Cecile used to be a dancer. We’re not sure if that means she was a ballet dancer, a contemporary dancer, or, you know, a stripper. But that’s the great thing about Cecile: she has all sorts of mystery about her. Couple that with the perfectly white hair she keeps piled atop her head, the cat-eye glasses dangling from a brightly beaded lanyard around her neck, and her amazing vintage dresses, and she is, easily, one of the most glamorous people I’ve ever met. Greta Garbo-esque. She reminds me of how Greta Garbo would appear with several decades beneath her belt: gorgeous, wise—and completely cheeky.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says when I usher myself into her quarters. Cecile should have a bigger room than the rest of us. Hell, we just pay rent (and sometimes we don't even do that, depending on our monthly artistic successes) to live here, but Cecile owns the place. She turned it into the amazing home that it is, and she didn’t even claim an enormous room for herself; her space is just as big as everyone else’s.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember that, before Cecile got her hands on the Ceres (back before it was the Ceres), the building was just an enormous, empty grain elevator. She built all of the rooms within it, brought in electricity, internet, and plumbing—which was no easy feat, considering the fact that our nearest neighbors are other, unoccupied, grain elevators. She is a force of change.
Buffalo’s art scene might be pretty robust, but there was no place like the Ceres before Cecile dreamed it up. She told me once that, when she was a kid, she was the weird one out, and it was hard to find people like her, people she could relate to. So, in her old age, she wants to surround herself with fellow artists. Fellow “weirdos” who live together and love each other, like one big happy family.
That’s exactly what we’ve become—family—thanks to Cecile.
“The pizzas are here,” I tell her, and she glances up at me with genuine affection, blinking her bright blue eyes as she gestures me to her easel with a paint-spattered hand.
“What do you think, doll?” she asks me, her head tilted to the side as she stares at her painting, brush poised in her fingers. I come beside her and stare at the picture, too.
Cecile’s been working on this one for a while. The painting is a complex wash of blues and grays; the colors blend into a fog-like blur. And out of that blur rises a series of soft curves reminiscent of a woman’s shape: the swell of breasts, the graceful slope of a neck, of hips.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell her, the truth. Cecile looks up at me, her eyes twinkling, and with a satisfied nod, she tosses her brush into a pot of water.
“You humor your old bat,” she says, rising with a smile on her lips. “But I have to admit: I do like it, too.”
I stand there, chewing on a fingernail until I realize I’m chewing on a fingernail—but it’s too late. Cecile caught me.
“You only do that when something’s troubling you,” she remarks wryly, a brow raised. “Okay, so what’s the matter with the painting? Be honest, doll.”
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s beautiful. Really evocative,” I promise vehemently, and then I offer her a weak smile. “It just made me feel guilty. I mean, I haven’t painted in…three days now, I think,” I sigh. “This is how I make my living, and I’m being ridiculous and—”
Cecile raises a hand. Her palm has a wash of blue paint over it, as if she pressed it to the damp paper. “I'm personally acquainted with the starving-artist archetype, my dear,” she smiles. “And if you’re having a bad month, you know that you don’t have to pay me rent. There's no pressure. Don't worry—”
“But that feels rotten, not paying rent.” I shake my head. “I love living here. The last thing I want to do is take advantage of you.”
“How is it taking advantage of me if I’m telling you it’s all right?” she asks, her brow furrowing deeper. “What’s really at the bottom of all of this? What's blocked you? As far as I know, you paint every day. It’s your...” She searches for the right word, then chuckles. “Well, it's your obsession.”
I swirl Cecile’s paintbrush in the water pot, picking it up and looking at the soft blue that’s still on the bristles. “I want to paint,” I tell her, biting my lip.
“But…” Cecile prompts me.
“I just keep painting…her,” I whisper with a self-conscious sigh.
Her.
The reason I haven’t picked up a brush in three days.
The reason I haven’t been sleeping well.
I’ve had this reoccurring dream my entire life. Always the same dream.
Always…her.
“You're talking about the woman from your dream, I assume.”
I nod.
“You’ve told me the dream before,” says Cecile, sitting back down on her stool and folding her arms in front of her, “but my memory just isn’t what it used to be.” She watches me shrewdly for a moment. “Tell me again, Mara.”
I draw in a deep breath, let it out. Then I close my eyes, and I see the dream play out, see it so clearly that it’s as if I’m dreaming it right now, even though I’m wide awake.
“It starts with water,” I whisper. “Cold, black water. There are stars in the water, and I become aware of them gradually, of their reflection sparkling on the surface. And then I notice that the moon is reflecting in the water, too, but it’s so big and round and real that, for a moment, I wonder if the moon’s in the water instead of above me.
“I’m floating, treading my feet, my hands opened up on the surface. And then she’s just…there. She’s in the water with me. She’s naked,” I tell Cecile, unashamed. Cecile’s seen and done pretty much everything, after all. “And she’s reaching out to me. She draws me toward her and holds me tight. And then she’s kissing me.” I swallow, remembering the sensation of her mouth on mine.
“Her black hair is everywhere. It reminds me of the night sky. The starlight is reflected in it, it’s so glossy. That always stands out to me.” I pause, biting my lip. “She looks like she has stars in her hair.” I inhale, feeling shaky.
“Go on,” Cecile coaxes me.
“She...she leans back from me then, and she tells me in this voice…this voice,” I whisper, closing my eyes, hearing its timbre in my head. I’ve dreamed this dream so many times, and every time, her deep, growling voice pierces me through. “She says, 'A storm is coming…but I’ll keep you safe.’”
Cecile watches me with hooded eyes; I spread my hands, shrug helplessly. “That’s it. That’s the end of the dream. There’s a flash of lightning overhead, a crack of thunder... And then I wake up.”
“And you’ve had that dream for how long?”
“My whole life,” I smile. “Since I was a kid.” My smile softens as I remember my childhood response to the dream woman in the water. “It’s how I knew I was gay.”
Cecile nods, rising from her stool, shaking out the sleeves of her flowy cardigan. There’s a little tension in the air now that I've mentioned my growing-up years; I wait, anxious, for her to make a comment about my upbringing…
But, blessedly, she doesn’t. Because Cecile always knows when to talk about something and when not to talk about something…
Growing up gay—in my conservative family, in my conservative neighborhood—was awful. My parents hated me. Our relationship…didn’t end well.
Period.
But Cecile is looking at me now, and there’s a soft smile on her face. “And why do you keep painting her, do you think?” she asks gently.
“I never intend to paint her,” I say quickly, narrowing my brows. “I’ve never set out to paint her, I swear. But somehow, someway…she just shows up in my paintings, anyway. Always,” I murmur reflectively, heaving a big sigh.
“Painting’s the only thing that’s been a constant for me, Cecile. A steady source of pride. And purpose. It makes me feel—I don't know—calm. When I pick up a paintbrush…” I take the paintbrush from her water pot, and I turn it carefully in my hand, sweeping the wet bristles over my palm. They leave a faint trace of blue on my skin
. “When I pick it up,” I begin again, “I start painting the picture that’s in my head: water. Always water.”
“That's what you’re known for,” says Cecile, her head tilted to the side.
“But then, in the water, something starts to…rise. Kind of like this,” I tell her, gesturing to her painting.
“My figure is deliberate,” she says, tracing her fingers in the air about an inch over the paper, indicating the woman’s shape.
“And mine never is.” I frown in frustration. “I go to all sorts of lengths to avoid painting anything that resembles a woman, but she shows up, anyway.”
“People love your work,” she reminds me gently, and I acknowledge that with a weak smile.
“I’m grateful that I have an audience. That people buy my paintings. I’m really lucky, I know.”
Cecile nods again—but she’s watching me closely.
“I’m just haunted by this, by...her.” My mouth has gone dry. “This woman… She shows up in my work. She shows up in my dreams. I mean, am I crazy, Cecile?” I ask her with a little laugh, though it’s a serious question.
“’We’re all mad here,’” she quotes Alice in Wonderland with a chuckle and a wink. But then she steps forward, wrapping her arms around me in a tight embrace. “You’re not crazy, Mara.” Her voice is soft, soothing. “Something special is afoot in those dreams of yours.”
“Don’t say I’ve got the Gift!” I groan, at the exact same moment that she laughs and tells me, “You’ve got the Gift!”
“’The Gift,’” I tell her, putting air quotes around the words as she takes a step back, still laughing, “is mumbo-jumbo used by people with tarot cards and crystal balls; they only tell people what they think they want to hear.”
Cecile scoffs at that, wagging a finger in my direction. “I’ll have you know that I made my living for quite a few years telling people that ‘mumbo-jumbo,’ dear.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hmm. I made my living as a fortuneteller for, oh, decades.” She has a faraway look in her eyes as she sighs.
“And did you make it all up?” I persist, but Cecile looks thoughtful now as she turns her gaze on me.
“Never,” she says, and it’s emphatic. “Not once.”
I change the subject a little, leaning back on my heels. “You never told me you used to work as a fortuneteller. Why?”
Cecile shrugs, and with twinkling eyes, she smiles at me. “You never asked, my dear.”
I laugh at that. “Fair, fair. Hey, the pizza’s getting cold,” I say, taking a step back and glancing appreciatively at her painting. “And that’s gorgeous. It looks like you’ll finish it soon.”
“My darling girl,” says Cecile, and then she’s darting forward much faster than I think any eighty-year-old woman has a right to move, and her fingers are closing warmly around my elbow and giving me a gentle squeeze. “I have a good feeling about things.”
“Oh?” I ask her with a small grin.
“About your dream woman,” she says, her eyes sparkling with extra mischief now. “Haven’t you ever wondered if you dream about her because she’s going to appear in your life? Just show up one day, sweep you off your feet?”
I chuckle, too, and I shake my head. “I mean, I thought so once, but—let's face it—I’ve been having that dream since I was a kid. Don’t you think, if she was going to magically appear, she would have done so already? Like...when I was a teenager, and she could've taken me to prom?” I ask with a laugh.
But Cecile isn’t letting this go—and she’s not letting me go, either. “Honey, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times,” she says. “You take care of everyone but yourself. Someday, you’ll find a woman who realizes how amazing you are. And she’ll be the woman of your dreams. And she’ll take care of you for a change.”
“You’re being mushy,” I tease her gently, but she only shakes her head.
“Once you reach my age, you're allowed to be as mushy—or as non-mushy—as you like.” Then she’s raising a brow again and regarding me shrewdly. “When are you going to get rid of this?” she asks in a quiet tone.
I stare at her in surprise. She’s waving to my necklace. It’s usually hidden beneath my neckline; no one’s ever pointed it out before.
No one knows what it is...or why I wear it.
“What…?” I murmur, but Cecile is pinning me to the spot with her gaze, her brows furrowed as she frowns at the pendant that must have pushed its way out of my shirt when I was carrying the goldfish bowl.
It’s a vintage gold pendant: small, teardrop-shaped, with a tiny teardrop diamond in the center of it. It was my grandmother’s, and then it was my mother’s, and now it’s mine. I never take it off.
Self-consciously, I pick it up and tuck it beneath my collar.
“Why would I get rid of it?” I ask her, mumbling the words. I stand a little straighter, blood rushing in my head.
“You know you shouldn’t wear it, sweetheart,” she says then, and the words are so kind that they actually hurt.
I’ve never told anyone the history of this necklace. And no one’s ever asked. I think it’s too small to provoke much notice on the rare occasions that it does slip out from beneath my clothes. So how does Cecile know...?
I shift uncomfortably; I'm actually a little queasy.
We were just talking a moment ago about “gifts.” Does Cecile honestly have psychic powers?
She waits for me to answer, and I wait for her to drop the subject—but she doesn’t.
“It was my mother’s,” I finally murmur, and Cecile's eyes start to flash, her lips drawn into a thin line.
“Exactly,” she says, and she shakes her head, crossing her arms in front of her. “So I ask you again: when are you going to get rid of it?”
“You don’t understand,” I begin, and I’m reaching up like I always do, touching the pendant, swirling the pad of my thumb over the back of it. The motion calms me—and has for as long as I can remember.
“It was your mother’s, doll,” Cecile reminds me, as if that’s all that needs to be said on the matter.
It was my mother’s.
Yeah... Remember earlier when I alluded to my not-so-great upbringing?
Cecile knows all about that.
She steps forward now and rubs my back in slow, circular motions, a gentle touch that radiates warmth. “Sweetheart,” she says, and her voice is low, “your mother—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say too quickly, and she raises a brow at me. “I’m sorry, Cecile.” I glance at her cautiously, shaking my head, clearing my throat. “I just… I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”
She stands there for a moment, still rubbing my back, and then she nods, resigned. “I’m sorry I brought it up, my dear,” she says, but I reach out, take her hand and squeeze it.
“You shouldn’t be sorry,” I insist, and then I offer her a small, wan smile. “I haven’t dealt with it yet, obviously. And it’s...really hard to talk about.”
Cecile gathers me in her arms and gives me a very quick, tight hug. “I love you, you know,” she says, taking a step back, her eyes shimmering with kindness. “And you didn’t deserve what you went through.”
My back stiffens at those words, but then Cecile's grin deepens, and the mood in the room begins to change. “Okay,” she tells me with a little sniff, “it’s pizza time. I’ll kill Toby if he’s already eaten the whole veggie explosion pizza. Like he did last week.”
I chuckle, weak with relief, as we leave her room and make our way downstairs.
It’s been years, and I’m still not ready to deal with what happened to me. As I follow Cecile, I reach up and brush the pad of my thumb against the back of my pendant before dropping it beneath my tank top again. Then I breathe a sigh of relief.
I’m just not ready. Someday I will be. But...not yet.
We encounter chaos—as expected—when we arrive in the common area.
Miyoko is still in h
er Elizabethan gown, and she's holding a slice of veggie pizza over Sammie’s head; his tail is thumping the floor—hard. Toby’s in the middle of a loud argument with Rod—who apparently was here, after all—about which Queen song is the best. It’s a halfhearted argument, obviously, because everyone knows the best song is “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Iris is standing on the table and singing “New York, New York,” for some reason. And the goldfish…
Well, his bowl is now sporting exactly half the water it had before I went up the stairs.
“Sammie was just really thirsty,” says Iris breathlessly, vaulting off the table and standing beside me with a cheesy grin. “And you know I can’t say no to that gorgeous, fluffy face.”
I groan and glance down into the bowl. At least the goldfish looks okay...
“That’s Emily’s new pet project,” says Cecile, nodding toward the fishbowl. The goldfish gives the two of us a long-suffering stare, then starts swimming in tight circles.
“What do you mean ‘pet project'?” I ask; my stomach sinks, heavy with dread. “And where is Em, anyway? She never misses a Friday night pizza party.”
“She’ll be here soon. She had to work,” sings out Toby.
Emily is the only Ceres resident with a day job, working at Queen City Comics, the huge local comic book store. She bills herself as an up-and-coming comic artist, but she’s best known in Buffalo for her performance art pieces which...are pretty weird.
As if we summoned her, Emily chooses that moment to waltz through the front door, and we all turn to greet her warmly.
Emily has purple hair that she teases every morning, and she dresses like Madonna did in the eighties. This week, anyway. Next week, she might switch to orange hair and pink fishnets and tutus… It all depends on her mood—and which hair dyes are in stock at Hot Topic.
“Party!” she yells happily, waving her tattooed arms in the air, and she dives onto a still-unopened box of pizza.
“Rough day at work?” I ask her with a grin as she holds up two pieces of pizza and proceeds to eat from both of them at once.
A Dark and Stormy Knight Page 2
