‘You’ll never guess who was done by Neagu.’ Sylvia was smirking with delight.
‘I won’t if you don’t tell me,’ Mirelle caustically.
‘G.F.’s mother. But he hasn’t a clue where the portrait is now.’
‘Where’s the infamous one he did of your mother, Mirelle?’ Jamie asked her.
‘I don’t know. It was, after all, Barthan-More’s. It used to hang in his bedroom but whether it survived the war or not . . .’ Mirelle shrugged. She was less indifferent to the portrait’s fate than she appeared. Her mother as Tosca, vibrant, anguished, beautiful, in a brilliant blue costume with jewels and egret feathers in her elaborately dressed hair, had enchanted her the few times she had crept into the forbidden apartment to peek at it. ‘However, my father’s fame is really not at issue.’
‘Just yours,’ said Sylvia pointedly.
‘No, nor mine, because it only points up what the Martins want to forget about their daughter-in-law.’
James Howell snorted his contempt.
‘So only your Dirty Dicks will go to the Bazaar?’ Sylvia asked suddenly.
‘The what?’ Jamie demanded.
Mirelle explained.
‘Are they on a par with my sick pig?’
‘More or less.’
‘Tell me, Mirelle,’ Jamie began with an all too innocent expression on his face, ‘have you ever concocted a sick pig of your mother-in-law?’
Sylvia exploded with mirth and even Mirelle, gasping a denial, gave way to paroxysms of laughter.
‘If we could but see ourselves as Mirelle sees us,’ Jamie remarked with unctuous solemnity.
‘No,’ Sylvia said, wiping laugh tears from her eyes. ‘Mirelle couldn’t do that woman. She sculpts with too much love. She’s never done anything hateful. Even those Dirty Dicks and the sick pigs are done with tenderness and great affection.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the face she put on that pig she gave me,’ Jamie declared, affecting an injured expression, but his eyes were intent on Mirelle.
‘I not only saw it, I encouraged her,’ Sylvia said. ‘Men who are never sick are incredible ogres when they finally succumb to physical discomfort.’
Jamie waved his hands in defeat.
‘Seriously, Mirelle, aren’t you going to exhibit the soldier, or the horse, or even the Running Child? Or better yet, the Lucy.’
‘The Lucy’s not finished and the others aren’t for sale.’
‘Sale, schmale,’ Sylvia said in exasperation, ‘display them. Mark them sold or vacant but at least exhibit the quality of the real work you can do.’
‘That ought to be obvious in the . . .
‘Skeered of what your mother-in-law will say?’ Jamie asked, one eyebrow raised challengingly.
Mirelle shut her mouth angrily, looking from Jamie’s too bland face to Sylvia’s earnest and determined expression.
‘Not the Lucy,’ she said and to herself she sounded sullen.
‘Now, then,’ Jamie said, briskly rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m a poor sick invalid who hasn’t had . . .’
‘Anything but delicious pot roast,’ Mirelle interrupted.
‘. . . Nine days old,’ he finished, spacing the words with disgust.
‘Do you think he deserves our culinary effects? Mirelle asked Sylvia.
‘Hmmm,’ and Sylvia thoughtfully considered. ‘I’m a bit hungry myself.’
The unscheduled luncheon successfully kept Mirelle from dwelling on Thursday’s problems. The kind of remarks that passed between Jamie and Sylvia kept her laughing. She was delighted that her two friends liked each other.
‘It’s rude to eat and run,’ Sylvia said, consulting her watch.
‘. . . Only for poisoners . . .’ Jamie put in.
‘. . . but I’ve got to ward-heel,’ Sylvia continued. ‘It’s evident from the number of Republicans voting in the primary that some returned from graves that had been their only residence for the past twenty years. I have endless records to check. After all, I only dropped in for a cup of coffee.’
‘It’s been a pleasure, Sylvia,’ Jamie said, giving her a Continental click of the heels and a bow.
‘Indeed!’ Sylvia swirled out of the door with a coquettish wink.
‘You owe the beef tea to her,’ Mirelle said.
‘Sensible as well as intelligent. How refreshing,’ and for once his banter annoyed Mirelle.
‘Why are you always so . . . so . . .’
‘Snide?’ he suggested, overly helpful. ‘To hide a tender heart,’ and he placed one hand dramatically over his chest.
‘Oh, you’re never serious.’
‘It can be a disease.’ Then he dropped all pose, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her a little to make her look him in the eyes. ‘If you accept Sylvia’s breeziness, as you seem to, you must accept my sarcasm, too. We’re covering up something. Sylvia’s a deeply troubled woman beneath that caustic tongue. You, Mirelle, with your long silences and deep thoughts. Me with my rapier-like wit, my unfailing and devastating humor. We’re all lonely people, Mirelle. I’ll give that as a mutual bond. I’d also venture to say that it’s because all three of us are out of step with our status in life. No, be quiet,’ and he put his finger to her lips to stop her protest. ‘Why are women so goddamned subjective? You were going to say, “but I’m not out of step. I’m a happy housewife and mother” . . .’ He had lightened his tone to a falsetto but there was nothing light about the expression in his eyes. ‘Bullshit, Mirelle. Bullshit. I’ve seen a change in you, a good one. You were beginning to sound like a functioning human being instead of a zombie. I don’t want to see you lose the progress you’ve made.’ Then his eyebrow twitched and rose sardonically as he grinned with pure malice. ‘Not that either the Esterhazy woman or I will let you. In spite of the virago, Madame Martin.’
‘Between the two of you, my peace is destroyed,’ Mirelle exclaimed passionately.
‘I intend to destroy it more thoroughly one of these days,’ Jamie said with quiet intent and left.
14
BY FRIDAY EVENING, Mirelle wished devoutly to return to being a non-feeling, non-thinking zombie again. At first, when the senior Martins arrived late Thursday evening, just in time for dinner, Mirelle had hopefully entertained the notion that perhaps this visit wouldn’t be too bad after all.
Although Allentown was a scant two-hour drive from Wilmington and the Martins had planned to arrive by lunchtime, a series of ridiculous incidents had combined to delay them. Since a recital of turning back to the house before reaching the highway to ‘make sure’ that the cellar windows were locked, et cetera, kept the dinner table breathless and the children squirming, it also prevented Marian Martin from latching immediately onto the shortcomings of either Mirelle or Steve. So exhausted by these untoward events was Mother Martin that she retired early, allowing Dad Martin to have a comfortable chat with Steve and Mirelle.
Steve showed his father the house and the garden while Mirelle tidied the kitchen and made the final preparations for the Bazaar the next afternoon. The men ended up in the studio watching her pack the cut blocks of clay into plastic bags.
‘I do kinda wish that Mirelle wasn’t going to be so busy,’ Dad Martin began gently. ‘We get so little chance for a nice talk. Christmas and Thanksgiving are so hectic.’
Mirelle looked at Steve quickly and went then back to her work.
‘I explained that in my letter, Dad. Mirelle had promised the church a long time ago that she would do the booth and there’s been a lot of excitement about it,’ Steve said, though there was a note of entreaty in his voice. ‘A very nice mention in the paper, too, with the announcement of the Bazaar.’
Mirelle winced inwardly and Dad Martin immediately picked up on the reference to publicity.
‘In the papers? Is that wise?’
‘Mirelle was referred to as Mrs. Steven Martin, Dad, not Mary Ellen LeBoyne.’
Dad Martin looked at his son silently for a few moments
, then shrugged his shoulders diffidently.
‘If it’s for the church, people oughtn’t to need their names in the paper,’ he said mildly.
‘Don’t worry, Dad Martin. There are four other Steve Martins in Wilmington,’ Mirelle told him.
‘No need to be that way,’ Dad Martin said with a sniff and left the studio.
Mirelle looked pointedly at Steve, who gave his head a weary shake before following his father in to the gameroom where they watched TV together.
Friday was overcast and cold. Mirelle, tense and tired, woke groggily from a repeat of her hand nightmare. She could smell the aroma of coffee and thought how considerate of Steve. Then she heard him noisily showering. Mother Martin was also an early riser. Groaning, Mirelle barged into the bathroom to wash sleep from her face. She dressed hurriedly since she knew that the sight of one of her filmy negligees would irritate her mother-in-law. She got downstairs to find the dining-room table all set for a formal breakfast.
Grimly she tried to dispel her sleepiness and jump into alert status without her usual gradual routine.
‘How very kind of you, Mother Martin,’ she said, briskly entering the kitchen, ‘and you must have been tired last night.’
‘I just can’t seem to sleep late after so many years of getting up to be sure that the boys and Arthur started the day off with a proper meal,’ her mother-in-law said, primly separating the edges of the eggs she was frying.
Mirelle suppressed the desire to scream and, noticing that the one thing the set table lacked was milk, she went to the refrigerator.
‘Oh, I’d wait, Mary Ellen, to put the milk on. My boys always complained if the milk was warm.’
Mirelle shut the icebox door carefully, determined to keep her temper. But she wanted to remind the woman that she, Mirelle, had established routines with her children which were in no way dependent on Steve’s memories of his childhood. Instead she sat down at the table and poured herself coffee, gritting her teeth when she saw how weak it was.
‘Such good coffee, and such a treat to have it all made,’ she said, trying to sound sincere.
‘I see you use the Food Fair and I think they put just too much chicory in their house blend. Doesn’t Steve want the A & P he used to insist I buy?’
‘He doesn’t complain,’ Mirelle replied.
‘Well, do take a little tip then, and get him what he wants,’ said Mother Martin, sitting down in Steve’s accustomed place directly across from Mirelle. She passed the platter of eggs and bacon to Mirelle. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you, I usually eat after the kids are gone,’ Mirelle said, shifting the focus of her eyes from the staring yolks. It had taken her years to be able to make eggs in the morning for Steve. Her early Continental training had imbued in her a desire to break her fast gently with coffee and bread.
‘Roman, Nick, Tonia, breakfast’s ready,’ she called as a diversionary tactic.
‘Father’s still asleep,’ her mother-in-law said, suitably lowering her voice.
‘Nick’s room is off to one side.’
‘Father’s such a light sleeper though.’
Mirelle got up and went to the stairwell, called again, intensifying her tone without raising the volume.
Roman and Nick came thundering down the stairs, despite her hissed warning.
‘Have you forgotten that we have guests in this house who might still be sleeping?’
‘Aw, Grandmother’s up,’ Nick said. ‘I heard her slamming the kitchen cabinets.’
Mirelle covered his mouth warningly and Roman dug his brother in the ribs. Nick grimaced contritely and then walked into the dining-room with exaggerated stealth.
‘No cereal?’ he complained in his normal bellow when he saw the platter of eggs.
‘That’s not brainfood, Nicolas,’ his grandmother said sweetly.
‘No one has any fun commercials about eggs,’ Nick grumbled.
‘Eggs are just fine,’ Roman said distinctly and heaped two on his plate with several rashers of bacon. He’d have reached for more bacon but Mirelle managed to catch his eye. He retracted his hand hastily.
‘Mom, can’t I have cereal?’ Nick asked. ‘I always have cereal.’
‘Grandmother’s eggs are special, Nick. Do try them!’
Roman must have kicked his brother because Nick suddenly extended his hand for the platter. He ate without any show of delight.
Steve had hurried Tonia up and they came down together, Tonia subdued. Fried eggs were her favorite breakfast food and she turned cheerful as she helped herself to three.
‘No, dear, that’s too many for a little girl like you,’ her grandmother said, and Tonia looked in questioning surprise at her mother.
‘I always eat three,’ she stated. ‘At least!’
‘Really she does,’ Mirelle said, laughing lightly. ‘Steve is of the opinion that her breakfast lasts her the entire day.’
‘It doesn’t seem sensible to overdo it.’ Mother Martin pursed her mouth in disapproval.
‘I like eggs,’ repeated Tonia, eating quickly and, to Mirelle’s relief, neatly. ‘You cook eggs better than Mom,’ she added brightly, ‘but you don’t use enough salt. Please pass the salt, Nick.’
‘Is so much salt wise?’
‘She grows on it, Mother,’ Steve said, reaching for the coffee. ‘Hey, is this tea?’ he asked Mirelle, frowning at the weak colour.
‘They’re saying that chicory might be a cause of cancer. The Food Fair brand Mirelle uses has just too much chicory,’ Mother Martin said firmly.
‘Oh, Mom, come off it. You just like weak coffee,’ Steve said with a chuckle.
I am not going to survive the day Mirelle thought as she poured more weak coffee.
‘If it’s so weak, can I have some, Mom?’ Nick asked hopefully.
‘Coffee’s not for growing boys. It’d stunt your growth,’ Mother Martin said before Mirelle could speak.
‘Not if it’s as weak as you say it is,’ Nick pointed out reasonably.
Mother Martin pursed her lips again.
‘Nick!’ Steve intervened.
‘But Mom lets me have coffee and she said she used to have it when she was even younger ’n Tonia.’ Nick didn’t give up easily.
Mirelle tried to catch his eye. Dear Nick, she thought, putting my feet in my mouth!
‘Your mother’s background was very different to your father’s, dear.’ The deft barb sweetly rammed home.
‘The school bus,’ Mirelle announced in relief, noticing the time.
The boys dove for their books and coats, racing out of the door with their snow jackets flapping.
‘Come back here, boys. Let me fasten your coats. You’ll catch terrible cold,’ Mother Martin called shrilly after them from the front door.
‘No they won’t,’ Steve said with a laugh. ‘But you will, Ma, standing in that draught.’
She closed the door and came back to the table, shaking her head, making no attempt to hide the fact that she thought her grandsons were entirely without manners or supervision.
‘I just don’t understand it. I always buttoned you boys up properly before I’d let you step an inch outside.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’
‘Steven Martin!’
‘Sorry, Ma, gotta go to work. Want to button my coat for me? For old times sake?’
‘I’ll do no such thing. You’re old enough to take care of yourself now.’
He gave her a hug and a kiss.
Tonia had finished her eggs and, as she often did, took her plate out to the kitchen. She got into her snow-pants and jacket and would have done her own zippering if her grandmother hadn’t spotted her.
‘Here, love. Let me do that.’
‘I know how,’ Tonia replied, a little surprised at being thought incapable. She glanced over at her mother. Mirelle nodded imperceptibly and Tonia obediently submitted to her grandmother.
‘How do you like kindergarten, dear?’
‘Kindergarten? I’
m in second grade. I’m no baby.’
‘You’re so small though, lovey,’ her grandmother said, laughing to cover her mistake. ‘I’ve got five grandchildren to keep straight. Grandmother just forgot.’
Tonia wasn’t pleased that details about her could be forgotten.
‘Thank you, Grandmother, for helping me,’ she said politely enough and then pointed wildly out of the window. ‘It’s snowing! It’s snowing!’
‘Good heavens!’ Mother Martin whirled to peer out of the window. ‘This early?’
‘It’s not so early,’ Mirelle said. ‘December’s half over. There’s your bus, Tonia. Now remember, you walk over to Nick’s room after school and then you both come to the church together. Now scoot.’
“Bye, Mommy. ‘Bye, Grandmother.’
Tonia danced off, trying to catch the snowflakes in her gloves, spinning around underneath the soft fall, her face upturned.
‘Do you mean to tell me that you’re going to let those children walk to the church by themselves?’
‘Certainly.’ Mirelle turned to her mother-in-law in surprise. ‘They’ve done it before. It’s not all that far from their school and there’s sidewalk all the way.’
‘Why, Tonia’s only . . . what? seven? And Nick is just eleven?’
‘Well, they’re both capable youngsters and it’s completely suburban . . .’
‘Why, I never let either Steve or Ralph go anywhere unaccompanied until they were . . .’
‘Boy Scouts and the other boys . . .’ Mirelle broke off, thankful that Dad Martin’s timely arrival interrupted her before she had blurted out what Steve had once told her: that the other Scouts had teased him and his brother unmercifully because either his father or mother walked them the five blocks to the meetings.
‘Mary Ellen tells me that she allows those two little children to walk all the way from school to church,’ said Mother Martin, incensed and looking for support.
‘Why not?’ replied her husband. a little surprised. ‘Always did think you coddled those boys of ours too much.’
‘Arthur Martin!’
Mirelle regarded her father-in-law with new respect.
‘Coffee, Dad?’ she asked, breaking the stunned silence.
The Year of the Lucy Page 18