The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Wal, now, it’s lunchtime, y’see, and the boss ain’t here, and I’m alone on the pumps, y’see, so I can’t leave.’

  ‘How long before the boss is back?’

  ‘He left about 12 and should be back ’nother half-hour.’

  ‘I’ll get some coffee at the diner,’ said Mirelle, starting to open the door.

  Her knight leaned over quickly and took her fingers from the handle.

  ‘We’ll be over at the diner,’ he told the attendant. ‘Can you pick up the Sprite the first thing after the boss gets back?’

  ‘Sure. Guess that’ll work out all right.’

  ‘Oh, now really,’ Mirelle said in protest as they angled across the highway to the diner. ‘This is far beyond the call of duty, you know.’

  He pulled on the brake before he answered.

  ‘Let’s say that I would be very pleased if my favorite lady in distress would help me kill a few hours which I’d despaired of murdering alone.’

  Mirelle temporised with a laugh. There was no reason not to accept, after all, and if it would repay his consideration . . .

  ‘Misery loves company,’ she said as they left the car. She noticed his quick glance. As he carefully locked the car up, she berated her thoughtless tongue. If he wanted to kill an hour with her, she could at least act graciously.

  ‘I’m scarcely a soignée companion,’ she said, indicating her jodhpurs as he guided her towards the steps of the diner.

  ‘I think it is too shocking of you not to have brought along a change.’

  ‘I’ll see to to the horses,’ she said, holding up her hands and heading toward the ladies’ room at the side of the diner.

  ‘Do,’ he advised and she heard the rippling undercurrent of amusement in the one word.

  As she stepped into the restroom, she realised the double entendre of the euphemism and grinned into a mirror that reflected back her blush. He was quick, that man. She washed hands and face, combed her hair and fussed with her lipstick.

  ‘The trouble with diners,’ he said, rising from the booth as she approached, ‘is that they lack a bar. Such catastrophes as visit a traveler are often eased by a jolt or two. Or do you drink?’

  ‘Invariably, after catastrophes.’

  ‘Your ankle, I trust, is fully recovered.’

  ‘Except on rainy days.’

  ‘Did your ride stimulate your appetite?’

  ‘Not half as much as it relieved my inner tensions.’ Instantly Mirelle damned her tongue and wondered what on earth was possessing her to blurt out what was at the top of her mind to this complete stranger.

  ‘You’re lucky then,’ he said with sudden gravity. They looked at each other trapped. Neither made an effort to break the gaze or distract the other from the mutual, searching appraisal. His was a very interesting face, lined and tired, but alive: his gaze was direct and uncritical.

  ‘I . . . like to sculpt,’ she said, speaking softly and earnestly, ‘and I’ve been working on a bust recently. It’s daft, I know, but this morning when I passed the place where you helped me with that flat, I realised that I’d been trying to sculpt your face.’

  ‘Highly flattering to think that flat-changing can lead to immortal clay,’ and though his face remained serious, his eyes danced with laughter. Not laughter at her: with her. Mirelle had been right: he also appreciated the humor of the situation. ‘My name is James Howell,’ he said, rather formally extending his hand across the table to her.

  ‘I’m Mirelle Martin,’ and his fingers were very strong.

  ‘Mirelle?’ he asked and then, to her surprise, spelled it correctly.

  ‘I was christened Mary Ellen but it got elided into Mirelle.’

  ‘Distinctive. And it suits you.’

  ‘I’ve always felt more Mirelle-ish than Mary Ellenish.’

  ‘Mirelle goes with the Sprite, horseback riding and sculpting.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Her fingers had been nervously spinning the salt cellar. He reached across and spread his hands flat on the formica. They both looked down at them, as if they were the hands of a stranger. The long tapered fingers that never fit into gloves, the very square palm, the arching thumb. Then she noticed that the webbing between his long blunt fingers were well stretched.

  ‘You’re a pianist.’

  ‘You’re observant!’

  ‘Necessary for a sculptor.’

  The harried waitress swooped down on them, thrusting menus impatiently at their hands.

  ‘Are you a concert artist?’ Mirelle asked when the woman had left with their orders.

  ‘A concert accompanist. A highly specialised variation.’ His eyebrows quirked with inner amusement.

  ‘Indeed it is. My mother was a professional singer. I’ve had chapter and verse on accompanists.’

  ‘Your mother . . . was?’

  ‘She died . . . twenty years ago now. She sang in Europe. I don’t think her name was ever known in the States. She was Mary LeBoyne.’

  ‘Irish, I deduce.’ He was honest enough not to pretend recollection.

  ‘Do you live in town?’ she asked, to change the subject.

  ‘I do now.’ He made a grimace. ‘My very old and very comfortable apartment house in Philadelphia was condemned and torn down for the much vaunted urban renewal. After a very discouraging search, I gave up and headed south. I’ve been teaching here at the Music School for the last two years so this seemed a logical relocation. Also the connections to both Philly and New York are good.’

  ‘True.’ He didn’t like the town any more than she did.

  ‘However,’ and he sighed, ‘owning one’s house had advantages. No one can complain about practising at all hours.’

  Mirelle grinned. ‘Sculpting is a silent profession.’

  ‘Don’t you cast in bronze or work stone? No tapping of hammer and chisel?’

  ‘You don’t cast in bronze in your own house. Too costly. You send the piece out to be cast, to Long Island, if you can afford it.’

  ‘I’d no idea.’

  ‘Modern technology.’

  ‘With us everywhere. What about plaster? Or wood? Or . . . whatever it is that some sculptors use for raw materials . . . metal scraps, tomato cans and stuff. No blowtorches?’ His expression was comically wistful and Mirelle was sorry she’d agreed to lunch with him.

  ‘None,’ she replied, trying to control her exasperation.

  ‘You just pat the clay and turn the wheel?’

  ‘Sometimes I whittle.’

  His eyebrows flew up in mock astonishment. ‘I wondered who supplied wooden nutmegs these days. Tell me, do you whittle to you, or from you?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ And Mirelle realised that he was deliberately baiting her.

  ‘I scrape back and forth, like so,’ and she demonstrated. ‘I get fascinating textured effects.’

  ‘Where are these chefs-d’oeuvre to be seen?’

  ‘Nowhere locally. I’ve some things placed in museums and a small gallery on 50th and Lexington used to handle my work. I still get occasional commissions . . .’ She broke off because his mobile face registered astonishment when she mentioned museum and gallery. ‘And yes, there is a kiln, but it’s a commercial one and takes up half my studio. And nary a single panther on the mantel comes out of it.’

  ‘I most sincerely and abjectly beg your pardon, Mirelle.’ He caught her eyes but she looked away, despite the contrition in his expression. She regretted accepting assistance from him and violently wished that she could just walk away from the table. She had met such condescension all too fequently but somehow had not expected it from him, and she was disappointed.

  At this point the waitress came and slapped their lunch platters down, deftly if noisily.

  ‘Coffee, with or later?’

  ‘Later,’ they both said in a mumble.

  When she had marched off, James Howell reached across and captured Mirelle’s hand as she picked up a napkin.
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br />   ‘A talent is never an easy gift,’ he said.

  ‘How would you know if I have any talent?’ she demanded, sullen with her disillusion.

  ‘Because of your attitude toward it,’ he replied as if that answer were obvious. He turned his attention to his lunch.

  She forced her resentment down. They talked of any number of inconsequential subjects until she noticed with surprise that the tow truck had retrieved the Sprite.

  ‘He’ll need the keys,’ she exclaimed and started to rise.

  He took the keys from her and delivered them across the street. Mirelle watched his long figure and noticed, too, something to spring on him when he returned. At the station, he stood for a few moments, hands on his hips, in front of the Sprite, held nose-up by the tow truck. He talked to the mechanic, grinning, amused by something the man was explaining with many gestures. Then the matter appeared to be settled and James Howell sauntered back across the highway. In his short absence, Mirelle had seen him in another perspective.

  ‘How long were you in the infantry?’ she asked and was rewarded by his surprised exclamation.

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’

  ‘The way you walk,’ she said, grinning at the accuracy of her observation.

  He tipped his head back and laughed.

  ‘Not much escapes you, does it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Except remembering to check your battery.’

  ‘Oh, no. No. No. I checked it yesterday when I got gas. I know that car. It’s the generator brushes. They jam.’

  ‘Yes, that does seem to be it,’ he agreed blandly. ‘It’ll take another half an hour or so, he thinks.’

  ‘Are you sure he does? Think, that is?’

  ‘There’s always that interesting possibility, isn’t there?’

  ‘Look, you’ve been a very good Samaritan . . .’

  ‘But you don’t need to hang around any longer,’ he finished for her.

  ‘But you don’t.’

  ‘All right, if you object to my company so much,’ he said with mock petulance and made a great show of getting to his feet. ‘I’ve got more than two hours before the first lesson and the only occupation I can dream up to fill that outrageous length of time is to buy something for my lonely bachelor supper tonight. That cannot take upwards of fifteen minutes, no matter how long I dally.’

  ‘If you stand in the longest line at the checkout, you could stretch it to half an hour.’

  ‘Hmm, with steak juice dripping down my hands? The piano keys will be gory with beef blood.’

  ‘Never happens. Everything is all prepackaged with cellophane.’

  ‘It isn’t cellophane anymore.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is.’

  ‘Such antisepticism takes all the charm out of shopping,’ he said wistfully. ‘Now, in Europe, where pre-packaging has not yet spread its plastic aura, they wrap things up in funny paper triangles . . .’

  Memories flashed across Mirelle’s mind, accompanied by appetising smells and a tactile memory of texture, of rainy mornings spent shopping with the bustlingly efficient hausdienst . . .

  ‘And by the time you get home everything crushable is, and everything cool isn’t.’

  ‘You’ve lived abroad?’ He was surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mirelle in as flat a tone as she could to discourage further questions.

  ‘That’s a definitive answer,’ he remarked, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie knot. ‘Remind me never to broach that subject again.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ and her contrition was sincere. ‘Some of my bleakest moments were spent in Europe.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ he said, looking her squarely in the eye. ‘But mine happened years ago now. Yours must have, too.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m quixotic company. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I understand,’ and he leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘that every well-built Wilmington development has its own windmill.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re a concert pianist?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ he replied with a sniff, settling back. ‘Matter of fact, I was practising my trade the last few times I rescued you. One of the artists with whom I’m under contract lives out Lancaster way. We’ve been rehearsing before going out on tour.’

  ‘Do you tour often?’

  ‘Sometimes too often, I think.’ He sighed and signaled the waitress for more coffee. ‘I presume that coffee is as essential to you as it is for me.’

  Mirelle nodded.

  ‘I’ve had the house here now for a year,’ Howell went on, ‘and I still can’t find my way around the inner city. I’ve not been in it often enough.’

  ‘When we get transferred, I throw the kids in the car, take a road map and drive around, getting lost until I can find my way home from any quarter of the map.’

  ‘In that car you threw kids?’

  ‘No, I only got the Sprite last year. We’ve been here in Wilmington almost two years.’

  ‘You sound apprehensive.’

  ‘Longest time in one place yet.’

  ‘D’you mind the moving?’

  Mirelle shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t do me any good to mind. But then, I’ve always been on the move.’

  ‘Yes, you would, if your mother was an opera singer.’

  Mirelle could feel the muscles along her jaw tighten.

  ‘Did I put my foot in it again?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘No, my own private road to hell is paved with such potholes . . .’

  ‘. . . And other people’s good intentions?’ One eyebrow raised, giving his face a cynical cast.

  ‘What’s the fee, doc?’ She grinned at him in wry apology.

  ‘For analysis? Free with very act of knight errantry.’

  The sound of a racing engine split the air. Mirelle saw her Sprite being backed out of the garage bay.

  ‘My word, they’ve done the trick.’ She rose.

  ‘The hour’s over?’

  ‘Midnight hath struck and voila, my pumpkin.’

  He paid the check at the cashier’s desk and then, clipping his hand under her elbow, he guided her across the highway. As she gave the mechanic her credit plate, she caught James Howell’s unguarded face. There was a quality of sadness and she wondered if she had underestimated his age. As he turned to regard her, a vivid smile dissolved the pose.

  ‘I’ll away now, milady, and purchase me dinner steak, begging always to remain your respectful servant.’ He opened the Sprite door with a superb flourish of hand and arm.

  The mechanic came back with her receipt and card, and so she was obliged to end the interlude. With a farewell wave, Mirelle eased the Sprite out into traffic.

  When she got home, she sat down immediately and sketched his face as she remembered it during that unguarded moment. She filed the study away carefully but the warm feeling of their second meeting stayed with her. That night, before she went to sleep, she rummaged in Steve’s drawer until she found the red silk handkerchief. She put it at the bottom of her own.

  4

  THE BRONZE PIG arrived late one afternoon so Mirelle had to wait until the kids were in bed before she had time to put the finishing touches on the metal. She then placed the pig on the wooden pedestal, standing off to appraise her efforts.

  In a way, it was like seeing him for the first time. She’d finished the piece last February. The foundry in Long Island was good but she was scarcely a prestige customer so she had to wait until they had time to cast her small statuary.

  He was good all right, she allowed to herself. The head was angled so that the hoof could scratch under the ear: the expression on the porcine face was one of ecstasy.

  Well, there is nothing so satisfying as catching an itch on the exact spot! She was very pleased with him. Very pleased. She put him next to the bronze horse which was modeled on Boots, in much the same pose as the day he had shed her. The horse was staring down at the ground, presumably at the unshown rider, legs braced after a sudden halt, ears pri
cked, chin tucked back, the long horse face wearing an expression of comical dismay and great delight.

  ‘It’d be great to be able to do a really big piece instead of paper weight sizes,’ she said out loud. ‘Only where would I put one?’

  She stroked the flank of the little horse affectionately and then turned around in her workroom toward the covered bust. She had ignored it pointedly over the last few weeks. Now she walked over and resolutely transferred it to the wheel. She pulled back the cloth and gazed critically at the head. She revolved the wheel slowly, standing back at each turn to examine the work.

  Not a bad likeness without the model. But the angle of his jaw just below the left ear was not correct. She had got the right side in sketch from that unguarded pose of his, but she had the feeling that the jaw was still wrong. It disturbed her that she had been so unobservant.

  ‘Too bad I can’t cut that walk in clay. By God, I will!’

  From the storage shelf she grabbed the small wire armature made for some other abandoned project and gleefully slapped on a coat of clay.

  It was not unlike her to work through an entire night when a concept had crystalised for execution. She was carefully stencilling the last details in the ground around the booted feet when the children came down in the morning.

  ‘Hey, gee, Ma, that’s keen,’ Nick said, walking around and around the sixteen-inch infantryman. The soldier was trudging from one battle to another, desperately weary, but somehow still upright and moving. ‘Why’n’t you ever make me a lead mold for that type soldier?’

  ‘I will. I will,’ Mirelle promised, gathering up the magazines and books which she’d consulted during the night on infantry impedimenta.

  She made pancakes for the children’s breakfast and got coffee into herself.

  ‘You ought to work more nights,’ Roman said through the cakes he was stuffing into his mouth before running for the bus.

  ‘Wait’ll Dad sees him,’ Nick said, as he poured half a bottle of maple syrup over his pancakes.

  ‘You didn’t leave enough for me,’ Tonia said in a wail as Mirelle snatched the bottle from Nick, tilting it back and proving to Tonia that there was plenty left.

  Nick’s comment echoed in her mind. Candidly, Mirelle didn’t want Steve to see either the small figure or the almost finished head. She’d reviewed that second meeting with James Howell frequently in the past few weeks. One sees oneself so clearly in the mirror of the casual observer. In an hour and a half, that man had made her re-examine a lot of her attitudes.