The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER SIX

THE DAY AFTER Howell left on tour, Mirelle found the courage to go down into the studio. Howell had righted the stand and replaced the cloth. Dispassionately Mirelle stripped the statue and regarded the unnatural, misshapen twist of the mashed plasticene body. The aluminum wire of the armature showed through as a grotesque fracture through the clothing clay across the thigh and down one leg. Little suggestion was left of the personality she had brought out of her material. Tentatively she twisted the head-high hand back to its position on the forehead, then she reset the position of the body frame, obliterating the remaining details of the draping. Snorting to herself, she used both hands to gouge the plasticene from the frame, and begin afresh.

To her surprise, the reworking of the statue took a shorter time. There was a different feeling about the Lucy when she got it to the same stage it had been at the time of the accident. Mirelle tried in vain to define the subtle alteration because the result was a more powerful representation of the woman Mirelle had loved. Some of her unwitting sentimentalization had been stripped from the new concept, making it a more candid portrayal of Lucy Farnoll.

She was fussing over a minor drapery detail when the doorbell rang.

"I ought to disconnect that damned thing," she muttered as she reluctantly left the Lucy. The bell clamored a fourth time. "Just a living minute!" She wiped her sticky hands on her smock front. "Never have callers when I'm clean, do I?" She threw open the door.

"Mrs. Martin?" asked the woman standing there. She was clutching the strap of a shoulderbag, balancing a thick notebook, a packet of forms, and trying to talk intelligibly around the ball-point pen between her teeth.

She wasn't even vaguely familiar to Mirelle: not a face seen at church or the Food Fair or school and community meetings. In a stylish grey jersey dress with matching coat, her dark brown hair smartly coiffed, she was an attractive woman. Her even features were carefully made-up, lightly but expertly so that with animation the lines of age and dissipation were not immediately apparent. The mouth was wide and thin-lipped: the smile which the pen bisected was winningly apologetic, Only the expression of the large, slightly protuberant grey eyes belied the total impression of the suburban type. The eyes, quick, darting, shrewd, were mocking and critical.

"I'm Sylvia Esterhazy, your ward-heeler."

"My what?" Mirelle laughed aloud.

Sylvia Esterhazy repeated herself good-naturedly, her husky voice playing with the laugh inside her. "Your county committee woman."

The notebook was slipping from her grasp and so was the strap of her shoulderbag. Before Mirelle was aware of her intention, she had taken the notebook from Sylvia's hand and was shepherding her into the living room.

"Ward-heeler is what I am though, despite the politer title on the election ballot. We're having a registration unit at the elementary school on Saturday and I'm trying to get all those eligible down there to register. That includes dispensing Girl Scouts as baby-sitters if necessary. You and your husband have been here over the statutory year, haven't you? Good, we want your votes… either way… because the next election is going to be a bitch."

"I'm afraid I'm an Independent."

Sylvia's carefully delineated eyebrows rose mockingly.

"Don't be afraid of independence, dearie. It's better than being a Republican," and her eyes glinted with repressed malice.

Mirelle laughed. "You mean, there actually are Democrats willing to come out in the open in this state?"

"That's part of the fun of being a Democrat in Delaware," Sylvia replied with a triumphantly wicked laugh.

Mirelle grinned back.

"By any remote chance, is your husband also an Independent?"

"As much as anything." His parents had been Republicans but they hadn't often discussed politics.

"Now, may I count on both of you to come and register on Saturday?"

The thought of going anywhere with Steve on Saturday was not comforting to Mirelle. Sylvia was watching her face and abruptly altered her expression.

"He's out of town right now," Mirelle explained as smoothly as she could. "I expect him home on Friday but… " She shrugged.

"Company man, huh?" Sylvia asked, making a notation. "Your occupation is…?"

"I'm a sculptor," Mirelle said swiftly, to forestall the onerous housewife. Then she realized that Sylvia's pen had been poised: the woman was asking, not assuming.

Sylvia rolled her eyes now, at the defiance in Mirelle's voice.

"I like decisiveness," she said with a chuckle as she wrote. "I put 'politician' down for myself," she added, looking up as she finished writing. It was then that she saw the Running Child.

"You did it," she said with agreeable surprise and absently disengaged herself from her impedimenta, walking over to examine the figure closely. "Your daughter, too," she stated.

"Yes, Tonia was three when I did it. She's seven now and grown so unlike this that I'll have to do another of her. Whining!"

Sylvia chuckled, turning the statue carefully on its base to get the full effect. "You sculpt with a great deal of love, don't you?"

The phone's summons saved Mirelle from having to answer. She excused herself quickly. The call was from a telephone solicitation for magazines so she hung up more rudely than was her custom and returned to find the living room empty.

A sound told her that Sylvia had found the studio, and when Mirelle joined her, Sylvia turned from the Lucy, her face white with shock.

"You knew Lucy Laben… Lucy Laben Farnoll?" she whispered hoarsely. "Where? When? She's been dead for years!"

The two women stared at each other until Sylvia laughed unsteadily.

"I didn't mean to be nosey. No, I tell a lie. I did. Then I saw the statue and…" Sylvia shrugged, swallowing hard. "Curiosity is the bane of my existence. But you can't imagine what a turn it gave me to see Laben to the life. Why, that's just the way she'd stand… we were classmates at Duke… when she couldn't make up her mind to shower or play bridge. We used to call her PM… perpetual motion… the way you have her feet, almost not touching. It's uncanny, that's what!" Sylvia gave an embarrassed bark of laughter, shaking her head over her reaction and shock. "Life's little surprises! You know, when I said you sculpt with a great deal of love a moment ago, I didn't realize how accurate I was. Martin. Martin." She ran the name through her mind. "Mirelle Martin!" Her eyes widened with astonishment and something else. "But, on the list you're Mary Ellen…"

"My baptismal name…"

"Mirelle. Mirelle Martin. Of course." Sylvia clapped a dramatic hand to her forehead. "In one of those Christmas letters Lucy would deign to write, she mentioned meeting ayoung woman who…" Sylvia paused, obviously hesitant with the truth.

"… Was a very mixed up little fool," Mirelle supplied with a self-deprecating laugh to put Sylvia at her ease.

"No, that wasn't what Lucy said," and Sylvia shot Mirelle an appraising look. "But she did mention your… and the adjective she used was 'lovable'…" Sylvia waggled a finger at Mirelle, "pieces that she bludgeoned you into doing for a church bazaar she'd got herself involved in."

Mirelle laughed as a series of happy memories from that year crowded into her mind.

"Come. Come have coffee with me," she urged Sylvia.

"Oh, Lord, girl," and Sylvia rolled her eyes heavenwards beseechingly, "I've got the whole damned street to canvass. But I'd much rather have coffee with you. You're the brightest spot in a weary dreary day. Okay! The Democratic Party owes me a coffee break at the very least."

It was two hours later that Sylvia, explosively resisting her own inclination, gathered up her paraphernalia and whipped from the house, promising in no uncertain terms to return very soon.

She was like a private hurricane, Mirelle thought, leaning weakly against the door when Sylvia had left. The vitality of the woman, different from Lucy's, had a contagious strength about it. For the first time in ages, Mirelle felt disappointment in a guest's departure. They could have talked for hours more without scratching the surface of a hundred points of common interest and disagreement. What was even more flattering was Sylvia's obvious reluctance to leave.

Mirelle caught herself up sharply. What was the use? As soon as she had got half-way friendly with Sylvia, Steve would undoubtedly be transferred. They'd been in Wilmington for over two years already, a record stay in one place. What was the sense of involving herself with all the contingent sense of loss when they moved away? A little piece of herself bestowed and unreclaimable.

That afternoon she received a phone call, from June Treadway, the chairperson of their church's women's associ ation. Mirelle was not of an organization temperament: she joined neither bowling leagues, bridge clubs nor women's associations, resisting with inverse ratio to the amount of pressure put on her to join. Early in life, Mirelle had learned never to be dependent on the social support of other women.

In Ashland, it had been Lucy who had stimulated her interest and sponsored her at the easy geniality of the church women's groups. She had not felt like participating in that climate again. As a matter of fact, they had not sent for their letter of transfer from the Ashland church until they moved to Wilmington. Steve had initiated that action, for obscure business reasons, and Mirelle had complied because she hadn't cared one way or another. She went to a church anyway, Steve's because he had a definite preference and because she wanted the children to have consistent religious instruction until they were old enough to sort that problem out for themselves. But she had never repeated her enthusiastic participation of Ashland days. It was therefore slightly surprising that she should be approached at all by the Concord church.

"I'm afraid we keep a file on all our members, Mrs. Martin, and Reverend Ogarth from Ashland mentioned your talent for sculpting so it's down on your card. We're in need of one creative booth," June Treadway's pleasant drawling voice explained, "and I was wondering if you would consider bringing your wheel and clay, and making things right at the Bazaar."

Almost, Mirelle rudely interrupted the woman to say that she would not consider whipping up some clever little pots that would sell.

"I don't mean," June "Headway went on as if she might have sensed Mirelle's refusal, "please understand me, mass produce anything. Bob Ogarth - we were once in Ashland, too… " and there was such a wistfulness in the woman's voice that Mirelle's cool rebuke died a-borning. "Bob said that each of the Christmas figures which you created were unusual and imaginative. We'd really like to have more originality in our exhibits and offerings. Quality rather than quantity. I'm so bored with standardization and badly finished gimcracks. When you think of the individual talents in this congregation, I'm just certain we can do better than doilies and pot-holders!"

"In that case, it would be a pleasure to contribute."

"Oh, would you? Really? How kind you are!'

And Mirelle was astonished at the genuine ring to the banal phrases. She was also chagrined at her initial uncharitable thoughts about June.

"No, I'm not kind," Mirelle replied honestly. "I'm extremely selfish or I'd have volunteered to help when the notice came out in the church calendar."

"My dear girl," said June Treadway in a warm throaty chuckle, "that notice just gives you warning to think up good excuses. Seriously, you know how hard Ken O'Dell is working to get us all to re-evaluate church life. And that means every facet, especially Christmas. The way Bob Ogarth spoke of your creche figurines, I'm sure we want them. But I thought it would be even more interesting if people realized how much skill and work it takes to create the finished product. So, if you could be there, actually working on something… or would you feel… inhibited? Is that the word I want?"

Mirelle laughed. "That's supposed to be the word. But observers never bother me." After all, one doesn't feel inhibited about breathing.

"Might you possibly have something which you'd consider adding to the saleable articles? And I mean at the price it ought to bring, not a charitable give-away."

"I may by the end of November," Mirelle said, responding to the woman's diplomacy. She hated being pressured into selling or donating. Sylvia Esterhazy's appraisal of great love in her work had something to do with her unwillingness to squander her production on the unappreciative.

Adroitly June Treadway received an invitation to come to Mirelle's house one day the following week and left a very pleasant feeling of anticipation with Mirelle when the phone call ended.

Stimulated by the notion of working a booth for the Bazaar, she was looking through unused sketches when she heard the sound of Steve's car in the driveway. It was only 4:00 and she wondered what brought him home so early. She stood waiting for him at the door. His head was down, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he came up the walk.

It was so unlike him to use the front door that Mirelle wondered what could have gone wrong at the office. Then she recalled that he was probably not sure what his reception would be. He didn't know that she'd reworked the statue so successfully: he couldn't know how indifferent she was to whatever emotions he might be entertaining: remorse, regret or revenge. He stopped short when he saw her standing in the doorway.

"Are the kids home?" he asked.

"Out playing," and she swung the door open for him.

He hesitated before he stepped in. Then he stood in the hallway, hands still thrust in his pockets, one shoulder higher than the other. She felt as awkward, suddenly, as he looked, and moved briskly towards the dining room.

"A drink?" she called, fixing him one before he could answer.

He stood in the dining room archway and accepted the drink. But, as she moved to pass him, to go back to the studio, he reached for her arm. She stiffened but didn't pull away. His hand relaxed.

"I hate it when I can't reach you, Mirelle, when you withdraw like that. You're like two different people. You drive me to hurting you physically. But I didn't… honestly… I didn't mean to damage the statue. I was fond of Lucy, too."

"The statue was not irrevocably damaged, Steve," she said, trying to put a little warmth in her voice.

"Mirelle!" This time his voice stopped her. "The boss called me in when I got to the office this morning."

Mirelle turned around. Could their bickering have affected his work? Or were they to be transferred… again! She felt sick.

Steve began to smile, self-consciously, and with a return of the boyishness that had so often made her feel tenderly toward him.

"I'm off the road. I got a raise and I'm to take over Jerry Cathcart's job. He got a boost to district manager in the Southwest."

His face was lit now with pride in his promotion and, Mirelle sensed, relief at the reprieve from the grind of constant travel.

"I've hated the road. You know…" he said, turning away from her and looking through the window to the front lawn. "I did it because I had to, and I guess I've been taking my resentment out on you and the kids. You could get your work done but I couldn't even be home long enough to weed the lawn or plant a decent garden."

"It is a big relief," Mirelle said, "to think we'll be staying here awhile. I'd dreaded having to uproot the kids but two years has been our limit in one town over the last twelve years."

Neither of them was touching the core of the problem, but Mirelle didn't want to talk about that even if Steve had the guts to bring it up. She needed much more time to analyse how she did feel about Steve right now. She didn't want to be forced to voice any sentiments at the moment. She was empty emotionally, indifferent.

Perhaps his being home would help heal the rift. Surely their marriage had once had a firm footing, even after the disastrous episode over her father's bequest. Divorce did not enter her solutions nor did an empty relationship, but it was obvious that their marriage was shifting its emphasis and they would both have to feel out the new balances and checks.

Rather than precipitate any further mention of this dangerous area, she told him of Sylvia Esterhazy's visit and June Treadway's call.

"Ironic that," Steve said with a wry smile.

"Why?"

"That both were somehow connected with Lucy Farnoll."

"Oh? Yes!"

"Lucy's still got her eye on us."

"You could say that," Mirelle replied in such a way that Steve would not expand that coincidence. He flushed with angry hurt but said nothing more.

As Mirelle lay down for sleep, her mind returned again and again to the enticing prospect of staying in Wilmington, in this house. Of knowing that she could develop the friendship which Sylvia Esterhazy seemed to be offering. The woman would be good for Mirelle. It would be impossible to resist her ebullience.

She excels each mortal thing, Upon the dull earth dwelling. Mirelle snickered at her sleepy thoughts, from Wordsworth to Shakespeare. Backward, oh time, in thy flight.

Unbidden the dream sequence started its remembered round to fall apart with the alarm clock and the morning's reluctance to begin a new day.