‘May I see some of your work?’ Ann asked.
‘Watch out, Mirelle,’ Red said, ‘she’s a manager.’
‘Oh, you be quiet, Red Blackburn. For the first time in years you introduce me to one salesman’s wife who isn’t a complete and uttter idiot.’
‘Ann!’ Red exclaimed, a little startled.
‘Oh, Mirelle’s no dope,’ Ann said with a light laugh. ‘She’s been with the company long enough to know the routine. Sales managers always contrive to meet the wives,’ and Ann rolled her eyes, ‘and then the sales managers’ wives have to listen to what child got sick with what ailment at what age.’
Sylvia laughed out loud.’ “Judy O’Grady . . .”’
‘“And the Colonel’s lady . . .”’ Ann picked it up jubilantly.
‘. . . “Are sisters under their skins!”’ Mirelle capped the verse.
‘You are all behaving outrageously,’ Red said.
‘What a relief!’ his wife replied. ‘Particularly if you like her broccoli.’
‘How long have you two been in Wilmington?’ Sylvia wanted to know.
‘Three years, and then five years in the southwest, and well, I’ve been travelling all my born days.’
‘We’re more or less settled now, sweetheart,’ Red reassured his wife.
‘I remember my father telling my mother that.’ Ann’s attitude was distinctly skeptical.
‘Didn’t you say that they’d retired to Florida?’ asked Dad Martin.
‘I don’t want to be seventy when we’re finally settled,’ Ann answered tartly.
‘Salesmen’s wives of the world, unite!’ Sylvia chanted, raising one hand dramatically over her head. ‘We have nothing to lose but our husbands’ jobs!’
‘My wife will find a cause anywhere in the world,’ G.F. said with tolerant amusement.
‘Ooops, sorry. I get carried away.’
‘Yes, don’t you just?’ Mirelle responded with some asperity.
‘Always and only the very best causes,’ Sylvia said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘Lost any lately?’ asked Steve in a quiet voice.
‘Touché!’ G.F. said, and Sylvia had the grace to flush.
Ann and Red were aware of an undercurrent, aware, too, that the older Martins had turned their entire attention to their plates.
‘Didn’t I see your name on a Democratic poster?’ Ann asked Sylvia.
‘Hmm, yes. I’m a ward-heeler. That’s how I met Mirelle.’
‘Are you and G.F. both lawyers then?’
‘Heavens, no.’ Sylvia was startled. ‘One cynic in the family is enough.’
G.F. placed a hand on his heart in exaggerated hurt. ‘I am touched to the quick to think that my wife believes that my profession has made me cynical. Although it is true that I have seen the seamy side of life, I have been able to retain my naiveté and joie de vivre!’
‘Also your pose as a boulevardier,’ Mirelle added and Ann laughed.
‘Did you ever get to Paris, Steve?’ Red asked.
‘No, I was too busy liberating Vienna,’ he replied, ‘and from what I heard on the ship home, I think I pulled the better duty.’
‘Well, I’ve heard that Vienna has quite a reputation, but there was this place on the left bank,’ and Red launched into a well-told and, from the slightly glazed expression on Ann’s face, an oft-repeated humorous incident.
That set G.F. off with a story which had happened to him on his arrival in the States in the late 40s and the men dominated the conversation. Dinner finally ended and Mirelle served coffee and liqueurs in the living-room.
When Sylvia volunteered to help Mirelle clear the table, Mirelle demanded an explanation of her leading remarks during dinner.
‘I watched your mother-in-law, Mirelle, and it’s perfectly obvious that anything socially important counts with her. She sure didn’t like your popularity at the Bazaar, but when she saw how much more important she became as your mother-in-law, you’d’ve laughed yourself sick to hear how much credit she was willing to take for encouraging you!’ Sylvia’s low voice was fierce with anger. ‘So G.F. and I decided to mention your very socially acceptable father. Just luck that Ann Blackburn – she’s a find, I’ll collect her myself – had also heard of Lajos Neagu. Mother Martin may not like it but I’ll bet you anything she’s now willing to lump it. And make good use of the Neagu connection with Mr. Mergenthau. You might also take note of the fact, my friend,’ and Sylvia became less fierce as she covered Mirelle’s hand with hers, ‘that it was never mentioned that your father and your mother were not married to each other. And no one on this side of the Atlantic is going to know unless you tell them.’
Some of Mirelle’s anger with Sylvia dissipated when she was forced to admit that her friend’s ploy was logical.
‘Evil is in the mind of the beholder, hon,’ Sylvia went on. ‘Not that your mother-in-law would believe good of you under the best possible circumstances.’
‘Oh, Sylvia!’
‘Don’t “Oh Sylvia” me. At least she makes no pretense of any affection. She’s of the ignorance-is-bliss school and she sure tries to ignore your existence. Say, I hadn’t realised just how much Tonia looks like her. And did you see her face flush when Ann commented on the resemblance?’
‘Yes, because Tonia also inherited Mother Martin’s sense of importance.’
‘And the importance of being Mother Martin requires no imitations?’
‘I guess. When I got home tonight, Tonia was in tears, and I haven’t had a chance to find out from Steve exactly what happened.’
Steve came in at that moment to refill the coffee pot.
‘How did you find out about Mirelle’s father, Sylvia?’ he asked in a blunt hard voice.
‘With some skilful cross-examination, a technique which I use rather well, even on my husband.’ Sylvia rubbed her hands together, a smug expression on her face. ‘I found out her father was Lajos Neagu. I remembered the family portrait so of course I mentioned it to G.F.’
‘Clear as mud.’
‘Steve,’ Mirelle began, stumbling over the words, ‘nothing was said . . . about my mother . . . or her husband.’
Steve regarded her with narrowed eyes for a moment. ‘Coffee!’ He pointed to the furiously whistling kettle.
Mirelle made a fresh pot and brought it into the living-room, returning to the kitchen for more cream. She leaned wearily against the refrigerator door until she felt Sylvia’s arm across her shoulders.
‘I’d say you won this battle hands down, hon.’
‘Possibly, but I don’t want to lose the war.’ Mirelle took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, turning to catch the anxious look on Sylvia’s face.
‘You won’t, Mirelle.’
‘Steve’s relationship with his parents was a very close one.’
‘He’s a big boy now and that devoted mother stuff has ruined many men.’ Sylvia put a slight emphasis on ‘men’. ‘Well, the Blackburns like you, and Steve has to work for a living.’
‘Yes, she’s an unexpected ally.’
‘Not all bosses’ wives are impossible. Just 99 per cent!’
‘Onward to the fray,’ said Mirelle and, arm in arm, the two friends joined the rest of the party.
Mirelle placed herself on the far end of the couch, in the shadows of the room, hoping that the conversation would not devolve onto her again. The rest of the evening, however, passed very pleasantly. Fortunately the older Martins retired at eleven-thirty, using their advancing years as an excuse. The Esterhazys and Blackburns reluctantly departed at one in the morning.
Mirelle started to pick up the party debris, determined to leave the downstairs in order against any criticism the next morning. Steve followed her out to the kitchen with the drinks tray.
‘What was Sylvia trying to do this evening?’ he asked her, his chin jutting out stubbornly.
‘A case of misplaced loyalty, I guess. Look, Steve, I’m far too tired to argue and you are far too upset.
Let’s not give your mother another excuse to criticise me . . .’
‘Criticise you?’ Steve exploded. ‘If you need a taste of criticism, you should have heard her this afternoon!’
Mirelle blinked at him, not sure she understood.
‘Do you mean, she was criticising you?’
‘Yes, for letting you participate in the church Bazaar, putting yourself in a vulgar limelight, for the lack of supervision of the children, for their manners, for Tonia’s appearance, for . . .’ Steve raised his arms heavenward in frustration.
‘Nancy Lou Randolph would never have put herself in such a position, would she? And her mealy-mouthed children would never dare contradict Mother Martin.’
Steve glared fiercely at Mirelle. ‘Are you jealous of Nancy Lou?’
‘Me? Oh, good God, no. But I get her thrown up to me as THE criterion of wifely virtues.’ Mirelle bit her lip, took a deep breath and said in a restrained voice, ‘We’ll be shrieking at each other in a minute, which is just what your mother wants. To split us apart.’
‘No, no.’ Steve shook his head in vehement denial. ‘She just wants to . . . she’s only trying to . . .’
‘To what? I can’t take that “Mother knows best” bit anymore, Steve. I hope it’s worn thin with you, too. Let’s go to bed,’ and she dropped her voice to soft suggestion. Kissing his cheek, she tugged him to follow her.
16
MIRELLE WAS ROUSED from deep slumber with a suddenness which she immediately identified as alarm. She had had the experience twice before. She lay for a moment in bed, gathering her senses, aware first that it was early. She could see the whirling of snow outside the window and wondered if she had been deceived about the hour by the grey skies. Her watch read 4:30 but it had stopped. She looked for the alarm on Steve’s bureau. It was gone. Then she realised that it must be Sunday and Roman would have taken the alarm clock to wake himself up for the morning papers.
She threw Steve’s robe around her and went into the children’s bedroom. Nick was fast asleep in the bed, Tonia was on the cot but Roman was gone. She closed the window and saw a figure pulling a sled, coming down the hill. She watched for a few seconds until she identified the walker as Roman.
He must be cold, she thought, he’s hugging himself. She glanced over at the clock and saw that it was 8:30. She could go back to bed for maybe half an hour, but the feeling of uneasiness was too pronounced. She went downstairs to fix coffee for herself and was momentarily surprised to see Mother Martin already in the kitchen. For a few minutes she had forgotten that problem.
‘Everyone is lazy this morning,’ her mother-in-law said in a somewhat pleasant voice.
‘All except Roman. He’s been out delivering papers.’
‘On a morning like this?’ Her pleasantness deteriorated quickly.
‘Certainly. Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night . . .’
‘That’s for postmen, not children.’
‘Roman’s had that paper route for two years. He saves his money regularly and he’s very responsible about serving his route on time.’
‘Well, I don’t see that it’s at all necessary for him to have a route.’
‘It isn’t. But Roman wanted to do it and as he’s always been an early riser, he might as well serve papers.’
Mother Martin was unconverted.
Mirelle took her coffee into the dining-room and was about to sit down when she saw that Roman had turned into the driveway. She couldn’t imagine where he’d found that long red sock and why did he have on two different . . .
Mirelle ran to the front door and threw it open.
‘Are you badly hurt, Roman?’ she called, trying to keep her voice calm.
‘My leg’s cut, Mom, and I think my arm’s broken. I’m sorry about the pants,’ he said with equal calm.
Mirelle dashed down the steps now, disregarding the cold wind and the snow over the tops of her light house shoes. She resisted the impulse to pick him up in her arms. Mother Martin had come to the front door and when she saw Roman, she started to scream. As Mirelle guided Roman into the hall, her mother-in-law was upstairs, pounding on Steve’s door, on her husband’s, incoherently shouting disaster.
Mirelle led Roman down to the studio, arranged him on the couch. She threw a blanket about him and smiled reassuringly.
‘How did it happen? Before or after?’
‘After,’ and Roman grinned despite his pain. ‘Started to sled down the big hill and skidded into a storm gutter.’ Then he grimaced, rolling his eyes at the volume of his grandmother’s screams.
Mirelle eased the torn pants away from the gash in his leg: probably from the sled runner, long and nasty. The shinbone was visible. Steve and Dad Martin came clattering down the stairs as she tore the pants leg off at the thigh.
‘Steve, call Will Martin. Possible fracture of the right arm, eight-inch laceration, deep on the shinbone, from a sled runner. Dad Martin, please get me some towels, dishtowels, napkins, anything that’s clean in the laundry. There may be sheets in the dryer.’
‘Oh, that poor child! That poor child!’ Marian Martin’s keening was a counterpoint to Mirelle’s instructions. ‘Oh, this is what happens when you don’t take proper care of your children. This is what happens . . .’
‘If you can’t stop that caterwauling immediately, please go to your room,’ Mirelle said, turning to look up the stairs at the distraught woman. ‘The boy will be all right but your hysterics are completely unnecessary!’
Dad Martin returned with several napkins and a large towel. Mirelle took them and folded the clean linen over the open wound, binding a second napkin as gently as possible to close the laceration. There was only a hiss of inhaled breath from her son.
‘Did you hear how she spoke to me, Arthur?’ gasped the outraged wife.
‘There’s no sense in upsetting the boy. He’s the one should be crying, Marian, and I notice he isn’t. You never could stand the sight of blood, you know.’
‘Am I bleeding much, Mom?’ Roman asked, suddenly concerned.
‘Like a stuck pig,’ Mirelle informed him.
Steve came back and watched Mirelle fold in a pressure bandage.
‘Doc Martin’s sending the ambulance for you, Roman.’
‘Ambulance?’ wailed Mother Martin, clapping her hand to her mouth, her eyes popping out of her head in terror.
‘What’s all the noise?’ Nick demanded, slipping past his grandmother and thudding down the stairs. He looked at the cut incuriously and then brightened suddenly. ‘Hey, Roman, that’s going to take lots of stitches. You should be ahead of Max Schneider then!’ Nick was envious. ‘How’d you do it?’
‘Oh, Nicolas,’ cried his grandmother, who’d followed him, snatching him back from the couch. ‘Come away from there. You shouldn’t see such things.’
‘Why not?’ Nick was surprised. ‘What’s wrong, Grandmother? You look kinda green.’
‘Nick, go watch for the ambulance,’ Steve said firmly.
Nick’s eyes bulged with admiration and excitement. ‘Ambulance? Gee whiz!’ He bounded up the stairs, nearly knocking Tonia down. Mirelle could hear him explaining to her and she went with him, shrieking with glee over the necessity of an ambulance coming to their house.
Steve began unfastening the heavy snowboots and chafing Roman’s cold toes.
‘Can you sit up, honey?’ Mirelle asked. He nodded but winced as the movement jarred his arm. Steve helped and they began to remove his damp jacket. Working very carefully, they got the sleeve off the injured arm without hurting him too much. Through the thinner fabric of the flannel shirt, Mirelle could see the bone disjointure of the forearm. Mastering a desire to be ill, she smiled at her white-faced son.
‘What about a shot of bourbon?’ Steve murmured to Mirelle. She nodded.
‘Gee, Grandfather,’ Roman said, distracting himself as Mirelle rigged a sling for his arm, ‘I’m sorry to wreck your visit like this.’
‘That’s all right, sonny,’ Dad Mar
tin said, glancing reprovingly at his wife when she gasped. ‘I’m right proud of you. You just take it easy and don’t give a moment’s thought about wrecking our visit.’
Steve came back with a shot glass and sat beside Roman.
‘Let’s see you knock this back, boy. Take the chill from your bones. It’s the very best bourbon in the house so don’t waste it.’
‘But you said not till I’m twenty-one,’ Roman protested.
‘Medicinal,’ Steve replied. ‘The trick is in the wrist.’ He demonstrated.
‘Steven Martin, are you giving that child liquor?’ Mother Martin demanded, striding across the room.
‘For shock, yes. Be quiet, Mother,’ Steve said without raising his voice. ‘Go ahead, Roman.’
Roman took it down as if to the manner born.
‘He’s been practising?’ Mirelle asked with a nervous laugh. She needed a jolt herself.
‘You see ’em do it on TV,’ Roman said, also a little shaky. ‘That’s strong stuff,’ he added, unable to keep from coughing, but the color was coming back into his face. ‘It’s warm all the way down.’
‘It does help,’ Mirelle agreed, settling him against a pillow, and then standing. ‘It won’t take long for me to dress. Or would you rather have your father at the hospital with you?’
Roman looked anxiously from his mother to his father.
‘Both of you go,’ suggested Dad Martin. ‘We’ll tend the shop.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Steve said with obvious relief.
As he and Mirelle turned to go upstairs, they saw that Mother Martin had already absented herself. They heard Dad talking quietly to Roman.
‘When is that ambulance coming?’ demanded Nick, his nose pressed against the window.
‘Soon, soon,’ Steve said. ‘Now look, Nick, Granddad and Grandmother will be staying with you while we take Ro to the hospital. You do everything you’re told to, right smart. Understand?’
‘Sure, Dad. Always glad to cooperate in an emergency,’ Nick said, all seriousness.
‘Me, too,’ vowed Tonia promptly.
The Year of the Lucy Page 23
