The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Mirelle, get a hold of yourself. You’ve never flown off the handle like this before.’

  ‘I’ve never been so desperate before, Steve. And I’ve never been so unjustly accused before.’

  ‘Mirelle, please. Get a hold of yourself,’ Steve sounded upset now, too.

  ‘It’s not serious, is it? Your father’ll be all right, won’t he? I mean, did Ralph tell you any details?’

  ‘Yes, he did. It’s not a major seizure: more of a warning. Dad told me that he’d been advised to take it easier. Get away from the heavy winters. That’s why they went south. It’s just unfortunate . . . Well, I don’t imagine Mother helped matters any on the trip down. Or at Ralph’s. Now look, Dad’s at the Orange Memorial Hospital in Orlando. Send flowers, will you?’

  ‘I will. I will. I’m sorry.’ While Steve had talked, she’d tried to calm herself but the viciousness of Ralph’s accusation rankled too deeply.

  ‘Mirelle, honey?’

  ‘Yes, Steve.’

  ‘It’ll all work out all right, believe me? Ralph was scared. You know he’s much closer to Dad than I am.’

  ‘Oh, come home, Steve. Please come home to me.’

  ‘I will, Mirelle, I will.’

  He’ll come home, he’ll come home! The words did a gavotte in Mirelle’s mind. Steve had to come home. And yes, he was right that Ralph would be scared. Ralph scared easily. He didn’t have the guts that Steve did. Ralph certainly couldn’t have told his mother to leave, that he never wanted to see her again. Maybe Marian Martin was afraid of her, too.

  The notion consoled Mirelle tremendously and she chose not to weaken the idea with any qualifiers. People are afraid of people who are different, and she was certainly different from the girl Marian Martin had intended her precious second son to marry. Nancy Randolph indeed! Mirelle Martin scares Marian Martin! Mirelle chanted it to herself. Ralph Martin is also scared stiff of Mirelle Martin.

  For Arthur Martin she felt pity. She’d always liked him. She picked up the phone and called the floral service, putting her name first when she gave the donors. She intended to keep the upper hand with her mother-in-law. Then she fixed dinner for the kids.

  She tried again to reach Sylvia but the line was busy. That was an improvement on no answer.

  She wandered into the studio, digging her fingers aimlessly into the plasticine in its barrel. Finally she scooped out a handful and slapped it on a plywood base. At random, she worked in more and more, globs here and there, formless. Then she began to shape what she gradually realised were hands, fingers, joints, masses of hands, grubby-fingered, skeletal-jointed, fat palms, stiff thumbs, crooked fingers, the hands of her nightmares – masses of fingerlike snakes and jagged claw-nails.

  Although she was absorbed by the process of creation, she didn’t at all like what she was doing. The hands and disjointed fingers were repellent, disgusting, verging on the obscene. She raised her fist purposefully to smash this tangible form of the nightmare back into anonymity.

  ‘You always sculpt with love,’ Sylvia had told her.

  ‘Not always,’ Mirelle said softly. And lowered her destroying hand for some obscure, perverse reason.

  She covered the obscenity and shoved it up high on the shelf where the shadows would hide it. Then she went to bed. She worried about Dad Martin until she fell asleep.

  22

  MONDAY MORNING SHE forced herself to get her usual chores done before going to the studio. She’d put another color coat on the head first, she decided. Just then the door opened abruptly. For a fleeting, hopeful moment she thought it might be Sylvia and started up the stairwell, staring up at James Howell in surprise.

  ‘Well, whom were you expecting?’ he asked. ‘I even knocked.’

  ‘I thought . . . well, I’d half hoped it might be Sylvia,’ she said with devastating honesty, and giggled at the collapse of his haughty expression.

  ‘Hah!’ He recovered himself promptly. ‘Don’t you remember giving me gracious permission to come leer at you on Monday? I thought I’d finally succeeded in making an impression on you. Now I find that you’d prefer the company of some mere female. I’m leaving.’

  ‘Oh, Jamie, no, please!’ She ran up the steps, half convinced that he was really offended. ‘I didn’t forget you were coming. But you didn’t specify when, and you caromed in just the way Sylvia does. And I haven’t heard from her. I’m worried . . .’

  She was level with him now and he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake to silence her.

  ‘What else has been dumped on you, Mirelle?’

  ‘Oh, Jamie, everything, I think.’ She leaned gratefully into his comforting embrace.

  ‘All right then, I want to hear the whole miserable saga,’ he said, leading her by the hand to the couch in the studio. He sat at the other end, prepared to listen.

  The incidents around Roman’s accident came tumbling out, including Steve’s disclosure at the hospital.

  ‘Petty, petty, petty,’ Jamie said in a growl when Mirelle recounted Ralph’s call and the telegram.

  ‘I’m sorry to unload on you, Jamie,’ she felt obliged to say. ‘But it all goes round and round in my mind, and I can’t get things into any sort of perspective.’

  ‘That’s why confession is so good for the soul.’

  ‘You’re not the father confessor type.’

  He grinned at her. ‘No, I’m not. And ordinarily I would eschew the confessional as I would the plague. But the sort of trivia that’s been dumped on you is best out in the air, shaken and thrown away for the sheer dross that it is.’ His tone was fierce, startling her, but his expression was half-amused, as he regarded her through half-closed eyes. ‘I have the strong urge, my dear, to take you on my lap and cuddle you, the way I used to do with Margaret when she was hurt.’

  ‘I’ve not been hurt . . .’

  ‘Not physically, no. However,’ he went on briskly, ‘my intentions towards you are not the least bit paternal . . .’

  ‘I can’t imagine you ever cuddling Margaret,’ Mirelle said in a tart tone because she wanted to evade the reason for Jamie’s visit as long as possible.

  ‘No?’ he asked, his expressive eyebrows raised. ‘I made a lousy husband, I know, but I’ve been a most exemplary father. Margaret tells me so repeatedly. She compares notes with her college friends, and they’d all prefer me ten to one.’

  Mirelle laughed at his smug expression before she realised that he had been subtly prodding her out of her self-pity.

  ‘Seriously though, Mirelle,’ he went on, rising suddenly and beginning to pace about, ‘you don’t deserve such treatment from your in-laws.’

  ‘I came to the self-preserving conclusion that Marian Martin is afraid of me . . .’

  ‘And you’re probably quite right. Oh yes, Mirelle,’ and he made a sound of utter disgust, ‘you’re right, because you’re not cast from the Barbie-doll mold. It’s been a source of never-ending irritation to me that the human race descends to the level of barnyard fowls the moment something new is introduced to them. Let poultry see a hen with different or more brilliant plumage and they either peck the creature from their circle or pluck out its distinguishing feathers. Which was what your mother-in-law was doing to you by ridiculing your parentage and denying you the exercise of your birthright. So hang on to that premise and let the truth make you free . . . of all the middle-class shit you’ve been smothered in.’

  He stopped his pacing a moment to glare at her. ‘You’re a very different woman from the nervous little housewife whose flat tire I changed. Don’t think I haven’t been aware of what it has cost you. When I remember your statue smashed on the floor, I feel actively nauseous. Oh, I know he said it was an accident. That didn’t erase all the damage it did . . .’ he broke off and stared at her. ‘No, I take that back. I think that’s exactly what you needed. A jolt: the symbolism of seeing your friend squashed flat . . . as much by middle-class mores as anything else.’

  ‘Oh, for Pete’s
sake,’ Mirelle broke in, irritated by his analysis. ‘I don’t need an amateur psychiatrist.’

  ‘No,’ and Jamie’s eyes were flashing, ‘you need a kick in the pants. From what you’ve told me, Lucy Farnoll pried you loose from your comfortable martyr’s hole and made you take a good look around you. She died and you didn’t have her skirts to run to when things got tough so you played pussy in the corner, and hoped that no one would notice you. Going to hide behind her skirts again?’ And he gestured dramatically at the draped Lucy.

  ‘I think you’re a bit of a barnyard fowl yourself, James Howell. The rooster, in fact. All he has to do is crow and the good hen upends. Why can’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘Why?’ The word erupted like an explosion from Jamie’s lips. He reached out and whipped the sheet from the Lucy. ‘Why? Because of this! Because of that home-loving cat. Christ, Mirelle,’ and his voice changed to one of entreaty, ‘there is so little love in the world . . . real love . . . the kind that speaks through clay and paint and metal. There’s a helluva lot of shoddy stuff exhibited that professes to portray the ages of man, the loves of man, the struggles of man! Shit!’ He dismissed these travesties with a sidewise slice of one hand. ‘Love stirs in you and you create a Lucy. You make a head of a man you barely know and it is done with love. Did you realise that? Did you realise that you were already drawn to me when you fashioned that?’ He started to gesture towards the bust and then whirled around, staring at the amorphous bulk of blue-coated plaster. ‘What have you done? Covered me with woad?’ he demanded indignantly.

  A sudden vision of his splendid lean naked body daubed with the battledress of an ancient Briton convulsed Mirelle with laughter. She was helpless with mirth until Howell’s indignation turned to crestfallen amusement and he, too, began to chuckle.

  ‘May I add, m’dear, that you’d’ve been a sight yourself had I worn woad Friday night?’ He struggled to be dignified. ‘Why, in the name of all the Medes and Persians, did you have to do that to me? I’d rather looked forward to examining the head closely, you know. I’ve had to sneak my looks surreptitiously.’

  ‘I finished it up Saturday night.’

  That pleased him. ‘Then why the woad? Didn’t you ever intend to let me see it?’

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘That might be asking for it, Jamie.’

  He leaned closer to her, tipped up her chin. His eyes were tender.

  ‘You can’t deny . . .’

  She covered his mouth quickly with her fingers and, with a swift gesture, he imprisoned her hand.

  ‘I was so afraid, Mirelle, that the plastic coating had reached your soul, too. That you’d be afraid to give yourself . . .’

  ‘I needed you, Jamie. I told you that. And I was wrong a moment ago. I’ve needed the kicks and the prods you and Sylvia . . . and my mother-in-law . . . have been dealing me. I’ve been afraid and . . . well, I find I’m allergic to plastic. Come.’

  She took him by the hand and led him to the living-room, turning him so he saw the newly-hung portrait. Howell gave her a look of startled delight before he studied the painting.

  ‘Well,’ he said with a snort, ‘he didn’t spare himself, did he?’

  ‘I think I admire him the more for that.’

  Jamie looked down at her. ‘Yes, you would.’ Then his expression turned sardonic. ‘And what will the husband think when he sees his infamous father-in-law ensconed on his hallowed middle-class walls?’

  Mirelle shrugged. ‘In his present mood, he might even give a rousing cheer. I think the portrait will stay where it is. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. All this exhortation has left me dry.’

  Howell followed her out to the kitchen and draped himself on the stool. She started the kettle and fixed the pot. Then she turned to face him.

  ‘I don’t want to have an affair with you, Jamie,’ she said firmly, looking him in the eye. To her surprise he smiled as if he’d expected her words. It made her stammer as she continued. ‘And don’t say it’s Ladies’ Home Journal morality.’ She had a flashing recollection of G.F. and that unknown woman in the back of a white Cadillac. She shook her head. ‘What happened between us the other night was a lovely experience: just right for both of us. But I’m not in love with you, Jamie Howell, though you are mighty attractive to me. I’ve a husband and children. Yes, yes, you know things aren’t going too well with my marriage but that’s because I couldn’t face what I am. Because I was trying to be what I couldn’t be. Steve had to make a terrible choice recently, and he chose me. I couldn’t desert him now even if I were madly, passionately in love with you. And I’m not.’ At the look in Jamie’s eyes, she could almost wish she were. She turned from him, her gaze falling to the floor. ‘I don’t always sculpt with love either, Jamie.’

  She motioned him to follow her back to the studio where she took down the Hands. She whisked the cloth away and stood back, watching him closely. He sucked in his breath, shooting a concerned glance at her before he examined the plaque closely.

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ he said at length. ‘And yet . . .’ He gave his head a begrudging twist of approval, ‘there is something compelling about it. I don’t like the goddamned thing but it’s powerful.’ He gave her a rueful half-grin, his eyes thoughtful. ‘I’ve felt that way,’ and he made a pulling motion with both hands. Then he put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her close to him. He kissed her very gently on the lips, held her close for a moment before he released her. ‘I wish, Mirelle, that we’d met before you married, before I encountered Margaret’s mother but . . .’ and he made an open-handed gesture of regret and stepped back, smiling slightly.

  She returned the smile, profoundly grateful for his acquiescence.

  ‘I met you, Jamie, when I most needed to.’

  ‘Such magnanimous self-sacrifice on my part does not mean, however,’ he said in his usual crisp bantering tone, ‘that I will leave you alone to the tender mercies of invidious Fate.’ He waggled a long finger at her. ‘You are not going to stop sculpting, are you?’

  ‘I’ve rather got to continue, Jamie, haven’t I? Isn’t that what this is all about?’

  ‘Then stop that bloody kettle’s screeching and make me some coffee.’

  As she raced to the kitchen, she wondered that he hadn’t protested more. She hadn’t realised herself, until the words came out, what her decision would be. But it was the only one she could make. She was not temperamentally suited to conducting an affair; despite the estrangement, she was very much married to Steve. And the estrangement had been due as much to the fact that she had evaded a confrontation between her mother-in-law and herself as any other single factor. There were other forms of infidelity worse than a sexual one. She had been denying Steve her complete self because she was denying it to herself as well: not because she resented an invasion of her private self, as she’d once thought.

  ‘Did you ever find out what happened to Sylvia?’ Jamie asked as she brought the coffee back to the studio.

  ‘Not exactly, and I’m worried about her. I can’t reach her by phone and on Saturday, when she called, she sounded as if she had a mouth full of cotton.’

  ‘Drunk?’ Jamie cocked his right eyebrow cynically.

  ‘Not at ten-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, “oh”.’

  ‘Don’t bristle so, Mirelle’ and Jamie held up a hand in mock protection. ‘You realise that Sylvia’s a mightily disturbed woman, don’t you?’

  Mirelle felt herself flush. ‘I didn’t until recently. She’s so breezy, so self-confident . . .’

  ‘Hmm, yes, the bright façade to hide the bleeding heart . . .’

  ‘You can be so cynical.’ Mirelle felt a surge of ire for him.

  ‘No, Mirelle, I’m not actually,’ he said, quickly covering her hand with his, all mockery gone. ‘But I find that armor suffices me best.’ He made a show of squaring his shoulders. ‘It’s in keeping with my professional image. Speaking of which,�
� and again he switched moods abruptly, ‘I met Madame de Courcy, Sylvia’s maternal parent . . . at yesterday’s recital. She is, one instantly apprehends, a major patroness of the Ahrts, with a very short list of acceptable composers of which my students played no compositions at all.’

  Jamie had drawn his features in such a supercilious expression of disdain that Mirelle clearly saw the grande dame he was imitating.

  ‘If that’s who Sylvia contends with, I sympathise deeply. Formidable woman!’

  Sylvia’s comments anent her mother problem had all been surface stuff, except for that embittered “All my life she’s hurt me”.

  ‘I also deduce that Sylvia is not at home,’ Jamie went on.’ “My daughter is indisposed” was the euphemism given for her absence.’

  ‘How can you deduce that from that?’

  ‘The knowing glance with which that information was received.’

  ‘Oh, Jamie!’

  ‘Yes, it is a tragedy. Sylvia struck me as being rather a good sort. Consider yourself lucky indeed, Mirelle, that you’re an orphaned bastard.’ He rose then. ‘I really have to go. I noticed this morning that it’s the twenty-first day of December, and nearly noon at that, and there are but four more shopping days till Christmas. I’m so used to its intent from October on that I’ve become inured to its imminence. Margaret comes down on Wednesday and I’ve no Christmas trinkets for that little charmer. I must see what Woolworth’s is featuring this year.’

  ‘Jamie! You wouldn’t?’ Then she caught his expression. ‘Well, if they have nothing at the price you’re willing to pay, Wanamaker’s has a good budget shop. And there’s always Goodwill.’

  At the door, he searched her face a moment.

  ‘I still want an original LeBoyne, you know.’

  ‘I know, Jamie.’

  ‘I’d take that bust in a flash if I could escape the accusation of overweening conceit. No, I will not accept it as a token of your esteem for myself. But you might try to sell it to the Music School.’ His eyes brimmed with laughter. ‘There’s an empty niche in the hall next to Mozart which I’d grace elegantly.’