The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER THREE

ONCE THEY WERE HOME, Mirelle had to clean the dusty house thoroughly. The yard required considerable work after a month's neglect. That done, she found the kitchen had to be painted and was consequently able to push aside the tentative desire to coax Jacob Overby's lined features from the plasticene head. Of course, by then, it was time to get the children's school clothes ready and that chore made it necessary for her to reorganize the attic storage space.

When Steve mentioned a Labor Day weekend jaunt up to Cape Cod, she enthusiastically agreed, physically tiring herself so thoroughly that she had no time left over to upbraid her sane observer.

Then, abruptly, she was left in the quiet of a childless house, ordered, clean, painted, without a single excuse for further procrastination. Steve departed on the first of the fall business trips and the accusing anonymity of the un-worked head drew her to the studio.

Stolidly she took out her mass of sketches of Jacob Overby and arranged them on the wallclips. She stared at them. Thoroughly disgusted with her perversity, she forced her hands to the tools, digging out the eye sockets, shaping the brows above them, excavating the jawline from the material. Dutifully she worked all morning, covering the still impersonal head with unexpected relief when she heard her next door neighbor calling her children in for lunch.

The next morning, once the house was picked up, she took herself firmly in hand and resolutely strode into the studio. Critically she reviewed yesterday's effort. Somehow, it was easier to start today and she hopefully assumed that it had been simply a matter of getting back into a routine which included studio time after the casual living of the summer.

Suddenly she realized that the face which was emerging was not Jacob Overby's at all. Surprised, she flipped through the rest of the summer's sketches. The features were familiar but she couldn't identify the face which was emerging from the clay. She sat, hands idle in her lap, staring at the head, entreating the resemblance to assume identity. Until she knew who the man was, how could she continue? Disgusted with herself and the recalcitrant plasticene, she left her stool so abruptly that it clattered to the linoleum. She'd put some wash on, and if that head didn't cooperate then, she'd…

Her jodhpurs, hanging on the door of the laundry room since the previous spring, for she'd worn jeans like everyone else in the valley, slapped about her face as she jerked the door open. The sight of them provided her with an excuse. What she really needed right now was an outlet for her pent-up physical energy. She'd go riding, and show Boots she'd learned a thing or two over the summer on the willing, eager quarter horses of Wyoming.

"Besides," she told herself as she collected car keys and enough money for the ride, "I'll want to do a horse for Jake Overby to ride. So this is study."

The first fifteen minutes on Boots' back made her laugh for her balance had been subtly shifted by the weeks of western saddle riding and she had to reseat herself, legs in a proper position for the English saddle. She stopped slouching and sat straight, repositioned her hands and took up more contact on Boots' bridle. No more sloppy riding now! Or Boots would dump her.

At her favorite long stretch on the bridle path, she gave Boots the aids to canter and, settling her hips into his smooth rhythm, she allowed him to slowly increase his pace until he was at a hard gallop. Then she eased him back to a walk, with him snorting and having a bit of a blow, tossing his head. She patted his neck, soothing him to the slow pace, feeling the shift of muscle tissue as he tossed his head. Then she smelled her palm for the marvelous pungent odor of 'horse' lingering on her skin.

As she rode on, the dissatisfactions of the morning faded. When they reached the crest of the hill and the natural opening in the trees, she reined him in. She looked down into the dip between the hills where the trees were still sparklingly green after the rainy weekend. The russet of the sourwood trees and the yellow of the ground honeysuckle emphasized the different tones of greens: the whole scene was composed and serene to her artist's eye.

"If I were a painter," she told Boots, "this scene would be a nice change to the mossy millstone school. But… that brilliance would be so hard to capture. Maybe some pure research egghead will find a way to put odors in paint and you'll have to sniff paintings, too."

Dissatisfaction returned. Broodingly, she turned Boots away from the view and down the hill. He minced his way, snapping his feet into place, crunching the pebbled surface under his rear hooves. He tried, once, to break into a run again. It gave her distinct pleasure to rein him in smartly and feel that she had the strength to control something so strong and massive. She took perverse delight in the resentment she felt through the reins. With his hocks under him, he was almost bucking, to have a run up the next slope. When she did let him out, clapping her heels to his ribs, she seemed to sink into the ground as he surged forward. They were both breathless when she pulled him up.

"And I take it all out on you." She stroked his now moist shoulder. He snorted companionably, jiggling his bit.

The feeling of loneliness - alienation, rather, since she was used to being lonely - and depression seemed to intensify. The immediate future, with Max Corli's retirement approaching, held no prospect which might lift her spirits. If she could only get down to some solid work on that damned head. Then she remembered her chevalier. Boots' ears wigwagged at her chuckle. "I'll call it a tribute to a flathead cavalier." She laughed again, wishing there were someone, anyone whom she could laugh with, and talk to. Someone like Lucy.

" 'But she is in her grave, And oh, the difference to me.' "

Even after seven years, thoughts of Lucy and what their relationship had meant to Mirelle brought a lump in her throat.

There must be someone else in this god-forsaken town that speaks and understands the same things I do. There must be. There must be some other company wife who can't tee off on the Greens and bid slams daily at the Clubs because such activities revolt her. They can't all want to be ticky-tacky. There must be someone else who doesn't fit in. Somewhere for me to belong.

She kicked Boots into a hard gallop on the flat stretch ahead, furious with such rampant self-pity. Boots was cool enough when she finally brought him back into the stableyard but Mac's eye didn't miss the sweat line of roughened hair. He ran a hand under the girth.

"Yes, we motored on a bit. He was fresh," Mirelle said.

"You're not the kind that misuses a horse, Mrs. Martin," Mac replied as he took her money. "If you did, you wouldn't ride here, let me tell you."

"I had a grand ride, Mac."

"Come back soon."

She caught herself gunning the Sprite excessively when she started it. She couldn't spend the entire day venting herself on everything she used. She down-shifted at the stop street that fed into the highway and the Sprite stalled. When she turned the ignition key, nothing happened.

The bloody generator brushes must be jamming. She yanked on the brake and jerked the door open. She propped up the hood and stood looking in at the engine, completely disgusted.

"Anything I can do, lady?" asked an amused voice and Mirelle stared up in amazement at her Knight of the Road.

"You remember me? You had that sprained ankle?" Embarrassed by her lack of response, he added, "You'd been thrown and then you had a flat tire…"

"Oh, I remember. Very clearly and gratefully," she said, shaking her head at her gaucherie. "I still have that red handkerchief, all neatly pressed. I put it in my husband's drawer and…" She broke off, appalled at what she had been about to admit.

"Tsk! Tsk! You really must keep better track of lovers' mementoes. Complicates relations," he began and then stopped as he looked at her face. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, no longer amused. "I didn't mean that. My tongue runs away with me. But it was such a coincidence to see you in much the same spot again."

"I didn't get tossed today," she said, smiling in hope of retrieving his engaging smile, "but this beast won't start. The generator brushes have a tendency to jam."

"Try starting her again."

"Nothing'll happen," and her gloomy prediction came true.

They stood side by side, staring at the sportscar's engine.

"As you do not apply to the nearest AAA when in trouble, would a lift to the service station at the crossroads be of any assistance?"

"It certainly would." But, as they started toward his car, she stopped. "Is that out of your way? I can walk up to the stable and call from there."

"It's not out of my way and, if I'm going to make a practice of halting here to rescue you, let me finish what I start," he said, opening the door of the Thunderbird with a flourish. "Votre chevalier a votre service!"

As they drove off, Mirelle suddenly remembered with chagrin that she had brought only a dollar above the cost of the ride.

"Would you be an absolute angel and finish at the Flying A station? There's one a little further on and I have a credit card. I was only going riding and didn't bring much money with me."

He flashed her a grin. "I'm rarely an absolute angel but in your case I'll make an exception."

"That is such a stupid phrase. Be an absolute angel… what's absolute anyhow?"

"What's an angel for that matter?"

"I think perfection would be utterly dull."

"Perfect hair with Brylcream…"

"Perfect teeth with Gardol…"

"Oh, no, I've switched to Crest." He grinned in a toothy parody of commercial grins.

They laughed together easily. Mirelle found herself contrasting the incident with the summer's moments of easy laughter between herself and Steve. They had almost revived the sweetness of their early months of marriage. Soon, too soon, the strains and tensions of every day would dull that fragile fabric of summer respect and understanding.

"Here we are, ma'am," and the voice of her good Samaritan broke into her speculation. They had pulled into the Flying A station.

The attendant sauntered over, jutting his head down to hear the driver's request. Her Knight explained the situation, where the Sprite was located and asked how soon it could be attended to.

"Wal, now, it's lunchtime, y'see, and the boss ain't here, and I'm alone on the pumps, y'see, so I can't leave."

"How long before the boss is back?"

"He left about twelve and should be back 'nother half hour."

"I'll get some coffee at the diner," said Mirelle, starting to open the door.

Her Knight leaned over quickly and took her fingers from the handle.

"We'll be over at the diner," he told the attendant. "Can you pick up the Sprite the first thing after the boss gets back?"

"Sure. Guess that'll work out all right."

"Oh, now really," Mirelle said in protest as they, angled across the highway to the diner. "This is far beyond the call of duty, you know."

He pulled on the brake before he answered. "Let's say that I would be very pleased if my favorite lady in distress would help me kill a few hours which I'd despaired of murdering alone."

Mirelle temporized with a laugh. There was no reason not to accept, after all, and if it would repay his consideration…

"Misery loves company," she said as they left the car. She noticed his quick glance. As he carefully locked the car up, she berated her thoughtless tongue. If he wanted to kill an hour with her, she could at least act graciously.

"I'm scarcely a soignee companion," she said, indicating her jodhpurs as he guided her towards the steps of the diner.

"I think it is too shocking of you not to have brought along a change."

"I'll see to the horses," she said, holding up her hands and heading toward the ladies' room at the side of the diner.

"Do," he advised and she heard the rippling undercurrent of amusement in the one word.

As she stepped into the restroom, she realized the double entendre of the euphemism and grinned into a mirror that reflected back her blush. He was quick, that man. She washed hands and face, combed her hair and fussed with her lipstick.

"The trouble with diners," he said, rising from the booth as she approached, "is that they lack a bar. Such catastrophes as visit a traveler are often eased by a jolt or two. Or do you drink?"

"Invariably, after catastrophes."

"Your ankle, I trust, is fully recovered."

"Except on rainy days."

"Did your ride stimulate your appetite?"

"Not half as much as it relieved my inner tensions." Instantly Mirelle damned her tongue and wondered what on earth was possessing her to blurt out what was at the top of her mind to this complete stranger.

"You're lucky then," he said with sudden gravity. They looked at each other then, trapped. Neither made an effort to break the gaze or distract the other from the mutual, searching appraisal. His was a very interesting face, lined and tired, but alive: his gaze was direct and uncritical.

"I… like to sculpt," she said, speaking softly and earnestly, "and I've been working on a bust recently. It's daft, I know, but this morning when I passed the place where you helped me with that flat, I realized that I'd been trying to sculpt your face."

"Highly flattering to think that flat-changing can lead to immortal clay," and though his face remained serious, his eyes danced with laughter. Not laughter at her: with her. Mirelle had been right: he also appreciated the humor. "My name is James Howell," he said, rather formally extending his hand across the table to her.

"I'm Mirelle Martin," and his fingers were very strong.

"Mirelle?" he asked and then, to her surprise, spelled it correctly.

"I was christened Mary Ellen but it got elided into Mirelle."

"Distinctive. And it suits you."

"I've always felt more Mirelle-ish than Mary Ellen-ish."

"Mirelle goes with the Sprite, horseback riding and sculpting."

"Oh?"

Her fingers had been nervously spinning the salt cellar. He reached across and spread them flat on the formica. They both looked down at them, as if they were the hands of a stranger. The long tapered fingers that never fit into gloves, the very square palm, the arching thumb. Then she noticed that the webbing between his long blunt fingers was well stretched.

"You're a pianist."

"You're observant!"

"Necessary for a sculptor."

The harried waitress swooped down on them, poking menus impatiently at their hands.

"Are you a concert artist?" Mirelle asked when the woman had left with their orders.

"A concert accompanist. A highly specialized variation." His eyebrows quirked with inner amusement.

"Indeed it is. My mother was a professional singer. I've had chapter and verse on accompanists."

"Your mother… was?"

"She died… twenty years ago now. She sang in Europe. I don't think her name was ever known in the States. She was Mary LeBoyne."

"Irish, I deduce." He was honest enough not to pretend recollection.

"Do you live in town?" she asked, to change the subject.

"I do now." He made a grimace. "My very old and very comfortable apartment house in Philadelphia was condemned and torn down for the much vaunted urban renewal. After a very discouraging search, I gave up and headed south. I've been teaching here at the Music School for the last two years so this seemed a logical relocation. Also the connections to both Philly and New York are good."

"True." He didn't like the town any more than she did.

"However," and he sighed, "owning one's own house has advantages. No one can complain about practicing at all hours."

Mirelle grinned. "Sculpting is a silent profession."

"Don't you cast in bronze or work stone? No tapping of hammer and chisel?"

"You don't cast in bronze in your own house. Too costly. You send the piece out to be cast, to Long Island, if you can afford it."

"I'd no idea."

"Modern technology."

"With us everywhere. What about plaster? Or wood? Or… whatever it is that some sculptors use for raw materials… metal scraps, tomato cans and stuff. No blow torches?" His expression was comically wistful and Mirelle was sorry she'd agreed to lunch with him.

"None," she replied, trying to control her exasperation.

"You just pat the clay and turn the wheel?"

"Sometimes I whittle."

His eyebrows flew up in mock astonishment. "I wondered who supplied wooden nutmegs these days. Tell me, do you whittle to you, or from you?"

"Neither."

"How is that possible?" And Mirelle realized that he was deliberately baiting her.

"I scrape back and forth, like so," and she demonstrated. "I get fascinating textured effects."

"Where are these chefs d'oeuvres to be seen?"

"Nowhere locally. I've some things placed in museums and a small gallery on 50th and Lexington used to handle my work. I still get occasional commissions…" She broke off because his mobile face registered astonishment when she mentioned museum and gallery. "And yes, there is a kiln, but it's a commercial one and takes up half my studio. And nary a single panther on the mantel comes out of it."

"I most sincerely and abjectly beg your pardon, Mirelle." He caught her eyes but she looked away, despite the contrition in his expression. She regretted accepting assistance from him and violently wished that she could just walk away from the table. She had met such condescension all too frequently but somehow, had not expected it from him and she was disappointed.

At this point the waitress came and slapped their lunch platters down, deftly if noisily.

"Coffee, with or later?"

"Later," they both said in a mumble.

When she had marched off, James Howell reached across and captured Mirelle's hand as she reached for a napkin.

"A talent is never an easy gift," he said.

"How would you know if I have any talent?" she demanded, sullen with her disillusion.

"Because of your attitude toward it," he replied, as if that answer were obvious. He turned his attention to his lunch.

She forced her resentment down. They talked of any number of inconsequential subjects until she noticed with surprise that the tow truck had retrieved the Sprite.

"He'll need the keys," she exclaimed and started to rise.

He took the keys from her and delivered them across the street. Mirelle watched his long figure and noticed, too, something to spring on him when he returned. At the station, he stood for a few moments, hands on his hips, in front of the Sprite, held nose-up by the tow truck. He talked to the mechanic, grinning, amused by something the man was explaining with many gestures. Then the matter appeared to be settled and James Howell sauntered back across the highway. In his short absence, Mirelle had seen him in another perspective.

"How long were you in the infantry?" she asked and was rewarded by his surprised exclamation.

"How the hell did you know that?"

"The way you walk," she said, grinning at the accuracy of her observation.

He tipped his head back and laughed.

"Not much escapes you, does it?"

"Nope."

"Except remembering to check your battery."

"Oh, no. No. No. I checked it yesterday when I got gas. I know that car. It's the generator brushes. They jam."

"Yes, that does seem to be it," he agreed blandly. "It'll take another half an hour or so, he thinks."

"Are you sure he does? Think, that is?"

"There's always that interesting possibility, isn't there?"

"Look, you've been a very good Samaritan…"

"But you don't need to hang around any longer," he finished for her.

"But you don't."

"All right, if you object to my company so much," he said with mock petulance and made a great show of getting to his feet. "I've got more than two hours before the first lesson and the only occupation I can dream up to fill that outrageous length of time is to buy something for my lonely bachelor supper tonight. That cannot take upwards of fifteen minutes, no matter how long I dally."

"If you stand in the longest line at the check out, you could stretch it to half an hour."

"Hmm, with steak juice dripping down my hands? The piano keys will be gory with beef blood."

"Never happens. Everything is all prepackaged with cellophane."

"It isn't cellophane anymore."

"Well, whatever it is."

"Such antisepticism takes all the charm out of shopping," he said wistfully. "Now, in Europe, where prepackaging has not yet spread its plastic aura, they wrap things up in funny paper triangles…"

Memories flashed across Mirelle's mind, accompanied by appetising smells and a tactile memory of texture, of rainy mornings spent shopping with the bustlingly efficient hausdienst…

"And by the time you get home everything crushable is, and everything cool isn't."

"You've lived abroad?" He was surprised.

"Yes," said Mirelle in as flat a tone as she could to discourage further questions.

"That's a definitive answer," he remarked, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie knot. "Remind me never to broach that subject again."

"I'm sorry," and her contrition was sincere. "Some of my bleakest moments were spent in Europe."

"Mine, too," he said, looking her squarely in the eye. "But mine happened years ago now. Yours must have, too."

She nodded. "I'm quixotic company. I'm sorry."

"I understand," and he leaned forward conspiratorially, "that every well-built Wilmington development has its own windmill."

"Are you sure you're a concert pianist?"

"Quite sure," he replied with a sniff, settling back. "Matter of fact, I was practicing my trade the last few times I rescued you. One of the artists with whom I'm under contract lives out Lancaster way. We've been rehearsing before going out on tour."

"Do you tour often?"

"Sometimes too often, I think." He sighed and signaled the waitress for more coffee. "I presume that coffee is as essential to you as it is for me."

Mirelle nodded.

"I've had the house here now for a year," Howell went on, "and I still can't find my way around the inner city. I've not been in it often enough."

"When we get transferred, I throw the kids in the car, take a road map and drive around, getting lost until I find my way home from any quarter of the map."

"In that car you threw kids?"

"No, I only got the Sprite last year. We've been here in Wilmington almost two years."

"You sound apprehensive."

"Longest time in one place yet."

"D'you mind the moving?"

Mirelle shrugged. "It wouldn't do me any good to mind. But then, I've always been on the move."

"Yes, you would, if your mother was an opera singer."

Mirelle could feel the muscles along her jaw tighten.

"Did I put my foot in it again?" he asked plaintively.

"No, my own private road to hell is paved with such potholes…"

"… And other people's good intentions?" One eyebrow raised, giving his face a cynical cast.

"What's the fee, doc?" She grinned at him in wry apology.

"For analysis? Free with every act of knight errantry."

The sound of a racing engine split the air. Mirelle saw her Sprite being backed out of the garage bay.

"My word, they've done the trick." She rose.

"The hour's over?"

"Midnight hath struck and voila! my pumpkin!"

He paid the check at the cashier's desk and then, clipping his hand under her elbow, he guided her across the highway. As she gave the mechanic her credit plate, she caught James Howell's unguarded face. There was a quality of sadness and she wondered if she had underestimated his age. As he turned to regard her, a vivid smile dissolved the pose.

"I'll away now, milady, and purchase me dinner steak, begging always to remain your respectful servant." He opened the Sprite door with a superb flourish of hand and arm.

The mechanic came back with her receipt and card, and so she was obliged to end the interlude. With a farewell wave, Mirelle eased the Sprite out into traffic.

When she got home, she sat down immediately and sketched his face as she remembered it during that unguarded moment. She filed the study away carefully but the warm feeling of their second meeting stayed with her. That night, before she went to sleep, she rummaged in Steve's drawer until she found the red silk handkerchief. She put it at the bottom of her own.