One of the reasons they both hated the constant long business trips was the impossibility of starting any of the mutual projects they had both enjoyed during the earlier years of their marriage, when Steve's territory had been smaller and he'd been home every night. The price of promotion was less private time.
Mirelle had known by Steve's face and his lingering welcome kiss that his trip had been successful. He was tired, yes, but neither defeated or frustrated. The same conscientiousness that he turned to private projects was given to every one of his clients, often involving him in unnecessary research to satisfy the particular needs of a special contract. This perseverance was annually rewarded by the Company with a bonus. Mirelle never felt that that compensated for the hours which Steve devoted to a small account or the frustration he suffered when, for no reason, he failed to get the contract and took an official reprimand. Nor did that bonus compensate Mirelle when Steve took his irritation and disappointment out on her and the children.
Lucy Farnoll, with her marvelous earthy humor, had taught Mirelle that this was part of a wife's function: to bear the brunt of her man's irritability, redirecting it if possible, but always recognizing both his need to sound off and the source of his frustration. Sometimes though, Mirelle cringed at the prospect of Steve's temper: he could be vicious, physically and mentally, wounding her where she was most vulnerable. Sometimes, despite an intellectual understanding of his need, it took Mirelle a long while to reconcile his rash angry words and actions. Now, as she roused him to laughter at her caricature of her Knight of the Road, wielding the lance of a trusty tire-jack, she was unbelievably relieved that he was in a good mood. He'd feel like getting out into the yard this weekend, instead of poring over reports and analyzing old orders. They wouldn't have to spend Saturday wrangling over decisions that she'd had to make in his absence, decisions which he'd sometimes insist could have waited for his return. They could putter amiably in the yard, clear away the winter mess from the new growth. There might even be a movie in town which he hadn't seen. Sunday, instead of being a day of apology or brooding, would be pleasant: church, a leisurely dinner, a comfortable evening. She'd feel at ease with him, not having to watch every word she said for fear he'd take exception. The children wouldn't be clumsy with nervousness, or disappear all day to escape his unpredictability. Tonight had gone welclass="underline" the weekend would be fun.
"That was a good dinner, hon," Steve told her as she shooed the children away. She poured more coffee, enjoying his company without the distractions of the youngsters. He stretched luxuriously, grimacing abruptly as a muscle tightened across his back. He rotated the shoulder against the cramp.
"Have time to get into the yard this weekend?" she asked.
"I need to. I'm winter soft." He groaned, rubbing his shoulder, looking up as she laughed.
"You? Never."
At forty, Steve was as solidly muscled as he had been at twenty-four and he looked scarcely a day older. He had the type of facial structure and regular features that would retain a boyish quality when he reached seventy. Not so much as a single white hair grew in the thick brown wavy crop that he kept brushed back from his high, broad forehead. Any extra flesh that he put on during the winter, and he tried to stay in hotels featuring indoor pools and gyms, was burned off on the family camping jaunts. The only signs of ageing were the minute lines around his green eyes and the slight grooves which disappointment had traced at the corners of his full-lipped mouth.
"By the way," Mirelle added, "I'm afraid the white azalea by the northeast corner is winter-killed."
"Damn," Steve said irritably, sitting up, "I'll check that first thing tomorrow. He swore all those plants were field grown."
That next week, Mirelle washed and ironed the red silk handkerchief and absently put it in Steve's drawer when she sorted the laundry. Between getting the yard ready for summer, getting out lighter clothes and planning weekend camping trips, Mirelle had no occasion to recall her Knight of the Road until late June when Steve discovered the handkerchief in his drawer.
He'd had an inconclusive and hurried trip south, missed a plane connection on the way back. He'd arrived late in the office and had been called down by his immediate superior for some insignificant detail. The appearance of a strange handkerchief had shattered his tenuous self-control and he had flared up at Mirelle with a ridiculous accusation. Mirelle knew, as well as he did, that his boss's wife slept around constantly, brazenly enough to have once flirted with Steve, but for Steve to accuse Mirelle of infidelity was outside of enough.
With resigned patience, Mirelle defended herself, trying to keep the incipient brawl under control. She succeeded only in goading Steve into a full-fledged scene. He denied that she had ever mentioned a sprained ankle or a flat tire until she retorted with the menu of the meal they'd eaten that night, the discussion of the winter-killed azalea, and forced him to admit he was mistaken. And that was equally a mistake.
"I don't need to fool around just because that's the current suburban pattern," she'd flared. "I've got better things to do with my spare time."
"Yeah, yeah," and he was snarling with frustration, "you and your cultural superiority over we poor colonials; but you can't tell me you take all your frustrations out in that muck…"
"I'm not frustrated, Steve," she interrupted hastily, wearily. When he started to drag her sculpting into an argument, he wanted to hurt her because he was hurt.
"Don't take that long-suffering attitude with me," he'd cried, grabbing her. He used her that night with the bruising urgency that was his custom when he was troubled.
He needs me, she consoled herself the next morning, not entirely displeased. At least he hadn't stalked out of their room, which would have meant that the matter was serious. As long as she could get him in bed with her, things would work out. But oh, how Mirelle hoped he'd get rid of the notion that she'd ever even been tempted to be unfaithful, Barnhill's sluttish wife, notwithstanding. Probably, thought Mirelle, Barnhill got feisty because his wife had taken a new lover whom Barnhill hadn't had time to identify. He'd taken it out on Steve. But for Steve to accuse her of infidelity? That was a revolting development.
Despite her disclaimer, Mirelle knew that she did take out her frustrations in sculpting, but she also got rid of them in a positive, creative fashion. She'd always considered that preferable to the usual activities open to suburban housewives with time on their hands. Constant transfers from town to town, eight in the fifteen years with the Company, had made Mirelle very chary of forming close attachments to anyone. There was always the painful break when they had to move away. At first she had tried, but after they had been transferred from Ashland and her deep friendship with Lucy Farnoll severed, she had given up. Naturally introverted, Mirelle had ceased to make even casual acquaintances, pleading the care of her family as an excuse against the desultory attempts in each new neighborhood to involve her. She spent her free time worrying over and perfecting the few pieces of serious sculpture she attempted.
Fortunately Steve was a home-abiding man. What entertaining they did was limited to fellow salesmen visiting the main office to whom Steve offered hospitality, knowing how sterile a hotel can be and how much a few hours in a home can mean to the transient. Mirelle enjoyed cooking for any reason and Steve was proud of the fact that invitations to his home were eagerly sought. Otherwise, she and Steve were content to stay at home, listening to music, reading and working on family projects.
After the Great Handkerchief Debate, Mirelle brooded over his accusation all day. She was utterly disjointed by his joviality when he got home that night. All his dissatisfaction with self and circumstance had dissipated.