The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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 realized 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 bus 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 up spare gloves so they could snow-fight 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 ask him in, out of courtesy, but he didn't stay long. Just asked her to see if Roman 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 10:00. 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 10:00 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 9:00?" Roman was incredulous. "Gee, I don't have to go to sleep till 10:00 and I get a pill. Whammy. They got me up at 6:00… 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 sickpig 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 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 sickpig 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 on the door.

"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 in.

"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, Mirelle 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 sickpig. That is, of course, if they ever do 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 realize?" 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 infinite wisdom has given me no such tacit 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 looked 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 realized 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.

"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 3:00. I knew that if I stayed in that house another minute, I'd…" Sylvia 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'. "

"1 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 had a flaming affair with the leading portrait painter of the decade, and a memento of the occasion…"

"Mother…"

"Ah ha." 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 the laughter that bubbled out of her mouth was irrepressible.

"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, but 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 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 a 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 dialed 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 Sylvia'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.