"Seriously though, Mirelle," he went on, rising suddenly and beginning to pace about, "you don't deserve such treatment from your in-laws."
"I came to the self-preserving conclusion that Marian Martin is afraid of me…"
"And you're probably quite right. Oh yes, Mirelle," and he made a sound of utter disgust, "you're right because you're not cast from the Barbie-doll mold. It's been a source of never-ending irritation to me that the human race descends to the level of barnyard fowls the moment something new is introduced to them. Let poultry see a hen with different or more brilliant plumage and they either peck the creature from their circle or pluck out its distinguishing feathers. Which was what your mother-in-law was doing to you by ridiculing your parentage and denying you the exercise of your birthright. So hang on to that premise and let the truth make you free… of all the middle-class shit you've been smothered in."
He stopped his pacing a moment to glare at her. "You're a very different woman from the nervous little housewife whose flat tire I changed. Don't think I haven't been aware of what it has cost you. When I remember your statue smashed on the floor, I feel actively nauseous. Oh, I know he said it was an accident. That didn't erase all the damage it did… " he broke off and stared at her. "No, I take that back. I think that's exactly what you needed. A jolt: the symbolism of seeing your friend squashed flat… as much by middle-class mores as anything else."
"Oh, for Pete's sake," Mirelle broke in, irritated by his analysis. "I don't need an amateur psychiatrist."
"No," and Jamie's eyes were flashing, "you need a kick in the pants. From what you've told me, Lucy Farnoll pried you loose from your comfortable martyr's hole and made you take a good look around you. She died and you didn't have her skirts to run to when things got tough so you played pussy in the corner, and hoped that no one would notice you. Going to hide behind her skirts again?" And he gestured dramatically at the draped Lucy.
"I think you're a bit of a barnyard fowl, yourself, James Howell. The rooster, in fact. All he has to do is crow and the good hen upends. Why can't you leave me alone?"
"Why?" The word erupted like an explosion from Jamie's lips. He reached out and whipped the sheet from the Lucy. "Why? Because of this! Because of that home-loving cat. Christ, Mirelle," and his voice changed to one of entreaty, "there is so little love in the world… real love… that kind that speaks through clay and paint and metal. There's a helluva lot of shoddy stuff exhibited that professes to portray the ages of man, the loves of man, the struggles of man! Shit!" He dismissed these travesties with a sidewise slice of one hand. "Love stirs in you and you create a Lucy. You make a head of a man you barely know and it is done with love. Did you realize that? Did you realize that you were already drawn to me when you fashioned that?" He started to gesture towards the bust and then whirled around, staring at the amorphous bulk of blue-coated plaster. "What have you done? Covered me with woad?" he demanded indignantly.
A sudden vision of his splendid lean naked body covered in the battle dye of an ancient Briton convulsed Mirelle with laughter. She was helpless with mirth until Howell's indignation turned to crestfallen amusement and he, too, began to chuckle.
"May I add, m'dear, that you'd've been a sight yourself had I worn woad Friday night?" He struggled to be dignified. "Why, in the name of all the Medes and Persians, did you have to do that to me? I'd rather looked forward to examining the head closely, you know. I've had to sneak my looks surreptitiously."
"I finished it up Saturday night."
That pleased him. "Then why the woad? Didn't you ever intend to let me see it?"
She couldn't meet his eyes. "That might be asking for it, Jamie."
He leaned closer to her, tipped up her chin. His eyes were tender.
"You can't deny…"
She covered his mouth quickly with her fingers and, with a swift gesture, he imprisoned her hand.
"I was so afraid, Mirelle, that the plastic coating had reached your soul, too. That you'd be afraid to give yourself…"
"I needed you, Jamie. I told you that. And I was wrong a moment ago. I've needed the kicks and the prods you and Sylvia… and my mother-in-law… have been dealing me. I've been afraid and… well, I find I'm allergic to plastic. Come."
She took him by the hand and led him to the living room, turning him so he saw the newly hung portrait. Howell gave her a look of startled delight before he studied the painting.
"Well," he said with a snort, "he didn't spare himself, did he?"
"I think I admire him the more for that."
Jamie looked down at her. "Yes, you would." Then his expression turned sardonic. "And what will the husband think when he sees his infamous father-in-law ensconced on his hallowed middle-class walls?"
Mirelle shrugged. "In his present mood, he might even give a rousing cheer. I think the portrait will stay where it is. Coffee?"
"Yes, indeed. All this exhortation has left me dry."
Howell followed her out to the kitchen and draped himself on the stool. She started the kettle and fixed the pot. Then she turned to face him.
"I don't want to have an affair with you, Jamie," she said firmly, looking him in the eye. To her surprise he smiled as if he'd expected her words. It made her stammer as she continued. "And don't say it's women's magazine morality." She had a flashing recollection of G.F. and that unknown woman in the back of a white Cadillac. She shook her head. "What happened between us the other night was a lovely experience: just right for both of us. But I'm not in love with you, Jamie Howell, though you are mighty attractive to me. I've a husband and children. Yes, yes, you know things aren't going too well with my marriage but that's because I couldn't face what I am. Because I was trying to be what I couldn't be. Steve had to make a terrible choice recently, and he chose me. I couldn't desert him now even if I were madly, passionately in love with you. And I'm not." At the look in Jamie's eyes, she could almost wish she were. She turned from him, her eyes falling to the floor. "I don't always sculpt with love either, Jamie."
She motioned him to follow her back to the studio where she took down the Hands. She whisked the cloth away and stood back, watching him closely. He sucked in his breath, shooting a concerned glance at her before he examined the plaque closely.
"Yes, I see what you mean," he said at length. "And yet… " He gave his head a begrudging twist of approval, "There is something compelling about it. I don't like the goddamned thing but it's powerful." He gave her a rueful half-grin, his eyes thoughtful. "I've felt that way," and he made a pulling motion with both hands. Then he put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her close to him. He kissed her very gently on the lips, held her close for a moment before he released her. "I wish, Mirelle, that we'd met before you married, before I encountered Margaret's mother but…" and he made an open-handed gesture of regret and stepped back, smiling slightly.
She returned the smile, profoundly grateful for his acquiescence.
"I met you, Jamie, when I most needed to."
"Such magnanimous self-sacrifice on my part does not mean, however," he said in his usual crisp bantering tone, "that I will leave you alone to the tender mercies of invidious Fate." He waggled a long finger at her. "You are not going to stop sculpting, are you?"
"I've rather got to continue, Jamie, haven't I? Isn't that what this is all about?"
"Then stop that bloody kettle's screeching and make me some coffee."
As she raced to the kitchen, she wondered that he hadn't protested more. She hadn't realized herself, until the words came out, what her decision would be. But it was the only one she could make. She was not temperamentally suited to conducting an affair; despite the estrangement, she was very much married to Steve. And the estrangement had been due as much to the fact that she had evaded a confrontation between her mother-in-law and herself as any other single factor. There were other forms of infidelity worse than sexual. She had been denying Steve her complete self because she was denying it to herself as welclass="underline" not because she resented an invasion of her private self, as she'd once thought.