Jamie roared.
‘I’m not the avuncular type and your children sound more than this semi-bachelor can take in one afternoon. I’m in town for a while, so if you have any ideas, may I come over and watch you work? Or do observers make you nervous?’
‘Hardly,’ Mirelle said, waving a hand in Tonia’s direction, ‘the kids have even charged admission to watch the real live sculptor at work.’
She waited at the door until he had driven out of sight and then turned thoughtfully back to the studio. Tasso was on his windowsill, old now and very grey about the muzzle. She stroked him, smiling at his violent purring response.
It had been such a shock to see a picture of her father. She hadn’t thought of Lajos Neagu for years. Not since the terrible bitter battle with Steve and his parents over her bastardy. When they were first engaged, she had told Steve because she felt that he deserved to know the truth. He had been a little taken aback but had laughed it off. He had assumed that both her parents were dead. It hadn’t occurred to him until then that her surname and her mother’s stage name were the same. (Mirelle had stopped using Barthan-More when she was sent to the States in 1940 to escape the bombing of Britain. By then, she had known the full story, and had refused even the legal fiction of her mother’s husband’s name.)
Mirelle had seen her natural father only once, at a distance, when he’d been attending an exhibition of some of his portraits, donated by their owners for this charity showing. She had been intensely surprised, therefore, to benefit under his will along with his legal heirs. It had been that reference to her legacy in the newspapers which had touched off the nightmarish scenes with Steve’s parents and, later, with Steve.
Roman had just been born so the inheritance ought to have been very welcome. Steve refused to touch a cent of it. He tried to make her refuse the bequest. He’d accused her of ruining his chances of success with the Company with the publicity announcement accompanying the will. He had requested a transfer from Allentown to escape what he termed ‘the unwelcome notoriety’ and what he was certain was derision from friends and neighbors. It had been a cowardly and silly act on his part but his parents had made him feel unbearably ashamed of his choice of wife.
It had taken Mirelle nearly a year to recover from the shock and hurt. She had felt so betrayed by Steve’s inexplicable disloyalty. If only Mother Martin had not made so much of it . . . if only Steve had stuck up for her . . . To prove to him, his parents and herself, that she was not at all like her mother, Mirelle had redoubled her efforts to be a perfect wife and exceptional mother and, to achieve those ends, turned into a cleaning shrew and an inflexible disciplinarian.
They had moved from Allentown to Ashland and there Nick had been born. She’d never told Steve how much Nick resembled her infamous father, but Mirelle regarded that as a bit of compensatory justice and had treasured Nick all the more.
Then Mirelle had met Lucy, and Lucy had helped mend the breach between the young married couple. And then kindly bullied Mirelle back to sculpting. When Steve saw how much Fred and Lucy Farnoll evidently admired and respected Mirelle, he began to forget the bar sinister. The stone of social ostracism dropped in the small puddle of Allentown had sent out very few ripples, despite what Mother Martin had shrilly asserted. No one in Ashland, had they noticed the small newspaper item, ever connected the infamous Lajos Neagu with that nice Mrs. Martin who did creche figures for the church.
Her father’s bequest had been a substantial fifteen thousand dollars and a self-portrait, a small part of his total estate. Lajos Neagu had come from a wealthy Hungarian family who had circumspectly departed from their homeland before wealth had been nationalised. The family jewels had been collectors’ items: his paintings had been, and still were, extremely valuable. When the crated self-portrait had been delivered, Mirelle had stored it, unopened, in the attic, and had not mentioned its arrival to Steve. She’d set aside five thousand dollars for Nick’s college since Steve’s parents had already started a fund for Roman. Occasionally she broached the balance for casting in bronze, or emergency money and, when they’d moved to Wilmington, indulged herself with the Sprite.
The noise of Roman and Nick arguing furiously over an incident on the school bus roused her. She threw a protecting cloth over the Lucy and went to deal out justice.
The mellow mood which had hung over the house for several weeks was abruptly shattered by Tonia’s chance reference that night at dinner to Mother’s boyfriend.
‘My what?’ Mirelle asked aghast, for Steve had turned white, clamping his lips in a thin line as he stared accusingly at her.
‘The man who brought you home in that beautiful car, Mommy. He’s a boyfriend, isn’t he?’
‘No, he is not,’ Mirelle said firmly, hoping vainly that Steve was not going to let his imagination run away with him. ‘Mr Howell took me to lunch today to discuss the commission he gave me several weeks ago,’ she told Steve as diffidently as possible.
‘What commission?’ Steve’s voice was sharp.
‘The one that started Mommy’s work jag,’ Nick said as if there couldn’t be any other.
‘You weren’t asked. Clear out of here.’
Mirelle seconded that with a jerk of her head which included all three startled children. She rose from the dinner table to clear the dishes but Steve reached out and pulled her down into her chair again.
‘What’s this all about?’
Mirelle sighed, trying to frame a satisfactory explanation. Steve jerked at her arm.
‘Don’t patronise me with those long-suffering sighs.’
‘I am not patronising you. You are taking undue exception to a child’s phrase. Mr. Howell is a male, he is a friend. To Tonia he is a boyfriend.’
‘I’m not a child.’
‘Then don’t act like one. I told you three weeks ago at dinner that Mr. Howell had offered me a commission. We spent the money . . . in talk . . . that same night. It was a very pleasant evening.’
‘Why did he have to discuss it at lunch?’
‘Why not? If he hadn’t taken me to lunch and you had heard that we stayed here, talking in the studio, you’d’ve made another of your snide allusions to the “casting couch”. Mr Howell is close to fifty and has a grown daughter in college.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Steve. You’re making a moutain out of nothing. Go to a movie. Go bowling. Cool down. Let me get on with the dishes.’
‘Don’t put me off!’ Steve yelled, jumping to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.
Mirelle returned his glare coolly. ‘I am not putting you off and you know it.’
She saw his hand come up in time to ward off the blow. She flung away from her chair, putting the table between them.
‘Steven Martin, you listen to me. Your sick jealousies are ridiculous. You have never, never had any cause to doubt my fidelity. I was virgin when I married you and I’ve had no affairs. If you’re feeling guilty because you got laid on your last road trip, don’t ease your conscience by accusing me.’
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ he shouted, thoroughly enraged now. And she knew that her random thrust was accurate and wished that it hadn’t been.
But the violence in him was looking for an outlet and she had to escape. She whirled, running down to the studio and trying to close and lock the door before he could storm his way through. She wasn’t quick or strong enough. The door hinges ripped the wood at the force of his entry. She retreated as far as she could across the room. He advanced on her, one arm raised to slap her, but his hip caught the platform holding the Lucy and it tipped over.
As Mirelle saw the statue fall, she tried to save it, but the soft plasticine flattened on the vinyl tiles just as Steve struck her. She straightened up, scarcely feeling the blow in the cold of her anger at the terrible destruction. She just looked at him. Then she caught sight of the children, peering anxiously down the stairway, their faces white and scared.
‘I
’m sorry, Mirelle. I’m sorry.’ Steve blurted the words out. He whirled, saw the children and wheeled again, wrenched open the door to the laundry-room and slammed out into the night.
Mirelle couldn’t move. She was unable to look at the smashed plasticine at her feet, or say something reassuring to the children. She was aware, dimly, through her shock that they finally went whispering away. Her neck and shoulder burned from Steve’s blow.
Slowly she got hold of herself. With jolting, uneven steps she walked out of the studio. She told the boys to do their homework and sat like a stick at the dining-room table until they had shown her their completed assignments. She sent them to bed. She loaded the dishwasher and then returned to the dining-room table.
It was insupportable that the Lucy should suffer from his unreasoning jealous anger: that was the only thought in the leaden sorrow of her numbed mind. She kept reviewing the incident: her words, Steve’s irrational replies. She saw him rise again, and again, and wondered if she’d let him hit her then, instead of running, if he’d released that senseless violence in the dining-room . . .
She was suddenly aware of being cold. She looked at her watch and realised that it was close to one o’clock. She rose and went to bed. She heard someone moving around in the house and decided that it must be Steve. He didn’t come up to their room. It wouldn’t have mattered to her at that point if he had, but he didn’t.
When she woke, still locked in numb withdrawal, she noticed that his side of the closet was open, the suitcase gone and two of his suits. Well, he’d’ve had sufficient clean shirts. He wouldn’t be able to complain that she skimped on his ironing.
The children had got their own breakfasts: Roman had made coffee for her and set up a single cup and saucer at her usual place at the dining-room table. There wasn’t a sound from the gameroom but the asinine giggle of a TV cartoon character.
It took Mirelle several moments to realise that Tonia was standing in the archway, her eyes red, her mouth in the pout that precedes tears.
‘It’s all right, Tonia. Daddy had a bad day at the office . . .’
‘He had no right to ruin Lucy,’ and Tonia dove for her mother’s arms, sobbing.
‘That’s not for you to say, dear.’ Mirelle found it hard to comfort her daughter because she seemed unable to soften her arms to embrace her. The boys were standing, solemn-faced, across the table. ‘What have you been saying to her?’
‘If she hadn’t mentioned Mr. Howell,’ Nick began, his eyes flashing, emphasising his relationship to his grandfather, ‘Daddy would never have . . .’
‘You have no right to . . .’ and Mirelle broke off, startled by the look of hatred on Nick’s face.
‘I hate him.’
‘That’s enough of that, Nicolas. You don’t hate your father.’
‘He ruined your Lucy!’
‘That is ENOUGH, Nicolas. Each of you has ruined models . . . several models, so . . .’
‘You’re always standing up for him, even when he’s so wrong, it’s pathetic,’ said Roman, disgusted by adult criteria.
A tardy anger roused Mirelle sufficiently to put a stop to the remarks.
‘That’s enough from all of you. The incident is closed. Do you hear me?’ They nodded, startled by the tone of her voice. They were afraid, Mirelle realised, to alienate her as their father had alienated himself. This mustn’t continue, she told herself sternly. ‘You had no business listening.’
‘Who could help hearing?’ Nick demanded, again explosive.
‘The bus.’ She snapped her fingers at them, shooing them all out of the door, disregarding the fact that the younger two would have to wait at the stop.
She watched them go, conscious that she should have countered their arguments, excused Steve’s behavior. But that would have been hypocritical, she thought. She ought to have said something.
She drank the coffee, more out of habit than desire. She seemed to have no emotion, not even regret, nor a trace of anxiety over what was surely a critical point in her marriage. She sat there, trying to sort out her thoughts, unable to concentrate on any line. She was conscious that Tasso came up to her chair, weaving himself around her legs, purring loudly. He was hungry, she thought, and lacked the energy to remedy the problem. Then he leaped to the table and she watched him without rebuke as he lapped milk directly from the pitcher.
She wished that she still had Lucy to talk to. She censored that idea.
She was mildly surprised to see a car drive up and stop. In a passive way, she recognised it was James Howell’s. As he strode past the dining-room window, he saw her there, and frowned when she gave no response to his cheerful wave. She heard his knock at the door and could do nothing. After a long pause, he stood in the archway, concerned by her lack of recognition.
‘What’s wrong, Mirelle?’ As he turned to close the front door, he caught a glimpse of the studio, the damaged door and the statue on the floor. He went halfway down the steps as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘What on earth happened to that lovely thing?’ he asked as he came back to the dining-room. ‘Mirelle, what happened?’
She looked blankly up at him, until finally the sense of his question registered in her mind.
‘Steve . . . Steve . . . he . . .’ she began and was choked by the sobs that were released at this attempt to voice an explanation.
Howell reached out to her, at first sympathetically, and then in alarm as Mirelle seemed to dissolve into hysterical weeping. When he tried to comfort her, she pushed him away and ran down into the studio. He followed and found her on her knees by the statue, sobbing Lucy’s name over and over, patting the flattened head.
He watched her for a moment, then went into the laundry and filled a pail with water which he threw on her. He half-expected her to attack him from the savage look on her face. Instead, she gulped and made a determined effort to get control of herself. He found a clean towel in the laundry-room and handed it to her.
‘Thanks,’ she said weakly as she mopped her face and shoulders, and pushed her soaking hair out of her eyes. She got up stiffly, still swallowing sobs. ‘Sudden Storm, Chapter Five,’ she said in a rasping voice, walking unsteadily to the couch. Her knees buckled and she sat heavily. ‘There’s bourbon in the cupboard over the fridge. I need it.’
He brought back the bottle and a glass, and poured a healthy shot. She was shaking so badly that he had to hold the glass while she drank but the straight alcohol did steady her. In a moment she could hold the glass by herself.
When he saw that she was shivering now, he went upstairs and grabbed a blanket from the first bedroom. He wrapped it firmly around her, disregarding her soaking dressing-gown.
Mirelle could not, or would not, look at him. She kept sipping the bourbon, waiting for it to penetrate the numbness. The phone rang, a startling sound since she was right by the extension. Howell picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. It was Steve.
‘I have to be away for the rest of the week, Mirelle. It’s useless for me to say that I’m sorry about the Lucy, but I am. I didn’t even see it. Mirelle, are you listening?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was flat.
‘I don’t know why I do things like that. Want to lash out and hit you, I mean. But I can’t seem to reach you sometimes. And I have to . . .’ he broke off and there was a long pause. ‘When I’ve finished this trip, can I come home, Mirelle?’
‘Yes. Come home, Steve.’
She motioned for Howell to replace the headset and took another sip of bourbon without looking at him.
‘I’ve no desire to involve myself in your affairs, Mirelle, but I cannot leave you in this state.’
‘I’m not the suicidal type.’
‘I didn’t imply that you are,’ he said smoothly, ‘but you are in no condition to be left alone.’
She drank the last of the bourbon and he took the glass from her hand.
‘Do you have a good friend . . .’ She shook her head violently, averting her eyes from the mess o
n the floor. ‘Not even one who is slightly sympathetic?’
She did look at him this time and he was surprised by the bleakness in her face and eyes. ‘No.’
‘I’m going to make you coffee and something to eat. Go get dressed,’ he said, rising to his feet.
She nodded, like an obedient child, and got up, wondering why there suddenly seemed to be so many steps from the studio. Or was it that they were so hard to climb with legs that felt like wood? But she dressed in whatever came to hand. And she drank the coffee and ate the breakfast he put before her. When she had finished, he collected the dishes and took them to the kitchen. She watched him moving about, thinking that she ought to protest but no words came.
The next thing, he was holding out her coat.
‘You’ve got to cultivate some friends, my dear, for I’m simply not around very often to provide this type of service,’ he said drily as he guided her out to his car.
He drove steadily for a while without her marking which direction, so she was a little puzzled when he pulled into a crowded city parking lot. He handed her out and, as she watched, bemused, carefully locked the car. They were in the center of town, she realised, and found herself being led up the street to the open-air farmer’s market.
‘I found this the week before I started the tour,’ Jamie told her, ‘and I’ve had it in mind to come back when I got the chance. Let’s see what’s new and different to supermarket homogeneity.’
In spite of her self-immolation, Mirelle was amazed.
‘A walk in the woods, perhaps, or a cosy head-shrinking by your fireplace. But a farmer’s market?’
‘I’m always open and above board, m’dear. Any objections?’
‘No, Jamie. None. Only thanks. Thanks so much.’
‘Let’s see if you know your apples, lady,’ he replied, taking her arm as he saw tears start in her eyes. He propelled her firmly towards the rows of apple-crammed baskets around the nearest truck.
He bought more apples then he could eat by himself, and country sausage and scrapple, a wild-looking home-made cheese, baking potatoes, dead-ripe tomatoes and leaf lettuce, fresh basil and dill until neither could carry anything else.
The Year of the Lucy Page 8