‘Is that enough reason to immortalise him in plaster?’
‘Immert-all what, Mommy?’ Tonia asked, startled.
‘Did I say something?’
‘You’re at it again, Mommy,’ Tonia replied in a curiously adult long-suffering tone of voice. ‘You’re talking to yourself.’
‘Well, at least I usually listen to what I’m saying which is more than you kids do. How many times have I told you, out loud, not to use more syrup than your pancakes will absorb? Just look at the waste.’
‘No time for the lecture, Mommy,’ and Tonia grabbed up her jacket and raced out of the house for the school bus.
There was no chance to reprimand her for her insolence.
Just as well, thought Mirelle. She’d spot my lack of guts. Blearily she read the first page of the morning newspaper and then decided that she simply could not cope with the day without a few hours’ sleep.
She covered the statue and the bust. Suddenly the studio couch was much nearer than her own bed upstairs. She was asleep, deeply, a few moments after she’d pulled the lap rug over her shoulders.
The sun woke her, slanting through the window into her eyes. Although the clock read just before noon, she felt refreshed by the four hours’ rest. Tasso, who had a most unfeline yen for cantaloupe, had evidently chewed a corner from each piece of melon rind still on the table. He was now curled up in the wing chair in the living-room. She cleared the breakfast dishes and then returned to the studio. Uncovering the statue, she was relieved to see that it was as good as she’d felt it was, with one or two minor corrections. She draped the towel back tenderly.
The mail had come but, apart from one for Steve, was all direct mail advertising which she threw out. She made more coffee and was attacking the newspaper again, getting past the first page with comprehension, when the phone rang.
‘Mirelle?’
‘Yes?’ She couldn’t place the man’s voice.
‘Have you ever counted how many Martins there are in the phone book of this Smith-forsaken town?’
‘Many more than James Howells,’ she replied, placing the voice.
‘That’s A for effort. Have you any idea how many Martins I’ve had to call?’
‘No,’ and she couldn’t help giggling, ‘why?’
‘Because, young lady, I want to apologise to you.’
‘To me? Why?’
‘Despite my high-sounding reassurances the other day, I didn’t really think you were any good. I must profusely apologise. I saw an exquisite little bronze figurine in the Stamford University Museum of, no less, Fine Arts.’
‘Oh, my cat.’
‘Yes, your cat.’
‘I hated to sell it. Tasso’s a member of the family, even in bronze. But you always sell to museums when they ask.’
‘At first I didn’t realise whose it was. But the name LeBoyne finally rang its appointed bell. I gather you do use your mother’s maiden name professionally.’
Mirelle closed her eyes against the stab of pain. You don’t even escape who you really are.
Mirelle? Are you still there?’
I won’t close up on him, she told herself. I won’t. I’ll throw those damned sensitivities back into the closet where they belong and slam the door hard!
‘Mirelle?’
‘Sorry, I had a mouthful of coffee.’
‘Are you sure I didn’t have a mouthful of foot?’
‘Any foot of yours is welcome.’
‘Seriously, Mirelle, that was a lovely affectionate piece. I’m just back, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘Was it successful? The tour?’
‘Very, but I am exceedingly glad to be back standing in line with dripping steak in my hands. Hotels! Yechkt!’
She couldn’t help laughing at the contrast of that sound and his normally correct tones.
‘How’s the Sprite? Behaving herself?’
‘Better than I am. I’ve been up all night,’ she blurted it out, ‘finishing a statuette.’
‘You have? I thought that sort of round-the-clock activity was limited to the Left Bank.’
‘Look closely at the address, pal, left side of town.’
‘Depends on where you’re situated. Mirelle, are you free for lunch today?’
‘I haven’t even had breakfast.’
‘Tsck. Tsck. Our starving artists, oblivious to earthly requirements. I’ll meet you in half an hour . . . for lunch, I might add . . . at the so originally christened Road House.’
‘That’s not much time for a gal who hasn’t had breakfast.’
‘That’s quite enough time for a gal who’s going to get lunch.’
‘Don’t let the steak drip.’
Without stopping to check her horoscope, Mirelle dashed up the stairs, showered and dressed in fifteen minutes. She made up at the hall mirror, catching a glimpse of the draped statuette as she did so, ruefully envying the playwright or poet whose works of art were rather easier to transport. Five pounds of plasticine perched on a hip was a trifle ostentatious.
She spun the Sprite out of the development in the best of good spirits, unaccountably pleased with the world, the day and its bright prospects. Not even Steve’s expected return that night could mar her pleasure.
‘That did it. Oh, well, I’ll forget about him for the afternoon.’
Easy, gal, she cautioned herself. Forgetting the husband to lunch with another man? She snorted at the whimsy, impatient as the cross-highway light held her up. As if Howell were that type. He was only interested in her work and that part of herself was completely divorced from her family and her marriage, for all the overlapping. It was the as yet unhampered, unpossessed soul of her that she had refused to relinquish to Steve’s posessiveness. She had told him, early in their marriage, that she had given him her body, her worldly possessions, obedience and loyalty: she had given him all her love and devotion but that inner part of her that was unalterably Mary Ellen LeBoyne was not his. By the same token, she did not expect to possess his innermost secrets and soul. She doubted if Steve had any conception of such basic privacy. Very often he acted as if that final reserve were an offense against him, instead of her defense against the world. He was always striving for complete capitulation.
She got so engrossed in this subject of identity that she nearly missed the turn into the Road House.
‘At least he knows where the good steaks are,’ she told herself as she deftly parked beside his blue Thunderbird. It was rather a shock to glance over and see him watching her, a broad grin on his face, from inside the T-bird.
‘It was two to one you would park beside me if the space stayed open long enough.’
‘Where did you call from?’
‘Inside, of course,’ he said, getting out and locking his car.
‘What do you keep in there? Crown jewels?’
‘Irreplaceable accompaniment scores,’ he replied, opening her door and handing her out. ‘Have you grown?’ He looked down at her in surprise. ‘I’d remembered you much shorter.’
‘Heels.’ What a good dancing height he is.
‘You have been rather informally dressed before.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Seeing to the horses.’
As the hostess led them to a wall table towards the rear of the dark wood-panelled room, Mirelle was conscious of his hand at her waist, guiding her. Casual physical contact was not agreeable to her: she often could not bear to be touched, even by her children. There has been times, early in their marriage, when the feel of Steve’s hand had been immensely thrilling. Comparisons! Comparisons!
‘I beg your pardon?’ and James Howell bent his head closer to hers.
‘I have an extremely bad habit of talking out loud to myself and, if you make the usual comment, I’ll eat by myself.’
‘I would never be guilty of banality,’ he replied disdainfully. ‘Besides, I’ve been known to carry on lengthy conversations with the bust of Mozart which leers at me above th
e piano. Yes, miss, we’d like a drink before lunch. What’s your pleasure, Mirelle?’
She declined and he ordered a bourbon on the rocks while Mirelle scanned the faces in the restaurant, to see if there were any interesting ones.
‘Any gossipy neighbors?’
Mirelle flushed at the sly taunt. ‘No. I don’t know many people in town anyhow. But I always keep on the lookout for grist to my potter’s wheel.’
‘Anything of interest here?’
‘Nothing inspirational.’
‘Ever done a self-portrait? Yours is an unusual face. Those cheekbones and . . . am I intruding again?’ he asked. ‘I can just see the little clam shell closing up.’
‘My stock answer is “artistic temperament”,’ she said, leaning forward across the small tale in her urgency to make him understand. ‘But you don’t deserve the stock answer. I could give you a wheeze about a grim childhood . . .’
Howell, too, leaned over, taking her hand in both his.
‘I’ll come clean, Mirelle. One of my artists remembers your mother, and you. Don’t pull away, my dear. Madame Frascatti gave me an enchanting picture of a thin child with long tawny braids, playing with a collection of tiny toys which she had brought with her in a wooden box. The child endeared herself to Madame because she sat in the chair she was told to take, talked very softly to herself as she played with her dolls for nearly two hours.’
Mirelle saw that scene again: a memory, like so many others, that she had deliberately inhibited. Now, she had a sudden total recall of that Victorianly busy room, with objets d’art jostling each other on every inch of table space, photos, etchings, watercolors covering the walls. She could hear her mother cautioning her not to touch anything, to play quietly so as not to disturb the adults. It had been a hot summer day but the parlor, for all its clutter and dust, had been cool. And she had been with her mother. Those times were to be cherished.
‘The chair was covered in horsehair and it itched,’ she said with a laugh.
Howell kept watching her and she wondered what he had expected her to say.
‘How is Madame Frascatti?’ she asked experimentally. ‘She must be ancient now. She was positively creaking then.’
‘Oh, she does creak but what a zest she still has for life and living.’
Whatever it was he had hoped to hear, Mirelle had not said it, for Howell leaned back.
‘Did you mention you’d met me?’ asked Mirelle, trying to keep anxiety out of her voice. Howell seemed to be withdrawing from her. And now she did not wish to lose contact with him.
‘No. I didn’t. Because I don’t feel that I have met you. I’ve had two amusing encounters with a young housewife and mother who drives a Sprite, rides horses, sprains ankles and mucks about with clay.’
‘I don’t “muck about” with clay, as you put it,’ snapped Mirelle.
‘Easy, girl. Now Mirelle LeBoyne is talking and she’s the girl I’m taking to lunch. You see,’ and he leaned forward again, ‘I saw something enchanting in that cat which stayed with me the rest of the tour. Oh, it’s not great sculpture . . . you’re artist enough to appreciate my distinction without taking offense because none is intended . . . but there was a quality of serenity, of permanence, of . . .’ he shrugged as the exact word eluded him, ‘. . . of homeliness and belonging, I guess, that struck an answering chord in this particular wanderer.
‘Essentially, when I moved here from Philadelphia, it was not so much the need for new living quarters – God knows I’m not home enough to do more than “reside” – as the need for some kind of roots for myself. Oh, it’s fine when I’m at liberty and when Margaret, my daughter, is home from college. Yes, I was married,’ he interpolated with a sour grin, ‘and divorced Shirley years ago. Margaret prefers her father’s company and I hers, at intervals and for not too long a period.
‘It was a sense of permanence that I was groping for. And your cat symbolised it to me.’
Mirelle dropped her eyes in embarrassment and delight.
‘I wondered if anyone else would ever notice that in him,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Then my interpretation was correct?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Mirelle looked up with earnest assurance.
A drink was suddenly placed in front of Howell and he drew back. Mirelle could have wished the waitress stuffed into concrete. Howell appeared to take no notice of the interruption.
‘I asked the curator if the museum would consider selling the cat . . .’
‘You what?’ She was dumbfounded.
He grinned. ‘Oh, yes, I really did. That’s how much an impression the cat made on me.’
Mirelle continued to stare at him, incredulous.
‘I got the same reaction from him, too,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘But I’m sincere. I also presume that it is impossible to duplicate that bronze, nor would I want to. What I want to know is, do you have anything else from your home-loving period that I could buy?’
Mirelle couldn’t stop her gyrating thoughts long enough to get one out: the little soldier was the pivot.
‘I seem to have stumped you.’
A pressure behind her eyes warned Mirelle that she was about to disgrace herself in tears. She snatched up his drink and took a stiff gulp.
‘I can’t imagine what possessed you to call me today of all days . . . No, don’t interrupt, Jamie,’ and the nickname came out spontaneously, ‘but you wouldn’t have said just that sort of thing if you didn’t mean it. Nor would you have seen the Cat in just that way . . . I mean, superficially that’s not the impression it conveys . . . I don’t sell much and I can tell myself it’s because I don’t produce enough but that isn’t the real reason and I don’t fool myself that it is. But each sale means more. Each piece is a part of me . . . of my creativity. It’s all the rearranging, the household things left undone that I’ll have to race like mad to do later: it’s screaming at the kids to leave my work alone. It’s fear that somebody will knock a model over, destroy hours of work . . . or crack a cast . . . or . . . It just isn’t easy to have a talent and be a wife and mother, too. It’s fighting even to get into my soi-disant studio. Well, not that so much anymore,’ she interrupted herself honestly, ‘but in any case, every little . . .’
‘Pat on the head?’ he supplied when she faltered.
‘Yes, every pat on the head is precious. So you simply cannot know . . .’ She spread her hands in a futile gesture at her inability to express herself. ‘Sometimes I feel like chucking the whole thing into the disposal and taking up tatting. At least that’s considered a respectable feminine occupation.’
‘I am not remotely interested in buying your tatting. At least, not until I work my way through the supply my maternal grandmother left me . . .’
Mirelle found herself laughing until the tears rolled down her cheeks at her vivid mental image of James Howell patiently replacing torn tatting from a box reeking of lavender sachet.
‘You’re far too intense, Mirelle. Here. Finish my drink. I’ll get another.’
He signalled the waitress and ordered two more bourbons on the rocks.
‘How old are these cast-cracking kids of yours?’
‘Roman is 14, Nick 10 and Antonia is 7.’
‘Prolific!’
‘I wanted children.’
‘Having been an only child.’
Mirelle looked quickly, nervously at his face but he only returned her gaze politely. She wondered exactly what he had heard from Madame Frascatti but decided that it was more likely that he was only baiting her.
‘I shall either fall asleep or disgrace myself completely,’ she said as the waitress served the drinks.
‘I never allow my companions to disgrace themselves OR,’ he said with massive dignity, ‘me!’ He raised his glass in toast. ‘Besides, you’ll shortly be packing away a huge steak, potatoes, salad and dessert before you leave and that will sop up the alcohol. Now, may I or may I not commission you to do a work of art for me?’
; Mirelle hesitated, thinking of the bust and the soldier.
‘Yes, I would be glad to do something for you. But I’m not sure what you want. The Cat was a 22-inch bronze but it isn’t a specific size you’re after anyhow, is it?’
He shook his head.
‘Have you a special place in your home where you’d like a piece of statuary?’
He let his jaw drop mournfully. ‘Actually the place is quite bare of decoration, apart from a few small paintings I’ve picked up.’
‘I can’t fill a gap unless I see the hole first.’
‘Perhaps you have something finished at home now?’
Mirelle laughed nervously. ‘I just did a little pig,’ she said to give herself time to think, ‘but he’s not your type.’
Howell laughed and thanked her for for backhanded compliment.
‘Besides, he amused Tonia. I really made him for her, to remind her to stop standing in the middle of her messy room.’
‘Wouldn’t a swat on the rear accomplish the same end?’
‘No, because the pig makes her laugh and then she gets it all done in a good mood instead of turning the air green with her whines.’
‘Good point.’
‘Good pig. So you may come and see what I have and maybe you’ll get some ideas.’
He cocked an eyebrow and his eyes started to twinkle. ‘Sort of the reverse position?’ he asked cryptically.
‘Oh, you mean, come see where my etchings aren’t and make me one?’
‘Exactly. And you’ve nothing more than the pig?’ He looked disappointed.
‘Well,’ and honesty made her hesitate, wondering how she could avoid showing him either the bust or the soldier if he came to the house. Maybe, if she left him in the living-room with the Running Child . . .
He was thumbing through an enagement book.
‘Hmmm. I’ll be back in town in three weeks.’
‘Oh?’ and she was as dismayed as she was relieved.
The Year of the Lucy Page 5