The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  The phone rang again, and Mirelle regarded it with loathing. It could be Ralph, back for another go at her. Could it be Steve? She wished to speak with neither of them. But this time it might be Sylvia. The phone rang stridently, its demand cutting into her subsiding anger and returning anxiety. If she answered the phone, she’d be required to control herself, and that was preferable to this terrible internal violence.

  ‘Mirelle? G.F. just told me you’d called,’ Sylvia said with brittle brightness.

  ‘SOS,’ Mirelle replied with matching false cheerfulness.

  ‘Oh?’ Sylvia’s answer came out in a long drawl. ‘I’m not sure, dearie, if I have proper lifesavers on hand.’

  ‘But you promised you’d come to Howell’s concert with me Friday, and he actually came up with the tickets.’

  ‘Concert?’ Sylvia’s voice settled to a more normal level. ‘Do you require a chaperone, dear?’ Now she purred with amused malice.

  ‘Don’t be silly. But I’d like company. And I thought you wanted to hear Jamie play.’ Mirelle had the notion that her request met a vacuum.

  ‘Friday,’ Sylvia said at length. ‘To be candid I forgot the date of the concert, but I have to be in Philly during the day. I expect we can meet. Why don’t we have dinner together, somewhere?’

  ‘Well, I’m leaving Roman to baby-sit.’

  ‘That cast should be just perfect for subduing restless elements.’

  ‘I didn’t want to leave until seven.’

  ‘Not long enough for a decent dinner, then.’ There was a long pause on the other end. ‘I’ll meet you at the concert hall. Why don’t you take the train? I’ll have the car.’

  Something about the quality of Sylvia’s voice disturbed Mirelle when she hung up. She had the distinct feeling that Sylvia had been speaking for someone else’s benefit. It must be her imagination. All her nerves were a-jangle.

  Mirelle got out a Coke as a weak peace offering for Tonia. When she opened the girl’s door, she was relieved to see that her resilient daughter was dressing her Barbie dolls.

  20

  FRIDAY STARTED AS a cold crisp morning, brilliant with sunlight on the snow. The novelty of Roman’s injury had not worn off and he was helped solicitously onto the bus by classmates. The driver winked good-natured reassurance at Mirelle before she trudged back to the house. She heard the phone as she reached the front walk and ran, slipping on the ice which had formed in the night. Never will understand why the phone has to be answered, she thought to herself. She slithered past the dining-room table, arm outstretched to flip the instrument off the hook before the caller gave up.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Steve demanded.

  ‘Loading Roman on the bus. Ice on the walk.’ She got the answer out in spurts.

  ‘What did you say to Ralph?’

  ‘Ralph?’

  ‘Yes, Ralph Martin, my brother,’ Steve said acidly. ‘He tracked me down, hotel by hotel, until he found the right convention. Got me up at twelve-thirty. Out of a sound sleep, I might add.’

  ‘He didn’t ask me which hotel. He was upset.’ Mirelle resolved to keep her temper.

  ‘I know that! I want to know what you said to him.’

  ‘He wanted to know what had upset his mother, because she was being hysterical, and then he tried to tell me that she isn’t the hysterical type . . .’ Despite her resolve, Mirelle felt her anger rising. ‘So I told him what happened when Roman got home, and then he said something about us treating the injury casually, and us forcing alcohol down Roman’s throat.’

  ‘He said you called Mother hysterical and narrow-minded.’

  ‘Oh, Steve, do I have to defend myself to you, too? You were there! I’m not ashamed of giving Roman a shot of bourbon when he needed the stimulant. Nor are we an insensitive and alcoholic household. And I’m so proud that our son could get up and walk himself home . . .’

  ‘That’s it! Is that what you said to Ralph?’

  ‘Steve, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘Can’t you imagine how Ralph would feel?’

  ‘I don’t care how Ralph feels. I know how I feel! Damned for doing the right thing at the right time in the right way! Do I have to use the same warped precepts as your mother?’

  ‘I didn’t realise you hated my mother so.’ Steve’s voice was low and bitter.

  ‘I don’t hate her, Steve,’ Mirelle said wearily. ‘I’m sorry for her, sorry that we’re so different we can never be friends at all. But most of all, I’m sorry for us. Because every time she comes, she rips us wide open.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Steve answered irritably but suddenly he wasn’t fighting her anymore. ‘But damn it. Mirelle, you just don’t tell your own mother that you don’t want to see her again.’

  Mirelle stifled her surprise. Steve’s remark had been more to himself than to her, but it clarified Ralph’s attitude and his purpose in contacting Steve. She leaned a little weakly against the wall. She had won her long grim battle against the domineering Marian Martin. It gave her no sense of triumph, certainly no pride in having had to force the issue. And it would not be easy for Steve to live with his conscience, now that he had made his stand. Mirelle hoped that Dad Martin wouldn’t become an enemy, as Ralph had. Surely the old man had seen and understood, even if he hadn’t intervened.

  ‘Mirelle? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, Steve,’ she said, frantically wondering if there was anything she could say.

  ‘How’s Roman? What’s this about his getting on the school bus?’

  ‘Will Martin said he’d be kept quieter at school than if I tried to control him at home. He knows Roman.’

  ‘Yeah, he does. There’s no danger of him slipping down those bus steps? The risers are steep.’

  ‘The driver said he’d carry him off to be sure.’

  ‘Okay. Look, Mirelle, I have to stop off in Cleveland on my way back. Don’t expect me before Tuesday.’

  ‘We’ll miss you, Steve.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  The line went dead. Mirelle realised humorlessly that she had spent a lot of time lately staring at silent phones. She started to hang it up and then, in an unexpected decision, left it off the hook.

  ‘I shall have my coffee and read the paper in unbroken quiet.’

  She resolutely put all thought of the last phone call out of her mind and read with great concentration. Five minutes later, she couldn’t recall a single sentence. She read the comics, the medical column, closed her eyes to the horoscope section, and went down the notices and the services columns in the classifieds. She had so firmly put the conversation out of her mind that it wasn’t until she took the dress she planned to wear to the concert out of its plastic bag that she remembered she hadn’t rehung the phone.

  Suppose the school had been trying to reach her because Roman had slipped or hurt himself? She cradled the phone and calmed her fears. They’d have called a neighbor or Will Martin, she chided herself. She really shouldn’t go to the concert, she thought wearily. No matter what Roman says about being able to manage the kids. Steve’s out of town and I just shouldn’t go. Well, really, why not? When have you been to a concert recently? You used to go often with Steve: you both enjoyed it. Until . . . say it . . . until Allentown and Mother Martin’s diabolical finger poked fun at her concert-going son. I will not think such thoughts! There is no harm in going to a concert with a friend. A chaperone!

  Thinking of whom, Mirelle dialed Sylvia’s number, letting it ring and ring until she remembered that Sylvia had said that she had to be in Philly during the day. It was already eleven-thirty. Sylvia would have left. So, Mirelle would have to go to the concert. She had the tickets and Sylvia would be waiting for her. In that case, she’d better take the train up to Philly. Sylvia always drove. Mirelle had also better taxi to the station. Oh, dear, was it worth all the trouble?

  She held the black dress up to her, appraising her reflection in the mirror. The smell of the satin, the feel of it in her hands,
the lingering scent of the perfume she usually wore clung to the gown, all evoking other festive occasions and exciting evenings. Yes, she needed the therapy of the concert badly. She needed to lose herself in music, in the passive participation of listening.

  Mirelle whirled away from the mirror and hung the gown on her closet door. She went down to the kitchen to make brownies for dessert, iced brownies. She must remember to check if she had enough Coke for Roman to use as reward or threat.

  I’m just unused to sheer dress fabrics, Mirelle told herself as she tried to wrap her coat more firmly around her and shut out the chill wind. (If I make my muscles relax, they won’t shiver.) She forced her shoulders down and took a deep breath.

  Another breeze found a minute opening and streaked up her backbone. She hopped around the corner, peering anxiously up and down the street for Sylvia. It was twenty past eight.

  The nagging suspicion that somehow or other Sylvia was not going to join her grew stronger. But Sylvia had said she’d come, Mirelle insisted to herself, firmly, loyally. At twenty-five past the hour, Mirelle gave up all pretense and marched to the box office.

  ‘My name is Martin. Was there any message left for me?’

  She received a frown from the pear-shaped man in the box office as he peered at her over his glasses, pursing his lips in disapproval. He glanced over his shoulder at the plump man checking figures on an adding machine.

  ‘Any calls for a Mrs. Martin?’

  ‘Martin? Martin? Yeah, a Mrs. Eshazy called. She ain’t coming.’ The plump party returned to his column of figures.

  Mirelle was given a quelling stare. ‘No refunds, lady.’

  She turned quickly away to cover her disappointment. Hurriedly she fumbled for the tickets in her evening purse. Took one and handed it to the bored doorman. She went through the routine of being passed from usher to usher, and down the aisle to her row, nervously stepping over feet and muttering apologies until she reached her seat and could settle herself, and hopefully her emotions. What could have happened to Sylvia? And how was she to get home now? Why had Sylvia let her down? And why was her non-appearance so distressing?

  The house lights dimmed and Jamie appeared, holding back one section of the curtains to allow the soloist to make an entrance. Then he followed her to the stage center. Mirelle swallowed nervously and slid down a little in her seat. She righted herself, annoyed by seeing him so professionally aloof, so sure of himself. He was suddenly in a perspective that alienated him from her previous knowledge of him. He was a stranger in the complex and glamorous world of the performing artist: no longer the amusing stranger, the sick acquaintance, or Margaret’s garrulous father.

  The applause which had greeted the soprano’s entrance died down as she gracefully acknowledged it and took her place in the curve of the grand piano. The concert spot narrowed, framing her in an island of light which spilled over onto Jamie’s head and shoulders. Mirelle caught her breath as she fancied that Jamie looked for her, directly at her in the audience. To be sure, he must know her relative position from the numbers of the tickets he had given her, but that he wanted to make sure she had used them gave her a deep and unexpected satisfaction. He had seated himself now, and Mirelle realised that he had brought no music with him. Her respect for him professionally, rose higher.

  The audience quieted: the hall was completely dark. The soprano, her full figure elegantly gowned in rich garnet red, nodded to her accompanist and the chords of the first song filled the darkness.

  Wide-eyed with shock, Mirelle gripped the arms of her seat. The notes of the Handel aria were so sweetly familiar: with this beautiful song Mary LeBoyne had opened the last concert which Mirelle heard her mother sing. Madame Nealy’s voice compounded the anguish by having much the same timbre.

  Mirelle closed her eyes. She could see so clearly her mother’s figure, standing on the makeshift stage in that awful little auditorium. The air had been cloying with the smell of the burnt, the burning, and antiseptic. The previous night’s bombing had been heavy in the area and the stink of it was everywhere. Mirelle, about to be sent off to America for the duration, had come to hear her mother as a special treat. Self-conscious in her school gaberdine, desperately shy, she had sat at the back of a hall filled with convalescent servicemen. She had been convinced, even then, that this was the last time she’d hear her mother sing.

  The Mirelle of 1940 knew exactly why she was being sent to America: she was becoming too much of an embarrassment to Edward Barthan-More. And that afternoon, Mary Margaret LeBoyne had told Mirelle the circumstances of her birth, in a halting, embarrassed voice, flushing with the memory of humiliations at the hands of her vindictive husband. Half weeping, Mary Margaret had begged her daughter’s forgiveness for the ignominies and slights which the child had suffered at her stepfather’s hands. She apologised for being so selfish as to keep Mirelle by her when the girl might have had a happier childhood in some foster home where her irregular birth was no stigma to social acceptance.

  Embarrassed by her mother’s anguish, Mirelle had fought the intense relief she had felt at knowing that she really wasn’t the daughter of the cold autocratic vicious man whom she had come to hate for the petty acts he habitually committed against anyone subordinate to, or dependent on him. She had suffered agonies of mind because she was ‘supposed to love her father’ and couldn’t. And she had hated him most because of the way he had treated her mother. To go to America to live with her mother’s best friend, Mary Murphy, was no exile to Mirelle. It was paradise. And she knew, in her sudden maturity, that Edward Barthan-More would never give his wife permission to go to America once the war was over, to see her daughter. Her mother knew it, too, from the way she had clung to Mirelle that afternoon.

  Mirelle was suddenly startled out of her reverie by the applause for Madame Nealy.

  Somewhat bitterly, Mirelle wondered if there was any way Jamie could have known how much the woman sounded like Mary LeBoyne. But how could he? There were only a few recordings of her mother’s voice, and they were on ancient 78 rpm discs. Jamie’s contained face, dramatically highlighted in the spill of the spotlight, was intent on the soprano for her cue to begin the next song. Jamie wouldn’t be so deliberately cruel, Mirelle told herself. She sat up, determined to put aside these painful memories and really listen to the performance.

  Fortunately, the Gluck aria which was next held no painful connotations for Mirelle. She could appreciate the delicate balance between singer and accompanist, and she found herself unaccountably jealous of the hours of rehearsal necessary to achieve such rapport. Madame Nealy was an undeniably handsome woman, but Mirelle could not picture Jamie as her lover. Now why on earth would I think about that, Mirelle wondered, as if it made any difference at all to me whom James Howell had affairs with. Listen! Mirelle, you’re here to listen!

  There was a brief intermission before the lieder section. Mirelle waited patiently, determined to hold her mind to the concert without further ruminations. Her knowledge and appreciation of lieder was good. She’d learned German as a small girl because her mother had been well received as a lieder singer in Germany. Mirelle’s happiest childhood memories were the four tours on which she had accompanied her mother when Mary Margaret had been singing all over the Third Reich. That had been before her mother had become aware of the military build-up and the penetration of Das Kultur in all areas of German life.

  It was impossible to stem the flow of memories: dust motes dancing on the beams of sunlight flooding a music room, her mother’s patient repetition of “Die Ring an Meinen Finger”, beyond the windows so bright from the attentions of the parlor-maid that morning, the glittering sweep of the Neckar River.

  Surrendering for the first time to the pull of associations, Mirelle leapt from one reminiscence to another: all of them centering around her mother and those four tours, though Mirelle hadn’t been more than six on the first one. She remembered the starchy feel of her linen ‘good’ dress, the way her shoes had pinched
her toes because Nanny would not tell Mother that the shoes were outgrown: the scent of her mother’s cologne, the yeasty smell of buttered rolls, and the taste of well-milked coffee, a special treat in the mornings when she and her mother had breakfasted together in bed.

  And never once, not even in that last painful interview, had her mother mentioned Lajos Neagu.

  Once freed of her guilty hatred for the man she’d considered to be her father, Mirelle had nothing but contempt for Edward Barthan-More. Her hatred she had transferred to the father who had ignored her existence, and left her mother to endure the vindictive intolerance of her stepfather.

  Tonight in the darkened auditorium, familiar lieder melodies and words reinforcing associative memories, Mirelle could begin to appreciate her mother’s silence; her father’s apparent neglect. The long-held hatred dissipated and the bitterness left her. Mirelle was limp with emotional strain by the intermission and stumbled over feet with inordinate haste for the refuge of the sidewalk, chilly or not, and a comforting cigarette.

  She could be relieved now that Sylvia had reneged. There would have been bright remarks and curious questions. Or perhaps, Mirelle pondered, she would not have switched to that train of thought in Sylvia’s company. But where was Sylvia? The notion that Sylvia had arranged their meeting at the concert for someone else’s benefit . . . as an alibi . . . reasserted itself. But surely if Sylvia had never intended to keep the appointment, why hadn’t she had the decency to phone and warn Mirelle? It was only fair. Then Mirelle remembered leaving the phone off the hook all morning. She was partly to blame for her present situation, and she stubbed out the end of her cigarette with a vicious grind of her heel. The theatre lights blinked a warning.

  Before the concert resumed, Mirelle had time to look at her program. Madame Nealy might have taken the selections from one of Mary LeBoyne’s concerts. Even the arias had been in her mother’s repertoire, and they were not the usual sopranic standbys, except “Pace! Pace!”, the lovely old warhorse from Forza del Destino!