The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER SEVEN

ON SATURDAY, Mirelle and Steve did go together to the registration at the elementary school. Sylvia Esterhazy was very much in evidence and introduced the Martins to her husband, a tall extremely attractive leonine man, with the slightest trace of an accent.

Mirelle was disconcerted when George Frederic Esterhazy held onto her hand in a lingering fashion. Steve would notice such attentions and bring them up the next time he was consumed by jealousy. Esterhazy made her slightly nervous anyway, with the all-knowing scrutiny of rather penetrating cynical eyes. He reminded her of the actor George Saunders, not altogether a compliment to Esterhazy. Mirelle wondered what Sylvia had told him of her. Fortunately two women swept up to divert George Frederic and she took the opportunity to get on with the business of registration.

"Esterhazy seemed taken with you," Steve remarked when they were leaving the building.

"No more me than anything else in skirts in his vicinity," Mirelle replied with a scornful laugh.

"I guess you're right," was Steve's rejoinder as he noticed Esterhazy ingratiating himself to another female arrival.

The rest of Saturday passed in a similar state of truce. Sunday was placid and Mirelle didn't really have any sense of change in their routine until Monday evening when she realized that she'd be cooking full dinners every night. When Steve was on the road, she and the children generally made do with pancakes, scrambled eggs or hash, saving the big cuts of meat for the times when Daddy was home. These evenings, Steve would be home in time for a drink. The children did less fooling and more eating at the table and, as Steve was engrossed in his new responsibilities, the family dinners were downright enjoyable.

Steve made no overtures to Mirelle, for which she was thankful. She really did not wish to rebuff him openly. She had no warmth left toward him to dissemble. Only the habit of fifteen years of marriage sustained her.

On Thursday morning, she answered the phone to hear Sylvia's bright and challenging 'hello!'

"How did the registration go?"

"Ninety percent of all eligible voters," Sylvia was chortling with understandable pride. "I am assuming, of course, that the reluctant and un-American ten percent are all Republicans and we can do without them. Say, you made quite an impression on my husband."

"Nonsense."

"Not nonsense at all."

"He was doing the gallant with every… one." Mirelle nearly said everything in skirts.

"He breathes, too," Sylvia replied with a kind of sardonic undercurrent in her voice. "But he doesn't remember doing it. It's when he talks about a certain female hours later… I have never argued with his taste. However, that wasn't what I called to say. Would you join us for dinner at the Country Club tomorrow evening? And no wheezes about not belonging or not dancing. I have to go because G.F. is entertaining business associates, but I held out for a couple of my choosing to make the pills palatable. You and I can have our heads together all evening because people are accustomed to me behaving rudely or in other bizarre fashion. Part of my democracy."

"I'll have to ask Steve…"

"Don't ask him. Tell him. Oh, all right, then. Do the wifely and get permission of your lord and master, so long as the answer is 'yes'. "

"Let me call you back tomorrow."

"If you don't, I'll be over there."

Sylvia gave Mirelle her unlisted number. Surprisingly enough, Steve didn't hesitate a moment, remarking that they hadn't had any evenings out in a long while. It occurred to Mirelle that Steve would have agreed to anything she suggested right then: an advantage which she'd had rarely and wasn't certain she wanted. His compliance emphasized his remorse over Lucy. Perversely Mirelle wished he'd had to be persuaded against his will. However, Roman agreed to babysit if he could stay up as late as he wanted, watching TV. As Tonia was apt to fall asleep whenever she got sleepy, Roman didn't fuss when she said that she was going to stay up all night, too. Mirelle and Steve left the kids, eating hamburgers, eyes glued to the predictable pattern of a Western.

The Esterhazys were waiting for them in the gold and white open hallway of the new clubhouse.

"The McNeills and the Clarensons are being fashionably late," Sylvia said to Mirelle.

"Steve has a thing about being on time, a hangover from the Army," Mirelle said with a smile.

"Mine comes from difficult judges insisting on punctuality," Esterhazy said as he deftly relieved Mirelle of her coat. He and Steve moved off to the checkroom, leaving Sylvia with Mirelle.

"Oh, he is giving you the treatment," said Sylvia with a laugh. "Don't blush. He'll do much the same to Fritzie McNeill and Adele Clarenson but without the extra flourishes. Or is your husband the jealous type? G.F. takes getting used to."

"Oh, Steve fancies things," Mirelle replied, astonished to hear herself making such a casual admission. But then, perhaps Sylvia would kindly drop the word to G.F.

Sylvia snorted, glaring over her shoulder at Steve's broad back. "Then he should have married a plain woman instead of an exotic one. That shade of red is superb on you. How do you keep your figure? Oh gawd, here comes death and boredom," she said sotto voce, switching almost instantly to smooth cordiality as she greeted their other guests.

No sooner had the Clarensons been introduced around than the McNeills arrived and the party went in to the bar. Mirelle saw an imperceptible sign pass from G.F. to Sylvia who deftly herded the three women to one side, allowing the men to do a bit of pre-dinner business. Watching Sylvia as a hostess, Mirelle was a little awed. She would never have guessed that Sylvia privately held the women in good-natured contempt. She was graciousness personified: seemed to recall every detail of their domestic routine and recent tribulations. She listened with every appearance of concentrated attention. Only the slight glazing of her stare told Mirelle that neither Adele's latest servant trials nor Fritzie's dietary restrictions were registering. What, wondered Mirelle, was Sylvia's private opinion of Mary Ellen Martin then, vouchsafed at another time to other, more vivacious companions?

Two cocktails later, G.F. seemed to have concluded his business talk and the women were drawn into general conversation. They adjourned to the dining room to a reserved window table and G.F. began to carry on a flirtation with Adele who was taking it as no more than her due. Fritzie McNeill got herself seated between Bob Clarenson and Steve, across the table from her husband whom she watched even as she coyly chatted with her seat mates.

They aren't even subtle about it, Mirelle thought, more than a little disgusted. Sylvia, at least, was witty and funny but the general atmosphere depressed Mirelle, who was not at ease in social chitchat, and unable to act the coquette, the role in which she was generally cast at first encounter.

They were waiting for dessert and coffee when Mirelle noticed G.F. Esterhazy squinting at someone on the other side of the room. Steve also concentrated in that direction so noticeably that Fritzie turned around to see what they were staring at. She gave an exasperated snort.

"Men!" She rolled her eyes. "Always an eye for pretty girls." In that tone of voice, girls was synonymous for children.

Mirelle, whose back was to the rest of the room, refrained from turning but Sylvia craned her neck, raised her eyebrows appreciatively and made a little moue with her mouth.

"G.F., especially," she laughed, flicking a glance at Steve. "That one appears to be fair game. And such a handsome escort. I'll take him any time! Tres distingue. Whoops, they're coming this way."

Someone brushed against Mirelle's chair and as she moved it to let them pass, she inadvertently looked up. She was startled to see James Howell behind her. He smiled, wished her good evening and passed by with his companion.

"Who is he?" asked Sylvia in a hoarse whisper at Mirelle.

"James Howell," Mirelle replied, glancing apprehensively at Steve. He was still following the girl with his eyes.

"Why, he's old enough to be that child's father," Adele remarked tartly.

"Your claws are showing, dear," her husband remarked. "For my part, I'd say he had damned good taste."

Mirelle hoped that her face didn't show her annoyance but she didn't feel that she ought to mention that Howell had a daughter: Steve might wonder that she was so knowledgeable about the affairs of a man whom she was supposed to know only casually.

"Who is he?" Sylvia asked, insistent.

"He's a concert accompanist."

"The one who played for that soprano in last spring's Community Concert?"

"I wouldn't know that."

"Fancy your recognizing his face," remarked Fritzie in an insinuating drawl.

"We've met a couple of times. He helped me change a flat tire once last spring," Mirelle said and then some perverse whim prompted her to add mendaciously. "Then he was dripping steak juice on my toes one day at the Food Fair. He was very apologetic and we got to talking in the line. He introduced himself."

Sylvia slid into the rather awkward pause with a 'sick' joke about supermarkets and the subject of James Howell was dropped. Later Mirelle glanced unobtrusively towards Howell's table. The girl's profile was turned towards her and it was immediately apparent to Mirelle that the girl was his daughter: the jawline and the set of the ears was unmistakable. She was lovely, young, and very pleased to be dining with her father. She was teasing him, leaning across the table, waggling a finger at him. He laughed and grabbed the finger.

"I promise not to drip steak juice on your toes," said G.F. in Mirelle's ear, startling her. "Will you dance with me?"

"Certainly." Charm-vendor or not, G.F. had an unembarrassing way of flattering a woman.

He was tall enough to be a good partner, and led easily and well, holding her firmly but not objectionably against him.

"You're deceptively tall, Mirelle."

"All legs."

He gave her a searching glance. "To descend to the banal, your face is strangely familiar."

"And you'd be originally from Austria?"

He laughed at her evasion. "Very good actually. But off-putting. I've prided myself that I've lost all trace of my accent." He said the last in a very broad musical comedy inflection.

"Almost. It's a game I play," and she glared at him for the mischief in his eyes, "that I can place people's accents."

"And mine to identify ethnic origins. I'd say," G.F. went on relentlessly, "that you are at least partly Irish."

"Correct. The rest is nondescript."

"My dear girl, the rest is Slav. To be precise, Magyar."

" 'Hungarian and a princess'," Mirelle retorted, quoting Professor Higgins from My Fair Lady.

"No," G.F. contradicted her, suddenly and unexpectedly very serious. "Not a Hungarian princess." There was a bitterness and anger in his eyes which faded instantly as he looked down at her. "Sylvia tells me that you've done a very fine statuette of Lucy Farnoll."

"It isn't finished."

"You don't look like a sculptress."

"How should one look?"

"Bulging with proletarian muscle?"

"I might if I worked in stone but I don't."

"Have you shown anything around here?"

"No. My production is limited."

"If your work is as good as Sylvia thinks, and she's astute in her artistic judgments, you at least have settled on quality rather than quantity."

"No paths to my door."

"What? No revolutionary plaster mousetraps?"

"Not even a plaster mouse. My specialite is pig paperweights."

G.F. threw back his head and guffawed just as the music stopped. Mirelle felt all eyes on them and tried to move back to their table, but G.F. had not let go of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw James Howell watching.

"What's so funny?" Adele demanded, dragging Bob out on the floor to them.

"Mirelle plays with words nicely."

"Is that all?" Adele asked in an arch fashion that set Mirelle's teeth on edge.

She rather thought that G.F. found the attitude trying as well. Fortunately the music started and G.F. swung her off. She was grateful that he had limited his remark to Adele. She had already displayed the sort of condescension which Mirelle would not have tolerated for any length of time.

When the next set of dances started, G.F. traded her off to Steve, who'd been dancing with Sylvia.

"We haven't done this sort of thing in a long time, have we?" Steve said, tucking her head against his cheek as he used to do.

"Did you try that last twist?" she asked.

"Not me," he said with a rueful shrug. "Sylvia was game enough but I begged off. She's a good dancer, though. Nice woman."

"Yes, she is."

"You could do with a friend like her, Mirelle. You've needed someone ever since Lucy died." Mirelle agreed with him. "You ought to get out with other women. Go bridging or take up tennis."

Mirelle shook her head vehemently. "And you won't find Sylvia doing that sort of thing either."

"Nonsense," he said, holding her off and looking at her rather angrily. "She did the registration canvass."

"That's not bridge or tennis. That's politics."

"It's getting out and not sticking to four walls and…" He broke off suddenly and pulled her close to spin to the music. As they started the pivot, her heel went down on someone's foot and she broke from Steve's grasp to apologize.

"It's perfectly all right, Mrs. Martin," said James Howell, grimacing manfully and making a great play of tentatively putting weight on his injured right foot.

"Well, you did drip steak juice on my feet in the Food Fair," she said.

"Our account is now squared then: blood for blood."

Steve cleared his throat and Mirelle hastily introduced them.

"And may I introduce my daughter, Margaret? Mr. and Mrs. Martin."

Margaret Howell shook Mirelle's hand warmly. "You must be the Mrs. Martin who sculpts. Dad said how much he admired your Cat. And to think that you live right here in Wilmington."

"And dripped steak juice on strangers in an ordinary Food Fair," added James Howell. Only Mirelle could guess at the deception behind his bland expression. "Let's see if any permanent damage has been done. May I? Thank you." And he had his arms about Mirelle and was leading her off before Steve could form a protest. "Mind you, Martin, Papa's got an eagle eye."

"You're incredibly cheeky," Mirelle said as they whirled off.

"Who's talking cheek? Steak juice on your feet, indeed! Pure fabrication!" His eyes were dancing with mischief. Nothing was wrong with his foot from the way he moved. He was a more daring and flamboyant dancer than Steve, and Mirelle was intensely aware of his strong hand on her back. He was taller, too, and as her forehead came to his jaw, she couldn't see over his shoulder. She craned her neck to see how Margaret was doing with Steve.

"Margaret will be keeping him much too busy to watch you. Dancing with her old father is not her idea of a thrill although I believe that she's a credit to me on the dance floor."

"You are a marvelous dancer."

He looked down into her eyes, grinning. "Except when a foot has been skewered by three inches of stainless steel."

"I am sorry, Jamie. Really."

"That's better," he said, smiling and pulling her closer. He rested his chin against her hair. "You're like fine wine and velvet - which reminds me. Have all the King's horses and all the King's men…"

"Put Lucy back together again?"

"Yes, her, too." His eyes lost the laughter as he stared down at her gravely.

"An ill wind blows no good," she said as lightly as she could for his stare was disconcerting. "I think it's a better statue now. It's more Lucy. The other was very sentimental."

"Sentimental? Hmmm." He pulled her close again to execute a complicated turn. "Maggie goes back tomorrow to college. She came down to rob me of my pelf for fine feathers. She'll leave poor Robin poorer by far, I fear."

"All in a good cause."

The music ended and he led her back to Steve, claiming his daughter with appropriate light banter.

"Nice guy," remarked Steve.

"He has a good-looking daughter, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does," Steve said in an absent fashion, staring after the two in such a way that Mirelle knew that his suspicions about James Howell had been removed.