‘Such independence puts Boy Scouts out of business,’ he said good-naturedly. He crouched down by the damaged tire, trying to determine the point of puncture, then straightened, dusting his hands off. Instinctively she glanced at them, noticing the very short clipped nails, the blunt tips of the long fingers. ‘The wheel’s covering the puncture. Nail probably, because your tread is still good. Where do you hide the jack for this overgrown bathtub?’
‘Boy Scouts are supposed to be polite, not condescending,’ she said, grinning maliciously, ‘not that you should talk with that overbuilt, overpowered, overpriced . . .’
‘Yah, yah, yah,’ he said, laughing back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his grin boyishly lopsided.
Steve’s eyes used to crinkle like that, Mirelle thought irrelevantly. But Steve used to laugh a lot more than he does these days. Silently she cursed competitive business and sales quotas.
‘I’ll get the keys,’ she said, shifting balance so she could make her way along the side of the Sprite to the driver’s side. Her good Samaritan touched her shoulder lightly.
‘Get off that ankle and make like a lady executive,’ he said. He took her by the hands and assisted her to the grassy bank above the shoulder.
Her laugh turned to a groan for an injudicious movement tweaked her foot as she sat down. It took a moment’s hard concentration to fight back the tears. When she looked again, he was opening the trunk and getting out the necessary tools.
‘You don’t seem to need explanations,’ she said.
‘Oh, I had one of these runabouts. Surprising how quickly one remembers the idiosyncrasies of the beasts.’
‘I see you’ve also graduated to the tender mercies of the AAA.’
He glanced up startled, and then looked over his shoulder at the telltale emblem on his car license plate. He grinned.
‘There’s a difference or two between this bathtub and that behemoth. Particularly when it comes to wrestling jacks and tire-lugs.’ He had removed his suit jacket and, although Mirelle thought he must be in his forties, he was lean and quick of movement. ‘It does me good to recall, however briefly, my lost and carefree youth.’
He made short work of loosening the bolts, raised the car on the jack, and removed the flat. Mirelle’s sculptor’s eye noticed the play of muscles across his back, the long line of his leg in the stretched fabric of his pants. A receding hairline emphasised the shape of his handsome head. His dark brown hair was worn long in the back and showed silvery at the temples and above his well-shaped ears.
‘Do I pass, ma’am?’ he asked and she realised that he had become aware of her scrutiny without being embarrassed by it.
‘I only patronise well-dressed mechanics . . .’
‘One does have confidence in the dapper workman . . .’ ‘. . . Who uses Brylcreem . . .’
‘. . . Smokes filter-type cigarettes . . .’
‘. . . Brushes when he can with Gardol . . .’
‘. . . And drives the wide-track Pontiac . . .’
They laughed together. Then, with a flourish, he released the jack and the Sprite settled to the ground with a puff of dirt. Mirelle tried to rise, struggling awkwardly. He was at her side in one long step, holding out his hands.
‘You really have wrenched it,’ he said with a low whistle.
Suppressing an irresponsible yearning that he’d sweep her in his arms and deposit her, preferably in his car, Mirelle allowed him to help her limp to the Sprite. When she started to swing her legs under the wheel, he caught her by the knee and, over her protests, deftly removed the jodhpur boot. She pressed her lips against the pain. Under the heavy athletic sock, the swelling was apparent.
‘I got tossed,’ she said ruefully as they both regarded the injury.
‘The beauties of the spring, no doubt, distracted you,’ he said, grinning up at her, his lean attractive face alive to the humor of her situation. His eyes, she noticed, were grey-blue and he was tired.
‘No, it was Boots’ week to spook dead tree branches.’
He rose in a lithe movement and retrieved his coat from the back of the Sprite. He took the handkerchief from the breast pocket, a large red silk square. Deftly folding it into a length, he tied it in a brace around her foot.
‘That’s a good handkerchief.’
‘We Knights of the Road use nothing but the best,’ he said glibly, fastening the knot securely. He rose, brushed off his dusty knee, and regarded her expectantly.
‘It does feel better strapped up.’
‘Do I give the old scout master’s words of wisdom on sprains?’
‘Hardly necessary,’ Mirelle said with a laugh, suddenly at ease again with his flippancy. ‘One of my favorite pastimes is ankle-bending. I’m surprised they bother to swell anymore.’
She swivelled around and put her foot gingerly on the clutch pedal.
‘Your boot, madam.’ With a cavalier bow, he presented it.
‘Monsieur, vous êtes un vrai chevalier,’ she heard herself saying.
‘Enchanté,’ he replied and his lips twitched as he noticed her flush. ‘Seriously, though, shouldn’t I follow you to make sure you can drive all right?’
‘Oh, I haven’t all that far to go,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll make it. But your handkerchief . . .’ He waved aside that consideration. ‘Remember me the next time you play tisket-a-tasket.’
Before she could protest, he had turned and was striding back to the Thunderbird. Gingerly she started the car, wincing with pain as she pressed the injured foot down to shift to second.
He did follow her down the highway, all the way to Silverside Road where she turned off. She saw his farewell salute as the Thuderbird proceeded straight on, towards town.
2
ALTHOUGH SHE ALLOWED Roman to practise 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 towards physical injury of any kind. In the sixteen 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 insistence on perfection appealed to the artisan in Mirelle.
One of the reason 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 nor 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 recognising 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 analysing 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 told him, ‘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 preparing the yard 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, brazen 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 fully-fledged scene. He denied that she had ever mentioned a sprained ankle or a flat tire until she retorted with 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,’ 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 abandon the idea 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 of 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 realised 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’ unusual features when they were camping last year. Cleaning and stocking the bus were her responsibilities: the others organised 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.
The Year of the Lucy Page 2
