you, Libby,’ which made her even more afraid.
‘How do you know my name?’
He was nicely dressed. His hands were in his pockets. That bittersweet smell seemed to be coming from him, although it was so faint she couldn’t be sure. ‘You know,’ he said in a tone so friendly it was threatening, ‘if you tell your father what you’ve been doing with Uncle Clyde you’ll cause a great deal of trouble in the family. Your father is suffering already because of your mother’s death.’
Tears hurt Libby’s throat at the mention of her mother. Confused, she found herself puzzling over how this stranger knew about that, rather than, she realized later, the greater mystery of how he could know about Uncle Clyde and that she’d decided to tell. Maybe he was a family friend. Maybe he’d been at the funeral. She thought his voice did sound familiar.
‘Your father cries at night.’ From the angle of his voice he might have been looking gently down at her, although she could hardly see him beside her. ‘Did you know that, Libby?’ The thought of Papa’s sorrow was worse than her own. ‘If you tell him, you will only give him more to cry about.’
Libby didn’t know what to think. She stayed silent.
‘You don’t have to say anything. You’re almost grown up now. Uncle Clyde won’t bother you any more. He doesn’t like grown-up women.’
‘My sisters—’
‘Helen can take care of herself. She’s growing up, too. And you don’t know he’ll start with Maureen. You don’t know that.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You’re a good girl, Libby. I trust you to do the right thing.’
He was gone, the after-image of too-bright light fading away, and Libby was left to ponder, fist to her throat, whether what he’d said was wholly or partially true or not true at all.
* * * *
Aunt Maureen didn’t seem especially aware of the procession below them. ‘Can you imagine?’ Her voice was crisp and controlled; Cecelia had never heard it otherwise. But she was hugging herself. ‘You’d think Libby had lived on this earth an entire lifetime and never made a difference to anybody.’
‘She made a difference to Frances,’ Cecelia protested. A cousin fully a generation older, Aunt Libby’s only child, Frances had died a long time ago, Cecelia thought from complications of morbid obesity. Cecelia had hardly known her; it was difficult to comprehend what connection there’d ever been between them, other than the blood-arch, mostly abstract, of their mothers’ sisterhood. ‘Anyway, do you think that’s possible? Not to make a difference to anybody?’
Aunt Maureen shot her a look. Cecelia didn’t want to seem rude, but she did want to understand what Aunt Maureen was saying. Such questions - whether or not people made a difference as they passed through this world; how to tell whether that was so - had lately come to be of considerable importance to her.
Twenty-five years old that autumn, she was feeling less and less substantial. She and Ray, whom she supposed she would marry when he came home from the war, had seemed scarcely to touch even when they were seeing each other every Saturday night, and her weekly letters to him now might have been written to anyone; if he did not come home, perish the thought, she would mourn what might have been between them more than what was, and she feared she might live to mourn that anyway. Her job with the insurance company, though she was skilled at it, sustained her in no way other than financial. No one with whom she came into contact in the course of a day was likely to remember her once their specific business with each other was done, nor would she remember them. Certainly, if she were to die today, none of them would come to her funeral.
Aunt Maureen, gazing off over the gilt vista through which Cecelia was still watching the funeral procession move like a model train through a toy landscape, proceeded
‘How do you know my name?’
He was nicely dressed. His hands were in his pockets. That bittersweet smell seemed to be coming from him, although it was so faint she couldn’t be sure. ‘You know,’ he said in a tone so friendly it was threatening, ‘if you tell your father what you’ve been doing with Uncle Clyde you’ll cause a great deal of trouble in the family. Your father is suffering already because of your mother’s death.’
Tears hurt Libby’s throat at the mention of her mother. Confused, she found herself puzzling over how this stranger knew about that, rather than, she realized later, the greater mystery of how he could know about Uncle Clyde and that she’d decided to tell. Maybe he was a family friend. Maybe he’d been at the funeral. She thought his voice did sound familiar.
‘Your father cries at night.’ From the angle of his voice he might have been looking gently down at her, although she could hardly see him beside her. ‘Did you know that, Libby?’ The thought of Papa’s sorrow was worse than her own. ‘If you tell him, you will only give him more to cry about.’
Libby didn’t know what to think. She stayed silent.
‘You don’t have to say anything. You’re almost grown up now. Uncle Clyde won’t bother you any more. He doesn’t like grown-up women.’
‘My sisters—’
‘Helen can take care of herself. She’s growing up, too. And you don’t know he’ll start with Maureen. You don’t know that.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You’re a good girl, Libby. I trust you to do the right thing.’
He was gone, the after-image of too-bright light fading away, and Libby was left to ponder, fist to her throat, whether what he’d said was wholly or partially true or not true at all.
* * * *
Aunt Maureen didn’t seem especially aware of the procession below them. ‘Can you imagine?’ Her voice was crisp and controlled; Cecelia had never heard it otherwise. But she was hugging herself. ‘You’d think Libby had lived on this earth an entire lifetime and never made a difference to anybody.’
‘She made a difference to Frances,’ Cecelia protested. A cousin fully a generation older, Aunt Libby’s only child, Frances had died a long time ago, Cecelia thought from complications of morbid obesity. Cecelia had hardly known her; it was difficult to comprehend what connection there’d ever been between them, other than the blood-arch, mostly abstract, of their mothers’ sisterhood. ‘Anyway, do you think that’s possible? Not to make a difference to anybody?’
Aunt Maureen shot her a look. Cecelia didn’t want to seem rude, but she did want to understand what Aunt Maureen was saying. Such questions - whether or not people made a difference as they passed through this world; how to tell whether that was so - had lately come to be of considerable importance to her.
Twenty-five years old that autumn, she was feeling less and less substantial. She and Ray, whom she supposed she would marry when he came home from the war, had seemed scarcely to touch even when they were seeing each other every Saturday night, and her weekly letters to him now might have been written to anyone; if he did not come home, perish the thought, she would mourn what might have been between them more than what was, and she feared she might live to mourn that anyway. Her job with the insurance company, though she was skilled at it, sustained her in no way other than financial. No one with whom she came into contact in the course of a day was likely to remember her once their specific business with each other was done, nor would she remember them. Certainly, if she were to die today, none of them would come to her funeral.
Aunt Maureen, gazing off over the gilt vista through which Cecelia was still watching the funeral procession move like a model train through a toy landscape, proceeded
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