  Dinner was long over. The dishes washed, only the burned pots remained. While preparing the meal, Judy’s thoughts had been engaged on more important matters. Karl’s cruel neglect! She told herself, so what? It isn’t the end of the world! But in her heart she felt it was. Mr. Lurie, perched on the step-ladder, was putting away into the inaccessible closets plates and platters Judy had managed to assemble for this, her first experiment in preparing dinner. As she scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the aluminum, she was thoughtful. She’d come home early, early enough to see her mother wasn’t feeling well. Minna had sunk into a chair, too tired, she admitted, to move. It was at Judy’s insistence that she went to bed. What mattered that the onions were burnt to a crisp, that the creamed spinach had emerged like green glue? The smiles and pleasantries of her parents were compensation enough. Minna had sat through the dinner, refreshed by her nap, the color once more back in her cheeks. She ate little. Occasionally she touched her throat, a gesture no one noticed. It was only when pouring coffee that her hand trembled so violently that the cup and saucer fell from her hands. “What made me do that?” she asked in a troubled whisper. “It means that you’re going right back to bed for another rest before the boys come to rehearse.” And with a great show of assumed indifference, he persuaded her to lie down once more. The telephone rang. Judy, struggling with steel wool and pot, paid no heed to the insistent ring. Her father, still perched on the ladder trying to fit a platter into a space several inches too low for its bulk, said, “Take the phone, Judy.” She dried her hands on her apron and unhurriedly reached the phone. No one ever calls me, she thought with a touch of bitterness as she picked up the receiver. “Hello. Who’s this? Judy?” “Yes, it’s me, Karl,” she answered, too surprised to say more. “Is your father going to be home tonight? There’s something I’d like to talk to him about.” “Oh, Father?” An unreasoning resentment filled her. So it was her father he wanted to see—not her! Maybe it was always her father, or her mother— “He’s rehearsing tonight, that is, Mother is,” she said dully. “He’ll be kind of busy.” There was a long, disappointed, “Oh!” at the other end of the wire. Judy clutched at a straw. With a quick, turnabout gayety, she said, “Other people are available. Maybe—” “Do you think I could come over and listen in?” Karl asked eagerly. “Your father said I might come sometime but we never made it definite. Then—I could see you too.” His voice rumbled away in silence. “Hold the wire, Karl, I’ll ask him.” She made a wild dash to the kitchen and found her father lighting his pipe after his kitchen labors. She asked her question. “Oh, I guess it’s all right. I did promise—” She barely allowed him to finish and bounded back to the parlor, knocking over a spindly chair in her marathon. “Father says it’s all right. Yes, eight o’clock.” She tore back to the kitchen, picked up a dust cloth, and began to tidy up the place. She was considering her strategy. “I’ll ask him immediately why he didn’t take me into his confidence. And who is this girl, this accompanist? I won’t beat about the bush and I won’t act as if I cared.” She gave the table an extra rub and with a flourish of the cloth she swept some sheets of music to the floor. “My goodness!” her father exclaimed as he picked up the scattered sheets. “What an eager beaver we’ve become! Is it Aspenitis or Karlitis?” he said grinning. Judy felt her cheeks grow hot. “Father,” she said, “if that’s the way you appreciate my services, making despicable jokes—” “Oh, come now, Judy, can’t you take a bit of razzing?” He looked at her flushed face and said with great sweetness, “I’m glad you know Karl. I think a lot of that boy and I don’t mean only in the music field. He has character and a great deal of talent and with hard work, I think his future looks bright. I’m trying to help him in a small way.” She looked up gratefully. “Karl said he wanted to talk to you.” There was much more she wanted to say but she suddenly remembered her hair, her dress. When the doorbell rang, a spruced-up Judy greeted the musicians and Karl. The music stands were taken from the hall closet, the lamps moved into place, and the men sat down busily chatting among themselves. Judy motioned to Karl. “We can sit over here on this little sofa.” An innate delicacy made her refrain from calling it “the Victorian loveseat,” her mother’s term for this small, uncomfortable, but charming little piece. “We can see and hear perfectly,” she said as they seated themselves. “I hear you’ve entered a competition for original compositions,” Judy said, plunging right in without further preliminaries. “Yes. I guess Lynne told you, although I did want to keep it a secret,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “For one thing, it hasn’t been accepted as yet. I wanted to surprise you. I’m still working on it.” “I thought it was finished.” “No. That’s what I wanted to consult your father about. Maybe I should leave it with just a piano accompaniment since that’s pretty well worked out and the accompanist plays it well.” For one bleak moment Judy regretted she hadn’t touched the piano all summer. If she had, maybe—Aloud she said brightly, “I hear your accompanist is not only beautiful, but plays like an angel!” Karl looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re driving at. Marie Hoeffer is a fine young lady but she’s no Rubinstein, if that’s what you mean.” Judy smiled her skepticism. “She came to Aspen for a summer of music,” Karl went on, “but I guess she’s chiefly concerned with having a good time,” he laughed good-naturedly. Judy knitted her brows. A serious musician one might respect. But for someone to come to Aspen under the cloak of music deliberately to waylay and ensnare a boy like Karl, that was a more serious matter! The men were tuning their instruments and in the jangle of sounds she remained silent. But her curiosity was sorely tried. How old was she? Where did she come from? If from California or Maine or Alaska, all was not lost! She would have to go back to those remote places— “I hear she’s quite ancient,” Judy said at last, her voice drooling sweetness. Before Karl could gather up his forces to reply, Mrs. Lurie came into the room. She looked beautiful but terribly pale. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said, speaking barely above a whisper. “You didn’t keep us waiting at all,” Mr. Lurie said. “We had lots to discuss. But now, my dear, we’re ready, if you are.” Minna took up her position at the piano. Her husband tapped his bow and the opening measures were begun. Minna was given her cue to start. She sang a few bars, then stopped as if displeased with the tone. Mr. Lurie held up his bow. “We’ll start again. We play five measures, Minna, then you come in.” The opening bars were repeated. Minna came in at the appropriate beat. She sang three bars, then another. She opened her mouth for the next high note. There was a hoarseness, a thickness, then nothing. Finally a heartbroken whisper broke the strained silence. “John, I can’t sing—I’ve lost my voice—” In the confusion that followed, Judy only remembered the terror in her mother’s eyes and her father’s gentleness as he calmed her. “Karl,” Mr. Lurie said quietly, “Dr. Keene lives down the block. No use telephoning, his wire is usually busy at this hour. Go quickly and tell him to come.” The musicians left, murmuring their sympathy. Mr. Lurie carried the inert and almost helpless Minna to her bed. She was suffering now from a chill and Judy, without having to be told, fetched the hot water bottle and extra blankets. She returned to the parlor and stared at the empty chairs, the shining music stands, the blaze of lights. She began pacing the tiny room. All these weeks she hadn’t given a thought to her mother, thought only of Karl. She murmured an inarticulate prayer—“Oh, God, don’t take away her voice. She’ll die if she can’t sing.” Her mother’s words spoken weeks ago beat upon Judy’s memory. “Struggle to get this far—” Judy knew now that it took a great deal to make an artist, hours, days, years of work. “God,” she murmured again, putting her fist to her mouth to keep it from trembling, “help her!” She heard the back door open and then close. That must be the doctor. The waiting was intolerable. She put away the stands and the lamps and chairs were back in their accustomed places. Anything to keep busy! Karl tiptoed into the room, “The doctor is with your mother.” Judy nodded. He made her sit down and clumsily patted her shoulder. At last Dr. Keene came into the room followed by Mr. Lurie. The doctor smiled a greeting to Judy and told John to sit down. “I want to talk to you,” he said in his breezy voice. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand. Shall I send the youngsters from the room?” “No, they can stay. Perhaps Judy can be of some help and, anyhow, it will be necessary for her to understand her mother’s condition.” “Yes, yes!” John said impatiently. “Go on!” “You heard me tell Minna,” the doctor proceeded calmly, “there is no visible damage to her throat or her vocal cords.” “I thought you just said that to prevent her worrying, for psychological reasons,” John interrupted. “Partially,” Dr. Keene nodded in agreement. “But I am convinced also this will clear up in a matter of days. If it shouldn’t,” he paused a moment, “then other measures will have to be taken. But we’re going on my diagnosis for the present until I see the necessity of changing it.” John gave an audible sigh of relief. “I’ve watched Minna all summer. She’s driven herself too hard, particularly as she continues the same pace all winter. She’s overworked and there are other contributing causes. Luckily, she has a fine constitution, otherwise I wouldn’t be so optimistic.” At last John seemed calm enough to sit down. “You’re right, of course. I should have seen this thing coming. She’s taken this concert too seriously—and her teaching and her own lessons—to say nothing of helping students who should be on their own.” He spoke disjointedly. “She never spares herself.” He shook his head. “Then there’s the house, the meals, and she worries about Judy. I should have put my foot down,” he said reproaching himself. “No, John. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about a person who has this excessive drive. Without it a great talent often peters out.” Dr. Keene paused to light his pipe. “John, your wife needs rest, bed rest, and she is absolutely forbidden to use her voice, even to whisper. Whatever she requires or wishes to communicate must be written down. With good, light, and nourishing food, plenty of fluids, and the complete rest of her vocal cords, she will be all right.” He smiled reassuringly at Mr. Lurie. “She’ll sing at the concert. I gave her my promise and I mean to keep it.” “Doctor, you can really promise—” Dr. Keene nodded. “Unless something unforeseen—but I don’t anticipate any complications. I’ve come across this condition several times, particularly with pianists and singers. It is aggravated by too much exposure to the sun, later followed by a chill, exactly as was the case with Minna.” The doctor looked thoughtful. “I would like to suggest you have a nurse except that I know that one is impossible to be had. Our Pitkin County Hospital is understaffed. Who’s going to help you, John? I know you’ve got to teach. Classes must go on—” “Private lessons can wait or be postponed. It’s the music school that bothers me and—” “Father,” Judy broke in, “you’re forgetting me. Dr. Keene said I could help.” “And I’ll take your place at camp,” Karl said eagerly. “It’s only mornings and I can arrange it, if you wish, Judy.” Dr. Keene got up. “That settles everything nicely. Judy, you and your father will relieve each other. Remember again, absolute silence on your mother’s part in her cure. I’ve given her a sedative and I advise you and your father to go to bed.” Mr. Lurie accompanied Dr. Keene to the door and Judy followed with Karl. While the two men were exchanging some final words, Judy said, “I can’t thank you enough, Karl, for offering to help at camp. But I’m worried, too. You need every hour of practice.” “Haven’t you enough on your mind without taking me on too? I’ll manage,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, I want to help. I’m doing very little really and Uncle Yahn won’t mind. He admires your family so much.” He held Judy’s limp hand. “Don’t you understand how much your family and—you have meant to me this summer?” Dr. Keene motioned to Karl and said, “Come on, young man, we’ve got to let these people get some rest.” For four days Minna Lurie’s room was in semidarkness. No one rang the doorbell and no one was permitted to telephone. The music students came quietly, played with unusual softness and left just as unobtrusively. When Judy saw the first one arrive, she was alarmed and hastily inquired, “Shall I send the young Paderewski away?” Minna wrote with a still unsteady hand, “No. Like hearing piano.” Preparing three meals a day might have taxed an even older girl than Judy, but her confidence was undaunted. No worker in a scientific laboratory studied instructions with more meticulous care than Judy lavished over the fine print on boxes of jell-o, cream of wheat, or custard puddings. The doctor smiled and told her a nurse couldn’t have been more efficient. On the following day Minna was permitted to sit in a chair for a few hours, the sun allowed to filter into the room. Judy stood at the window, enjoying the play of the sunshine on the trees. She turned as she heard the gentle tapping of the pencil. Minna held up her pad. “I want you to go outdoors for a breath of air. Take a long walk.” “No, Mother. Father won’t be home for hours. I won’t leave until he—” “I’m staying with Mother and you’re to go out,” Lynne said breezily as she greeted them. Judy warningly touched her lips. Lynne nodded, “I know the rules. I’ll do all the talking. I’ve so much to tell Minna—Now run along. I only have an hour and a half.” As she followed Judy into the hall to speed her on her way, Judy asked, “How’s Karl making out at camp?” “Not badly, but nothing sensational. He has too much on his mind. Three days were quite enough—I can manage for the rest of the time until you get back. Now go! To use your own overworked phrase, ‘tempus fugit!’” Judy stood on the porch, hesitating. Where? Her feet led her unerringly to the practice room where she knew Karl would be working. She smiled joyfully as she heard his violin. She could recognize that tone no matter how many violins were playing! Hmmm, and that must be the accompanist, Marian. She stepped inside and sat down unnoticed. The playing went on. At a propitious moment of silence, she cleared her throat noisily. Karl turned, saw her, a smile lighting up his face as he waved his bow. The rehearsal went on. Talk—repetition of parts—more talk. Judy sat wondering if she should leave. Then Karl’s voice, “Hold it, Marian—” He strode over to Judy. “It’s just wonderful to see you! I know your mother’s coming along great. Your father and Lynne told me.” He looked pensively at her, “You look peaked—” “I’m all right, now that I know Mother’s going to be able to sing—How’s the piece coming along?” “Slowly. It sounds so wonderful in my head, but when it comes to setting it down—it takes so much time and I feel so pressed for time—” “I know. Sometimes I think of a story—everything seems so right until I come to writing it down.” She looked at him smiling, “But you have a wonderful basic theme. It has power to move one—nothing can spoil that. Folk tunes could be introduced, you know, the way Dvorak did in his ‘New World Symphony.’” He shook his head approvingly. “I can clarify things just by talking them out with you. I miss you, Judy—so much!” “Me too,” the budding author sighed, throwing grammar to the winds. An impatient chord at the piano— “I can’t keep Marian waiting. Tomorrow she comes at one o’clock and leaves at three—” Another chord and the slightly sharp voice, “Work before pleasure—” and Marian smiled with a condescending graciousness, “Hi, Judy!” Judy smiled back absently. Karl was saying urgently, “Meet me here tomorrow at three.” Judy nodded, “I’ll arrange it somehow.” When she reached home, Lynne was ready to leave. Mrs. Lurie’s eyes brightened as she looked at her daughter. She hastily scribbled on her pad and held it aloft, “You’ve color in your cheeks and your eyes have their old luster. You’re one of those who blossom in sun and air.” “Yes, Mother,” Judy sweetly agreed, but she was deeply aware of the real reason for the glowing cheeks and brightened eyes—and judging from the smile lurking on Lynne’s face, so was she! That evening Mr. Lurie examined his schedule and announced with great satisfaction, “Yes, I can come home early tomorrow—last session at two-thirty. If I get a ride, should be here ten minutes later.” By two-thirty Judy was dressed. Her mother was in a comfortable chair, her music in her hands which she could study silently. That morning her pad had pleaded for a rehearsal. The doctor was obdurate. “One hour before you appear at the concert. Not before.” Judy gave herself another fleeting glance at the mirror. The candy-striped blue and white cotton with its full skirt looks cool, Judy considered, even if I’m melting inside of it. The embroidered collar, stiffly starched, scratched—but then, she smiled, Karl has never seen this dress. Maybe it didn’t have the smart elegance of Marian’s tie silk, but it was fresh looking! As she glanced at the clock, now two-forty-five, she reviewed the things she must tell her father—the egg nog, ready in the refrigerator, the watercress sandwiches. She tiptoed into the bedroom. Minna’s eyes opened. A descriptive arm indicated the window saying plainly, “Why wait? Why don’t you leave now?” “There’s not that much rush. I’ll play something. The P.S. (the family abbreviation for Practice Student) hasn’t arrived. Something sweet and soothing to induce sleep.” Remembered bits of Chopin Nocturnes, the “Minute Waltz,” and the fingers stumbled exactly at the same tricky places. Another look at the clock—the piano was gladly relinquished to the late and harried P.S. Judy went to the porch and anxiously scanned the street. She returned, stared at the clock as its hands moved relentlessly. At five minutes to four she heard her father’s leisurely step. “You’re an hour later than you promised—” she said accusingly. “Dear old faculty meeting—a special one!” he said apologetically. “You needn’t hurry back. I’ll fix dinner—” Judy was already at the door, mumbling something incoherently about egg nog, refrigerator, watercress—hearing only her father’s puzzled exclamation, “Where’s the fire?” as she recklessly rushed down the porch steps. The cool, refreshing wind blew through her hair, but she arrived at the Hall hot and breathless. Judy blinked. The room seemed dim after the sunlight. Two boys were in the room, one at the piano, the other toying with an oboe or flute—she couldn’t tell which. They stopped talking as she entered. She recognized the colored boy whom she had met with Karl. “A brilliant student,” Karl had told her, “completely at home in what must be a new and strange environment.” “Aren’t you James Powell?” she asked. “Yes, of course, and you’re Judy. Hello!” “Hello,” came in hollow tones from some remote region of Judy’s chest. “You didn’t happen to see Karl here, did you?” she asked diffidently. “He left with a very cute number some fifteen minutes ago,” the other boy volunteered with an innocent smirk. As Judy made no comment, James added quickly, “He seemed very put out, Judy, he’d been waiting around so long—” “Yes, I’m late, but it couldn’t be helped.” “After supper I’ll stop at his home—I’ll give him a message for you.” “Don’t bother, James, but thanks just the same.” On the street, the warm sunshine enveloped her like a cloud. She raged at herself, at her father. Why couldn’t he tell those stuffed shirts—And Karl? Well, he just decided I couldn’t get away—and, of course, nobody could use the phone. She tried not to feel hurt, yet he could have waited a little longer. Her dress looked squashed, the collar itched, her throat felt parched. She was tired, too. All that useless running and waiting—and hungry. She always felt hungry when she was miserable. “No, I won’t go home and sit around while Father cynically probes, ‘Why back so soon?’” She opened her bag, powdered her shiny nose, wiped the perspiration from her neck and face. A look into her change purse fortified her. “I’m going to get the biggest chocolate fudge whipped cream ice cream soda I can buy!” She walked on aimlessly until she recognized the Cafe and Snack Bar they’d visited the exciting night of the Juillard Concert. It seemed so long ago! How happy she had been, sitting next to Karl—Lynne and Allen, her mother and father—everyone so gay. She stepped up to the entrance and looked in at the curtained window. It was empty, except for a waiter. No, there in a far corner a table glittered with silver and glassware, a teapot, cups and saucers. And there—coming to the table was Karl! What heavenly luck! How surprised he’ll be when he sees me! At that moment Marian sat down, some music sheets in her hand. Judy stood there ashamed, unable to move! Their heads were close together. Marian was laughing—and Karl looked, yes, looked adoringly into her eyes, just as he looked at Judy at times. She tore herself away. She walked woodenly on the familiar and often dearly loved streets and at last stumbled home, bone tired. As soon as dinner was over and her mother comfortably in bed, Judy pleaded weariness. “Good idea for us all to get to bed early. Tomorrow is the big day,” her father smiled. “You’re sure Mother’s going to be able to sing? It’s wonderful, Father—” Judy picked up her book, an ancient and much worn copy of Les Miserables that she had found in some neglected cabinet. The title appealed to her. With a deprecating little smile at her father, she ascended the staircase, much as Sidney Carton is said to have ascended the gallows. * * * * * * * * It was a quarter to four on Wednesday afternoon. The Amphitheater, as the Big Tent was sometimes called, was packed, every seat taken. Judy, no longer the lonesome stranger of those first weeks in Aspen, knew many people. The children of the camp were there. Even the youngest came to hear his father play in the orchestra. They waved and smiled to her and she waved back. But she was tense and frightened, impatient for the concert to begin, and wishing it were over. Her mother was well, the doctor was more than satisfied. But could that terrible thing happen again— Mr. Izler Solomon, the conductor, stood on the podium, bowing to acknowledge the applause. Judy sat through Beethoven and Prokofieff, hardly knowing which was which. Her mind was a blank, her heart was pounding. uncaptioned Minna Lurie stepped on stage, bowed at the ripple of applause. Judy stared open-mouthed. Was that her mother? So poised, so beautiful, in that shimmering green dress? Solomon lifted his baton. The orchestra began. Minna Lurie’s lovely voice, as if in defiance of the enforced rest, filled the tent. The flute, then the oboe followed her clear notes. The strings came in. Judy sat in a transport of joy. It seemed as if her mother’s voice soared into the orange supports, into the poppy-colored sides of the tent. She felt an ecstasy she had never experienced. The applause was deafening. “Wonderful!” “Magnificent!” Judy sat unable to move. Someone gripped her shoulder. It was Lynne. Judy got up dazed. “Wasn’t she marvelous, Judy? I’m so excited!” Lynne said. People were leaving their seats and the crowd swirled around them. Lynne said something about Saturday. “What did you say, Lynne?” Judy asked. “You remember. We’re going to Toklat and Ashcroft on Saturday.” “But I thought you went last Saturday?” “No, we wouldn’t go without you.” Lynne was pushed down the aisle. “Saturday,” she repeated. “We’ll call for you at nine o’clock—” Karl had made his way through the crowd. He pumped Judy’s hand until it ached. The crowd moved toward the exits and Judy and Karl were carried along in its stream. They stood at the tent opening, the large flaps framing them. The field where hundreds of cars had been parked was being emptied swiftly. Many young people, their arms linked, were walking over the rough ground. Now the last stragglers appeared, the men of the orchestra, carrying their instruments. Judy whispered, “Mother and Father will soon be coming too.” “Judy,” Karl said huskily, “why didn’t you come yesterday?” “I couldn’t leave Mother,” she said, turning her head so that he shouldn’t see the hurt that was all but forgotten. The sky was beginning to darken. Something sang in their young hearts. There was no need for words. They just stood there quietly, foolishly smiling at nothing at all. |
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