The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Steven Martin, if you’d heard your mother talking to me at lunch . . . And to come home and find her pawing over my . . .’

  ‘She wasn’t pawing. I was showing her because she was interested.’

  ‘Don’t raise your voice to me, Steve Martin. The only interest your mother could possibly have in my work is how much money I could make with it. I saw the way she counted those busts this afternoon.’

  ‘Mirelle!’ Steve was taken aback by the suppressed savagery in her voice.

  ‘Don’t “Mirelle” me. She wasn’t even going to come to the Bazaar because I had the audacity to dress up in a smock. Like an artist. “Outlandish get-up” was her phrase, I believe.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘You keep your mother down. Off my back. I will not have her patronising me any more!’

  ‘Mirelle?’ Steve’s temper was beginning to heat up as well.

  ‘No, Steve, don’t defend her to me. Defend me! Just this once,’ Mirelle said, softly, pleadingly.

  Steve sat down on the bed, shaking his head slowly in his hands.

  ‘Mirelle, she’s my mother . . .’

  ‘And that’s the only reason I even try to be polite. I’ve taken two sleeping tablets. I’m very tired and I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, and no time or energy for wrangling.’

  Steve combed his fingers through his hair, exhaling through his teeth. ‘All right, all right,’ but the edge of anger had left his voice. ‘What time do you have to be there?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. I’ll set the oven for the roast lamb for dinner tomorrow before I go, so leave the oven settings alone. Thank God for automation. The Bazaar is officially over at four and no one’s coming until seven, so I’ll have a chance to rest before dinner. There’s a movie in the basement of the church at half-past one so you can get the kids out of your hair.’ She turned over, groaning at the tautness of her shoulders. ‘My aching back. Good night, dear.’

  Steve knelt by the side of the bed and kissed her cheek. Then he began to knead her shoulder muscles. She wondered as she lay there, relaxing under his ministrations, if she’d dream of the hands again.

  15

  THE STRONG SMELL of coffee woke Mirelle but she lay, encased in a motionless body that apparently had no intention of responding to the stimulus. The desire for the coffee intensified and she managed to open one eye. She was lying on her stomach, her head turned towards the bedside table. Her favorite coffee mug loomed invitingly, steam rising lazily.

  ‘That does it.’ As she flopped over and hauled herself up against the headboard, she heard Steve’s chuckle. He was sitting in his bed, drinking coffee. ‘You made it,’ she said, half accusingly, as she reached for the cup.

  ‘You’re damned right, all that chicory notwithstanding. How do you feel?’

  ‘The way I look.’ Mirelle blinked violently to clear sleep from sticky eyes. Her shoulders were still stiff. Steve wadded up his quilt and put it behind her, nuzzling her neck affectionately. ‘I’ll spill coffee on you.’

  ‘You’re unromantic this morning.’

  ‘I’m unawake.’

  He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her.

  ‘You get prettier all the time.’

  ‘I age well . . . like cheese.’

  Steve burst out laughing.

  If I can keep him in this frame of mind, Mirelle thought sleepily, Marian Martin hasn’t a chance.

  She put down her cup and beckoned coquettishly to Steve. His eyes widened and his grin broadened. He swiftly locked the door.

  ‘The kids are glued to the TV,’ he said as he slipped under the sheets.

  A knock on the door shattered the very nice mood they’d been creating. Someone turned the door knob. The vengeful side of Mirelle hoped that it was an in-law and not a child.

  ‘Mary Ellen?’ asked her mother-in-law, and Mirelle managed not to grin.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Steve answered, his voice colorless but his face flushed. With anger or embarrassment, Mirelle wondered.

  ‘Steven, isn’t Mary Ellen awake yet?’

  ‘Just,’ Steve replied with a baleful look on his face. ‘Come ON, hon, you’ve got to get up now.’

  She glared wickedly at him for such dissembling.

  ‘There’s a phone call for her,’ Mother Martin went on, ‘a Mrs. Ester something.’ She sounded disapproving of such complicated names.

  ‘I took the extension out last night,’ Steve said in a quick whisper.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ Mirelle said. She gave Steve another lingering kiss and then grabbed his bathrobe.

  ‘Mirelle, is there anything I can do for you for tonight’s feast?’

  ‘No thanks, Syl, but it’s good of you to offer.’

  ‘You sound awful.’

  ‘I just got up.’

  ‘Now why didn’t that woman just say you weren’t up?’

  ‘It’s okay. My God, it’s nine and I’ve got to be at the Bazaar at ten. Good thing you did call.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Sylvia asked with dry sympathy.

  ‘The Bazaar’s going fine. Excellent attendance.’

  ‘You know I didn’t mean the flipping Bazaar,’ Sylvia’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  ‘I’m keeping the fine edge of the wedge in place,’ and then Mirelle giggled earthily.

  ‘Well, your spirits are good. I gather there are large unfriendly ears in the vicinity?’

  ‘That’s right. Are you going to give us the benefit of your presence at the Bazaar?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss that height of the social season for the world!’

  ‘Goodbye!’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ asked her mother-in-law as she came back through the dining-room. ‘Isn’t that the robe I gave Steven?’

  ‘Yes. I’m always snitching it: it’s so nice and warm,’ and Mirelle sped up the stairs to avoid further comment.

  As she pulled on her smock, she noticed the clay-stained front. She’d planned to throw it in the washer last night and have it drying while she breakfasted. Oh, well, stage-dressing, she thought and went back downstairs.

  ‘We’re heading down to Florida not a moment too soon,’ Dad Martin was saying as Mirelle sat down at the table.

  She looked out of the window at the gray day and the snow-covered lawns. Black lines of tire-marks marred the roads and tangential curves indicated the treacherous road surface. Mirelle wondered just what traction she’d get for the Sprite on the hill.

  ‘Looks like more snow,’ Steve added, glancing at the sky.

  ‘I just can’t get pleased with snow,’ Mother Martin said in a plaintive voice. ‘It makes driving and parking so difficult. Now, if the road department would only get going the minute it starts, and make an effort to keep the roads clear . . .’

  ‘In this state,’ Steve told her, ‘they always hope that it’ll stop before they need to call out the plows.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Why, with all the unemployment up here, those people could stay off relief rolls if they’d get put to work clearing snow. And our taxes would stay down.’

  ‘You forget,’ Steve said patiently, ‘that relief is only partially federal, Mother. But the road department is all State so the more people you put to work on snow disposal, the higher your State taxes.’

  ‘Why, that’s ridiculous, Steve,’ his mother said, almost offended by his rebuttal. ‘Elliot Randolph says . . .’

  ‘That old reactionary . . .’

  Mother Martin stiffened in righteous indignation. ‘Why, Steven Martin, you know perfectly well that Elliot Randolph keeps abreast of every important political issue.’

  ‘Yeah, he keeps abreast of it,’ Steve said, grinning, ‘but he can’t see his breast, his double chins get in the way.’

  ‘Arthur Martin, are you going to let your son talk about Elliot Randolph that way?’

  ‘Why not?’ Mirelle rather thought that Dad Martin was amused by Steve’s remarks. ‘He’s free, white and twenty-one.’


  Mirelle hastily swallowed the last of her toast and excused herself. She took the leg of lamb out of the refrigerator, inserted the garlic slices, seasoned it, plopped it in the large roasting pan, set the dials on the oven timer, and closed the door on the meat.

  ‘Mother Martin, I’ve got the roast all ready and the oven set to start so we don’t have a thing to do but the vegetables and the salad for dinner.’

  ‘But dinner’s not till late.’

  ‘I know but, with the automatic electric oven, it won’t matter if we’re late from the Bazaar.’

  ‘How about lunch?’ demanded Mother Martin.

  ‘Chicken pot pies at church,’ Steve chimed in.

  ‘Old Kentucky recipe?’ asked Dad Martin slyly.

  ‘No, new Girl Scout,’ Mirelle replied. ‘Goodbye all.’

  Her relief at being out in the crisp cold air was tremendous. She opened the garage door and carefully backed the Spite out. She hoped that Steve would enlist the aid of Roman and Nick, and clear the drive against the chance of freezing weather tonight. She eased the Sprite onto the road and took the hill in second with little trouble.

  There were quite a few cars already in the church parking lot and some of the sand from her gravelly spot had been distributed to cut down on skidding. She was gratified to find the first four of last night’s leftover number-holders waiting for her. Patsy, by her greeting, had renewed her exuberance overnight.

  ‘You know, it’s funny,’ Patsy said as Mirelle settled her first subject down. ‘You’re only doing children. Don’t adults want to be done?’

  ‘Adults are more apt to be self-conscious, posing in a busy place. But I suspect it’s a case of parents being willing to spend on their children what they’d never dream of doing themselves.’

  ‘Guess that makes me not as grownup as I thought I was,’ Patsy said with giggling candor. ‘I sure didn’t mind posing.’

  Mirelle was not sure that the fad of the bust would continue as it had started but she worked as quickly as possible. Children were easier to do than adults, their faces still softly curved, with fewer lines and odd features. The trick was getting the shape of the head right, and the hair pattern. Girls’ ears were usually completely hidden by their hair, and a good percentage of the boys wore long styles. Perhaps it was just as well that the majority of her subjects were young people. She was a trifle startled therefore when Reverend O’Dell sat down on the stool.

  ‘I assure you that this is not all vanity, Mirelle,’ said Ken O’Dell. ‘It’s also the only way to get your attention. Your powers of concentration are formidable. I’ve spoken to you four times with no response. Oh no, I’m far from offended. On the contrary, you’ve provided an unusual excitement in what, I fear, is usually a rather tame event.’

  ‘Excitement?’ Mirelle blinked in astonishment.

  Ken O’Dell smiled at her. ‘Yes, my dear Mirelle. As I said, your powers of concentration are phenomenal.’ He leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘Glance casually around.’

  She did and saw a row of small faces, just able to clear the top of the booth, then a second row of curious observers and a rather surprising number of adults watching from the rear lines. She smiled nervously and turned hastily back to O’Dell.

  ‘Oh, good Lord, how long has this been going on?’ She felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Her back had been angled to the main part of the hall so that she’d only been conscious of the few children seated on the edge of the stage.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ O’Dell said with some delight. ‘I bought a ticket from Patsy at ten-thirty and they’d begun to gather then.’

  ‘You’re better than TV,’ Patsy added with a giggle.

  Mirelle hunched her shoulders over her work and, in a few moments, was mercifully oblivious to the crowd. Kenneth O’Dell’s face was far more interesting to her than all the youthful ones she’d done. To capture an adult in clay was to learn his individuality. As she began to draw the minister’s features from the clay, she felt she was getting to know the man much better than she could have in years of casual encounters. Engrossed, she spent a far longer time on him.

  ‘I always envied the unconnected heads of Cicero and Plato, and all those others who held court in the niches of my classrooms,’ Ken said when Mirelle allowed him to look at the bust. ‘I must be very vain to get such an inordinate pleasure out of seeing myself in similar noble immobility. And, from the number of relaxed countenances in my congregations on Sundays, I am, alas, no Cicero.’

  Mirelle put the model high up, regarding it with mixed satisfaction.

  ‘I haven’t done you justice, Ken. I’d like to do a life-size bust one day.’

  ‘You’ve done me far more justice than I deserve, Mirelle. Oh, I see your husband and his parents. I must go speak to them.’

  Mirelle reached out to touch his hand, about to ask him not to refer to her work. He regarded her expectantly, half smiling, and then she shook her head, meaning that she had nothing of importance to say. His smile deepened and he patted her hand in a way that told her he had understood her unspoken message.

  Countenanced and encouraged by their minister’s example, two members of Sessions sat, each more or less amused and embarrassed by the gallery of observers. Mirelle found it necessary to talk to them as they posed and so their sittings took longer.

  ‘Met your in-laws, Mirelle,’ said Ty Hopkins, who was church treasurer and the manager of the bank which she patronised. ‘Suggested that they look up my cousin, Will Tackman. He’s a vice president of the First National in Orlando. Think they’ll like it down there. Town’s organised for retired people. Although, come to think about it, St. Cloud might be less expensive. It’s smaller, of course. Your father-in-law was asking about investment property. I hope he’s not the type to jump first, look later. There’re some rather iffy retirement homes among the legitimate ones.’

  ‘Dad Martin’s always been a good businessman, in a small way, of course, but sound,’ Mirelle said but her mind had leaped on the notion that, if her in-laws did settle in Florida, it would be quite a blessing. ‘It was kind of you to give him advice.’

  ‘Kind?’ Ty Hopkins grinned at her. ‘Not at all. Pure business. And speaking of pure business, have you ever thought of sculpting professionally?’

  Mirelle stopped tooling the jawline and stared at Ty Hopkins.

  ‘I’ve known you two years now, Mirelle, casually, I agree, but I’ve never heard you mention your work. I’d very much like to see you do something ambitious. You know the Bank’s always showing paintings. No reason it can’t show sculpture as well.’

  Mirelle murmured appropriate thanks, adding that she didn’t think people in a bank were in the mood to buy art.

  ‘Oh, don’t think that,’ said Ty, raising his bushy eyebrows. He waggled a finger at her. ‘People DO notice what’s displayed in the Bank. You’d be rather surprised at how many of the paintings we handle get sold right there. Humph,’ he added as she indicated the bust was finished, ‘my superiors will think I’ve got delusions of grandeur.’

  ‘Make a good paperweight,’ Mirelle said, keeping her face perfectly straight.

  Ty’s thick brows almost met over his nose as he feigned displeasure.

  ‘Yes, now that would put me in the proper perspective. More than you know.’ There was such a bite to his words that Mirelle looked at him apprehensively. ‘No, no, Mirelle. NO offense taken. Keep at it, girl, and when you have something to show, bring it in.’

  She was watching him leave, still a little disturbed by his remarks, when she saw Sylvia and Jamie Howell advancing towards her corner.

  ‘Whoever is next will have to wait twenty minutes while I eat. I’m starved,’ Mirelle said arbitrarily, ignoring a chorus of protests as she intercepted her friends.

  ‘Next showing, one-thirty,’ Patsy declared and slipped out of the booth behind Mirelle.

  ‘Quitter,’ Sylvia said, frowning with mock reproof.

  ‘I never expected to see either of y
ou here,’ Mirelle replied, shaking hands with Jamie. His sunlamp treatments were producing results.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss the da Vinci act for the world,’ Jamie said. ‘Actually we watched you immortalise the VP. For a gal who works slowly, you’ve got quite a display.’ He gestured at the shelves full of drying busts. Then he shook his head deprecatingly. ‘I distinctly remember you informing me that you weren’t the panther-on-the-mantel type: I was glad, happy for you. But now,’ and he clicked his tongue in disillusion, ‘I perceive that you are, in fact, of the bust-in-the-family-niche school. Deplorable!’

  Sylvia was also shaking her head.

  ‘If you’re going to pick fault with an honest, charitable effort, you can both disappear,’ Mirelle said.

  ‘Not when something smells as good as something does,’ Jamie replied, sniffing deeply and turning to locate the source.

  ‘They’re serving chicken pot pies in the kitchen.’

  ‘Chicken pot pies?’ Jamie made his eyes wide with simulated excitement.

  ‘Chicken pot pies NOT nine days old,’ Mirelle said with a laugh.

  Jamie took each woman by the arm and propelled them vigorously towards the kitchen. As they entered the busy crowded room, Mirelle noticed with relief that neither Steve nor her in-laws were present. Jamie steered them to the nearest free table.

  ‘I thought they’d outlawed child slavery in this state,’ he murmured as one of the Girl Scout waitresses bore down on them.

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Martin,’ the girl began breathlessly, ‘will you have time to do any of us? I mean, we’re stuck here serving all day.’

  ‘Just catch Mrs. McHugh and tell her to give you a number.’

  ‘Oh wow! That’s marvie. Pies all-around?’

  ‘Three for me,’ Jamie said in such a sepulchral voice that the little Scout eyed him nervously.

  ‘He’s been sick,’ Sylvia explained with gentle solicitousness, laying a hand on Jamie’s arm.

  ‘I hope you’re much better now,’ the girl said dutifully.

  ‘I heroically revived, stimulated by the incredible aroma of those three chicken pot pies.’

  ‘Jamie!’ Mirelle saw that the girl was unable to cope with such bantering.