The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Two days later, Mirelle brought the finished pig, some chrysanthemums from her garden and a pan of butterscotch brownies over to the Howells. When she drove up, a black Mercedes 420 was parked in the driveway. She hesitated about intruding but she had cut the flowers and the brownies wouldn't last long if returned to her house.

Margaret, looking harried, answered the door and made an effusive gesture of relief.

"He's impossible," she said in a stage whisper, jerking her thumb towards the music room. "His agent is here, Dave Andorri, and Dad simply isn't well but he won't listen to me or Dave."

Mirelle exhibited the sickpig to Margaret and the girl let out a whoop of laughter, suppressing it quickly in her hand.

"Well, Margaret? Who's badgering me now?" demanded Jamie from the music room. Mirelle could hear the rumble of another male voice, evidently placating the sick man.

Mirelle gave Margaret the brownies and the flowers, and walked in. She had a quick glance at the heavy-headed, grey-haired man sitting on the couch and then marched up to Howell who was slouched on the piano bench. He had shaved so part of the similarity between pig and man was eliminated. His expression of dissatisfaction, ill-health and gauntness, however, was perfectly captured in the porcine face. Jamie had risen from the piano bench as she entered. He sat down again as Mirelle placed the sickpig on the music rack of the grand piano. His eyes widened, his jaw fell open, and he began to sputter with indignation. The agent, who had also risen at Mirelle's entrance, had a view not only of the pig but of Howell's reaction. He burst into laughter, the contagious kind which can set off an entire room.

Howell, struggling against the infection of Andorri's laugh, his discomfiture and convalescent irritability, gave up and joined in wheezingly. Margaret, after watching apprehensively until she saw how her father was taking the joke, visibly relaxed.

"If you think, for one moment," Howell managed to say between wheezings, "that this is what I commissioned, you're crazy." He began to cough violently.

"Of course not," she replied blandly. "But when my children are ill and disagreeable, I found that if they had their 'sick' faces in front of them, they remembered to recover their good humor. The other nice thing about sickpigs is that they are breakable. It is so satisfying to temperamental patients to hear things shatter."

"Oh ho," said Andorri with a resonant crow, "she has you there, Jim. I'm Dave Andorri and you can only be Mirelle Martin," he went on, warmly shaking hands with her. "Your entrance couldn't have been better timed, Mrs. Martin. This idiot has been trying to prove to me that he's completely recovered. All he's succeeded in proving is how sick he still is."

Howell slithered around on the piano bench, the pig in one hand.

"The next time I'm ill-tempered, Margaret, just hand me my pig," he said, his long face repentant.

"Oh, you're all right, Dad. You just aren't as well as you think you are. I'm just scared you'll get sick again and not make the concert on the 18th. That's the important one, isn't it?"

When Howell graciously waved Mirelle to a seat, she could see that his hand was shaking and his complexion pasty.

"How about that tea you were threatening me with, Margaret? She makes a fair cuppa. Mirelle, will you join us?"

"If you promise to go back to bed immediately afterwards," Mirelle said, ruthlessly determined to extract that promise.

"But Dave just got here."

"And Dave can just go," the agent replied, getting to his feet, "unless you promise. Mrs. Martin is quite right. I'll stay for a cuppa to cheer me for the drive back to town. And we'll hear no more about how well you are. For that matter, I can get Nichols if I give Madame Nealy sufficient notice and enough rehearsal time."

"I've told you, Dave," Howell said, setting his mouth angrily, "that I'll be well enough to play for Madame Nealy on the 18th, but I simply cannot leave everything…"

"That's the last time we go round that argument, Jim," Dave replied with equal force. "Maggie, the tea!"

"I'd just brewed it," the girl said in Mirelle's direction, "and Mrs. Martin has brought us brownies to go with it," she added as she ran down the hall to the kitchen.

Howell glared at Mirelle. "How suburban! Brownies to the sick friend!" He appealed to the ceiling of the room.

"I wouldn't dream of forcing such suburbiana on you then," Mirelle said, blinking her eyes at him and turning to smile with exaggerated sweetness on the agent. "Mr. Andorri, Margaret and I will eat them all."

Margaret reappeared with the tray, depositing it on the music-strewn table.

"For God's sake, Margaret, watch what you're doing," Jamie said with sharp irritability.

"Don't be difficult," Mirelle suggested, motioning to Margaret to raise the tray so she could clear the music. "If you didn't spread out like an overweight rhino…"

When Howell opened his mouth to make a sharp reply, Mirelle pointed at the figure in his hand. He burst out laughing.

"You're right. I'm impossible. Forgive me, daughter dear. I must have been snapping your head off all day without realizing it."

"Well, not all day," Margaret said demurely and glanced up, surprised at the laughter from Mirelle and Dave. "As a matter of fact, this morning you had me wishing that you had been laid out as a corpse!" She made the confession with asperity and then, seeing his contrite expression, ran quickly around the table to plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "But you're never sick, Dad, so you've had no practice at being good and that cough would drive anyone up the wall."

She rumpled his hair, against his vociferous complaints, and then sat down, decorously, to pour the tea.

Howell fingercombed his hair down and settled his dressing robe over his shoulders. He snatched a brownie from the plate before Mirelle could carry out her threat and chewed it smugly as he eyed her.

"That cough's the worst aspect of this bronchial pneumonia," he admitted. "I feel as if the lining is coming out of my throat."

"He had a coughing fit just as you got here, Mrs. Martin. Brutal," said Dave sympathetically.

"Leaving me weak and wretched." Howell assumed a dramatically limp posture.

"Ha. Years of riotous living have caught up with you," Mirelle said with cool disdain. "Bucketing around the States from one concert hall after another."

"All of them drafty," and Howell jerked his thumb at Andorri. "He picks them especially for the drafts."

"What about long underwear? Or leg warmers?" Mirelle suggested with mock concern and Margaret giggled at the thought of her fashionable father wearing either.

"I can get my hands on a reliable portable heater," Dave made his contribution solicitously.

"You're cruel to a sick and ailing man," Howell said, hand to his forehead.

"Not at all," Mirelle and Dave said in unison. "Just trying to be helpful."

Howell snorted. Then Dave leaned over to examine the pig more closely, chuckling as he inspected it.

"That's delightful, Mrs. Martin. Would never have expected porkers in Jim's genealogy." Howell made an attempt to snatch it back.

"You might have used a more elegant animal," Howell told Mirelle when Dave returned it. "But it will remind me to maintain dignity at all times."

"Has Will Martin been in to see you recently?"

"Today," and Howell rubbed his hip.

"He came first thing," and Margaret giggled, "and warned Dad not to get up."

Dave was on his feet instantly. "If I'd known that, I wouldn't have allowed you downstairs, Jim."

"Don't be an ass, Dave."

"You're the ass," replied the agent with some heat. "I'm glad you spoke, Mags. I'm serious, Jim. You can't take any risks. Bronchial pneumonia is no joke."

"Is your fever down?" Mirelle asked for Jamie was beginning to frown at the harassment.

"Only yesterday," Margaret said when he didn't answer.

Dave took Howell's cup from his hand, gave it to Margaret and, firmly taking the sick man by the elbow, propelled him out of the music room and up the stairs.

"If I'm your manager, James Howell, I'm your manager. And I am managing you back into your bed, you pig-faced espece de canard! "

Dave might be shorter than James Howell by several inches but he had considerably more bulk which he used to coerce his victim. Margaret sighed with relief as she saw the brute force was working where tact had not.

"Honest, Mrs. Martin, I don't think Dad realizes just how sick he's been. Of course, my opinion is a child's. Just at the wrong time he thinks I'm still nine. Well, I'm nineteen and old enough to take care of him now."

"Mirelle!" James Howell roared from his room and the effort started him coughing.

"Got any honey?" Mirelle asked Margaret as she pulled the girl to the kitchen. "Be right there, Jamie."

"He's got a cough mixture," the girl said.

"Well, it's not effective and this always works with my kids. It coats the throat tissue." She had put several teaspoons of honey in a glass, added lemon juice, and stirred. "Add some whiskey later on. That'll improve the taste."

Margaret was dubious but she followed Mirelle up the stairs. Andorri had got Howell back into bed, under the blankets and propped up against the pillows, but the invalid was still sulking.

"Here, try this. Always works," she said, sitting on the bed and giving him a spoonful.

"You are, my dear, a continual surprise package. Nostrums and sculpture?"

"Why not? Feeding sick cranky children requires the knack," she said, and when Jamie opened his mouth to protest, she tilted the spoon in so deftly, he had to swallow or choke, "very similar to plastering."

Dave Andorri guffawed loudly. "You've met your match, Jim."

"Ungrateful wench. Never again will I extend a helping hand to a female in distress," Howell said and then realized that his voice was less rasping. "Even more reprehensible is your distressing tendency to be right!" He reached behind him for a pillow to throw at Mirelle but she ran nimbly to the door, waving goodbye.

As she drove home, Mirelle was unexpectedly satisfied with the day, a state of mind which she'd not experienced in months. She'd been vaguely disoriented for so long that she couldn't quite pin down why her mood was improved. To be sure, she thoroughly enjoyed matching wits with Howell. He had such an atrocious sense of humor. She was pleased with the reception of the sickpig which should give Margaret a useful talisman. Everything contributed to her sense of euphoria.

She resolved to maintain the mood, even if the children got to wrangling. Not even the sight of a letter from her in-laws put a damper on her exhilaration. As usual, the letter was addressed only to Steve. Not since the terrible fight in Allentown had she ever written directly to her mother-in-law. She propped the letter up on the hall table with a disdainful sniff. It couldn't prick her mood as she set about getting supper, an especially good supper.

When Steve's car turned in the drive, she paused long enough to check her hair and for any stray smudges on her face. She surprised herself by turning her cheek for Steve's home-coming kiss, a habit which lately he'd dropped.

"Say, what got into you?" he asked, hugging her.

"Oh, just a good day."

"Any reason it's a good day? More commissions or something?"

"No."

"God, you're coy," he said and swatted her proprietarily on the hip, his eyes still wary.

She laughed and rolled her eyes, and he echoed her laughter.

"It's good to see you like this, hon. You sure you aren't hiding something? Like an expensive new dress?"

She laughed again at that, for she was unlikely to buy expensive dresses at any time. Expensive art equipment, yes. "No," she told him, tolerant of his density, "just for a change, I feel right with the world."

"For a real change," Steve agreed. "Oh ho, mail from ma." He picked up the letter with an apprehensive glance at her.

"Not even that can erase the smile from my sunny face."

"Well, well." He slit the envelope and, as he read the contents, his hand slowly rose to rub the back of his neck.

That signified bad news, Mirelle knew, as she went to put dinner on the table.

The kids came clattering up from the TV room at her call and noisily forwarded the conversational ball at the dinner table. Steve joined in easily enough, so Mirelle decided that she must have been mistaken about the import of the letter. In fact, she forgot all about it until after the children were in bed.

"What was on your mother's mind?" she asked as Steve fussed with his amplifier.

"Has one of the kids been fiddling with this?" he demanded irritably. "It's all off."

"I don't think so."

"What about the maid? "

"It was all right last night."

"You know how she dusts."

"She comes on Tuesday and this is Friday so it couldn't be Maria."

"Damn it!"

"So what was on your mother's mind?" Mirelle repeated, certain of the source of his aggravation.

Steve rocked back on his heels, still fiddling with the hi-fi settings. "We're getting a state visit."

"Oh no. When?"

"The 10th. They've decided to celebrate Dad's retirement by spending the winter in Orlando, Florida. You know, where the Randolphs went for so many years."

"Naturally it would be Orlando then," Mirelle replied blandly. The Randolphs were a stuffy, pompous family, important in Allentown. Mrs. Martin Senior quoted the Randolph authorized opinion on everything from Heinz ketchup to the state of the spring weather.

"Oh, come off it, Mirelle," Steve said in a sour tone of voice.

Mirelle shrugged. "How long will they be here? You know the Church Bazaar is the 12th and 13th. I have to be there."

"That's right," Steve said with a heartfelt groan. They sat quietly, deep in private thought for several long minutes. Then Steve shook his head. "I don't want you to renege on the Bazaar."

A wave of relief washed over Mirelle. It wasn't so much that she realized how much she had looked forward to participating in the affair as the fact that Steve was deliberately encouraging her in something they both knew that his mother would detest.

He unfolded the letter again. "She says 'a few days', so I guess that'll include the 12th and 13th." He got to his feet abruptly. "Damn it, Mary Ellen, things have been so much,… much better between us since I got off the road and you started this latest sculpting kick. I mean, like today, with you feeling a good mood over nothing." He leaned over her chair. "You're more like the girl I married than you've been since the kids started coming." He made a fist and gently pushed at her chin. "She's my mother and all, but hell, it's our life and our marriage."

Mirelle reached up to put her arms around his neck and drew his head down so that their foreheads touched.

"Steve, if you'll back me up this time, your mother won't be able to upset us the way she usually does."

Steve flushed and made a move to break her hold. She pulled him back.

"Steve, I've allowed your mother to crucify me and I've watched you standing squarely in the middle, not knowing which way to turn. You know that the only thing I've been able to do is shut up and put up. But I'm warning you, Steve. I'm not going to shut up this time, and I'm not going to put up."

Steve jerked away then.

"My birth may have been irregular," Mirelle went on resolutely, "but at least I spared us both another set of in-laws."

Steve whirled sharply, his mouth opened in angry surprise.

"Which is just as well," she continued calmly, rising from the chair, "because, as I remember my mother, she could outmanage yours any day. And I understand that my father's temper was usually at hurricane force. I really must be a throwback to a mild ancestor."

"You're one surprise after another today," Steve said, wonderingly.

"No, I just came to the conclusion that I've been existing in a vacuum for the last ten years. I'll be damned if I'll pull the hole in over my head again just because your mother's coming."

Steve blinked at her uncertainly. Then his face cleared. He encircled her waist, holding her tightly against him. As he began to kiss her with rough passion, she realized two things: he wasn't thinking of his mother and he wouldn't think about either the coming visit or Mirelle's threat. Only it wasn't a threat: it was a promise. How would Steve handle that? In bed?

That night, the hands came back into her dreams, more clearly, more insistently, with the tugging and clawing, the restless fingers nipping just short of her precarious perch, wherever that was, until one strong hand grabbed her shoulder out of the threateningly vague background. She was shaken and shaken until reality overthrew the miasma of dream and the hand, accompanied by Steve's urgent voice, woke her to the next morning.