  A letter from home! That was what Mrs. Lurie still called the much prized letters from her mother that arrived at regular intervals all through the summer. Minna herself was an indifferent correspondent and John occasionally scrawled a few lines with a program enclosed of past or coming events. Yet the grandmother’s letters never held any reproach for the long silences. She related family events with gusto, the small or large happenings of her own household ... the guest who came for a week end and stayed the week. Frequently Minna was concerned, often annoyed. “Mother’s incurably hospitable! It’s a shame, she never gets any rest—” Mrs. Lurie seemed to have forgotten those years when she, her brothers and sisters filled the house with their guests. She never wondered then how her parents bore up under the strain. A feast or a snack, long past midnight, radio blaring, the rug turned back for dancing, late breakfasts and untidy bedrooms, bathing suits drying on antique chairs, dates and parties—and the tired voice, “Everyone in? Thank goodness. Try to keep quiet—Your father needs his rest.” “Incurably hospitable!” Minna repeated, while John patiently waited to hear the letter so recently arrived and cause of his wife’s outburst. “Listen to this, John! ‘I finally succeeded in getting Sam Sterling and Jennie Coleman to come down together for a week end. You remember Jennie? She’s been a widow for eight years, but is still hopefully looking over the field. I don’t blame her—she’s lonely. “‘Sam is as charming as always. He’s still unmarried and lives alone since his sister died. Need I say more? I still believe propinquity is the best matchmaker. “‘Shortly after dinner, when we were about to sit down to a game of canasta, Jennie whispered to me, “I can’t find my bridge!” “‘“Your what?” I asked. “‘“My denture. I couldn’t stand the pressure—that steak, I guess.” “‘What a night! We were too embarrassed to tell Sam and C.B. why we ransacked the house. Along about midnight, I thought of the garbage! Jennie and I lifted that five-foot can, dragged it down the cellar steps and emptied its contents on the cement floor. There we found it, neatly wrapped in her monogrammed handkerchief, safe and snug among the coffee grounds and tea bags!’” John was laughing. “Only your mother would think of the garbage!” “Honestly, John, I don’t see how Father puts up with Mother’s passion for doing good! Think of all those remote cousins, aunts, and uncles, content and accustomed to family indifference, suddenly recalled from oblivion—and the inevitable letter, inviting them to leave the hot city, come down for a week end—” Minna smiled in spite of her serious misgivings. “But these people must bore Father and her too. She abuses her health. Father ought to put his foot down!” John merely shook his head. “Your father adores your mother. He thinks these successive waves of self-torture are an endearing weakness and so plays along. It’s a gift—to be so selfless, doing kind and gracious things—actually enjoying doing them.” When for ten days after the climb up Maroon Peak there was still no letter from “home,” Mrs. Lurie became anxious and put in a long distance call. Her mother tried to sound cheerful but Minna could detect her anxiety. “Father didn’t wish me to write that he was ill.... He’s doing nicely.... Yes, he’d love to see you, but he wouldn’t want you to leave until the Season is over.” That night the Luries had a conference and made a quick decision. Mrs. Lurie and Judy would leave Aspen as soon as they could get plane reservations for New York. Mr. Lurie, because of his commitments, must wait until the official closing of the Music Festival, then he would follow by train with most of their luggage. Little Percent Taxi, which had blossomed into a travel bureau, secured the necessary plane tickets from Denver to New York. In two days Minna and Judy would leave, travel over the famous Independence Pass to Denver, conveyed there by a Little Percent Taxi. “The charges for the ride,” John cynically observed, “were far from little.” Minna began to pack. There were frequent interruptions, last-minute interviews, and conferences about the coveted appearance in New York. Judy too had things to do—her farewell appearance at camp—the library book to be returned and, with the dollar deposit, purchase the gift for little Willie. She paid a hurried visit to Uncle Yahn with the hope of seeing Karl. It was an almost unbearable disappointment that Karl was nowhere in sight and she had to be content with his uncle’s easy assurance that he would give him her message. The morning before their departure, Judy and her mother were in the kitchen packing the remaining utensils. “This pressure cooker weighs a ton, Mother. Why do you always take it with you?” “I wouldn’t know how to keep house without it, so don’t drop it,” her mother answered, looking up from her own labors. Her eyes rested on her daughter. “Goodness, I’ll have to get you some new bras as soon as we get home. You’ve developed a bosom in these two months!” Judy was flattered by this reference to her budding curves, but she looked at her mother, “Is my body the only thing that has developed?” she asked hopefully. “There is such a thing as mind as well as matter.” Mrs. Lurie tried to repress a smile. “You’ve developed in other ways, matured. Perhaps it was the regular duties at camp and its responsibilities.” She looked thoughtfully at her daughter. “Anyhow, whatever the reason,” she said with unwonted tenderness, “it was good to have you with us this summer. And when I was ill—I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.” Mrs. Lurie was undemonstrative. She knew herself to be reserved almost to a fault, and she secretly envied the mothers who could display their affection. She now added a little self-consciously, “I hope, Judy, that you liked being with us as much as Father and I loved having you. It’s been our first summer together in years.” “Yes, it was nice, Mother, much nicer than I expected.” Her mother looked disappointed. Her eyes seemed to say, “Is that all?” “Let’s sit down and rest for a little while?” Mrs. Lurie suggested. Judy pulled up a stool while her mother sank into a chair. “Then you are glad you came with us?” her mother asked again. “Of course,” Judy answered quickly, thankful for the interlude in the drudgery of packing and the chance for a talk with her mother. “It was fun,” she went on, her arms hugging her knees, “to be included in everything, or nearly everything you and Father did. I love Aspen and things here are exciting. You just breathe and music seeps in, like some pleasant, contagious disease! I think I’ll go back to my piano—” There was an imperceptible pause. “Now especially, that—” “I’m so delighted,” her mother broke in, too pleased at this admission to notice her daughter’s emphasis on the “Now especially,” or the revealing smile that accompanied it. “Father will be as happy as I am—Go on, dear.” “What more can I tell you? It was because of you and Father that I came to know Lynne and Allen and I love them dearly. They’ve been so wonderful to me. But, Mother,” she paused and said shyly, “don’t you think that—er—er—Karl had something to do with my maturing, as you call it?” “Karl?” Her mother raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It was very pleasant to have him around.” Noticing her daughter’s reproachful glance, she went on briskly, “He’s a fine boy, hard-working and very talented.” Judy nodded vigorously, her eyes glowing with pleasure. “Yes, he’s wonderful, isn’t he? If only you knew him as well as I do! But surely there’s something unusual ... something special you must have noticed—” “Unusual?” Mrs. Lurie who rarely smoked, lighted a cigarette to gain time before replying. Her face clouded as though she resented Karl’s being introduced into a conversation that concerned only themselves. “Yes,” she said at last in a quiet, judicious voice, “remarkably dependable. I think you can feel proud, considering how young you are, that Karl has chosen to make you his friend.” Judy’s face darkened. She resented the calm, dispassionate voice of her mother, her ignorant appraisal of how much Karl meant to her. She answered heatedly, “Friend! Suppose I was to tell you that I love Karl!” Minna put down her cigarette. “You’ll be in and out of what you call love a dozen times before you’re much older,” she spoke calmly, but was now thoroughly roused. “What can you know about love or speak of love at your age?” she added more sharply. “Why not?” Judy asked bristling. “Grandpa was in love with Grandma when he was eighteen and she was only fifteen and they’ve been happy all their—” “Things were different in those days,” her mother interrupted. “Women had no careers or rarely did. Because your grandmother married so young, she never went beyond her freshman year at college. You certainly want to go to college!” “Did I ever say I wasn’t going to college? I intend to go, although I’ve heard you say dozens of times that Grandma is better read and better informed than most college graduates you knew. And what about Abe Lincoln?” she hurried on. “What schooling did he have and everyone knows that his speeches are considered—” “Look, Judy, what are we arguing about?” Mrs. Lurie said wearily. “I’m only saying that you are too young to think of Karl or anyone else seriously. You’re only fifteen!” “I’m practically sixteen—or will be in a few months.” “Come, dear, let’s forget the argument. How about a cup of tea?” Mrs. Lurie said, anxious to restore the good feeling between them. Judy glumly assented. Mrs. Lurie went to the stove and put on the kettle. “I guess people will be coming in droves tonight,” she said pleasantly. “Oh!” she interrupted herself, “I just remembered. Karl phoned last night when you were at the drugstore. I completely forgot to tell you.” Judy muttered to herself, “Forgot to tell me and I was unable to sleep a wink last night, worrying.” “Did he leave any message?” she asked tensely. “Yes, he did. I think I remember his exact words.” Unconsciously Mrs. Lurie mimicked the halting words of the boy. “There will be a moon tomorrow night. I’d like to take Judy for a walk so that we can say good-bye to Aspen together.” She laughed good-naturedly. “It was so deliciously young!” With an angry cry the girl faced her mother, “You’re heartless! What’s more, you haven’t a shred of feeling—no soul!” Minna felt outraged. She turned her puzzled gaze upon her daughter. “What did I say to bring that on?” Her lips tightened. “Since you get so wrought up about trifles, so emotional over nothing, I think it will be just as well if you said good-bye to Karl right at home. After all, the moon will be just as visible from our porch.” “You mean to say that I can’t go out with Karl tonight? Our last night together!” “That’s exactly what I do mean.” “I intend to go and you can’t stop me!” Judy’s face was flushed, the tears falling unheeded. She rushed from the room, “I hate your dominating ways!” Mrs. Lurie’s anguished eyes followed her daughter. “No, she couldn’t mean that—she couldn’t—what’s become of the little girl I adore so?” she asked herself miserably as she paced the floor. “She looks upon me as an enemy! Until a year ago she was so easily managed! So content with her grandparents—It wasn’t our tours! They’re never long. Besides, I’m entitled to live my own life,” she told herself defensively. “I have my career!” She sat down dejectedly, her head in her hands. “It is my fault. I haven’t tried enough. I must find a way to reach her—but I must protect her against her foolish, extravagant ideas of romance—” She went back to the stove, mechanically turned out the light, stood there staring bleakly into the empty cups. Tempers cannot remain at fever pitch all day. Judy was sorry, ashamed of her outburst. If her mother had only understood how much Karl meant to her! To forbid a last walk together—she would appeal to her father. No, that was useless. She knew her parents always supported each other—family discipline! Mrs. Lurie too had second thoughts. Why had she been so stern, so unfeeling? Could one experience love at fifteen? or sixteen? If she had met John at that age, would she have felt as Judy did about Karl? These thoughts harassed her all day whenever she paused in her work. That evening Karl came dressed in his city clothes. Judy watched him as he talked with her father. He’s so handsome! She watched his face light up with a smile, then become serious. The ill-fitting suit couldn’t hide his strong, broad shoulders. Clothes don’t make the man! Her father beckoned to her. As she joined them, he said, “Karl has some very exciting news—” “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell Judy myself,” Karl gently interrupted. “We’re going for a walk—” “I’m not so sure about the walk,” Judy said uncertainly. At her father’s look of surprise, she said with an attempt at lightness, “According to Mother, I’m supposed to be doing penance tonight. I’m not to move off the porch while Karl gives me a lecture on astronomy.” Her father smiled. “Sounds pretty dull. Doing penance for what?” “Something I said. I was furious about—never mind!” She glanced at Karl, not wishing to go on. “Let’s go over to speak to Mother. There she is next to the punch bowl.” He piloted them to where Minna was serving refreshments. “Minna,” he began, as he drew his wife to the comer where Judy and Karl waited, “I understand you’ve forbidden the time-honored custom of two youngsters taking a walk by moonlight.” He smiled, “Any crimes committed of which I am ignorant?” “No crimes, unless impertinence, defiance—” She stopped and looked at her daughter’s eyes, pleading. Was Judy solely to blame for the scene? As her mother, wasn’t she being a little ridiculous? The girl had asked for sympathy and understanding and all she had given her was logic and cold reasoning! The wisdom and tenderness of her own parents during her adolescence flashed through her mind. Why wasn’t she like them? Instead she was following the pattern of Grandmother Fannie, Judy’s great-grandmother! She recognized herself with a start—she had always admired the grim strength of that remarkable old lady and yet with what delight she had heard her mother tell how she had been brought to terms! “What was it you asked me, John?” Minna asked, recalled to the present. “The youngsters want to take a walk. Any valid objection?” “No, I don’t think so,” she said lamely. She turned to her daughter. “I guess I was just putting myself in your great-grandmother’s shoes. She had very definite ideas about—life. Sometime I’ll tell you about her. But,” she added with a smile, “I don’t measure up to her, nor do I really wish to.” Judy looked at her mother. “Thanks awfully. You know I didn’t mean any of—” “I know, dear,” her mother spoke gently. She turned to Karl. “Only don’t stay out late. Remember, we leave very early tomorrow morning.” |
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