"There. You're groomed and lovely. Go watch Channel 3. NICK!" Mirelle raised her voice in a tone loud enough to pierce the canned laughter of the TV. "The bus'll be here any minute."
"Aw, Mom, Roman's just left."
"And if Roman's just left, can yours be far behind? Get going."
Another sequence of clatter, thud, slap, rattle, bang and Nick, sauntering indolently, made his way to the bus stop.
"Two down, one to go," said Mirelle in an effort to rouse herself. The coffee was just cool enough to drink. The morning paper had been strewn over the dining room table by either Nick or Tonia because Roman always left it folded for her. She managed to restore the sheets to order and started leafing through as she sipped her coffee. Another flash of yellow through the trees, a grinding of gears and Nick was off.
Mirelle blinked again and again, trying to clear her eyes of sleepy winkers, enough to see the print. Nothing horrendous caught her attention in the main section. She arrived, unstimulated, to the funnies and forced herself to read all the comic strips. Thus she saved the daily horoscope till the last. A bad forecast would spoil the lingering pleasantness of her dream. She grunted over the ambiguity printed under her zodiacal sign, and decided that her initial impression of a nice day was not going to be star-crossed.
"Tonia, turn off the TV and get out to the bus stop. Now!"
"Aw, Mother."
"I am not, I repeat, I am NOT driving you to school again this week."
"Gee, Mother, in the middle of such a good cartoon." But the fact that Tonia's voice was coming toward her indicated that the child had given in to the inevitable with only a token struggle. Mirelle caught a glimpse of Tonia in her jacket, heard the door politely closed and then saw Tonia, skipping across the lawn. Her bosom girlfriend of the moment waited at the bottom of the hill and the child's wide-armed gesture of greeting proved that TV was already forgotten.
Mirelle poured herself more coffee, flipped the paper over and started to re-read it with considerably more attention and understanding than her initial attempt.
There wasn't much of interest in it and she sat brooding over the classified section. Maybe, Mirelle mused, she should have taken on that substitute art teacher's job. She'd have got used to being stared at by the children in time. She might even learn how to talk in front of groups. The hours were compatible with her desire to be home when her children were, and the salary was tempting. But - there was the other side of the coin: the necessary 'education' courses to be taken at night to qualify for Delaware teacher certification, the tales of the rougher elements in all the high schools, her own antipathy to large groups and its necessary social involvement. She didn't need to work: they were finally solvent and there was always her inheritance which Steve would only let her spend on herself anyway.
Let's get away from that topic, Mirelle told herself sternly, wondering why her mind kept wandering into controversial areas this morning.
No, she didn't need to work. She needed to get to work, down in the studio. There was no excuse for her malingering. She had promised herself all during their early infancy and childhood that, once the children were all in school, she would spend some time each day in her studio. Here it was spring of the second year in which Tonia was a full time student and she had turned out no more than a few soup bowls, some figurines for the family creche scene and obligatory gifts.
All those years when she had had to balance duty and desire, when she had had no special place to work in or to store incompleted pieces, those times accused her of present procrastination.
Mirelle looked out the window. The day with its fresh lovely blue sky, the burgeoning chartreuse of leaves filming the woods beyond and the young trees of the development, the moist freshness of the air, was not to be wasted on brooding. Mirelle rose with a sigh and went down the steps to the lower corridor. The lefthand door opened to the TV room; the right one to her studio was ajar. The unfinished clay bust on the potter's table accused her, too. How long ago had she started that? She grimaced. It was not a day to cope with 'him'. 'He' was not behaving. When inanimate objects of your own creation flout you outrageously, let them sit neglected until they have learned the error of their ways and become pliant.
Mirelle flexed her long fingers thoughtfully as if they were shaping the recalcitrant material and then she shook them to get rid of the unconscious urge. She knew this was not a day for modeling. Her inner restlessness was not in that direction.
"I'll go horseback riding," she announced to herself out of a totally unsuspected longing and realized that physical exertion was exactly what she needed.
"Of all the half-baked procrastinations," she was exclaiming in disgust a few hours later. She was sprawled on the ground, looking up at the chestnut who had just managed to shed her. "I might just as well have fought the clay all morning instead of you, you clayhead," she told Boots.
She got up slowly because the toss had knocked the wind from her. The chestnut eyed her coolly, shifting his front feet and snuffling as he jiggled the bit in his mouth.
"It isn't as if we didn't know each other well, Boots, or maybe that's why," Mirelle said, half-scolding. She gathered the reins, pleased that she had at least remembered to hang on to them when she felt herself tumbling. "You might warn me that this is your week for shying at logs you know as well as your own stall. Come on, Boots."
She reached for the stirrup iron and the gelding sidled away from her, but she had her fingers round the metal and, with a quick forward step, she vaulted up, only then aware of a lack of resilience in her left ankle. But she was mounted and quickly jammed her feet into both stirrups.
On her way back to the stable, she concentrated on Boots' behavior, bringing him on the aids in every pace, making sure that he played no more silly tricks on her. He was fresh, having had no exercise since the previous Sunday and he was still young enough not to be as jaded as most riding school hacks. Mirelle was a capable rider, and thoroughly enjoyed the tussle of skill over brute strength. When she dismounted at the stable yard, she realized that she must have wrenched her ankle badly in the toss, for it would barely support her.
"Boots shed you?" asked Mac, the stableman, without a trace of sympathy. "You're all covered with leaves," and he obligingly started to brush them off. The operation took longer than Mirelle felt necessary.
"Thanks, Mac," she said, adroitly turning. "This is Boots' week to spook logs."
"He's fresh, he is," Mac agreed while Mirelle mused that the chestnut was not the only one. She fished in her jodhpur pocket for her money and paid Mac.
"Be back again soon, Mrs. Martin. You haven't been as steady as you used to."
"Takes money, Mac, and I prefer to see Roman and Nick riding. I'm getting too old to risk the occasional toss now."
"Pay attention, then," said Mac with a snort.
"I know. My own fault. See you."
He waved her off as he led the gelding into the dark barn. She limped over to the Sprite.
As she eased herself into the seat she grimaced at the thought of having to shift with the bad foot. She drove out of the stable yard, evading the muddy pits and enjoying the Sprite's light handling.
At least you can't throw me, she thought and just as instantly regretted the statement. The sudden sharp crack and explosive whistle could mean just one thing. She grabbed the wheel tightly as the car, which she was swinging onto the highway, bucked against the deflating tire. She fought the wheel, slowing down on the shoulder of the road. Swinging her legs out from under the steering wheel, she stood up, immediately losing her balance as the weakened ankle collapsed. Swearing under her breath, she limped back to look at the flat.