"Me, yes. My husband, no. My children, no."
"You, my dear," and Jamie waggled a finger at her, "can still control the situation."
"That's a lot easier said than done."
"Sure, 'cause she's got you on edge already."
"She can do that all right," Mirelle admitted ruefully, "ever since the day…" and then she stopped.
"Ever since the day she felt she could make you kowtow by shaming you about your birth," Jamie continued.
Mirelle glared at Sylvia whose eyebrows raised with surprised innocence.
"I have accompanied singers who knew Mary LeBoyne, and Mirelle as a little girl," Jamie told Sylvia by way of explanation. "I have also seen some of Lajos Neagu's work. Mirelle has nothing to be ashamed of in either parent."
"Keep talking," urged Sylvia, winking maliciously at Mirelle.
"Mirelle, have you ever seen any of your father's paintings?"
"Only reproductions in portrait books. His work has never been publicly exhibited here. I'd've gone," she added defiantly. "So much of his output was portraiture and little of that is available for public viewing."
"You'll never guess who was done by Neagu," Sylvia was smirking with delight.
"I won't if you don't tell me," Mirelle answered caustically.
"G.F.'s mother. But he hasn't a clue where the portrait is now."
"Where's the infamous one he did of your mother, Mirelle?" Jamie asked her.
"I don't know. It was, after all, Barthan-More's. It used to hang in his bedroom but whether it survived the war or not…" Mirelle shrugged. She was less indifferent to the portrait's fate than she appeared, for her mother, as Tosca, vibrant, anguished, beautiful, in a brilliant blue costume with jewels and egret feathers in her elaborately dressed hair, had enchanted her the few times she had crept into the forbidden apartment to peek at it. "However, my father's fame is really not at issue."
"Just yours," said Sylvia pointedly.
"No, nor mine because it only points up what the Martins want to forget about their daughter-in-law."
James Howell snorted his contempt.
"So only your Dirty Dicks will go to the Bazaar?" Sylvia asked suddenly.
"The what?" Jamie demanded.
Mirelle explained.
"Are they on a par with my sickpig?"
"More or less."
"Tell me, Mirelle," Jamie began with an all too innocent expression on his face, "have you ever concocted a sickpig of your mother-in-law?"
Sylvia exploded with mirth and even Mirelle, gasping a denial, gave way to paroxysms of laughter.
"If we could but see ourselves as Mirelle sees us," Jamie said with unctuous solemnity.
"No," Sylvia said, wiping laugh tears from her eyes, "Mirelle couldn't do that woman. She sculpts with too much love. She's never done anything hateful. Even those Dirty Dicks and the sickpigs are done with tenderness and great affection."
"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen the face she put on that pig she gave me," Jamie said, affecting an injured expression, but his eyes were intent on Mirelle.
"I not only saw it, I encouraged her," Sylvia said. "Men who are never sick are incredible ogres when they finally succumb to physical discomfort."
Jamie waved his hands in defeat.
"Seriously, Mirelle, aren't you going to exhibit the soldier, or the horse, or even the Running Child? Or better yet, the Lucy."
"The Lucy's not finished and the others aren't for sale."
"Sale, schmale," Sylvia said in exasperation, "display them. Mark them sold or vacant but at least exhibit the quality of the real work you can do."
"That ought to be obvious in the…"
"Skeered of what your mother-in-law will say?" Jamie asked, one eyebrow raised challengingly.
Mirelle shut her mouth angrily, looking from Jamie's too bland face to Sylvia's earnest and determined expression.
"Not the Lucy," she said and to herself she sounded sullen.
"Now, then," Jamie said, briskly rubbing his hands together, "I'm a poor sick invalid who hasn't had…"
"Anything but delicious pot roast," Mirelle interrupted.
"… Nine days old," he finished, spacing the words with disgust.
"Do you think he deserves our culinary efforts?" Mirelle asked Sylvia.
"Hmmm," and Sylvia thoughtfully considered. "I'm a bit hungry myself."
The unscheduled luncheon successfully kept Mirelle from dwelling on Thursday's problems. The kind of remarks that passed between Jamie and Sylvia kept her laughing. She was delighted that her two friends liked each other.
"It's rude to eat and run," Sylvia said, consulting her watch.
"… Only for poisoners…" Jamie said.
"… but I've got to ward-heel," Sylvia continued. "It's evident from the number of Republicans voting in the primary that some returned from graves that had been their only residence for the past twenty years. I have endless records to check. After all, I only dropped in for a cup of coffee."
"It's been a pleasure, Sylvia," Jamie said, giving her a Continental click of the heels and a bow.
"Indeed!" Sylvia swirled out the door with a coquettish wink.
"You owe the beef tea to her," Mirelle said.
"Sensible as well as intelligent. How refreshing," and for once his banter annoyed Mirelle.
"Why are you always so… so…"
"Snide?" he suggested, overly helpful. "To hide a tender heart," and he placed one hand dramatically over his chest.
"Oh, you're never serious."
"It can be a disease." Then he dropped all pose, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her a little to make her look him in the eyes. "If you accept Sylvia's breeziness, as you seem to, you must accept my sarcasm, too. We're covering up something. Sylvia's a deeply troubled woman beneath that caustic wit. You, Mirelle, with your long silences and deep thoughts. Me with my rapier-like wit, my unfailing and devastating humor. We're all lonely people, Mirelle. I'll give that as a mutual bond. I'd also venture to say that it's because all three of us are out of step with our status in life. No, be quiet," and he put his finger to her lips to stop her protest. "Why are women so goddamned subjective? You were going to say, 'but I'm not out of step, I'm a happy housewife and mother'…" He had lightened his tone to a falsetto but there was nothing light about the expression in his eyes. "Bullshit, Mirelle. Bullshit. I've seen a change in you, a good one. You were beginning to sound like a functioning human being instead of a zombie. I don't want to see you lose the progress you've made." Then his eyebrow twitched and rose sardonically as he grinned with pure malice. "Not that either the Esterhazy woman or I will let you. In spite of the virago, Madame Martin."
"Between the two of you, my peace is destroyed," Mirelle exclaimed passionately.
"I intend to destroy it more thoroughly one of these days," Jamie said with quiet intent and left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BY Friday evening, Mirelle wished devoutly to return to being a non-feeling, non-thinking zombie again. At first, when the senior Martins arrived late Thursday evening, just in time for dinner, Mirelle had hopefully entertained the notion that perhaps this visit wouldn't be too bad after all.
Although Allentown was a scant two-hour drive from Wilmington and the Martins had planned to arrive by lunchtime, a series of ridiculous incidents had combined to delay them. Since a recital of turning back to the house before reaching the highway to make sure that the cellar windows were locked, et cetera, kept the dinner table breathless and the children squirming, it also prevented Marian Martin from latching immediately onto the shortcomings of either Mirelle or Steve. So exhausted by these untoward events was Mother Martin that she retired early, allowing Dad Martin to have a comfortable chat with Steve and Mirelle.