"So what? Go by yourself. You need a break. You look worn out. And don't come in for a physical. I'm booked until April." He scowled at her. "You're in a rut. Jump out of it for an evening."
When she got home, the phone was ringing frantically and she dashed to answer it.
"Are you never home?" demanded James Howell.
"I just got in from the hospital."
"Anybody I know?"
"Roman."
"Good God! There I go again! Open mouth, A. Insert foot, B. Nothing serious?"
"No. He broke his arm and gashed his leg."
"Oh, no, nothing serious at all," Howell said in a mocking tone.
Mirelle heard herself giggling. "If you knew how he had counted coup with twenty-eight stitches over the present neighborhood record holder, you'd know it wasn't serious. Matter of fact, he was delivering the Sunday papers and indulged in a sled run on the way home. Only he tangled with the sled runners. D'you know that he picked himself up, broken arm, gashed leg, and all, and walked home?"
"He's your son, isn't he?" replied Howell, unimpressed by the heroism.
"He's only fourteen," Mirelle protested.
"So what? I'd never heard that heroism was limited to a special age group. Look, I called to tell you that I have a pair of tickets, obtained with much bribery and blackmail from the management, for my concert."
"I thought a soprano was the featured attraction."
"I'll hang up."
"It's really very kind of you, Jamie…"
"There isn't a kind bone in my body, Mary Ellen…"
"… But with Steve out of town on a convention, and Roman…"
"You just finished telling me that he is eminently capable of handling minor emergencies…"
"But…"
"You need a night out. Bring Sylvia or someone if you require a chaperone, but I really must insist on your presence. Margaret can't make it and I must have some claque there. Prestige, you know."
Mirelle choked back a nasty crack because, despite Jamie's flippancy, it was apparent that he very much wanted her in that audience.
"As a matter of fact, Will Martin told me that I should have a night out, too. By the way, it was very nice of you to send him tickets."
"He needs a night out more than you do, though I doubt he'll be able to come. And I must have my own claque. SHE always pads the audience." He was at his most arrogant, and Mirelle laughed.
"All right, I'll come. I'll come."
"Good." He sounded very pleased. "When does Roman leave the dubious land of Blue Cross?"
"Tomorrow."
"May I be of assistance? That's a lot of boy to maneuver in snow, cast and stitch."
"Well, as a matter of fact," she said as she remembered that Steve had taken the station wagon and the Sprite was not exactly designed to accommodate an invalid. The upshot was that Jamie chauffeured them both in the Thunderbird, dealing with the obstinacy of an officious floor supervisor, and hoisting him deftly from hospital wheelchair to the car. Once at the house, he ignored Roman's protests and, with a running line of patter that took the sting out of the boy's temporary helplessness, conveyed him safely up the icy walk and into the house. They all enjoyed a very pleasant, even hilarious lunch together, before Jamie had autocratically removed Roman to his room to rest.
"I can't thank you enough, Jamie," Mirelle said at the door as Howell took his leave. "I never could have coped alone."
"What? Miraculous Mirelle at a loss?" he laughed in mock horror. "The tickets." He slapped them into her hand in one more theatrical gesture before he left.
She held the envelope thoughtfully, remembering what Will Martin had said the day before. She admitted to a good deal of curiosity about Jamie as a professional. She didn't question his competence but she wondered if his sardonic humor intruded in his accompaniments. He would be extremely handsome in formal wear, with the height to be distinguished as well.
Roman called to her and Mirelle realized that she couldn't leave him on Friday to go to any concert, no matter how much she might want to. Not with Steve away as well.
"Whatcha got, Mom?" Roman asked as she came into the room, still holding the little white envelope.
"Mr. Howell gave me tickets to his concert Friday," she said, casting them negligently onto the dresser.
"Gee, that'll be terrific, Mom. I'll bet he's good."
Mirelle looked at him in surprise. "But I'm not going, hon."
Roman was stunned. "Why not?"
"Well, your father's away and I would hardly leave…"
"… Leave my poor hurt boy alone?" Roman was disgusted. "You sound like Grandmother." Then he blushed. "I mean…"
Mirelle held up her hand. "You mean, you wouldn't mind my going?"
"If you think a little thing like a broken arm and twenty-eight stitches is enough to put me off for long, you're nuts."
Mirelle was touched by his attitude and ruffled his hair, but she was still undecided. It would be so nice to go to a concert in town - particularly this one. The kids would be cowed enough by Roman's injuries to obey him. He'd certainly proved that he could handle himself in an emergency, and she wouldn't have to leave until 7:00. She'd better call Sylvia. Chaperone, indeed, she snorted to herself.
G.F. answered the phone: Sylvia was out and would not be back until late. There was no opening for Mirelle to ask G.F. how Sylvia was feeling. His courtesy was perfect, but his replies were framed to supply no additional information. It was like talking to a super-efficient, idiot secretary, Mirelle thought, irritated by his deference. She hung up, disturbed. Why was he home at such an hour anyway?
After dinner, during which both Tonia and Nick, still awed by their brother's heroics, promised explicit obedience on Friday, Mirelle was clearing the kitchen when the phone rang. Juggling dirty glasses in one hand, she picked up the phone, hoping the caller was Sylvia.
"This is Long Distance, person to person to Mr. Steven Martin." The operator's southern drawl struck Mirelle with a premonition of disaster.
"He's in Chicago." She managed to set the glasses on the table before they slipped from her nerveless fingers. "When is he expected back, please?"
"Not until Monday." Mirelle strained to hear what voice prompted these questions. The first time the operator had closed the circuit. The second time she kept it open.
"Will you speak with anyone else, sir?"
Something must have happened to Mother Martin, Mirelle thought, and I shall have it on my conscience forever.
"Is that Mrs. Martin?" a vaguely familiar male voice asked.
"Yes, it is."
"It's all right, operator. Murry Ellin," and there was only one person who pronounced her name that way, her brother-in-law, Ralph Martin. It also explained the southern operator, since Ralph and his wife lived in Greenville, S. C.
"Murry Ellin, what on earth did you do to Mother?" he asked, concerned but pleasant enough.
"Ralph, you scared me."
"What happened?" His voice took on an impatient edge.
"Ralph, I did nothing to your mother. Roman had an accident in the snow and by the time I got back from the hospital, your mother and father had left."
"Well, what did Steve have to say? Mother goes into hysterics if anyone looks in her direction. And…"
"I'm sorry about that, Ralph…"
"Sorry about that? Is that all you have to say?" Ralph lost all restraint. "My mother is not the hysterical type…"
"On the contrary, Ralph, she most certainly is. She took one look at Roman and started shrieking. He was hurt but he had walked home on his own and you'd have thought he was half dead the way she carried on."
"According to Mother, he was, and you took it as casually as if he'd had a splinter in his finger."
Mirelle closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Ralph, we did not take it casually. We rushed him right to the hospital. However, there was no point in creating a scene when he was doing his damnedest to act brave."