‘Sympathy would kill me, Mirelle.’
‘Hadn’t you better get in touch with your doctor then? I can’t . . .’
Sylvia gave her head a little shake. ‘I called him when this hit me this morning but he can’t see me until three. I knew that if I stayed in that house another minute, I’d . . .’ She turned her back on Mirelle. ‘The problem is, she means well. She’s operating according to her high standards . . . which died with the Treaty at Versailles, for God’s sake. She’s an Edwardian relic but she’s so goddam strong . . . You don’t know how lucky you are, Mirelle,’ Sylvia went on, her voice losing the shrillness of desperation, ‘to have had a rebel for a mother.’
Mirelle blinked. ‘A rebel?’
‘G.F. once said that he thought my mother would have made a superb courtesan. In fact, his exact words were “what an empire-builder she’d’ve made.”.’
‘I never thought of my mother as a rebel.’
Sylvia’s smile was less forced, almost as if she were enjoying Mirelle’s disorientation. ‘Didn’t you? She was a concert and opera singer when that profession was just barely respectable. Then she has a flaming affair with the leading portrait painter of the decade, and a memento of the occasion . . .’
‘Mother . . .’
‘Ahha.’ Sylvia was enjoying herself and Mirelle was torn between relief at seeing her in control of her emotions and a dislike of being teased. Then abruptly Sylvia’s face resumed its mask of tragedy. ‘At least she had enough courage to follow her honest emotions.’
‘And paid for that the rest of her life.’
‘It’s the sins of omission one regrets.’
‘Such as?’
Sylvia’s face got even bleaker. ‘Matricide, for one.’
There wasn’t a speck of facetiousness in that remark: Sylvia was completely earnest. Mirelle knew that.
‘But, Sylvia, you know your mother wouldn’t approve of that at all!’
The words were out before Mirelle could stop them, though she clapped horrified hands over her mouth in the next moment, desperately trying to figure out how she could redeem her gaffe. Just then Sylvia’s sense of the ridiculous revived. She gave a short burst of harsh laughter.
‘Not only disapprove but find some way to come back and haunt me. And that would be entirely insupportable.’
The phone rang and Mirelle swore vehemently.
‘Answer it, Mirelle. It might be Roman.’ Sylvia turned away to stare out of the window.
Silently Mirelle cursed as she reached for the phone. Not that she had exhibited any unsuspected gift in easing her friend’s mental distress, but surely a sympathetic listener provided some sort of a safety valve.
‘Is . . . Sylvia there by any chance?’ G.F. asked casually.
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Good. Would you tell her that Bert called and wants her to call him as soon as possible please? How’s Roman?’
She responded politely to the last question and made no more effort to continue the conversation than G.F. did. She devoutly hoped that this Bert was the psychiatrist. How tactful G.F. was!
‘G.F. says that Bert wants you to call immediately.’
The relief in Sylvia’s face confirmed Mirelle’s wish. Sylvia almost grabbed the phone from her, her fingers shaking as she dialled with joint-twisting frenzy.
‘Bert? You’re free? Oh, thank God. I’ll be right over.’
She practically flung the phone back into its cradle, grabbing up coat and purse with clutching, fumbling hands. In the act of setting her foot on the first step, she whirled, her eyes alive in her still drained face.
‘Mirelle, you did help. You said the right things. Thanks.’
Then she was up the stairs and out of the house. The air pressure between the storm door and the inside one kept it from closing so Mirelle went to shut it properly. She saw Sylvia’s car skidding in the snow on the hill and she worried that her friend’s urgency might have disastrous results. But, as the car reached the crest of the hill, it slowed. Commonsense had come back to the driver.
Mirelle closed the door firmly, leaning back against it until she heard the latch click.
‘My horoscope is wrong today, all wrong,’ she said, and then went to answer the phone again.
19
THE SENSE OF unreality lasted through the next day. Steve had come home and started to drink. He had been preoccupied all during dinner, but he had gone out to the hospital and spent an hour and a half with Roman. Mirelle had watched him quietly during dinner and had been waiting for him when he got back from the hospital. He hadn’t paused in the living-room to speak to her but had gone upstairs immediately. She heard him moving around in their room, the squeak of the louvered closet doors opening, the opening and closing of dresser drawers. To her sudden dismay, she realised that he was packing.
With studied unconcern she went upstairs and dallied, checking the children’s rooms before she entered theirs. He was packing the two-suiter, quietly and efficiently. He looked up as she came in.
‘I doubt I’ll be back before Sunday. And, if the situation in Cleveland hasn’t changed, I may stop off there on Monday,’ he said.
The knot that had begun in the bottom of her stomach suddenly unwound. She had entirely forgotten about his convention. The only thing she had thought of when she’d heard him packing was that he was leaving her.
‘I explained to Roman. He’s a terrific kid, Mirelle. I forget that he’s going on fifteen and growing so fast. I hate to leave him in the hospital, but he told me Dr. Martin says he can come home Wednesday.’
‘Yes, didn’t I mention that at dinner?’
‘I had my mind on the Cleveland thing,’ Steve said, but Mirelle knew where his mind had been and accepted the tactful lie. ‘I’ll have to catch an early plane from Philly. I’ll take the wagon and leave it at the airport. Easier all round.’
Mirelle agreed, hearing all the while the words he wasn’t saying. She undressed in that remoteness that had colored the entire day. She did, however, have the foresight to take two sleeping pills while she was in the bathroom. She heard Steve rattling in the medicine chest, too, for the same remedy. She hoped he’d hear the alarm in the morning.
She had managed to wake up sufficiently from her drugged sleep to get Nick and Tonia fed and off to school, but the phone rang three times with complaints about non-delivery of papers and that made Tuesday as wrong as Monday had been.
The only bright spot in the day was the overwhelming success of Roman’s sick pig, which she took to cheer his morning. Every nurse on duty, the orderly, and Dr. Martin had to admire the silly thing. In a state of high glee, Roman showed her all the cards that had come. Dr. Martin confirmed his Wednesday discharge.
‘As a matter of fact, send him back to school Thursday, Mirelle,’ Will Martin said. ‘He’s more likely to be kept quiet there than at home. And think of the status he’ll acquire.’
Mirelle laughed.
‘Say,’ Martin went on, ‘your Mr. Howell sent me a pair of tickets to that concert of his on Friday. I’ve half a mind to rip out the telephone plug and go to it. My wife sees me at breakfast if she’s lucky. By dinner I’ve usually improved enough to be sociable, but inevitably some damn fool has an emergency so we never get a chance to enjoy an evening’s leisure time.’ He snorted over his choice of phrase. ‘Are you going?’
‘Steve’s out of town.’ Mirelle knew she was temporising.
‘So what? Go by yourself. You need a break. You look worn out. And don’t come in for a physical. I’m booked until April.’ He scowled at her. ‘You’re in a rut. Jump out of it for an evening.’
When she got home, the phone was ringing frantically and she dashed to answer it.
‘Are you never home?’ demanded James Howell.
‘I just got in from the hospital.’
‘Anybody I know?’
‘Roman.’
‘Good God! There I go again! Open mouth, A. Insert foot, B. Nothing serious?’
‘No. He broke his arm and gashed his leg.’
‘Oh, no, nothing serious at all,’ Howell said in a mocking tone.
Mirelle heard herself giggling. ‘If you knew how he had counted coup with twenty-eight stitches over the present neighborhood record-holder, you’d know it wasn’t serious. Matter of fact, he was delivering the Sunday papers and indulged in a sled run on the way home. Only he tangled with the sled runners. D’you know that he picked himself up, broken arm, gashed leg, and all, and walked home?’
‘He’s your son, isn’t he?’ replied Howell, unimpressed by such bravery.
‘He’s only fourteen,’ Mirelle protested.
‘So what? I’d never heard that heroism was limited to a special age group. Look, I called to tell you that I have a pair of tickets, obtained with much bribery and blackmail from the management, for my concert.’
‘I thought a soprano was the featured attraction.’
‘I’ll hang up.’
‘It’s really very kind of you, Jamie . . .’
‘There isn’t a kind bone in my body, Mary Ellen . . .’
‘. . . But with Steve out of town on a convention, and Roman . . .’
‘You just finished telling me that he is eminently capable of handling minor emergencies . . .’
‘But . . .’
‘You need a night out. Bring Sylvia or someone if you require a chaperone, but I really must insist on your presence. Margaret can’t make it and I must have some claque there. Prestige, you know.’
Mirelle choked back a nasty crack because, despite Jamie’s flippancy, it was apparent that he very much wanted her in that audience.
‘As a matter of fact, Will Martin told me that I should have a night out, too. By the way, it was very nice of you to send him tickets.’
‘He needs a night out more than you do, though I doubt he’ll be able to come. And I must have my own claque. SHE always pads the audience.’ He was at his most arrogant, and Mirelle laughed.
‘All right, I’ll come. I’ll come.’
‘Good.’ He sounded very pleased. ‘When does Roman leave the dubious land of Blue Cross?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘May I be of assistance? That’s a lot of boy to maneuver in snow, cast and stitch.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ she began as she remembered that Steve had taken the station wagon and the Sprite was not exactly designed to accommodate an invalid. The upshot was that Jamie chauffeured them both in the Thunderbird, dealing with the obstinacy of an officious floor supervisor, and hoisting Roman deftly from hospital wheelchair to the car. Once at the house, he ignored Roman’s protests and, with a running line of patter that took the sting out of the boy’s temporary helplessness, conveyed him safely up the icy walk and into the house. They all enjoyed a very pleasant, even hilarious lunch together, before Jamie autocratically removed Roman to his room to rest.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Jamie,’ Mirelle said at the door as Howell took his leave. ‘I never could have coped alone.’
‘What? Miraculous Mirelle at a loss?’ he laughed in mock horror. ‘The tickets.’ He slapped them into her hand in one more theatrical gesture before he left.
She held the envelope thoughtfully, remembering what Will Martin had said the day before. She admitted to a good deal of curiosity about Jamie as a professional. She didn’t question his competence but she wondered if his sardonic humor intruded in his accompaniments. He would be extremely handsome in formal wear, with the height to be distinguished as well.
Roman called to her and Mirelle realised that she couldn’t leave him on Friday to go to any concert, no matter how much she might want to. Not with Steve away as well.
‘Whatcha got, Mom?’ Roman asked as she came into the room, still holding the little white envelope.
‘Mr. Howell gave me tickets to his concert Friday,’ she said, casting them negligently onto the dresser.
‘Gee, that’ll be terrific, Mom. I’ll bet he’s good.’
Mirelle looked at him in surprise. ‘But I’m not going, hon.’
Roman was stunned. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, your father’s away and I would hardly leave . . .’
‘. . . Leave my poor hurt boy alone?’ Roman was disgusted. ‘You sound like Grandmother.’ Then he flushed. ‘I mean . . .’
Mirelle held up her hand. ‘You mean, you wouldn’t mind my going?’
‘If you think a little thing like a broken arm and twenty-eight stitches is enough to put me off for long, you’re nuts.’
Mirelle was touched by his attitude and ruffled his hair, but she was still undecided. It would be so nice to go to a concert in town – particularly this one. The kids would be cowed enough by Roman’s injuries to obey him. He’d certainly proved that he could handle himself in an emergency, and she wouldn’t have to leave until seven. She’d better call Sylvia. Chaperone, indeed, she snorted to herself.
G.F. answered the phone: Sylvia was out and would not be back until late. There was no opening for Mirelle to ask G.F. how Sylvia was feeling. His courtesy was perfect, but his replies were framed to supply no additional information. It was like talking to a super-efficient, idiot secretary, Mirelle thought, irritated by his deference. She hung up, disturbed. Why was he home at such an hour anyway?
After dinner, during which both Tonia and Nick, still awed by their brother’s heroics, promised implicit obedience on Friday, Mirelle was clearing the kitchen when the phone rang. Juggling dirty glasses in one hand, she picked up the phone, hoping the caller was Sylvia.
‘This is Long Distance, person to person to Mr. Steven Martin.’ The operator’s southern drawl struck Mirelle with a premonition of disaster.
‘He’s in Chicago.’ She managed to set the glasses on the table before they slipped from her nerveless fingers.
‘When is he expected back, please?’
‘Not until Monday.’ Mirelle strained to hear what voice prompted these questions. The first time the operator had closed the circuit. The second time she kept it open.
‘Will you speak with anyone else, sir?’
Something must have happened to Mother Martin, Mirelle thought, and I shall have it on my conscience forever.
‘Is that Mrs. Martin?’ a vaguely familiar male voice asked.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘It’s all right, operator. Murry Ellin,’ and there was only one person who pronounced her name that way, her brother-in-law, Ralph Martin. It also explained the southern operator, since Ralph and his wife lived in Greenville, S.C.
‘Murry Ellin, what on earth did you do to Mother?’ he asked, concerned but pleasant enough.
‘Ralph, you scared me.’
‘What happened?’ His voice took on an impatient edge.
‘Ralph, I did nothing to your mother. Roman had an accident in the snow and by the time I got back from the hospital, your mother and father had left.’
‘Well, what did Steve have to say? Mother goes into hysterics if anyone looks in her direction. And . . .’
‘I’m sorry about that, Ralph . . .’
‘Sorry about that? Is that all you have to say?’ Ralph lost all restraint. ‘My mother is not the hysterical type . . .’
‘On the contrary, Ralph, she most certainly is. She took one look at Roman and started shrieking . He was hurt but he had walked home on his own and you’d have thought he was half dead the way she carried on.’
‘According to Mother, he was, and you took it as casually as if he’d had a splinter in his finger.’
Mirelle closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Ralph, we did not take it casually. We rushed him right to the hospital. However, there was no point in creating a scene when he was doing his damnedest to act brave.’
‘Mother said you forced liquor down his throat.’
‘Forced is not the right word. He needed a quick stimulant because of the cold and the doctor approved of the bourbon. Ralph, you know how narrow-minded your
mother is about drink . . .’
‘I did not call you to discuss alcoholism . . .’
‘I’m not discussing it. I’m telling you what happened and your mother’s hysterical reaction to an emergency. Anything beyond that you will have to discuss with your brother. He knows what happened prior to your parents’ departure. I do not. Nor do I care what happened. But I will say this. MY son could get up off his face and walk home for help when he was injured. And I’m very proud of him.’
She slammed the phone back onto the receiver, trembling, hurt and humiliated. Ralph knew as well as anyone else how unreasonable his mother could be. His wife certainly spared no details of the naggings, bickerings and pettiness that ensued during Mother Martin’s state visits in Greenville. But then, Ralph was the favored older son and would presume to call his younger brother to task.
But how could she have been cruel enough to make even an oblique reference to Ralph’s unfortunate experience! She doubted that Ralph would ever speak to her again, and right then she didn’t care. She’d had enough of the Martins’ suffocating righteousness and social pretensions. Damn it! She’d been a good wife. A good mother! What more was expected of her? So what if she’d been illegitimate! That had not been her fault. At least she’d not paraded either her parents or her bastardy in plain sight, as they’d marshalled their second-hand opinions and miserable prejudices.
Mirelle was shaking so violently that she lurched to the cabinet and, not taking time to find a glass, swallowed a stiff jolt of bourbon, glaring her defiance at the silent phone.
‘Mother,’ Tonia said in a whine, running into the kitchen, ‘Nickie and Roman won’t . . .’
‘If you can’t be quiet, you can go to bed!’
‘But, Mommy, it’s my turn . . .’
‘Go to bed! Now! No back talk or I’ll slap you.’ Mirelle was startled by the savagery in her voice as well as the terrified look on Tonia’s face. Weeping in earnest, Tonia dashed out of the kitchen and pounded upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
Mirelle buried her face in her hands, recognising that she had lashed out at the child just as Steve had: pure fury looking for the nearest victim.
The Year of the Lucy Page 26