The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER TWO

Although she allowed Roman to practice first aid on her and was grateful for the strapping as she hobbled about, Mirelle made light of the incident. By Friday, when Steve returned from his trip, the swelling of the ankle had subsided, leaving a high tide mark of deep purplish blues and yellow-greens from instep to heel. Prompted by the children, she gave the now equally colorful version of the spill, flat tire and the courtesy of her Knight of the Road.

Passive with the fatigue of the long train trip home and well-fed, Steve listened politely, amused by her narrative, but disgusted by her injury. A natural athlete, Steve had a curious attitude toward physical injury of any kind. In the fifteen years they'd been married, Mirelle had yet to see him cut a finger on his tools, bang his thumb with a hammer or fall heavily when he played touch football with the boys. On their family camping vacations, he had always emerged unscathed and disdainfully insisted that the cuts, bruises, sprains and abrasions suffered by everyone else were due to unnecessary carelessness or ineptitude. Steve was a slow and deliberate workman, possessed of great patience in contrast to Mirelle's mercurial work habits. Yet his craftsmanship, his intent on perfection appealed to the artisan in Mirelle.

One of the reasons they both hated the constant long business trips was the impossibility of starting any of the mutual projects they had both enjoyed during the earlier years of their marriage, when Steve's territory had been smaller and he'd been home every night. The price of promotion was less private time.

Mirelle had known by Steve's face and his lingering welcome kiss that his trip had been successful. He was tired, yes, but neither defeated or frustrated. The same conscientiousness that he turned to private projects was given to every one of his clients, often involving him in unnecessary research to satisfy the particular needs of a special contract. This perseverance was annually rewarded by the Company with a bonus. Mirelle never felt that that compensated for the hours which Steve devoted to a small account or the frustration he suffered when, for no reason, he failed to get the contract and took an official reprimand. Nor did that bonus compensate Mirelle when Steve took his irritation and disappointment out on her and the children.

Lucy Farnoll, with her marvelous earthy humor, had taught Mirelle that this was part of a wife's function: to bear the brunt of her man's irritability, redirecting it if possible, but always recognizing both his need to sound off and the source of his frustration. Sometimes though, Mirelle cringed at the prospect of Steve's temper: he could be vicious, physically and mentally, wounding her where she was most vulnerable. Sometimes, despite an intellectual understanding of his need, it took Mirelle a long while to reconcile his rash angry words and actions. Now, as she roused him to laughter at her caricature of her Knight of the Road, wielding the lance of a trusty tire-jack, she was unbelievably relieved that he was in a good mood. He'd feel like getting out into the yard this weekend, instead of poring over reports and analyzing old orders. They wouldn't have to spend Saturday wrangling over decisions that she'd had to make in his absence, decisions which he'd sometimes insist could have waited for his return. They could putter amiably in the yard, clear away the winter mess from the new growth. There might even be a movie in town which he hadn't seen. Sunday, instead of being a day of apology or brooding, would be pleasant: church, a leisurely dinner, a comfortable evening. She'd feel at ease with him, not having to watch every word she said for fear he'd take exception. The children wouldn't be clumsy with nervousness, or disappear all day to escape his unpredictability. Tonight had gone well: the weekend would be fun.

"That was a good dinner, hon," Steve told her as she shooed the children away. She poured more coffee, enjoying his company without the distractions of the youngsters. He stretched luxuriously, grimacing abruptly as a muscle tightened across his back. He rotated the shoulder against the cramp.

"Have time to get into the yard this weekend?" she asked.

"I need to. I'm winter soft." He groaned, rubbing his shoulder, looking up as she laughed.

"You? Never."

At forty, Steve was as solidly muscled as he had been at twenty-four and he looked scarcely a day older. He had the type of facial structure and regular features that would retain a boyish quality when he reached seventy. Not so much as a single white hair grew in the thick brown wavy crop that he kept brushed back from his high, broad forehead. Any extra flesh that he put on during the winter, and he tried to stay in hotels featuring indoor pools and gyms, was burned off on the family camping jaunts. The only signs of ageing were the minute lines around his green eyes and the slight grooves which disappointment had traced at the corners of his full-lipped mouth.

"By the way," Mirelle added, "I'm afraid the white azalea by the northeast corner is winter-killed."

"Damn," Steve said irritably, sitting up, "I'll check that first thing tomorrow. He swore all those plants were field grown."

That next week, Mirelle washed and ironed the red silk handkerchief and absently put it in Steve's drawer when she sorted the laundry. Between getting the yard ready for summer, getting out lighter clothes and planning weekend camping trips, Mirelle had no occasion to recall her Knight of the Road until late June when Steve discovered the handkerchief in his drawer.

He'd had an inconclusive and hurried trip south, missed a plane connection on the way back. He'd arrived late in the office and had been called down by his immediate superior for some insignificant detail. The appearance of a strange handkerchief had shattered his tenuous self-control and he had flared up at Mirelle with a ridiculous accusation. Mirelle knew, as well as he did, that his boss's wife slept around constantly, brazenly enough to have once flirted with Steve, but for Steve to accuse Mirelle of infidelity was outside of enough.

With resigned patience, Mirelle defended herself, trying to keep the incipient brawl under control. She succeeded only in goading Steve into a full-fledged scene. He denied that she had ever mentioned a sprained ankle or a flat tire until she retorted with the menu of the meal they'd eaten that night, the discussion of the winter-killed azalea, and forced him to admit he was mistaken. And that was equally a mistake.

"I don't need to fool around just because that's the current suburban pattern," she'd flared. "I've got better things to do with my spare time."

"Yeah, yeah," and he was snarling with frustration, "you and your cultural superiority over we poor colonials; but you can't tell me you take all your frustrations out in that muck…"

"I'm not frustrated, Steve," she interrupted hastily, wearily. When he started to drag her sculpting into an argument, he wanted to hurt her because he was hurt.

"Don't take that long-suffering attitude with me," he'd cried, grabbing her. He used her that night with the bruising urgency that was his custom when he was troubled.

He needs me, she consoled herself the next morning, not entirely displeased. At least he hadn't stalked out of their room, which would have meant that the matter was serious. As long as she could get him in bed with her, things would work out. But oh, how Mirelle hoped he'd get rid of the notion that she'd ever even been tempted to be unfaithful, Barnhill's sluttish wife, notwithstanding. Probably, thought Mirelle, Barnhill got feisty because his wife had taken a new lover whom Barnhill hadn't had time to identify. He'd taken it out on Steve. But for Steve to accuse her of infidelity? That was a revolting development.

Despite her disclaimer, Mirelle knew that she did take out her frustrations in sculpting, but she also got rid of them in a positive, creative fashion. She'd always considered that preferable to the usual activities open to suburban housewives with time on their hands. Constant transfers from town to town, eight in the fifteen years with the Company, had made Mirelle very chary of forming close attachments to anyone. There was always the painful break when they had to move away. At first she had tried, but after they had been transferred from Ashland and her deep friendship with Lucy Farnoll severed, she had given up. Naturally introverted, Mirelle had ceased to make even casual acquaintances, pleading the care of her family as an excuse against the desultory attempts in each new neighborhood to involve her. She spent her free time worrying over and perfecting the few pieces of serious sculpture she attempted.

Fortunately Steve was a home-abiding man. What entertaining they did was limited to fellow salesmen visiting the main office to whom Steve offered hospitality, knowing how sterile a hotel can be and how much a few hours in a home can mean to the transient. Mirelle enjoyed cooking for any reason and Steve was proud of the fact that invitations to his home were eagerly sought. Otherwise, she and Steve were content to stay at home, listening to music, reading and working on family projects.

After the Great Handkerchief Debate, Mirelle brooded over his accusation all day. She was utterly disjointed by his joviality when he got home that night. All his dissatisfaction with self and circumstance had dissipated.

"Management broke its heart and anyone who's been with the firm ten years or more gets a huge four weeks' vacation," he announced at dinner, his eyes sparkling.

The kids let out a concerted shriek of triumph. Roman broke into a wild war dance around the table, scaring Tasso out of several of his remaining lives, while Tonia's piercing treble rose to the coloratura octave. When Steve finally got them under control, there was a scramble for the touring maps, pencil and paper. As Mirelle listened to the scope of the intended trip, she irrationally realized that she would have no time whatever for the studio until August at the earliest. It would take her from now till they left in late June to prepare for the trip. The sane observer reminded her that she'd had all winter in which to work, undisturbed. It was neither Steve's fault nor the children's that she'd made no use of that time. She resolutely thrust aside her irritation and took an active part in the discussions.

She and Steve had designed and built the interior of their Volkswagen camping bus. Two years later in Canada they'd been offered double its cost by another camper, struggling with his more expensive, less efficient equipment. He'd suggested that Steve patent some of his innovations and sell the plans to one of the camping magazines but, to Mirelle's disappointment, Steve had never done anything about it. It had been very hard for her to refrain from calling his attention to the commercial imitations of some of their bus's unusual features when they were camping last year. Cleaning and stocking the bus were her responsibilities: the others organized the details of the trip. And this year's plans were well-laid, avoiding some of the fiascos of the previous year and inaugurating no new ones. They had a marvelous trip.

Halfway through the projected traverse of the country, they had blithely discarded the rest of the itinerary to settle in a wild Wyoming valley. A torrential summer storm had forced them to seek refuge in a valley ranch north of Caspar. By the time the roads were passable two days later, Jacob Overby, the rancher, had hinted broadly that there was no need for the Martins to take off in such an all-fired hurry. Plenty to see and appreciate right there in the valley. His two boys, providentially the same ages as Roman and Nick, clamored enthusiastic seconds to the invitation. Overwhelmed by the genuine welcome, Steve and Mirelle had accepted.

For two ecstatic weeks, Roman and Nick had their own horses, and Tonia a stubby-legged pony. When Mirelle wasn't lending Lena Overby a hand with cooking or cleaning, she sketched every aspect of the valley ranch and all its inhabitants, fowl, equine, bovine, canine and human. She had ridden, too, with a fleeting memory of Boots' insurrection and a determination to avoid a repetition. A toss on the mountain meadows or rough trails could spoil everyone's holiday. Mirelle, trained by an English riding master, found the relaxed western posture hard to imitate at first. Steve, disgustingly at ease on horseback, laughed her out of her self-consciousness until she was as comfortable sitting the jog trot of the quarter horses as everyone else.

But mostly, Mirelle sketched: especially Jacob Overby whose weather-beaten face fascinated her. The craggy nose, the brow-hidden eyes, the gaunt cheeks stained deep brown by wind and sun, the jutting jaw and the curiously mobile mouth were translated into endless studies. Perhaps this was the face for the unfinished head that languished, unfeatured, in her studio.

Steve, with Jacob, Roman and Roger Overby, had gone off on two pack trips, business for the Overbys, pleasure for Steve and Roman. Steve was beginning to realize that Roman was rapidly approaching manhood. Nick was left behind, disconsolate. Unfortunately Nick tended to irritate his father with his darting shifting ways. Mirelle had always seen the similarity between Roman and his father: a preference for method, a delight in physical prowess. Nick, on the other hand, wanted to do a thing immediately, too impatient to develop necessary skill. Nick was apt to be wild to finish a project in the morning and by mid-afternoon forgot that he had started something at all, a tendency which infuriated his father and weighed against his joining a camping trip which had certain hazards. Yet Mirelle recognized, even if Steve hadn't yet, that Nick was the more imaginative of the two boys, often providing the inspiration for many of the projects which Roman, in due course, finished. This summer was Roman's, not Nick's. He'd have to wait to find a basis on which he and his father could meet. And Roman needed his father's companionship now.

For Steve and Roman, the vacation was an unqualified success. Tonia was oblivious to everything once she was introduced to the grey pony, so Mirelle and Nick were odd-men out. If she managed to cajole Nick into a semblance of good nature, she failed to lighten her own inner discontent. She held herself sternly in check, trying not to dampen the others' pleasure, hoping that she didn't seem aloof. She had the most curious sense of disorientation, as if she were marking time. She was extremely careful to pretend indifference which only underscored his hopefulness. "We'll see what happens when the old boy retires."

Mirelle gave a deep sigh and Steve reached over to pat her hand reassuringly.

"We could stand a little settled family life, hon, couldn't we? The last weeks were just great. Improved the old man's temper no end, didn't it?" When she laughingly agreed, he threw an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to him on the wide front seat. She snuggled into him willingly. "Take Jake Overby, now," he went on, "there's a man who knows what settling down is." Steve clicked his tongue in a wistful manner.

Carefree, relaxed, boyishly hopeful, Steve was recreated in the image which she cherished from their early months of marriage.

Fundamentally, he is just too good and honest, she thought, looking sideways at his clean-cut features in bold profile against the sulphur-blue hot sky. He should never have followed the lure of big business, big money and all its big headaches. The war had given Steve what peace would never have offered, a chance to go to college and a compulsion to produce on a higher level than his parents. But Steve worried too much, straining against management directives that shaped policies which were repellent to his basic integrity. Unable to reconcile inconsistent attitudes from his management and still represent his customers' needs to the Company, Steve took unnecessary blame on himself that other, more calloused or diffident salesmen ignored. Steve would have been happier running a small business just as he wanted to, or a ranch, like Jake Overby. Then he'd've been at peace with himself. But he kept insisting that he had to make something of the opportunities that he'd been given. Mirelle knew the source of that compulsion, and though she was powerless to counteract the basic fallacy, she tried her best to buffer its effects on Steve.

And here he was, having thoroughly enjoyed his vacation, optimistically returning to what would no doubt turn into another illusion-shattering disappointment, all in the name of Big Business. Mirelle ached for him, loath to try now to temper his hopeful approach with her cynicism. Grimly she began to steel herself to cushion his inevitable disenchantment. The sane observer reminded her that Steve was a very capable man, that same honesty appealing strongly to many of his customers. There was always the chance that his abilities would be recognized by management in the fall. There was that chance, she told herself, unreassured.

The prospect, however remote, of remaining in one town, even Wilmington, for longer than two years was unbearably tantalizing. To settle, to dig down roots, to develop continuity had assumed the proportions of discovering El Dorado to Mirelle. In their courtship, Steve's reminiscences of his childhood, comfortably spent in the Allentown, Pennsylvania house that his grandparents had built, had cast the rosy glow of happily-ever-after on her future as a wife. They'd join his parents in that huge rambling house, and she'd finally know what 'belonging' felt like. When her mother had sent Mirelle to live in America with her childhood friend, Mary Murphy, to escape the bombings in London, living and life had assumed a quality of all things good and wonderful to Mirelle the child. But Mary Murphy had lived in a succession of comfortable rented apartments. And Mirelle had never thought to discount a European-based generalization of the American smalltown life, nor the exigencies of an increasingly transient, technological business age, and the happily-ever-after-in-the-family-home was an exploded and explosive myth. When she had unexpectedly confronted the reality of a basically conservative, narrow-minded settled community outlook, Mirelle had bitterly discovered that transiency could be preferable to mental stagnation.

She had also assumed that Steve's broad-mindedness was deeper and that his cultural base had been firmer. His sophistication turned out to be a thin veneer, actually little more than contempt for every aspect of his small-town upbringing whose limitations he had realized during two years in the occupation forces in Vienna. Close brushes with death as an infantry officer had sent him in desperate search for an anodyne to the horrors of war. He'd found this in Vienna in the beautiful works of art, the opera, classical music, all removed from the ugliness that he had to erase from his mind. After his Army discharge, a return to the pattern of his youth had been abhorrent to Steve, and he had welcomed a job that took him to new places constantly. It didn't matter to him where he lived geographically, nor how often he moved. His job was the constant, and his family the anchor: or so he thought. Mirelle had painfully come to accept that: she had no alternative. But if they could and did stay in Wilmington…

What could be, would be, Mirelle told herself. But Steve's announcement thoroughly dampened her spirits. The sense of marking time all summer now developed the cadence of uneasy anticipation, off-beat, agitated. The prospect of fall assumed a gloomy aspect.