Cecelia Welles
December 13, 2020 8:15 PM
After Summer Storms by Cecelia Welles
“Cecily?” “Cecile?”Cecily had heard Mrs. Bryan and Marylaud both calling for her, but she had not responded to either of them. She knew why they wanted her, after all, and that was the reason why she had crept out of her room and come to hide in her mother’s room.
It looked just as if it had been no more than a moment since Mommy had stepped out of it, she thought. She sat at the vanity table, running her fingernails over the rough collar of gold around the neck of her mother’s big, square flacon of perfume. The heavy glass was cold against her hand.
Here was the perfume, emblazoned with the three big letters J-O-Y – the first word Cecily had ever learned to read. There was Mommy’s little rack of lipsticks, all turned so Mommy could see the colored circles indicating what was inside each of the little golden tubes. There was Mommy’s hair brush, black enamel with enameled colored birds on the back of it, still with a few dark hairs caught in between the prickly bit. It was as if the house itself, she thought, wanted to pretend that Mommy was not only going to be here today, but that she had also never been gone.
Cecily guessed she could understand why the house would want to pretend that. She wished she could. She couldn’t, though. First Daddy had left them at her real home, before George was born, and now Mommy had left their new home, which – since Daddy was always at work – meant she and George had really just been with Mrs. Bryan and Marylaud and Uncle Joe lately. And she loved Mrs. Bryan and Uncle Joe, and liked Marylaud, but…they weren’t Mommy and Daddy, and she didn’t like that.
She also didn’t like footsteps approaching her position. She froze in place, trying to be as still as possible, as if that could make her go invisible. Based on the way Uncle Joe walked right over to her and knelt down beside her chair and looked right after her, though, she didn’t think it worked.
Uncle Joe had, of course, been the most likely person, since he lived with them. When she had heard Uncle Joe was going to live with her and Mommy and Daddy and George in the new house, she had imagined being surrounded by adult playmates all the time, but it had not really worked out that way, even with Uncle Joe. He wasn’t as busy as her parents, but he was busy, too, out most of the day. She scowled at him now, sticking her chin out in defiance of the expected lecture.
Instead of lecturing her, though, Uncle Joe just looked at her. “What are you doing up here all by yourself?” he asked.
Cecily shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Bryan and Marie-Claude are looking for you,” he said, as though she wasn’t smart enough to know that. “Mommy will be home soon – don’t you want to be downstairs to see her?”
Cecily shrugged again. “I don’t know,” she repeated.
She wasn’t sure what to say. She liked Uncle Joe very much, even if he did tease her sometimes, but she felt all mixed up and didn’t want to talk to him about it. She kicked aimlessly at things. “I’m going to go away,” she announced finally.
“Why?”
Cecily shrugged. “Everybody else does,” she said sulkily. “Maybe they will again too. So I will too, then.”
Uncle Joe looked as though he was getting a headache. He muttered something under his breath, in which she caught the words ‘Jesus’ and ‘this s---‘. Cecily frowned severely at him. “You’re not supposed to say that,” she said primly. “It’s not the Mannets.”
“The – “ he frowned, then shook his head, almost chuckling. “You’ve been listening too much to Grandmama and Uncle John,” he said lightly. “Never listen too much to them about religion, especially to John. They’ll have you going to Confession three times a week. Or worse.”
Cecily didn’t know what this meant. She wasn’t big enough to go to Confession yet, and it would be Bad to not listen to her elders. Plus, Grandmama said that church and stuff about church were the most important things, and John generally agreed, and they wouldn’t tell her something that was wrong…She decided Uncle Joe must be teasing her and decided to ignore him. “It’s not the Mannets,” she repeated firmly.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Mea culpa – mea culpa – mea maxima culpa,” said Uncle Joe, crossing himself, and Cecily nodding approvingly and copied the gesture, even though she was still vaguely sure he was making fun of her somehow. “Don’t listen to me too much either. Just – come on and see your mother.”
Cecily half-smiled. “You said don’t listen to you,” she pointed out.
“Don’t listen to me when I say don’t listen to me,” said Uncle Joe, and she giggled before she remembered she was mad at everyone and allowed her uncle to lead her back downstairs, him shouting along the way to Mrs. Bryan and Marylaud that she had been located.
“Cece!” said George happily when they were put on the sofa. Cecily ignored the infant loftily, until he grabbed the end of one of her braids. “Cece!”
“Ow!” she shrieked, and slapped her brother. He began to bawl, and it was in the middle of Mrs. Bryan trying to soothe George and Marylaud scolding Cecily in a mix of French and broken English and Uncle Joe just shaking his head as he made tea that the door opened and admitted Uncle Teddy, arm-in-arm with Cecily’s mother.
Cecily felt a rush of relief that made her forget, once again, that she was still angry. “Mommy!”
Ignoring Marylaud entirely, she ran across the room. One moment, Mommy was looking around at them all, all serene smiles, the same as ever, her black hair in curls perched almost too perfectly on her shoulders, her navy blue suit in order without a crease, her white collar fastened with a large cluster of garnets. The next, without regard for propriety, Mommy dropped down to her knees to catch Cecily, who clung to her, her small fingers drawing circles on Mommy’s shoulders as she buried her face in her jacket, inhaling the scents of roses and expensive fabric and lavender soap.
Julian tried to convince her daughter to let go of her, but Cecily proved unmovable, forcing her to pick up her surprisingly solid five-year-old and, Cecily’s feet banging against her knees, carry her over to the sofa. George was hiccupping in Margaret Bryan’s arms, but brightened at the sight of her. “Mam!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out to be taken.
“That’s right,” she agreed, awkwardly trying to ease Cecily to her side so George would have room in her lap. She looked at her brother. “You don’t look happy,” she observed.
Joe shrugged. “I’m reflecting on my sins,” he said. “Cecily’s orders. Someone needs to tell John that I’m the godfather around here, not him, he’s turning her into an Inquisitor.”
Julian doubted this was actually what was on Joe’s mind, but went along with it for now. “Then don’t remind him you’re the godfather under any circumstances, he’ll drag you to Mass every day by the collar for dereliction of duty,” she recommended, and directed her attention back to her son and daughter, at least for the moment.
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