets until she came up with a cardboard box of about the size requested, but Aurore waved it off.
“A candy box? No that won’t do at all. Too flimsy. What else do you have?”
More searching uncovered a
tin box a little larger than the first. It was empty, and Celeste gave it a ringing thump with one finger as she set it before her friend. “That one’s sturdy enough. Held some decent cookies once.” She pointed to the colorful picture on the lid.
“Candy and cookies? I’d never have guessed sweets ever passed your lips, thin as you are. But no, this one won’t do either. It’s strong enough, but so thin. Cold thin metal won’t do. Try again.”
After a longer search, full of soft mutterings, Celeste returned to the table with another box of wood; a very simple, unpainted box, its sides and lid showing the signs of much handling. She set it on the table in front of herself and stroked the lid with her long fingers.
“My father made this for my mother back at our old home. Fashioned the wood and the hinges too. It’s what she kept her needle and thread in for all those years. This and the quilt were all that came out of the old house.”
“You didn’t take it for your own,” Aurore said.
“No. It’s a nice old box, but mine is more to my liking—as a sewing box. Still,” she slid the box over to Aurore, “its sturdy and the right size. What memories it held, I’ve stored elsewhere.”
“And it’s already charged with a bit of power from family,” Aurore said. “That makes this a fine choice for a Spirit Box, assuming you’re willing to let it serve as such.”
“Is this Voodoo?”
“After a fashion. Sometimes I have my own methods. But sounds like you have a problem with using the box for something that might be Voodoo.”
“Not really. Just curious.” Celeste rested against the back of the chair. “How does a Spirit Box work?”
“For this box to work, you’ll need to find something that reminds you of the ghost. Something tangible. Maybe more than one thing. I’ll leave that to you.”
“Like what sort of thing?”
“That’s for you to say, not me. Once you find what you mean to put in the box, then you have to put it inside the right way. Can’t just slap it in there and call it a day. You have to make a ritual of it.”
“A ritual?”
“You know what a ritual is. Take a good long time, be serious, solemn—you know, make a proper fuss of it, so it knows you mean business—so you know you mean business. You take this object, and you put it inside this box and bind it closed with whatever you have that’s sturdy—like a good rope or even a belt. But the binding is something you have to do, and you’ll provide a powerful amount of the magic by doing it. Once the object is safely bound away in the box, your ghost shouldn’t trouble you again.”
“Well, that sounds straight forward enough, only there isn’t anything around the house that reminds me of the Ghost. Anything like that would have found its way into the trash.”
“I didn’t expect you would find it here.”
“Where then?”
“I’m planning a little trip over near Lafayette to see family.”
“That’s near where I grew up,” Celeste said. “Haven’t been back since I was nine. When were you planning to go?”
Aurore tipped her head toward the front of the house. “My car is loaded up out front and ready. How long would it take to pack a few things and take to the road with me? We could run by your old home, just to take a look…maybe pick up a little memento or two.”
“Well, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen the place where I was born and grew up. True, my old home was knocked down in the storm and is probably hauled away by now, but even so, you feel a pull to see the places you knew as a child.” She thought of Sandrine and John Stone. “Maybe some people left behind.”
“Then get a move on. I like the open road best in the morning.” Celeste rose and went into her room to pack. Aurore called after her. “And if you don’t like the wind in your hair, bring a head scarf. I prefer to drive with the top down.”
LaSalle
Celeste admired Aurore’s automobile. She was just this side of coveting it, but since she couldn’t drive, it seemed senseless to take things that far. Its shiny skin was, to Celeste’s eye, the color of mist under the sun, and there was about it the look of something alive and eager. It faced her with alert and lidless headlights, its grand sweeping fenders, great vertical grill and jutting bumper. It was a strange thing to see out front of her house.
“I’ve never known someone to own such an automobile before. At least not one that wasn’t black and spindly looking—or a truck.”
“She’s a ‘37 La Salle. I got her as payment for a life-or-death problem I solved for a man who lives in the Garden District. He was planning to trade up anyway. Traded up to something newer in 1945 to celebrate the end of the war.”
Celeste peaked inside the car and whistled. “That is fancy. Looks comfortable too.” She marveled at Aurore. To be a healer, advisor, magician, and master a shiny beast like this all the way to Lafayette and back.
“She’s plenty comfortable. But I’ll let you judge for yourself. Load up and climb in. The road calls and it’s time to answer.”
The La Salle zipped down the highway leaving New Orleans and heading west, its top down and the wind flowing over its streamlined form, tripping over the wind screen to stir through Celeste’s hair as it passed. High speed was a guilty pleasure Celeste had acquired in her rampaging morning bicycle rides. For the first half hour of the trip she sat quietly watching the scenery blur. People standing on the side of the road or in their yards stopped what they were doing to watch the La Salle. Some waved and Celeste waved back.
“People love to watch this car cruise by,” Aurore observed. “Most of them know who I am along this road, and the La Salle’s hard to miss.”
Celeste felt a touch of embarrassment since it seemed the waving people beside the road were waving at Aurore and not at her. She smoothed the wind wrinkles out of her skirt and rested her hands in her lap, palm up, to keep them from doing more waving. Big hands for such a little lady, she thought, and not for the first time. She brought her left hand up a bit. A big hand, but nicely shaped, she added. Strong looking; but that just comes from years of work.
“Are you looking for your future?” Aurore asked.
“Excuse me?”
Aurore laughed. “Just wondered if you were trying to read your own future.” She reached across and touched Celeste’s hand. “Palm reading.”
“Is that something you do, being a Voodoo Queen?”
“Only for those who ask. Remind me to read yours and I’ll show you how it’s done. Just the big picture.”
“Anything to it? The future reading, I mean?”
“Can’t say, but sometimes I use it to add a little weight to something I want them to hear? Maybe ease a concern. An excuse to hold someone’s hand—someone who needs it. Might take nothing more than that to help some folk who are cut off from a kind touch. Remember that.”
“I will.”
Ruin
They were off the paved highway and along a dirt road that looked at times like someplace she knew and at other times totally unfamiliar. Celeste would tap her fingernail on the windscreen, pointing at some landmark, a house or a tree at the bend in the road with the ghost of an old scar in its bark where a top heavy wagon had once overturned when the driver came to it too fast. Man and horse died, but the tree and the story remained for Celeste to find. Soon after that, she spied two more familiar sights and anticipated the third, and she knew then she was on the right path. She had been nine years old when she left for their new home and her memories were from a child’s height and a child’s pace. She and Augustin had walked far along this road that led from their home into town, and to unknown lands at untold distances in the opposite direction. She recognized the old home of Sandrine and John Stone, repainted and added onto, but she didn’t recognize the younger adults outside it. People move on or pass away.
Soon after, she tapped excitedly on the glass and cried out; “Oh!” and Aurore stopped the La Salle. On the right side of the road, a newly plowed field stretched
off to a distant tree line. To their left was a ruin set in the middle of mostly bare earth. Beyond it, the remains of a once mighty tree stood, now only a decaying trunk, its branches gone.
“That’s my old home,” Celeste said, pointing to the few piers of bricks and the toppled chimney. There wasn’t a stick of wood to be seen of the rest of the house. She opened her door and got out. Aurore got out too and put the car’s top down again.
“You changed your mind and want me to stay with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine. You can go ahead with your business. Shouldn’t take me long here, and then I’ll be down the road in town.”
“Two hours?”
“Two hours will be plenty. Can’t say where I’ll be since I don’t know what’s left that I’d remember. But I’ll wave you down.”
The La Salle disappeared, trailed by a fine cloud of dust. Celeste stood for a while at the edge of the road just looking at the remains of her old home, like a ghost-ridden traveler pondering a graveyard. But she had things to do and places to see, and she might never be this way again in her life, so she took a few steps at a time until she was standing where her table would have stood in the main room. There was nothing to see; not a scrap of broken dish, no glint of an old tarnished needle in the dust. Nothing to suggest anyone had ever lived here except the crumbling brick piers dotted around the edge and at the footprint of the fireplace without so much as a bit of char or soot to speak of the many fires that had once burned there.
No hint that anyone had died here. It crossed her mind to feel badly that she never visited the cemetery vault where her parents had been buried. A vault provided by Odette, where her own husband had been buried years and years before, along with the remains of other unknown family.
Their remains. She hated that term. Their remains lay in her, not some cold, stone structure. Even those short few years of Augustin’s life—those she’d been witness to, lay in her.
A breeze whispered through the leaves and the grasses, but the body of the Climbing Oak was silent and still. She remembered all the time she and her brother had spent in its branches or under them, talking, sharing stories and telling secrets. She left the sad memory of the house and moved toward the tree as the breeze fell off and in the new, deeper silence, she heard young voices speaking softly. Was this an echo of her childhood? She stopped to listen but the voices were silent. Then the face of a small boy peaked out from around the Climbing Oak. He saw Celeste and his eyes were filled with terror. The little stricken face disappeared again and a moment later she heard him cry out. “It’s her! She’s out of the house and comin’ our way!” Like a rabbit, he shot from behind the tree and struck off down a path through the woods to the right, not daring to look back to see if he was followed.
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