The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Coffee, tea, milk or Coke?’ The Scout wrote down the orders and hurried off.

  ‘They can certainly mobilise the resources of this church,’ Sylvia remarked, a trifle enviously. ‘Now at Greenvale . . .’ She shook her head sadly.

  ‘They conned Nick and Roman into being busboys,’ Mirelle said, pointing to Nick struggling pantrywards with a loaded tray.

  ‘Odds he drops it,’ Jamie said.

  ‘That wouldn’t matter. The crockery here is designed to bounce,’ Mirelle told him.

  Jamie began to shake his head, pityingly. ‘I never have figured out how organised religion can prevail on otherwise reasonable people to do service in the name of religion that they would begrudge doing for any other.’

  ‘What?’ Mirelle wasn’t certain that she’d heard aright and Sylvia was reduced to staring at him.

  Fortunately the Girl Scout came with their lunches. Just as if he hadn’t dropped an unsavory thought, Jamie forked open his pie and speared a generous portion of white chicken-meat.

  ‘Well, Christian charity for once is substantial.’ He took the first bite, still skeptical, but his face was beatific as he began to chew. ‘And exactly as advertised. Delicious!’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ Mirella said caustically.

  Jamie eyed her, eyebrows raised. ‘Sorry, m’dear. I have always been somewhat nauseated by too much good done and doing. I distrust it intensely.’

  ‘Like beef tea?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘I’m speaking of wholesale lots, not isolated incidents. For instance, I assume this Bazaar has some ostensible purpose?’

  ‘Yes, the annual payment on the mortgage,’ Mirelle replied.

  ‘Well, then, considering the hundreds and thousands of people starving, wouldn’t it have been more Christian to spend the money on roofs over the heads that have none, than an additional roof over already well-covered heads? And . . .’ Jamie cocked a finger at Mirelle, ‘it would be far more reasonable for you to apply the effort which you have expended here today in forwarding your own career instead of knocking out busts that will, I’m positive, be broken into so much dust in the next week or two.’

  ‘Hey,’ Sylvia knocked Jamie’s arm to get his attention, ‘that’s hitting below the belt.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jamie replied, returning her glance coolly. ‘But I find this an appalling waste of Mirelle’s talent and time. It gets her nowhere . . .’

  ‘That’s for me to say,’ Mirelle put in, wondering why Jamie’s unexpected opinion irritated her so much. ‘I wanted to do it. I did it. Moreover, it may well have furthered my career. Ty Hopkins said that I may exhibit my sculpture in his bank.’

  ‘Yah!’ Jamie was scornful.

  ‘Oh, now wait a minute,’ Sylvia said, ‘banks are good showplaces.’

  ‘Mirelle’s work exhibited with the mossy millstone school of murky watercolors?’

  ‘The quality of hers will stand out all the more,’ Sylvia replied staunchly.

  ‘Indeed? To what end? Who’ll buy in a bank? Certainly not the advanced tradeschool characters who infest this town. They haven’t the perception or wit to appreciate what she does. Which, dear ladies, is why I find this situation so revolting.’

  Sylvia leaned across the small table and put a light hand on Jamie’s arm. ‘My dear Mr. Howell, whatever you may think of this Bazaar situation . . .’ her eyes crinkled as Jamie groaned over her pun, ‘. . . it has forced Mirelle to do some intensive work. I intend to see that she continues: that she starts showing in whatever bank, left, right, Wilmington or Delaware Trust, and sells. And works. I happen to know it’s no easier to get into a good gallery than it is to play Carnegie Hall, but the point is she’ll be working, showing and seen. Quite likely she’ll also sell. Because it’s odd but these tradeschool degree boys pull down damned high salaries. And they’ve suddenly discovered that they’ve been missing things while they studied isocyanates and polymers and they might just as well pay their money to Mirelle for her sculpture. Those little busts you so contemptuously dismiss are a starter. Small but a starter and they are commercial.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Jamie replied with a caustic edge on his voice, ‘if the bust-in-the-niche is any improvement over the panther-on-the-mantel.’

  ‘My dear sir, of course it is,’ Sylvia reassured him. ‘Each bust is of a different person but when you’ve seen one prowling panther, you’ve seen them all. Speaking of prowlers, how’re things at the in-law-infested mansion, Mirelle?’

  ‘More or less,’ she answered and rose, ‘I’ve got to get commercial again. See you tonight, Sylvia. And Sylvia . . .’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Sylvia said, nodding vehemently. ‘I’ll behave myself.’

  Mirelle was considerably disturbed by Jamie’s remarks. If he deplored how she was using her talent, why had he come to the church? Sylvia had the right of it: you started and used what facilities were available: there was nothing onerous about using a bank. Nothing. James Howell had no call to be so supercilious. Of course, she was using her time to do something other than the commission he’d asked of her. Maybe that was what was annoying him. She’d get right to work on it after the Bazaar was over. Sylvia was also correct when she said that the Bazaar had gotten Mirelle started.

  Patsy was rolling her eyes in mock despair when Mirelle returned to the booth.

  ‘There isn’t a single thing left to sell. Not a plate, cup, mug, Dirty Dick or creche animal. I have this whole list of prepaid orders.’ She stressed the last two words triumphantly. ‘You’ll be busting until midnight the way the numbers have been selling.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Mirelle with a groan. ‘I’ve a dinner party to give.’

  ‘What’ll we do?’ Patsy was wide-eyed with dismay.

  ‘Just don’t give out any more numbers. I’ll try to arrange additional sittings for those I can’t get done today. Next customer,’ she called out, sitting down at her table and reaching for yet another clay block.

  It was 5:20 before she got away, having decided that the difficulties of arranging sittings far outweighed finishing up today, no matter how fatigued she was. She had a nagging ache between her shoulderblades.

  As she left the church, Mirelle catalogued the things to be done once she got home and decided that a bath headed the list. A good hot one would soak the fatigue out of her bones. She could get Roman to set the table and Nick to vacuum the living-room. Steve could set up drinks. When she got in the door, Tonia cannonaded into her legs, crying bitterly.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, miss?’

  ‘I don’t like Grandmother,’ Tonia sobbed.

  Steve came up from the gameroom looking like a thundercloud.

  ‘I thought you were going to be back at four,’ he said.

  ‘My popularity was overwhelming. Did you check the roast?’

  ‘Roast? I’ve had these brats screaming all afternoon.’

  Mirelle’s head began to ache. She went out into the kitchen and was met with no warmth, no aroma of roast lamb. She yanked open the oven door. Grimly fighting the desire to shriek, she saw that the all-important automatic timer had been shut off. She wrenched the dials about to get the oven started.

  ‘I don’t like Grandmother,’ Tonia continued to sob, having followed Mirelle into the kitchen.

  ‘You won’t like me either if you don’t do exactly as I ask,’ Mirelle said roughly. ‘Get Roman in here on the double.’

  Tonia, still gulping her sobs, obeyed that tone without argument. Mirelle checked the dishwasher, vainly hoping that someone had thought to turn it on after breakfast.

  No such luck. She mentally tossed a coin between the steaming bath for which she yearned and enough clean silver and dishes to serve her dinner. She filled the slot with powder and slammed in the control, listening masochistically to the damned thing filling up with all that hot water.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help you, Mary Ellen, now that you’re home?’ Mother Martin asked.

  ‘I hate to
ask you to do anything for a dinner party that is supposedly in your honor,’ Mirelle said, keeping her voice as colorless as possible.

  ‘Whatchya want, Ma?’ Roman asked from the doorway.

  ‘I want my table set buffet style and you know where all the good china and crystal are. Now, Mrs. Hollander told me that you were her most reliable helper yesterday, do the same for me.’

  ‘Why, let me do that, Mary Ellen.’

  ‘I can do it all myself,’ Roman said.

  ‘Now you go on and watch TV,’ Mother Martin replied, ‘table setting’s no job for a boy, anyway.’

  ‘In this house it is,’ Mirelle said before she could stop herself. ‘Roman, is the living-room clean?’

  ‘I’ll check,’ Roman mumbled, sourly.

  ‘Steve will fix the cocktail tray,’ Mirelle said, looking into the liquor cabinet.

  ‘Drinks?’ Mother Martin asked, immediately alert.

  It had been so long since Mirelle had entertained her in-laws in her own home that she had forgotten that they did not approve of anything stronger than sherry.

  ‘Yes, drinks,’ Mirelle said, trying not to sound defiant. ‘The Esterhazys and the Blackburns drink, and so do the Martins.’

  ‘Why, Steve never touched anything stronger than sherry,’ his mother exclaimed indignantly, implying that it was Mirelle’s influence which had caused his deplorable change.

  ‘Steve has been drinking a lot more than sherry in the way of business for some years now,’ Mirelle said. ‘My good linen is in the second drawer of the dining-room chest. I’d planned to use the pink cloth and napkins. The water goblets are on the third shelf. There are pink candles in the top drawer and the pewter candlesticks are in the closet. I think there’s just enough hot water for me to have a quick wash.’

  She met Roman on her way to the stairs.

  ‘It needs vacuuming, Mom Tonia’s been cutting paper dolls again.’

  ‘Roman, just vacuum. Don’t boss Tonia! She’s in a state and I have no time to pacify her. My guests are coming in barely an hour and I’m bushed.’

  ‘Okay, Ma,’ and Roman flashed his helpful smile at her appeal.

  Mirelle started the water in the tub, and laid out her dress. She was about to throw off the clayey smock when Mother Martin called up the stairwell.

  ‘Mary Ellen, I can’t seem to find the cloth you want.’

  Mirelle went down and found the cloth and the napkins exactly where she had said they were.

  ‘I thought you’d said white. I’m sorry.’

  Mirelle got back upstairs to find that the small supply of hot water left from the dishwasher had cooled to tepid.

  Savagely now she threw off her clothes and got into the tub. There was not much point in soaking because the water had neither the quantity nor quality for any therapy.

  ‘Mary Ellen,’ called her mother-in-law in a shrill voice, ‘which goblets shall I use? You have so many.’

  Mirelle groaned. She called that she was coming, hastily toweled herself dry and, throwing on Steve’s robe, tore downstairs.

  This time she laid out everything that would be needed to set the table, wishing she had insisted that Roman did it, and went back upstairs to lie down. But she was tense, waiting for the next complaining summons. Steve came in the room, still scowling.

  ‘Who turned off the automatic timer?’ she asked before he could voice the complaints she knew he was harboring.

  ‘Hell, how should I know? What I want . . .’

  ‘Your mother is going to object to your drinking,’ Mirelle cut in, disregarding him.

  ‘The way I feel she can just object. I need a drink after today. God, how I wish you hadn’t been involved in that Bazaar.’

  He was rubbing the back of his neck which, to Mirelle, was the surest sign that his mother had been needling him.

  ‘I’m not sorry I was then, if that’s the way the day went. What’s wrong? Your mother’s nose out of joint because the church took the onus from my art?’

  Steve looked about to explode and then, utterly deflating, he sagged onto the bed beside her.

  ‘That’s just about the size of it, Mirelle,’ he said, pursing his lips angrily, nodding his head up and down. ‘No one was all that interested in their state visit to Florida. Great event, their joining the Randolphs in Orlando, a real social coup. No, everyone wanted to know about your work, wanted to talk about you.’

  ‘What happened to Tonia?’ Mirelle asked, deliberately cutting off his recital.

  ‘Tonia and her grandmother are not likely ever to agree, particularly over matters of hairstyling and dress,’ Steve said, a trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Seems all well brought-up young girls should have pigtails and pinafores.’

  ‘Not pigtails with Tonia’s face structure.’

  Roman barged in. ‘All neat as a whistle,’ he said and then carefully closed the door. ‘But Grandmother’s setting the table all wrong,’ he added, his young face distorted with worry.

  Mirelle sighed deeply and struggled out of the bed.

  ‘Roman, fix the icebucket and the liquor on the tray, the silver one, while I dress,’ Steve said, peeling off his shirt.

  ‘Righto,’ he agreed, delighted, for assistant bartending was currently his favorite household task.

  Mirelle was struggling into her dress when Roman came back, stamping down each foot.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? And please help me with my dress,’ she said, turning so he could pull up the zipper.

  ‘Grandmother says I’m not to touch the bottles. What does she think I’ll do? Take a snort when her back is turned?’

  Mirelle took a very deep breath, as much to get the zipper moving as to control the unreasoning anger inside her.

  ‘Roman, your grandmother has different ideas about bringing up children . . .’

  ‘I’ll say so,’ and her son sounded so much like Steve that the comparison startled Mirelle.

  ‘Robert Marion,’ Mirelle said sternly, for it was unlike Roman to be rebellious.

  ‘Aw, gee, a guy can’t do anything around here suddenly without being treated like a baby!’ He shifted his feet, digging his hands into his pockets and emphasising his discontent with violent twitchings of his shoulders.

  ‘I’m dressed, son. We’ll fix it together,’ Steve said, coming in from the bathroom. He draped his tie around his neck and, with his arm about Roman’s shoulders, the two walked out of the bedroom.

  ‘In-laws.’ Mirelle ground out the words between gritted teeth. ‘God, does she always have to twist everything out of focus? Well, maybe this weekend, with her carping at our children all the time, will show Steve how to separate himself from the rest of the stupidities of his childhood.’

  She took a good look at herself in the mirror, to check her make-up hadn’t smudged getting into the dress. Anger had brought color to her cheeks and fatigue blurred interesting shadows around her eyes, so that Mirelle could objectively consider herself pretty tonight.

  ‘The fringe benefits of in-laws,’ she muttered to her reflection, trying to grab a positive thought for comfort and morale.

  Steve’s voice had a decided edge to it as he and Roman finished their preparations in the kitchen.

  ‘Make us a big bowl of popcorn, too, will you, Roman?’ his father directed, picking up the tray. ‘What’s wrong, Mirelle?’

  ‘Roman said that Mother Martin has set the table wrong, but I can’t tell how?’ Mirelle said in weary exasperation.

  Steve glanced at the table. ‘She’s got all the serving pieces in front of her place, all the plates around and there are three extra settings, unless you intend cramming the children in with the adults after all.’

  Mirelle slapped her forehead with her hand and advanced on the table to correct it just as Mother Martin came bustling downstairs.

  ‘Steven Martin, I want a word with you about Robert,’ she said, at her most forbidding. ‘Imagine! Allowing a child to set up a cocktail tray!’

  �
�He never forgets a thing, Mother,’ Steve replied.

  ‘But what if he should get the notion to drink something?’ his mother demanded, shocked.

  ‘He wouldn’t because he’s already done his sampling and he doesn’t like the taste of liquor.’

  ‘He’s tasted alcohol?’

  ‘Yes, he has already tasted alcohol.’

  ‘Arthur Martin,’ she said, rounding fiercely on her husband as he entered. ‘Did you hear what your son said? He’s allowed that child to have an alcoholic beverage.’

  ‘I also heard him say that Roman didn’t like it,’ Dad Martin reminded her. ‘Which, I think, makes much more sense than forcing the boy to sneak some in the garage.’

  ‘What do you mean, sneak some in the garage?’

  ‘What Dad means, Mom,’ Steve replied with a glint in his eyes, ‘is that he caught Ralph and me with his Scotch in the garage one day when we were about Roman’s age.’

  His mother cluctched at a dining-room chair for support at this new shock.

  ‘When did that happen?’ she demanded, having regained her composure.

  ‘When I was eleven and Ralph was fourteen.’

  ‘And you never so much as breathed a word to me, Arthur Martin!’

  ‘No,’ replied Dad Martin reasonably, ‘because I figured it was my business when my sons drank. We had a long talk and it turned out that the only reason they’d tried some was because they’d heard you talking so much against it. Steve and Ralph both have good heads for liquor. Get it from me, I guess. And you’ve never objected to my drinking.’

  ‘You’re an adult,’ she began in defense of her stricture.

  ‘Yes, and don’t forget that your sons are, too. So I think, Marian, you’d better stop interfering with the way Steve is raising his kids.’

  Mother Martin looked in astonishment at her husband, for once unsure of herself. Then, as he started to fix himself a stiff drink, she lapsed into grieved and disapproving silence.

  Mirelle overheard the whole conversation as she quietly reset her table, redistributing the serving pieces by the hot pads and gathering up the plates to put them to warm. She checked the roast. Then she noticed the expression on Roman’s face and realised that he had also heard the exchange.