Mirelle looked worriedly from her son to her friend, biting her lip indecisively.
"It's too much. It's just too much," she muttered resentfully. "I can only take so much!"
"From the look of him," said Sylvia as if Mirelle had said nothing, "I'd say that he was going to make this an all day affair. Probably easier on him. Have the nurse call you when he does wake. Or he can. He's got his own phone."
"It's not so much not wanting to leave Roman as it is not wanting to go home," Mirelle said candidly, looking away from Sylvia's sympathetic eyes.
Roman stirred and murmured, the fingers of his uninjured hand picking at the spread. He tried to lift his right arm and the awareness of weight roused him.
"Mom? Mom, I'm thirsty." Groggily he focused his eyes. "My arm's so heavy. I can't lift it." His complaint was almost incoherent.
Mirelle looked up to ask Sylvia to get the nurse but the door was already closing behind her.
"Mrs. Esterhazy's gone for something, Roman. D'you remember you're in the hospital?"
"Hospital? Why? I'm never sick." He tried to sit up and then sagged back down against the pillows as memory returned. "I really did break my arm?"
"Both bones, compound fracture," Mirelle assured him, trying to keep her voice light.
"How many stitches did I get?" Roman was awake to important details.
"Lord, I forgot to ask Will. You can when he comes in to see you tomorrow. He wants you to stay in the hospital for a couple of days, just to make sure the shin is okay."
"Is this a private room?"
"Yes," and Mirelle grinned at his awed reaction.
"My own phone, too?" for he'd spotted that now. "Is that my John? Or, gee, Mom, do I gotta ask a nurse for a bedpan?" His voice had dropped to an outraged whisper.
Mirelle had not thought of that aspect of this experience. Roman had a particular need for privacy which she had always respected.
"Honey, they're quite used to helping young men with such problems. And you'll find that you don't want to walk on that leg."
"But, gee, Mom, when a fella's gotta… Oh, Mom," and Roman was quite upset.
"Then ask for the male orderly. There's always one on the men's surgical ward. I'm sure of it." Mirelle just hoped that she was right for the relief it gave Roman.
"Can I call my friends?"
"You're here to rest, and you may find yourself sleepy most of the day… He's awake," she told the nurse who swung in the door, followed by Sylvia.
"Ginger ale, coke or orange juice, Mr. Martin?" asked the nurse who Mirelle now realized was young and pretty enough to demoralize Roman.
"Ginger ale, please. And, Mom, ask her… " Roman made the last four words into a stage whisper.
"Ask her what? Oh, yes, there is a male orderly on this floor, isn't there?"
The nurse glanced swiftly at the boy and then at the mother and assured her that this was so with only the faintest tug of a smile on her face before she left.
Sylvia deposited the bundle of comic books on the bed.
"Rewards for your exceptional valor," she said and, as if unaware of his impaired dexterity, opened the package with a flourish.
"Oh, gee, thanks, Mrs. Esterhazy. Say, how'd you know that I got hurt?"
"Snowbird," Sylvia replied, winking. "I'm taking your mother home now."
"Mom," began Roman anxiously, "you and Dad aren't mad at me for… I mean, things are kinda screwed up anyhow, with Grandmother getting so hysterical and all, and I sure didn't make things any better, did I?"
"Robert Marion Martin, there isn't anything for us to be mad at you for. Why, your father's so proud of you… oh, be quiet and read. One of us will be in to see you tonight," she said, swiftly hugging and kissing him fiercely for his bravery and his perception.
"Read every word now," called Sylvia in farewell, and the door closed on his repeated thanks to her. "That's a wonderful kid, Mirelle."
"He's worth nine of his goddamned grandmother."
"I like you better angry than despairing."
There was considerable ice under the snow and Sylvia drove slowly, without her customary verve. Mirelle was glad that Sylvia appreciated the value of silence: her presence was reassurance enough. Sylvia gave her a jaunty up-and-at-'em grin when she let Mirelle off at her drive.
The first thing Mirelle noticed was the absence of her in-laws' car. As she climbed the snowy steps to the front door, she wondered if they had all gone out to dinner in the one car but, as she opened the front door to the excited welcome of Nick and Tonia, she realized that the Martins had left.
"How's Roman?" "How many stitches?" "When can we see him?"
Steve came out of the kitchen with a drink in one hand and a big fork in the other.
"Steak," he announced. "Stiff one?" he asked, holding up his own glass inquiringly.
"Very!" She began to shed her coat and boots.
"Nick, set the table! Tonia, get glasses from the dishwasher and help your brother," Steve said in a tone of command from the kitchen. He returned with Mirelle's drink which he handed her before he went back to his cooking. Mirelle followed to see him peering in at the broiler.
"It'll take a little longer," he said, "but it will be dark on the outside, and good and rare on the inside, just the way you like it. Make a salad for me, will you?"
"There's some left over from last night."
"Fine. How's Roman?"
"Coping rather well with hospital routine once he found out that there was a male orderly on the floor."
Steve stared at her a moment, mystified, and then laughed.
"Sylvia had brought him half the comics in town so he is well supplied… at least for today," Mirelle continued.
"Sylvia has the right idea. Was he sick or anything from the anesthesia?"
"No. Only worried about upsetting everyone."
"Goddam," was Steve's vehement exclamation and, when Mirelle swung around, she saw him sucking a finger, burned on the hot rack. "When those Cub Scouts come around with hot pads, buy a dozen, will you, Mirelle? I can't find one without holes."
Mirelle shrugged, too relieved that he was not going to expand on his parents' premature departure to question him. There had been a storm in the house: that was all too apparent in Nick's ready cooperation and Tonia's unusual compliance. But Mirelle had no energy to absorb any more emotional shocks and was grateful for the omission.
By the time the steak was done, Mirelle's drink had taken effect and she ate in a kind of daze, not really attending to the children's chatter.
"Why doesn't your mother ever visit us, Mommy?" asked Tonia, apropos of nothing.
"What, honey?" Mirelle gathered her wits.
Tonia repeated the question.
"My mother died a long time before you were born."
"Well, that's too bad for I'm sure I would have liked her a lot more than my other grandmother."
Before Mirelle could reprimand her for impudence, Steve reached across the table and slapped Tonia so hard that her chair nearly tipped over.
"Steve!" Mirelle was appalled by the viciousness of the discipline.
"You are never to speak disrespectfully of your grandmother," he cried in a bellow, his face suffused with blood… "Well, what do you say?"
Tonia, gulping back her sobs, was too frightened to speak. She just held her cheek and stared at her father.
"Well?" Steve demanded, his face white now with anger.
Tears overflowed Tonia's eyes and she tried to speak but only incoherent noises emerged, which increased Steve's fury.
"Really, Steve…"
"You shut up, Mirelle. I wear the pants in this family and it's about time that was understood."
"There is no need to pound the table. And there was no need to fetch Tonia such a clout for a…"