A Nest for Celeste (6 page)

C
eleste was getting accustomed to spending time nestled in the bottom of Joseph’s shirt pocket. He kept her well supplied with peanuts and other goodies. Sometimes she liked to curl into a ball and sleep, lulled by the scratching of Joseph’s pencils and his humming of tunes. But after several days
she found she was happiest when Joseph was working. She would poke her head out from his shirt pocket or perch on his shoulder and watch him sit for hours, staring at one of his jars of plants, and then try to make the plant come alive on paper.

“No! Not right!” he would mutter.

“Awful! The veins in this leaf are all wrong!”

“See how flat this looks? Terrible!”

Often Mr. Audubon would loom over Joseph as he worked.

“Composition, Joseph! Remember to balance the picture on the page!”

“Watch the watercolors, Joseph. Your greens are looking muddy.”

“Why add this leaf? It does nothing for the picture.”

Although Celeste could see how frustrated Joseph was, it was fascinating for her to watch him sketch, as he worked and reworked, over and over. To Celeste
the drawings of the plants were beautiful, but Joseph never seemed satisfied. He would work late into the afternoon.

The dinner bell sounded from downstairs.

The table was set; food was being brought out from the summer kitchen.

Joseph sat at his usual place. “Good evening, Mr. Pirrie, Mrs. Pirrie,” he said.

Mr. Pirrie was carving a roast. “Evenin’, son. Got an appetite?”

“Yes, sir!”

Audubon entered with a flourish. His long hair was tied back with a ribbon, and he wore his best white linen shirt.

“Good evening, all,” he said.

In Joseph’s shirt pocket, Celeste’s nose twitched. She was dreaming, but even in her dreams did things smell this good? She blinked several times before
realizing she was awake and the tantalizing scents were real, and close by. She poked her head out from Joseph’s pocket.

This was a view of the dining-room table she had never seen. Several white tapers lit a brilliant array of colorful plates and dishes. Bowls and platters were piled high with mountains of food—incredible amounts that Celeste had never imagined. Silverware and crystal goblets sparkled. And wafting over everything like a delicious fog was the yummy scent of…was that roast beef? Succotash? Candied sweet potatoes? Hot rolls? Her eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.

“Yellow-jack fever is bad downcountry this summer,” Mr. Pirrie said. “I heard the folks over at Parlange were hit mighty hard.”

“At Parlange and also at other plantations,” replied Audubon. “And of course New Orleans is in a bad state, so I understand,”

“Papa, will the yellow jack come up the river this far?” asked Eliza.

“Well, we’re usually pretty safe here, Liza,” her father replied. “President Monroe will send some militia to help quarantine the city.”

Across the table, Mrs. Pirrie was helping herself from a dish of succotash.

“For pity’s sake, let’s not ruin dinner with talk about yellow jack,” she said, passing the dish to Eliza. She happened to glance over at Joseph and stopped in midair. Her eyes got bigger, and one corner of her mouth dropped.

“Wh…wh…what’s that?” she gasped. “Oh, no, no! A
mouse
!”

Celeste darted back down into the pocket, but the damage had been done.

The dish of succotash fell to the floor as Mrs. Pirrie leaped from the table and ran into the parlor, followed by wide-eyed Eliza.

“Mouse?” hollered Mr. Pirrie. “Where? There are no mice in this house.”

In a panic, Celeste leaped from Joseph’s pocket. Mr. Pirrie turned to see her racing to the edge of the table; and picking up a heavy serving ladle, he began swatting at Celeste, pounding the tablecloth and shattering a gravy boat. Celeste was
fast and miraculously maneuvered through an obstacle course of plates and silverware and repeated swats of the ladle, leaving behind tiny footprints of sweet potato and gravy. She leaped off the tablecloth to a chair, and then to the floor.

Right into the path of the cat.

Only inches away, the cat was too close to escape. Celeste closed her eyes tightly, preparing for the end. She had one second to think:
I only hope this is quick; I hope cats don’t like to play with their food before they eat it.
Suddenly she was enveloped in warmth and darkness.
This isn’t so bad
, she thought.
The cat is merciful after all
.

Then she heard a voice whispering: “It’s all right, Little One. Just stay still. But stay in my pocket this time!”

A second later she was deposited back into the familiar comfort of Joseph’s shirt pocket. In an instant Celeste felt a measure of security and safety, tucked
next to the familiar beating of Joseph’s heart.

Audubon gave Joseph a look. Joseph understood immediately and hurriedly excused himself from the table, taking the stairs two at a time as he raced to his room.

“Don’t ever show your face again, Little One!” he admonished. “At least, not at the dining table!” He put Celeste back in her small cage.

Her pulse was pounding. The world was an unpredictable place. Her little nook beneath the dining-room floorboards had been dark and musty, but it had been safe. She had never felt so strongly the need for a shelter, for a refuge, for home.

T
he next afternoon Joseph stood by the bedroom window, hands in his pockets, listening to the pulsing drone of the cicadas in the magnolias outside. Downstairs he could hear Audubon
instructing Eliza in the parlor; they were in the middle of a dance lesson.

“And one. And two. And one. And…no, Miss Eliza, the left foot, not the right foot. Please, concentrate! You want the young men for miles around to come and admire your talents on the dance floor, yes?” Notes from the pianoforte began again.

Joseph had spent all day working on his botanical drawings; sheets of discarded paper, covered with attempted sketches, littered the floor.

He looked at Celeste. “Little One, I need inspiration!”

He pulled a cotton bandanna from his hip pocket, then folded and twisted it into a bowl-shaped nest for Celeste.

“Here you go,” he said, sharpening a pencil with his pocketknife. “You just sit there and take a nap.”

But Celeste couldn’t sleep. She watched as Joseph started to sketch her. He began with a soft, arching
line: the contour of her back. Then a second line swept over the first, hinting at her tail.

“You’ve got such beautiful eyes, Little One,” Joseph remarked. He studied her face and sketched the outline of her eyes and ears. Details followed: the white whiskers and pink nose, the tiny toes tucked under, soft and cream colored. With the side of his pencil he shaded in the background pattern of the bandanna and
the tiny soft lines of her fur. He chose a softer, darker-leaded pencil and added still more details. Celeste watched as her eyes in the drawing became darker and more alive, the inner curves and shadows of her ears more prominent. Joseph took an eraser and touched certain places on the paper, creating highlights. The whole portrait took only minutes. Celeste could see that it was an exact likeness, with a warmth and spirit, and just enough details to show it was her, Celeste.

With a soft pencil Joseph signed his name along the edge of a shadow. “Hey!” He laughed. “You should sign your name, too, Little One. After all, you’re the subject matter. And I can’t think of a better subject!”

Using the blade of his knife, he shaved off some graphite dust from one of the softer pencil leads. He carefully gathered up Celeste,
rubbed the bottom of one of her paws in the gray powder, and then gently pressed her paw to the paper, next to his own signature.

“Here,” Joseph said. “This is for being a good model.” He reached into his trousers pocket and fished out a peanut. “Your favorite!”

Celeste sat in the bandanna, contentedly nibbling the nut and gazing at her portrait.