Child of the Storm by R. B. Stewart Page A

brown
river, watching with her sharp eyes.
    The
bear watched too, standing close by at her right hand where Celeste could trace
her ear and not worry so, since it was only a dream. “ Be ready, ” said the bear. “ He will still be your Papa, but he will
not be the same as you remember. ”
    “ Why not? ” Celeste asked the bear.
    “ Because you ’ ve both changed. ”   

Wall
    “ Will he know about Mama? ” Celeste asked. She had wanted to ask
before, but didn ’ t want to hear the answer.
    “ He knows, ” Odette said. “ I had to let him know. ”
    “ Will Augustin know? ”
    Odette
looked at the book in her lap. “ If he knows, it will
not be from me. ”
    It
felt like any more questions wouldn ’ t be welcome, so
Celeste let it be. But she ’ d remember where she
left off. Remember till next time. She waited through chores and painting and
drawing and sleeping — for days on end, and most days spent
hovering as near the front of Odette ’ s house, up near the
open windows where she could hear anyone coming up to the door to knock.   
    One
extra early morning whispered to her from outside, so softly that at first, she
mistook it for the faint sound of Odette snoring from her room down the hall.
That morning whispered in a voice so soft she couldn ’ t place it exactly, though it sounded
familiar. Whispered that she had more lessons to learn, out where she ’ d found other lessons on other
wandering mornings. She slipped downstairs and under the iron
gate , pausing on the sidewalk for only long enough to tell she ’ d need to turn left this time.
    A
streetcar waited for her on a nearby street corner like a polite lady, and
Celeste had coins in her little purse stuffed deep in a pocket just in case she
needed to ride somewhere for a lesson. The man driving the streetcar might have
been sleeping or just waiting for anyone to show up. Hard to tell, but he took
a coin and waited for her to sit before setting off. Block after block,
rumbling along the rails until she got nervous she was leaving New Orleans and
might not get back, so she spoke up and climbed off at a street corner by a
high, blank wall.
    When
the streetcar was gone, she was alone on the street lined with houses more like
her house back home than Odette ’ s with its stairs and
high porches. These were houses with simple porches, just off the ground, and
every one of those houses asleep. She stood alone, admiring those houses set
all so close together, her back to the high blank wall, until a man came around
the corner, his steps clumsy and wandering. He stopped when he caught sight of her;
stopped and swayed a bit as he took a good hard look at her. Even from half a
block away, she could feel the anger coming off him like heat coming of a mule
fresh from a worked field. He spoke but his words didn ’ t carry — only
the angry tone.
    She
had wandered into the woods and met a wild thing.
    His
voice rose to be heard. “ Standin ’ there lookin ’ at me that way! Bitch of a kid! Don ’ t you look away when I ’ m talkin ’ to you! ”
    Celeste
had glanced back along the street the other way and saw the end of the wall but
no door. No one was on their porch to see her.
    He
advanced. “ Tellin ’ her mama lies about me. Saying I was
doing things. She don ’ t know! Just a
kid. What the hell does she know? What the hell do you know about me,
little bitch? What the hell you doin ’ out this time of the morning anyway.
Whoring at your age! Ought to be taught a lesson! Get over here you little
bitch of a kid! ”
    It
was worse than facing the storm up the tree. At least there, she hadn ’ t been alone. But she wouldn ’ t wait for this shuffling man to get
any closer, and set off the other direction fast. She could hear his steps
quicken, broken by a stumble that only made him angrier. At least he stopped
yelling; too drunk to manage it and running. Ahead was nothing but more empty
porches, so at the corner she turned sharp left and