Her father's bequest had been a substantial fifteen thousand dollars and a self-portrait, a small part of his total estate. Lajos Neagu had come from a wealthy Hungarian family who had circumspectly departed from their homeland before wealth had been nationalized. The family jewels had been collectors' items: his paintings had been, and still were, extremely valuable. When the crated self-portrait had arrived, Mirelle had stored it, unopened, in the attic, nor had she mentioned its arrival to Steve. She'd set aside five thousand dollars for Nick's college since Steve's parents had already started a fund for Roman. Occasionally she broached the balance for casting in bronze, or emergency money and, when they'd moved to Wilmington, indulged herself with the Sprite.
The noise of Roman and Nick arguing furiously over an incident on the school bus roused her. She threw a protecting cloth over the Lucy and went to deal out justice.
The mellow mood which had hung over the house for several weeks was abruptly shattered by Tonia's chance reference that night at dinner to Mother's boy friend.
"My what?" Mirelle asked aghast, for Steve had turned white, clamping his lips in a thin line as he stared accusingly at her.
"The man who brought you home in that beautiful car, Mommie. He's a boy friend, isn't he?"
"No, he is not," Mirelle said firmly, hoping vainly that Steve was not going to let his imagination run away with him. "Mr. Howell took me to lunch today to discuss the commission he gave me several weeks ago," she told Steve as diffidently as possible.
"What commission?" Steve's voice was sharp.
"The one that started Mommie's work jag," Nick said as if there couldn't be any other.
"You weren't asked. Clear out of here."
Mirelle seconded that with a jerk of her head which included all three startled children. She rose from the dinner table to clear the dishes but Steve reached out and pulled her down into her chair again.
"What's this all about?"
Mirelle sighed, trying to frame a satisfactory explanation. Steve jerked at her arm.
"Don't patronize me with those long-suffering sighs."
"I am not patronizing you. You are taking undue exception to a child's phrase. Mr. Howell is a male, he is a friend. To Tonia he is a boy friend."
"I'm not a child."
"Then don't act like one. I told you three weeks ago at dinner that Mr. Howell had offered me a commission. We spent the money… in talk… that same night. It was a very pleasant evening."
"Why did he have to discuss it at lunch?"
"Why not? If he hadn't taken me out to lunch and you had heard that we stayed here, talking in the studio, you'd've made another of your snide allusions to the 'casting couch'. Mr. Howell is close to fifty and has a grown daughter in college."
"Never heard of him."
"Oh, for God's sake, Steve. You're making a mountain out of nothing. Go to a movie. Go bowling. Cool down. Let me get on with the dishes."
"Don't put me off!" Steve yelled, jumping to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.
Mirelle returned his glare coolly. "I am not putting you off and you know it."
She saw his hand come up in time to ward off the blow. She flung away from her chair, putting the table between them.
"Steven Martin, you listen to me. Your sick jealousies are ridiculous. You have, never, never had any cause to doubt my fidelity. I was virgin when I married you and I've had no affairs. If you're feeling guilty because you got laid on your last road trip, don't ease your conscience by accusing me."
"Like mother, like daughter," he shouted, thoroughly enraged now. And she knew that her random thrust was accurate and wished that it hadn't been.
But the violence in him was looking for an outlet and she did not want to be it. She whirled, running down to the studio and trying to close and lock the door before he could storm his way through. She wasn't quick or strong enough. The door hinges ripped the wood at the force of his entry. She retreated as far as she could across the room. He advanced on her, one arm pulled back across his shoulder to slap her but his hip caught the platform holding the Lucy, and it tipped over.
As Mirelle saw the statue fall, she tried to save it but the soft plasticene flattened on the vinyl tiles just as Steve struck her. She straightened up, scarcely feeling the blow in the cold of her anger at the terrible destruction. She just looked at him. Until she caught sight of the children, peering anxiously down the stairway, their faces white and scared.
"I'm sorry, Mirelle. I'm sorry," Steve blurted the words out. He whirled, saw the children and wheeled again, wrenched open the door to the laundryroom and slammed out into the night.
Mirelle couldn't move. She was unable to look at the smashed plasticene at her feet, or say something reassuring to the children. She was aware, dimly, through her shock that they finally went whispering away. Her neck and shoulder burned from Steve's blow.
Slowly she got hold of herself. With jolting, uneven steps she walked out of the studio. She told the boys to do their homework and sat like a stick at the dining room table until they had shown her their completed assignments. She sent them to bed. She loaded the dishwasher and then returned to the dining room table.
It was insupportable that the Lucy should suffer from his unreasoning jealous anger: that was the only thought in the leaden sorrow of her numbed mind. She kept reviewing the incident: her words, Steve's irrational replies. She saw him rise again, and again, and wondered if she'd let him hit her then, instead of running, if he'd released that senseless violence in the dining room…
She was suddenly aware of being cold. She looked at her watch and realized that it was close to one o'clock. She rose and went to bed. She heard someone moving around in the house and decided that it must be Steve. He didn't come up to their room. It wouldn't have mattered to her at that point if he had, but he didn't.
When she woke, still locked in numb withdrawal, she noticed that his side of the closet was open, the suitcase gone and two of his suits. Well, he'd've had sufficient clean shirts. He wouldn't be able to complain that she skimped on his ironing.
The children had got their own breakfasts: Roman had made coffee for her and set up a single cup and saucer at her usual place at the dining room table. There wasn't a sound from the gameroom but the asinine giggle of a TV cartoon character.
It took Mirelle several moments to realize that Tonia was standing in the archway, her eyes red, her mouth in the pout that precedes tears.
"It's all right, Tonia. Daddy had a bad day at the office…"
"He had no right to ruin Lucy," and Tonia dove for her mother's arms, sobbing.
"That's not for you to say, dear." Mirelle found it hard to comfort her daughter because she seemed unable to soften her arms to embrace her. The boys were standing, solemn-faced, across the table. "What have you been saying to her?"
"If she hadn't mentioned Mr. Howell," Nick began, his eyes flashing, emphasizing his relationship to his grandfather, "Daddy would never have…"
"You have no right to…" and Mirelle broke off, startled by the look of hatred on Nick's face.
"I hate him."
"That's enough of that, Nicolas. You don't hate your father."
"He ruined your Lucy!"
"That is ENOUGH, Nicolas. Each of you has ruined models… several models, so…"
"You're always standing up for him, even when he's so wrong, it's pathetic," said Roman, disgusted by adult criteria.
A tardy anger roused Mirelle enough to put a stop to the remarks.
"That's enough from all of you. The incident is closed. Do you hear me?" They nodded, startled by the tone of her voice. They were afraid, Mirelle realized, to alienate her as their father had alienated himself. This mustn't continue, she told herself sternly. "You had no business listening."