The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  By the time the steak was done, Mirelle’s drink had taken effect and she ate in a kind of daze, not really attending to the children’s chatter.

  ‘Why doesn’t your mother ever visit us, Mommy?’ asked Tonia, apropos of nothing.

  ‘What, honey?’ Mirelle gathered her wits.

  Tonia repeated the question.

  ‘My mother died a long time before you were born.’

  ‘Well, that’s too bad for I’m sure I would have liked her a lot more than my other grandmother.’

  Before Mirelle could reprimand her for impudence, Steve reached across the table and slapped Tonia so hard that her chair nearly tipped over.

  ‘Steve!’ Mirelle was appalled by the viciousness of the discipline.

  ‘You are never to speak disrespectfully of your grandmother!’ he bellowed, his face suffused with blood. ‘Well, what do you say?’

  Tonia, gulping back her sobs, was too frightened to speak. She just held her cheek and stared at her father.

  ‘Well?’ Steve demanded, his face white now with anger.

  Tears overflowed from Tonia’s eyes and she tried to speak but only incoherent noises emerged, which increased Steve’s fury.

  ‘Really, Steve . . .’

  ‘You shut up, Mirelle. I wear the pants in this family and it’s about time that was understood.’

  ‘There is no need to pound the table. And there was no need to fetch Tonia such a clout for a . . .’

  ‘If I choose to punish my daughter,’ Steve’s anger was now directed at Mirelle, ‘I will!’

  ‘If you punish, yes. But do not take your anger out on her.’

  ‘Don’t intimidate me, Mirelle!’

  She glared at him, daring him to strike her, too, but suddenly all the aggression drained out of him. She held out her hand to Tonia and led her to the kitchen, to bathe the child’s face and help her control her sobbing. The marks of Steve’s fingers stood out red and fierce against the creamy skin. Mirelle crushed ice in a towel, certain that Tonia would have a livid bruise by morning.

  ‘You cannot speak without thinking, Antonia. Daddy loves his mother,’ Mirelle began in a quiet voice, hoping to calm the child.

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Tonia replied defiantly, her eyes sullen. ‘Not the way he was yelling at her this morning.’

  Mirelle put her fingers across the girl’s mouth. ‘Be quiet.’ She tried to ignore Tonia’s instinctive flinch.

  When Mirelle returned to the dining-room with Tonia, Steve was gone. She and the children finished their dinners silently, Nick darting glances at his sister’s face.

  ‘You two go watch TV,’ Mirelle said, ‘unless, young man, you’ve got homework to finish.’

  ‘All done Friday afternoon, Mom,’ Nick replied. ‘Honest!’

  She heard the grate of the garage door rolling up and, looking out of the window, saw Steve attacking the snow drift in the driveway. His shovelling was almost frenzied and she thought for a moment of warning him to take it easy. He wouldn’t appreciate such gratuitous advice. Better to let him take his frustration and anger out on the snow. She wondered exactly what had happened before her in-laws left.

  ‘Have I won the war, or lost another battle?’ she asked herself and then went to pack a suitcase for Roman.

  She fussed in the kitchen, tidying up the last of the disarrangements of her usual placement of pots, utensils and spices which invariably took place when Mother Martin visited. She made hot chocolate for Steve, timing it so that it was ready when he had finished shoveling. He came in through the laundry-room, stamping snow from his boots.

  ‘I’m bone cold,’ he said, gratefully accepting the steaming mug she handed him. ‘Can I see Ro any time or do I have to wait for visiting hours?’

  ‘He’s in a private room. You can go when you like. I packed the small blue bag with things he’ll probably need or want.’

  ‘I’ll change then and go see him.’

  She accepted his neutrality. At least he’d worked out his anger on the snow. She wondered if she’d ever find out . . . short of pumping Nick and Tonia . . . what had happened when he got home from the hospital that morning.

  ‘I wear the pants in this family.’ ‘Don’t intimidate me, Mirelle.’ The phrases, like gauntlets thrown in preface to a duel, ran through her mind. They were unlike Steve. Was he stating the difference between himself and his father? Mirelle shook her head. She gave the drainboard a final swipe with the sponge and then went down to the studio.

  Nick peered at her from the gameroom door.

  ‘Gonna do Roman a sick pig?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I ought to but I’m too tired to do it tonight, Nickie.’

  ‘It’s only six. Walt Disney isn’t even on yet.’

  ‘It might just as well be midnight the way I feel.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a day!’ And Nick rubbed the back of his neck in imitation of his father’s gesture.

  Mirelle tugged his hair affectionately and then pushed him back into the gameroom. Without volition she went to the Lucy and touched it tenderly, dispassionately admiring the line of the figure that seemed about to spring forward into life and movement. She could almost see Lucy completing the gesture of patting her hair in order. She turned the statue into profile and sat down on the couch, looking at it.

  ‘Momma,’ complained Tonia’s voice in her ear, and Mirelle woke with a start. ‘I wanna watch . . .’

  ‘Mom, I keep telling her it’s her bedtime now,’ Nick said.

  Mirelle looked at her watch and realised that she’d fallen asleep. It was almost nine.

  ‘No more TV. Both of you get to bed and on the double.’

  She shooed them upstairs and settled the argument as to who would sleep where. She checked Nick’s closet to see if he had school clothes for the morning and found herself automatically checking Roman’s room as well.

  She saw them tucked in and, wondering where Steve could be, slowly undressed and got herself ready for bed. She tried to read a book but the print blurred, so she gave up, reassuring herself that if Steve had been in an accident on the slippery roads, she certainly would have had a call. She thought of Roman, she thought of her in-laws and tried not to imagine what the final scene had been like. She tried not to think at all and touched the pole of concern for Roman, swinging back to her concern for Steve until she forced the figure of Lucy into her mind. Comforted by the symbol, she managed to drift into unconsciousness.

  18

  DREAM AND REALITY got interwoven together, with hands grasping for her, hands tremendously enlarged by the power of the dreaming mind: grotesque hands, with thick fingers, hairy knuckles and ragged nails; horny palms and blunt fingers; then spider-leg long digits with Chinese-length nails waggling grey-green index fingers at her in reprimand; suddenly the path opened into the depths of the forest and, grateful for the cool of the green woods and the smell of the ferns, ‘they’ plunged into the shadows, leaving the redness of the orange desert and the merciless sun behind them. The ferns grew fingers and grabbed at her ankles; the vines grew arms and reached for her.

  ‘Mirelle! Mirelle!’ Steve was shaking her awake.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she groaned, shaking her head to dispel the nightmare.

  ‘I overslept. Make me some coffee and an egg.’

  Mirelle grabbed his robe and staggered downstairs, yawning at the growing daylight visible from the kitchen window. She snapped on the overhead light, the glare making her squint. She got coffee made and was frying an egg when Steve walked into the kitchen. He gulped down the coffee, half-swallowed the egg, and went out to the garage chewing a slice of toast. She stood stupidly in the center of the kitchen and finally realised that he hadn’t kissed her goodbye. Not so much as a perfunctory peck. She heard the car tires scrunching on the brittle snow and ice of the driveway and then heard him gun the cold motor as he swung up the hill.

  She got the children up and ready just in time for their usual buses when Nick noticed that the high school bu
s hadn’t come yet.

  ‘Whee, maybe we have a snow day,’ he cried, cheering.

  Mirelle felt none of his jubilation and was relieved to see the first bus belatedly making its rounds. She made them eat breakfast then, since the buses were obviously behind schedule. And then she dug out spare gloves so they could snowfight while waiting as all the other kids were doing.

  She was just about to sit down for coffee when Roman’s newspaper route manager dropped by to ask how he was. She had to invite him in, out of courtesy, but he didn’t stay long. He wanted her to ask Roman if he knew of a substitute to work the route. Mirelle promised, feeling slightly guilty because she’d completely forgotten about that obligation. Roman, it turned out, had phoned his manager from the hospital.

  Then she was able to sit down quietly to a peaceful cup of coffee and her usual twice-over of the morning paper. Roman’s horoscope advised extreme caution in attempting new projects. She snorted contemptuously, wondering what they’d advised for Sunday for Libra. Her birth sign promised a completion of projects underway and a favorable outlook for the start of new business.

  She made toast and sat by the dining-room window until all the snow-clowning figures had embarked on buses. There were huge marred areas on the snowy lawns now, the sunlight reflecting off the untouched patches and shadowing the uncompleted forts.

  With false vigor she dressed, got the upstairs to rights and had some of the weekend laundry started before ten. She found one sock belonging to Dad Martin and a pair of earrings Mrs. Martin had left in Roman’s room under used Kleenex. At ten she called Roman.

  ‘Hi, Mom. Dr. Martin put in twenty-eight stitches,’ he reported in an awed voice.

  ‘Does that make you top stitch man?’

  ‘By three. And I’ll bet that lousy Schneider will try and make it up. Mom,’ and his voice changed, ‘my arm aches something awful.’

  ‘Did you mention that to Dr. Martin?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Idiot. If it hurts, you need something. At least for the first few days. Now, don’t be foolishly brave.’

  ‘Aw, I couldn’t. I mean, Mom?’

  ‘I understand. I’ll bring the subject up . . . not,’ she hastily assured him, ‘as if you had complained or anything. What shall I bring you when I come in?’

  ‘Didn’t Dad give you the list when he got home?’

  ‘I was asleep when your dad got home.’

  ‘At nine?’ Roman was incredulous. ‘Gee, I don’t have to go to sleep till ten and I get a pill. Whammy. They got me up at six. . . . with a you-know-what,’ and his voice dropped again with embarrassment. Mirelle stifled the impulse to giggle. ‘Didn’t Dad say anything this morning?’

  ‘We overslept and it’s a miracle that your father had coffee.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Can you remember what you told him?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ and he promptly listed his wants.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked when she had tallied nine urgent items.

  ‘Well, do I get a sick pig this time?’

  ‘I’d say you already had your weight in plaster on your arm.’

  ‘Aw, gee. I oughta get a special one with a broken arm and stitches, shouldn’t I?’

  Mirelle laughingly agreed, unable to tease him further. She told him about his route manager dropping by.

  ‘Gee, Mom, do you think we can get Nick to pinch-hit? It’s awful near Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll certainly mention it to him, dear.’

  She had no sooner hung up than the phone rang again.

  ‘Do you have to sit on that line?’ demanded Steve.

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘You’ve been blabbing for fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I was talking to Roman.’

  ‘I didn’t give you the list of things he wants. Get a pencil.’

  ‘I’ve already got it from the horse’s mouth,’ she said, determined not to let his surliness get under her skin. ‘That’s why we talked for fifteen minutes.’

  ‘All right then,’ and he hung up without another comment.

  Rebuffed, Mirelle looked down at the dead phone before replacing it. She had started to rise when again the phone rang. This time it was June Treadway, thanking her for contributing so much to the success of the Bazaar. Patsy McHugh called then with the news that a number of people had phoned her, asking if more of the creche figures and the Dirty Dicks were available. Mirelle could see her time to make Roman’s sick pig whittled down to nothing.

  She patiently took the information from Patsy without explaining any of the difficulties which came to mind as the girl prattled on. She finally invented a knock at the door so she could terminate the call. Resolutely she started down to the studio when there was a legitimate knock.

  ‘Completion of projects underway . . .’ she growled to herself and wrenched open the door. Sylvia, unbalanced by trying to scrape snow from her boots, fell in.

  Mirelle, immediately contrite, was all apologies and helped her up.

  ‘I came over here for peace and quiet,’ Sylvia said, rubbing one hip as she handed Mirelle her coat, ‘and things keep happening.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Do you cry first or do I?’

  Mirelle looked thoughtfully at Sylvia. All the vivacity was drained from the woman’s face and eyes: the sallowness of her skin was not entirely due to the lack of make-up. Her usually erect figure sagged from the shoulders into the waist as if she were withdrawing as much of her body from contact as possible, like a fighter avoiding another punishing body-blow. A not unapt simile, Mirelle decided.

  ‘I assume that coffee might still taste the same,’ Sylvia said as she walked heavily towards the kitchen, ‘although I wouldn’t put it past circumstances to have changed that as well.’

  Mirelle waited a minute, wondering if she should stay with Sylvia but when the only sounds from the kitchen were preparations for coffee, she went down to the studio. She took a large blob of clay and, almost automatically, began to wrest a porcine outline from the mass.

  When Sylvia came down with the coffee, Mirelle was somewhat surprised to see that she had nearly finished it. The pig was sitting on its rump, one rear leg stretched out, one forepaw bandaged and slung in a kerchief, the pig’s body improbably propped on the other foreleg, its expression surprised.

  ‘Roman’ll love it,’ Sylvia said, again in that flat voice. She poured coffee and left Mirelle’s on the shelf beside her while she curled up on the couch, looking out at the snowy woods. ‘Heard from him today?’

  ‘I’ve heard from everybody today,’ Mirelle exclaimed with considerable feeling. Then bent to detail the pig’s trotters.

  ‘One day you must make me a sick pig. That is, of course, if they were able to decide what makes me sick.’

  Mirelle looked up, concerned. ‘Are you sick? You don’t look well today at all.’

  ‘Yeah, sick,’ agreed Sylvia, tapping her temple. ‘Sick! Sick! Sick! Didn’t you realise?’ and her tone was far too brittle, mocking, ‘I was sure you’d’ve guessed . . . I’m in analysis . . . that’s how sick I am.’

  ‘No, I didn’t guess,’ Mirelle said, carefully, and wondered if Sylvia wanted more of a response from her. But then, Mirelle thought, I’ve been rather too wrapped up in my own troubles. And Sylvia just didn’t seem the sort of person who couldn’t handle matters, any matters, efficiently. It simply hadn’t occurred to Mirelle that Sylvia’s attitudes and poses were camouflage for more than the ordinary frustrations, or at the most, the humiliating awareness of G.F.’s infidelities.

  Abruptly Sylvia swung off the couch, hugging her arms to her sides, striding up and down the length of the room with tautly controlled steps. She halted unexpectedly right by Mirelle, glaring down at the clay with an intensity that was almost hatred.

  ‘You can pound out your frustrations in that stuff. You can shape beauty out of nothing, and I’ve never seen anything hateful come from your hands. But God in his infin
ite wisdom has given me no such gifts: no redeeming acceptable talents or qualities.’

  Mirelle opened her mouth to protest, but Sylvia held up her hand, almost imperiously.

  ‘No, Mirelle, no. Spare me specious reassurances. I don’t deserve that from you.’ Then Sylvia’s expression altered to one of terror. She grabbed at Mirelle’s shoulder. ‘I couldn’t be going crazy, and not know it? Please, Mirelle, you don’t think I’m losing my mind?’

  Mirelle gripped her hand fiercely. ‘No, Sylvia, you’re not mad, not losing your mind. But something has hurt you . . .’

  Sylvia gave her a startled look.

  ‘Hurt? Oh, yes, I’ve been hurt . . .’ Sylvia stared off into a middle distance and Mirelle waited, half-resigned to hearing a recital of G.F.’s infidelities. ‘All my life she’s hurt me.’

  It was Mirelle’s turn to be astonished.

  ‘If she even knew that I’d consulted a psychiatrist . . .’

  ‘Your mother?’

  A bitter smile touched Sylvia’s lips. ‘My ever-loving mother has returned to her ancestral home. Having wreaked havoc broadside, she has girded her loins and returned to do battle anew in her ancestral home, rectifying all sorts of minor infringements of Her Ways, and correcting the errors of mine. Did you know? It’s no longer socially acceptable to be a Democrat.’ Sylvia’s eyes were bitter and mocking. ‘After all, the Kennedys are really one generation removed from Irish immigrants. And only think how they made their millions? Selling liquor. Oh they have the millions, undeniably, but they haven’t got breeding and family and position and . . .’ Sylvia ended the sentence with a snort. Her breath was coming rapidly and Mirelle wondered if she were fighting back tears or anger. Her hands were clenching and unclenching, and then Mirelle realised that the woman was trembling.

  Mirelle made a movement, instinctively wanting to hold her against the tremors. Sylvia stepped back, one hand raised in warning.