The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘The doctor’s coming this afternoon but I’d say that he has bronchitis. Severely.’

  ‘I didn’t give you permission to bandy my condition about,’ said Howell sternly. ‘Tell Dave I’ll be able to play for whosiwhatsis on the 18th as promised.’

  ‘Tell Dave that I’ll be able to play for whosiwhatsis on the 18th as promised,’ Mirelle dutifully quoted and was rewarded by a bark of protest from Howell who made an ineffectual grab for the telephone. Dave heard the protest and laughed, remarking that he sounded like he would recover.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d call me again after the doctor comes and let me know if there’s anything I can do, Mrs. Martin,’ the agent said with genuine concern. ‘Jamie’s not just one of the best accompanists in the business, he’s a very good friend of mine.’

  Mirelle kept the little notebook hidden in her hand when she removed the tray. Howell slid down under the blankets wearily, announcing his intention to sleep until the doctor came. Mirelle went to the kitchen and immediately phoned Margaret at her college.

  ‘I’ll cut afternoon classes and fly down, Mrs. Martin. You know, I’d wondered why I hadn’t heard from Dad. He usually calls me when he gets back home,’ Margaret said. ‘You sure he isn’t . . . I mean . . . it’s so unlike him to be sick.’

  ‘He is sick but he told me that I was a managing female, that he was really dead and no one had thought to lay out his corpse. Then he made me call his agent.’

  ‘Then he intends to live,’ said Margaret with a laugh of relief. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean it . . . about your being managing, Mrs. Martin . . .’ she added in earnest apology.

  ‘Well, I am, because he has no idea that I have managed to call you. He wouldn’t willingly give me your phone number.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you did. Aren’t men the living end?’

  Mirelle agreed heartily and hung up.

  By the time she had finished the dishes and thrown out the spoiled food in the refrigerator, she heard Howell’s croaking voice calling. She got halfway up the stairs before she understood that he would like ice water. Just as she passed the front door, the bell rang. After fumbling with the lock, she admitted Will Martin.

  She felt a trifle silly introducing doctor to patient and retired from the room, ignoring Howell’s fierce scowl. When Will came back downstairs to the kitchen, he was muttering under his breath about damned fools who insist they enjoy the best of health. He dialed the pharmacy and ordered several prescriptions sent over as soon as they could be made up.

  ‘Not when Bart has had a coffee break,’ he added. Then he turned to Mirelle. ‘Good thing you called and insisted I see him, Mirelle. He’s one step away from an oxygen tent. I’d fling him into the hospital right now only they’re so crowded . . .’

  ‘Is he that sick?’ Mirelle was alarmed.

  ‘It’s nothing that medication and proper food and rest oughtn’t to cure. He does have the constitution of an ox, as he boasts, but he needs someone with him in case that lung congestion . . .’

  ‘I phoned his daughter at college. She hoped to catch the three o’clock plane.’

  ‘He said he didn’t need anyone!’ Will Martin snorted. ‘Hadn’t taken so much as an aspirin. “Never have any in the house.” ‘Will did an excellent imitation of James Howell.’ “I’m never sick!” Ha, well, he’s sick right now and I’ve given him a massive dose of penicillin – where it’ll remind him that he is. I’ll drop in again tomorrow.’ He cocked his head inquiringly at Mirelle.

  ‘I’ll stay until Margaret comes.’

  ‘You know the routine to tell her, don’t you? Plenty of liquid, not too cold, plenty of rest. I’ll want to know if there is any increased difficulty in breathing, or a significant rise in temperature.’ Mirelle nodded acknowledgement. ‘Is she a level-headed girl?’

  ‘Seems so.’

  Will frowned for a moment. ‘In any case, he’s better off at home than in the hospital. No other relatives? No? Will you be looking in?’

  ‘I certainly can,’ Mirelle assured him, and was then apprehensive.

  ‘Oh, I’m just cautious, that’s all, Mirelle. But he’s the stubborn type and unless his daughter can keep him in bed, this could easily turn into full-fledged pneumonia.’

  Mirelle thought of the concert which Jamie intended to play on the 18th and smiled. ‘I’ve a lever for her blackmail.’

  ‘Okay, then. Give her my answering service number. Eckerd’s is sending the prescriptions and a vaporiser. He’s to start the tablets tomorrow morning, every four hours, and the codeine syrup ought to inhibit that cough. His throat is raw meat.’ Will gave another disgusted snort. ‘And he’s never sick!’

  ‘With more people like him, Will, you’d be out of business.’

  ‘D’you think I’d mind after this winter?’ With a weary shake of his shoulders, Will buttoned up his coat and left.

  Mirelle brought Howell his cool water. ‘On the doctor’s orders I phoned Margaret,’ she said.

  Howell narrowed his eyes. ‘You phoned her before he got here. I heard the click on the extension. Presumptuous female!’

  ‘You know a lot of them, don’t you?’ she said, lobbing his address book at his chest.

  ‘That’s why I can make accurately odious comparisons,’ he said, his long fingers closing absently about the book. ‘And you have magnaminously agreed to stay by my deathbed until she comes?’

  ‘I’ve my orders.’

  ‘Managing female!’ There was no real malice in his voice, and not much strength. He buried his head in his pillow and closed his eyes.

  Mirelle looked down at him for a few moments, thinking how illness brings out the boy in a man. Distracting to reflect that even a sophisticate like Jamie Howell must have been a nice little boy – from time to time. Then she went to change the other beds. She made a neat pile of the sheets. From the marks on them, they must go to a laundry. Margaret would know which one. With the kitchen cleaned and himself asleep, there was little to do now but wait for the drugstore delivery and Margaret. She didn’t feel that she could unpack his suitcase nor make noise vacuuming the house which was dusty. Nor did she feel as if she could intrude on his music room. The phone rang and she nearly fell over a chair trying to reach it before it could disturb the sleeper.

  It was Margaret. She was at Logan airport, having broken all records getting there, and would fly out on the two o’clock plane. She’d take a cab from the airport in Philadelphia which would get her to Wilmington about four but did her father have enough money in the house because she didn’t have cab fare?

  ‘If he doesn’t, I do, Margaret. Just come.’ Mirelle gave her a slightly expurgated version of Will Martin’s diagnosis.

  ‘Imagine! Dad sick enough to ask for a doctor!’ She hung up.

  If Margaret couldn’t reach Wilmington before four, Mirelle wondered what to do about her children. If she flew home about three to collect Tonia, the boys would be all right by themselves but she didn’t really wish to inflict Tonia on Howell. And ten to one, Tonia would drop one of her ambiguous comments at precisely the wrong moment. But, if she arranged for a baby-sitter, that would also be noteworthy . . .

  Mirelle fumed. It wasn’t as if she were doing anything wrong, helping a friend. It was ridiculous that she couldn’t feel at liberty to stay here. With a sudden inspiration she dialed Sylvia.

  ‘Are you busy from three to five this afternoon?’

  ‘Now that YOU inquire, no. Why?’

  Mirelle explained.

  ‘Isn’t that just like a man?’ was Sylvia’s comment. ‘Say, if you had to clean out the fridge, should I pick up a few essentials for the girl?’

  ‘Would you? That would be a tremendous help.’ And between them they concocted a list of what might tempt an invalid that a daughter, probably unused to cooking, could prepare. Sylvia would drop the groceries off on the way to Mirelle’s house.

  While she waited for Sylvia, Mirelle mused again on how much she liked the woman. No c
oy questions, no arch suggestions about why Howell had called Mirelle. And today, too, when Sylvia had been so depressed.

  She answered Sylvia’s soft knock on the front door and ushered her into the kitchen where they unpacked the shopping bags.

  ‘My mother had a sovereign convalescent remedy,’ Sylvia said with a sour expression as she waggled a butcher’s package about. ‘Where are the pots? I need a double boiler. Having beef tea prepared by my mother’s own lily-white hands was nearly an incentive for me to contract an illness. Ah, thank you.’ Mirelle had discovered the double boiler. ‘We’ll just put the beef in the top, water in the bottom, cover well, and leave for about half an hour.’ Sylvia followed her own directions. ‘Throw the meat out afterwards – he doesn’t have a dog? Well, give that cat of yours a treat then . . . But the residual juice . . . hmmm, concentrated protein, easily digestible and it tastes incredibly good as well as being incredibly restorative to all those depleted red blood corpuscles. For that recipe I have forgiven my sainted mother some of her lesser transgressions.’

  Then the irrepressible Sylvia tiptoed out of the kitchen and essayed a brief exploratory tour of the lower floor.

  ‘He must make a good bit of money tickling ivories while his canaries sing.’

  ‘Shush, Syl, he’ll hear you.’

  ‘Nah!’ Then she looked at her watch. ‘Ooops. I’ve got to dash.’

  ‘Wait! What will you tell the kids?’

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. ‘The truth! You’re sitting up with a sick friend!’ She drew her features into an exaggerated expression of noble piety.

  ‘Who’s that?’ They could barely hear Howell’s croak.

  The pharmacy truck pulled in just as Sylvia sneaked out of the door.

  ‘Your medicine is here,’ Mirelle answered truthfully, taking the package from the boy.

  ‘These’d choke a horse,’ Howell said, examining the tablets with suspicion. He sniffed the cough medicine and turned his nose away in revulsion.

  ‘It’s not how it smells, but how effective it is in relieving that cough,’ Mirelle said and poured him a spoonful. ‘Or are you that fond of hacking up your throat lining?’ His teeth connected audibly with the spoon. ‘Don’t eat it!’

  ‘It smelled vile and tasted viler!’ Jamie gave a histrionic shudder, then pointed a finger at her chest. ‘I heard females cackling in my kitchen.’

  Mirelle laid a quick hand on his forehead. ‘You’re delirious!’

  ‘I must be or I’d have you in bed with me.’

  Mirelle laughed, as much at the thought of anyone wanting her in bed, other than Steve, as at Jamie’s rakishness in his present circumstances.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter to be invited to bed with me, young lady,’ he said, in a grand manner at variance with his unkempt appearance.

  ‘Doubtless, but not prudent in your infectious state. I’d court respiratory disaster as well as a scarlet letter.’

  Jamie gave her an odd glance and then flopped over onto his back, coughing at the slight exertion. He punched the pillow under his head to prop himself up sufficiently to glower at her.

  ‘Just what did that sawbones say was the matter with me?’

  ‘A touch of bronchial pneumonia.’

  ‘A touch?’ Howell was indignant. ‘I’ve sustained a knockout.’

  ‘So you admit that you’re sick? Enjoy it while you may: you’re due to recover with proper rest and nursing.’

  ‘Nursing? From Margaret? She’s a baby herself.’

  Mirelle cocked her head at him. ‘So you’d prefer to go to the hospital?’

  ‘No!’ His explosive negative made him hack painfully.

  ‘I have the feeling that Margaret will be quite capable of looking after your basic needs.’

  He glowered, plucking at the covers with petulant fingers as she left to check on the beef tea.

  What’n’hell’s this?’ he asked suspiciously as she returned with the steaming cup.

  ‘It’s good for you. Drink it. Slowly. It’s hot.’

  He hadn’t quite waited for her advise and must have burned his mouth with the first sip. Before he could complain, a look of pleasurable surprise crossed his face. ‘Hmm, it tastes good.’ He sipped more judiciously and with evident relish. ‘When is my junior Nightingale arriving?’

  ‘About four-thirty. Plane gets in at three-fifteen.’

  ‘Did she have enough money for the taxi?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, no.’

  Howell chuckled. ‘I always buy a round-trip ticket for her. That way I know she’ll be able to get home. But I’ve never known Mags to have cab fare. God knows she gets enough of an allowance from me.’

  ‘She’ll earn it this time.’

  Howell started to snort in agreement but was seized with a violent spate of hard coughing. Mirelle handed him a box of Kleenex just as the phone rang. It was Dave Andorri.

  ‘Does he need anything?’ the agent asked solicitously when Mirelle had told him the diagnosis.

  ‘Hmmm. Have you got a blonde,’ asked Mirelle, all innocence as she noticed Howell’s fierce glare, ‘about 24, size 10?’ She neatly ducked the pillow which was flung in her direction.

  ‘He’ll live then,’ Dave said with a chuckle. ‘But will he be well enough to play on the 18th? I’ve got a mighty particular prima donna who will raise an unholy stink if Howell isn’t at the keyboard.’

  ‘I’ve told him that if he’s a real good boy and obeys her, Margaret will let him up for that concert.’ She sidestepped the box of Kleenex which Jamie lobbed at her. The effort re-started the cough so she was saved his snide commentary.

  ‘Is that him coughing like that? He is sick. But Margaret’s a good kid. They’ve got a nice relationship.’

  ‘Even if he doesn’t give her a decent allowance.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Well, tell him I’ll call tomorrow.’

  She hung up and gave Howell Dave’s message.

  ‘Mirelle . . .’ Jamie began when he got his breath back, ‘you’re a . . .’

  ‘Managing female,’ she said, staring him down.

  His glare dissolved unexpectedly into a smile. ‘A quality which I didn’t suspect in you and which I appreciate, despite snide remarks to the contrary. What have you done with your children, oh devoted mother?’

  ‘Sylvia’s baby-sitting.’

  ‘Does she know you’re holding the hand of a sick friend?’

  ‘It was her suggestion, and her beef tea recipe.’ She reached for the empty cup, lying on the spread.

  His hand, strong-fingered, closed about her wrist, jerking her off her feet and forcing her down to his level.

  ‘Jamie!’

  He held her eyes in an unfathomable gaze before he smiled oddly and deliberately rubbed the hand he held across his stubbly beard.

  ‘Hey, your face is like sandpaper.’

  ‘I’ll see to you another time, me proud beauty!’ he said with one last baleful leer and then turned away from her.

  Disturbed by the intensity of his expression and the unexpected strength in a man weakened by fever and coughing, Mirelle hurried down to the kitchen. His grip, angrily strong, had left white marks on her wrist. And why had he turned so abruptly violent? She had only been trying to lighten his illness with her teasing. Restless, she emptied the dried meat cubes out of the double boiler and put them into a sack to bring home to Tasso: that is, if he’d consider them fit to eat. She washed up and tidied the kitchen, delaying the time when she might be called up to Howell’s room again. She was relieved to hear the noise of a car in the drive and opened the front door to see Margaret hurrying up the walk.

  ‘I owe him a fortune,’ she told Mirelle breathlessly.

  ‘Come and get it,’ called Howell from above and Margaret, with an apologetic smile at Mirelle, rushed up the stairs.

  Mirelle could hear the obligato of her greeting and questioning against his rasping counterbass. Then Margaret was clattering down the stairs again
with a wallet in her hand. She paid the cabbie, retrieved a small case from the back seat and came flying into the house, looking exceedingly pretty with her flushed cheeks and windblown hair. She was not a bit like her father except for the jawline.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Martin. Dad’s said how you’ve browbeaten him with old maid nurses and beef teas, whatever they are, and he promises he’ll behave for me.’

  Mirelle laughed and gave Margaret the doctor’s instructions, adding that she’d be happy to do any shopping or fetching that might be necessary.

  ‘Dad also said I’d better send you home now. Your children will be missing you.’

  ‘I’d better go, truly. Call me.’

  As Mirelle drove home, the hand which Jamie had rubbed against his unshaven cheek still tingled from that pressure. She could almost feel the strong fingers tightening again.

  That night, at dinner, wondering why, she told the family all about Howell’s distress call and waiting until his daughter arrived from college.

  ‘Trying to keep that commission alive?’ was Steve’s query.

  ‘I could hardly have left him alone in the condition he was in,’ Mirelle replied. ‘He might not have lived to pay up.’

  ‘You aren’t smart about charge accounts but you know how to handle your own art business,’ Steve said. ‘Speaking of which, is it absolutely necessary to buy seven pairs of underpants for Tonia at one time? Why did we buy that dryer?’

  ‘The pants are special ones, each labelled with the day of the week . . .’ Mirelle began to explain.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘. . . and Susan Harper has them and Susie Miller and Karen Arnold . . .’

  ‘So Antonia Martin, of course, has to have them?’

  ‘Of course!’

  10

  THE NEXT MORNING when Mirelle called Margaret Howell, she was told that the invalid had been very restless during the night, constantly plagued by the racking cough. The vaporiser had had little noticeable effect and Jamie claimed the cough syrup was worthless. Mirelle told Margaret to confer with Will Martin.

  Then she went down to the studio and finished Sylvia’s pig. On inspiration, and because Howell was much on her mind, she took down the long-covered head.