"I guess. When I got home tonight, Tonia was in tears, and I haven't had a chance to find out from Steve what happened."
Steve came in at the 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 skillful 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 ninety-nine one-hundredths."
"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 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 criticize me…"
"Criticize 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 criticizing 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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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 realized 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 houseshoes. 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 shin bone 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 shin bone, 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 instruction. "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!"