The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  Seeing that her route would now take her near Jamie’s, she deflected to swing by and see how effective the sick pig was. She was turning into a wooded area on a short leg of the triangle to Howell’s house when she noticed a white Cadillac parked in a turn-off. She got a flash of two heads through the back window, kissing close. It wasn’t until she was in Howell’s driveway that she realised why the car had been familiar. It had been G.F. in that car, and the woman’s head had not been Sylvia’s. Mirelle slammed on the brakes in unaccustomed violence.

  ‘Something your best friend doesn’t tell you,’ she muttered, cursing whatever had prompted her to take that particular road at that particular time.

  ‘Hi, Mrs. Martin, come join us for lunch,’ Margaret said in greeting.

  ‘Oh, good heavens. I’d forgotten all about lunch. I’ll come back later.’

  ‘Please don’t do anything of the kind,’ Margaret said, quickly drawing her in. ‘I’m just setting the table.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘You could tell Dad that his five minutes are up now. He’s under the sunlamp. He wants to get rid of that pasty pig expression.’

  Mirelle stopped abruptly on the threshold of Jamie’s bedroom. Howell was stripped to the waist, lying on his back under the glare of the sunlamp, pads protecting his eyes. His face, bleached further by the bright light, was in complete repose and the line of his mouth was sad. His hands, one across his waist, the other palm up on the pillow behind his head, looked strangely strengthless and lax. In contrast, the well-developed pectoral muscles, the rounding of the bicep and forearm, the arch of his chest were those of an athlete, not a musician. His body appeared considerably younger than his face. Mirelle experienced a curious disorientation looking at him. Quickly and quietly, she retreated a few steps from the door.

  ‘Margaret says you’ve baked long enough on that side,’ she called as if making a first approach. ‘You’ll be tasty for lunch.’ I’m as bad as an old lady, she told herself and was further dismayed to see that he only turned out the lamp at her warning. As she entered his room, he was removing the eye-pads.

  ‘I’m trying to approximate the coy shade of pink my sick pig wears,’ he said, reaching for his clothes. Fascinated, Mirelle watched the play of muscles across the top of his arm as he slipped into a shirt.

  ‘Anything is better than that underdone pasty effect you’ve been sporting,’ she said blithely. For heavens’ sake, Steve had a better physique. Why should she get palpitations over Jamie’s?

  Jamie eyed her. ‘Actually I do feel better today. Your lemon-honey is a lot more effective than that $15.00 glue Martin prescribed. I slept all night.’ He shrugged into a dressing-robe. ‘As a reward, Margaret is allowing me down for lunch. Also to keep peace and support the legend that I am recovering.’ He slipped his hand under Mirelle’s elbow and guided her downstairs. ‘You seem subdued this morning, not your usual caustic self.’

  Mirelle wrinkled her nose. ‘My mother-in-law is visiting us.’

  ‘Why didn’t you marry an orphan? You did as much for him. But I can see how such a visit would dampen even the most normally merry temperament.’

  ‘Implying I am dour by nature?’

  ‘Soured by nature, at any rate.’

  ‘Takes one to know one.’

  ‘Margaret,’ said Jamie very sweetly as he seated Mirelle at the table, ‘do serve Mirelle some of those mushrooms that killed the dog.’

  ‘You mean the ones you like so much?’ asked his daughter in the same saccharine tone, as she placed a steaming pot roast on the table.

  ‘You are all against me,’ Jamie said and then sniffed deeply. ‘So this is what has been tantalising me all morning. The size of it, I’ll be eating pot roast for days.’

  ‘Exactly my plan,’ Margaret replied sunnily. ‘I’ve got to get back to college Sunday, Mrs. Martin, with midterms coming up. I’ve arranged for the cleaning lady to come in twice this week.’

  ‘You mean I’ve got to eat pot roast for a week?’ Jamie was outraged.

  ‘I’ll supply you with calf’s foot jelly.’

  ‘Thank you so much!’

  Mirelle caught the unspoken request in Margaret’s eyes and nodded reassuringly.

  ‘Such devotion ought to please your egocentric soul, James Howell. Instead of which, you complain,’ she said, and took a bite. ‘You have no reason to do so. This is very good and will be, hot, cold or nine days old.’ Mirelle bowed elaborately to the cook.

  Jamie had tentatively placed a morsel in his mouth and his expression altered to one of pleasure. ‘I haven’t been favored with anything like this the whole time I’ve been ill.’

  ‘An invalid requires a suitable diet. How could you have tasted anything through that bronchitis?’ Mirelle said.

  ‘I used a Family Circle recipe, Mrs. Martin, to be sure it would come out all right. I’m not a very good cook.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mirelle said in a tone to discourage further disclaimers. ‘I think the cook needs a raise.’

  Jamie choked on his mouthful and Margaret giggled, hiding her face in her napkin.

  ‘I suspect collusion,’ Jamie said. ‘Nursing an ailing parent comes under the dutiful daughter clause in our relationship, Margaret, and this is the first time I’ve had occasion to exercise it.’

  However, he found it impossible to maintain his pretense of indignation with the two women smiling at him, so he changed the subject completely by asking Mirelle if he could still register to vote in next year’s presidential election.

  ‘They’ve started early,’ Margaret told Mirelle. ‘We’ve already heard two sides of the story . . .’

  ‘Both sounding remarkably similar to my apolitical ears,’ Jamie put in cynically.

  ‘Sylvia’s involved in politics on the local level,’ Mirelle said and mentioned the referendum coming up in the Brandywine Hundred.

  Time passed so quickly that it was half-past two before Mirelle realised it and hurriedly excused herself. Jamie saw her to the door as Margaret started to clear the table.

  ‘Something else is bothering you, Mirelle, and I don’t think it’s the mother-in-law.’

  ‘Am I so transparent?’

  Jamie eyed her kneely for a long moment. ‘I shouldn’t have said “bother”. “Changed” is accurate. For the better.’

  ‘Just the other side of the worm.’ She ducked away before he could delay her. She waved as she backed out of the driveway but the sight of his Thunderbird reminded her of the white Cadillac and G.F. Esterhazy.

  Mr. Howell is far too acute, Mirelle said to herself. I must remember to keep him away from my mother-in-law.

  13

  BETWEEN CLEANING HER house and finishing the figurines for the Bazaar, Mirelle kept herself too busy to worry about G.F. Esterhazy. Sylvia phoned several times for a quick chat because she had ‘allowed’ herself to be drafted into the major referendum opposition group.

  ‘If I spent half as much time opposing the damned thing as I do smarming people up, it’d be defeated hands down. There is no “popular” mandate for this stupidity,’ and when she realised that Mirelle’s remarks were mere courtesy, ‘but then political action is not your long suit so I’m boring you. Goodbye.’

  Before Mirelle could remonstrate, Sylvia had rung off and for a long moment, Mirelle worried whether or not to phone her back and apologise. She did dial the number but the line was busy. The next day Sylvia rang at her usual time with a crudely funny joke which she’d acquired and had to share with her friend. Combining a shopping expedition with a visit to Jamie, Mirelle found him snappish with convalescence but slowly regaining his strength.

  Determined to leave nothing to chance, Mirelle organised every detail of the in-laws’ visit. She decided to precut the small blocks of clay which she would need for modeling at the Bazaar. Most of her figures were glazed and ready, the remainder awaiting their turn in the kiln, so her mother-in-law would not see her ‘wasting’ so much time with her ‘muck’ in the studio.


  The Bazaar was to run two days, Friday and Saturday, with a supper at the church on Friday night which both generations of Martins could attend. Mother Martin fortunately was a firm believer in church work. Saturday night Steve had invited his current boss, Red Blackburn, and his wife, Ann, to dinner. He’d suggested that Mirelle invite Sylvia and G.F. Mirelle had been torn between a desire for Sylvia’s moral support and fear of what Sylvia might do to ‘help’ her. But there was a certain snobbism about inviting the Esterhazys: G.F. was a prominent lawyer, active in politics: Sylvia was Wilmington society. Their presence would be proof to the in-laws that, despite Mirelle’s background, the younger Martins were not social outcasts.

  Sunday morning would be reserved for church and Sunday afternoon could be filled with a trip to the Longwood Gardens near Kennett Square. Monday, presumably, the senior Martins would depart for Florida. All should go well. Mirelle did not actually expect it to, but with so much to be done, there might not be time for the usual nastiness. And this Wilmington house was large, with several levels on which one could escape. The kids’ noise from the gameroom was deadened by the acoustic tiles so they wouldn’t be a nuisance. Mother Martin made a special study of dominating conversations and any sound of off-stage enjoyment was promptly squelched if it interfered with her soliloquies.

  The boys objected strenuously to camping in Tonia’s room. But Mr. and Mrs. Martin did not share a bedroom in their own home and never considered doing so when visiting either of their sons. Tripling up did not improve the kids’ attitudes towards the impending visit.

  ‘If they’re going on to Florida, why don’t they just go?’ Nick asked sulkily. ‘I want to stay at the Bazaar all the time and watch you work. I could be a help instead of having to stay here and listen to Grandmother yak.’

  ‘Nicolas LeBoyne Martin, you will listen politely to your grandmother and you will be damned careful about what you say in her presence,’ Mirelle said repressively.

  ‘You better, too, Mother. ’Cause she don’t stand for cussing.’

  ‘Doesn’t, not don’t, and I was emphasising.’

  ‘You could have used “darn”.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean about being polite, Nick.’

  ‘Ahhh!’

  ‘Nick?’ Mirelle issued a blanket warning with that word.

  Nick pouted and made a pattern in the rug with his sneaker toe.

  Roman was more rebellious. His recollections of his grandparents were considerably more acute than his young brother’s, but he could be counted on to hold his peace when necessary. Mirelle prayed that Tonia’s physical resemblance to her grandmother might be distraction enough. Tonia had no preconditioned opinions and looked forward with delight to the visit. However, Tonia’s perceptions were sharper than her brothers’ in the area of human relationships and, as her tongue was quick, no one was ever sure what the child might say next. In most circumstances she could be amusing, but, during such a critical period, she could as easily devastate all Mirelle’s careful schemes.

  And there was absolutely no way to safeguard against it, Mirelle sighed to herself Tuesday morning after breakfast. Her cleaning lady was coming on Wednesday this week, having obliged by shifting Tuesday lady with Wednesday lady. Overnight the house had a chance of staying neat for the Thursday arrival.

  Mirelle ranged through the house again, trying to look at it with unfamiliar eyes, hoping to spot delinquencies. When Sylvia breezed in, she made her go over the house again before they sat down to coffee.

  ‘If you’d warned me, I’d’ve brought white gloves,’ Sylvia said after she had reassured Mirelle for the fourth time that the house looked perfect. ‘I couldn’t find so much as a spot of dried clay in the studio.’

  ‘Not that they’d bother looking in there.’

  ‘I see you vacuumed the crawlway. Honest to God, Mirelle, it’s ridiculous . . .’

  ‘It may seem so to you but you don’t have my mother-in-law.’

  ‘I’ll trade you my mother for her any day. In fact, there’s still time for her to visit you. Mother’d spot your deficiencies as a housekeeper in short and scathing order. What I find reprehensible in you, Mirelle, is that you bother to conform to her standards. You don’t like her, you don’t really care for her opinions . . .’

  ‘Sylvia! Don’t YOU houseclean like crazy before your mother visits?’

  Sylvia’s expression froze. ‘My mother lives with me. Or “resides”, to use her precise expression, when she is not bringing other relatives up to the mark.’ Sylvia sighed deeply but the sound was not all for effect. ‘She’s been on an extended visit to her younger sister in Boston. Aunt Agatha is recently widowed and Mother wished to be certain that she knows the new regulations of a relict. Can you imagine naming a child “Agatha”? I’m afraid that Agatha will have learned all she needs to know very soon, unfortunately. The peace at home has been divine.’ Sylvia grinned impishly. ‘While the cat’s away, the mice will play, you know.’ Then she leaned over and patted Mirelle’s hand, smiling warmly. ‘So I know chapter and verse about maternal visitations, my dear. In fact, I have frequently thought of writing a book one day. Living With Mother or Enduring In-laws? Hmmm. Therefore I am Number One qualified to appreciate, guard, defend . . .’

  ‘Sylviaaaah!’ Mirelle put her desperate plea into the elongation of the last syllable.

  Sylvia cocked a sardonic eyebrow at her. ‘All right. All right. I’ll behave myself even though I’ll be dying to tell the old bat off.’ She jumped almost as much as Mirelle when someone knocked at the door. ‘Expecting them today?’

  Mirelle couldn’t see the driveway and dashed nervously to the front door. ‘It’s only Tuesday.’

  ‘I cannot force another morsel of pot roast down my throat and calf’s foot jelly nauseates me. Lady, can you make an omelette?’ It was James Howell, looking well tanned and himself again.

  ‘Well, if that’s your father-in-law . . .’ drawled Sylvia from the dining-room.

  ‘You know perfectly well it isn’t,’ Mirelle replied. ‘I don’t think that you’ve met Sylvia Esterhazy before. This is James Howell.’

  ‘I see that the beef tea did you some good,’ Sylvia said, shaking hands.

  ‘Ahha. I was right. You were one of the crackling females in my kitchen,’ Jamie exclaimed in mock vindication.

  ‘Pneumonia affected your hearing.’

  Mirelle brought another cup for him and observed, as he lifted it, that the muscles in his hand were twitching. He noticed her glance. ‘Not weakness, my dear, from lack of a balanced diet but from a strenuous session of practise. Since Muhammad could not come to the mountain, and I do not exaggerate (he made a ballooning gesture out over his lean stomach), came to Muhammad.’

  Mirelle laughed, catching his reference, but Sylvia looked bewildered.

  ‘I’m to accompany a rather famous soprano . . .’

  ‘Who had best remain anonymous after that slighting description,’ said Mirelle.

  ‘. . . In her Academy of the Arts recital and due to my semi-convalescent state, she condescended to come to the wilds of Wilmington for a much-needed rehearsal.’

  ‘When’s the concert?’ Sylvia asked, shooting Mirelle a glance.

  ‘The 18th. By the way, Mirelle, I have tickets for you and your husband.’

  ‘The 18th? I think Steve has to be at a convention. Would you come with me, Sylvia?’

  Sylvia professed herself to be delighted but said she’d have to check with her diary as she had so many political meetings right now.

  ‘I’m a ward-heeler,’ she told Jamie, ‘and heeling the referendum over, preferably.’

  ‘I thought ward-heelers had to be rotund, rotten and male.’

  ‘Not in my party. Of course, if you’ve only encountered Republicans, I can see where such misconceptions might arise.’

  Jamie laughed. ‘Are you all a-twitter?’ he asked Mirelle.

  She looked at him blankly, having missed the reference.

&nb
sp; ‘Your mother-in-law, he means,’ Sylvia said. ‘You don’t happen to have a pair of white gloves, do you, Jamie?’

  ‘In my pocket,’ and Howell reached into his coat and flourished something white.

  ‘It may seem silly to you, Sylvia,’ Mirelle was piqued by her flippancy, ‘and to you, Jamie,’ she glared at him, ‘but there is nothing the least bit risible about it.’

  ‘You need to change your perspective, that’s all, Mirelle,’ Jamie told her. ‘If what the old bitch said and thought made no difference to you or you could convince her that it didn’t, she’d have no power to affect you.’

  ‘Me, yes. My husband, no. My children, no.’

  ‘You, my dear,’ and Jamie waggled a finger at her, ‘can still control the situation.’

  ‘That’s a lot easier said than done.’

  ‘Sure, ’cause she’s got you on edge already.’

  ‘She can do that all right,’ Mirelle admitted ruefully, ‘ever since the day . . .’ and then she stopped.

  ‘Ever since the day she felt she could make you kowtow by shaming you about your birth,’ Jamie continued.

  Mirelle glared at Sylvia whose eyebrows raised with surprised innocence.

  ‘I have accompanied singers who knew Mary LeBoyne, and Mirelle as a little girl,’ Jamie told Sylvia by way of explanation. ‘I have also seen some of Lajos Neagu’s work. Mirelle has nothing to be ashamed of in either parent.’

  ‘Keep talking,’ urged Sylvia, winking maliciously at Mirelle.

  ‘Mirelle, have you ever seen any of your father’s paintings?’

  ‘Only reproductions in portrait books. His work has never been publicly exhibited here. I’d’ve gone,’ she added defiantly. ‘So much of his output was portraiture and little of that is available for public viewing.