  Flying was no novelty to her parents, but to Judy, whose small journeys had always been by car, this, her first plane trip, was an event. In Aspen they were going to do without a car. Mr. Lurie wouldn’t trust their old bus on those mountain roads. It was still foggy when they took their seats in the plane. Judy was conscious of the unconcern of everyone but herself. Why, only last week she heard over the radio, “the plane had only just left the ground when—” The motors started, whirring noisily as they warmed up. Mrs. Lurie noticed the strained expression on her daughter’s face. “Once we’re in the air, you’ll be thrilled. You’ll see Long Island as a bird might—” The girl smiled feebly. She closed her eyes. When I open them, she told herself, I’ll be up in the air. She counted slowly to a hundred—they were still in the same spot. Twice she repeated the experiment. The plane was still on the ground, racing along the runway! Then when she least expected it, there was a sudden lift and they were flying. The mist had disappeared. The world below was an intricate design of shining water, green fields, and toy houses. It was more wonderful than anything she had ever imagined and with the wonder, her fears vanished. Before long they were flying at nineteen thousand feet. All she could see were soft fleecy clouds. The plane seemed like a giant bird skimming over endless banks of snow. Three hours from the time they left the airport they could make out the tall buildings of Chicago, hundreds of miles from home. “I’ll meet you at the railroad terminal in an hour, two at the most,” John told his wife, taking only his viola with him as he stepped into a taxi to keep his appointment. Mrs. Lurie and Judy proceeded to the railroad. The porter left them with their five pieces of baggage near the gate marked “Denver and California.” There were no seats nearby and before a half hour passed, it became increasingly difficult to stand. Judy balanced herself on one of the upturned suitcases and her mother soon followed her example. They tried to read. A coke from one machine and salted peanuts from another provided a pleasant interlude. Judy watched people going into a restaurant at the far end of the station. Her mother noticed her fascinated absorption. “We can’t move these bags and there isn’t a porter in sight. As soon as your father comes, we’ll get something to eat.” At the word “eat,” Judy remembered her grandmother’s shoebox—such tremendous chicken sandwiches and fruit! This was the emergency her grandmother always managed to foresee. When another hour passed, Mrs. Lurie, no longer able to conceal her anxiety, went in search of a porter. He tossed their luggage on his truck while they took up their vigil at the gate, scanning every entrance. With less than five minutes to spare, John rushed toward them, mumbling breathlessly, “Sorry, darlings.” “Sorry nothing,” Judy thought, severely critical. On the contrary, she noticed his eyes sparkled. “I signed the new contract,” he whispered to Minna as he herded them aboard the train. Mrs. Lurie, too, was now all smiles, the tension of the last hours forgotten. They entered the car where they would spend the remaining hours of the late afternoon, the night, and most of the following day. Mr. Lurie cleared the seats of the luggage. His viola, never out of his sight for a moment, he placed conspicuously near the seat he would occupy. “When we’re ready to retire,” Mrs. Lurie said, “the porter will come and make up our beds. You’re taking the upper berth. Father and I will share the lower one.” It was seven-thirty before they could get seats in the dining car. They stood with a long queue of people in the narrow corridor of the swaying train. Everyone was friendly and freely gave advice. “Be sure to get up early tomorrow morning so that you can get seats in the Vista Dome—” At last the Luries were ushered to their seats by an impressive-looking steward. Mr. Lurie was studying the menu card. “Outrageous!” “What is?” Judy asked, turning her gaze from the jiggling silver on the table. “The prices! One has the choice of starving or becoming bankrupt!” “John,” her mother said quietly, “everyone can hear you. Besides, the railroad can’t help charging so much. I read an article that showed they actually lose money on the dining cars—the cost of food, the waste. They threaten to discontinue them altogether.” “Well then, let’s eat and be merry,” he replied, his high spirits returning. By the time they returned to their car, their beds were made up for the night. Using the ladder, Judy climbed into her berth. The curtains were fastened. “Mother,” Judy called, sticking her head through a tiny opening, “it’s pitch black. I can’t seem to locate the light.” “It’s overhead, near the pillow,” her mother whispered. “Father and I are going into the club car.” Judy, on her knees to avoid bumping her head, groped about vaguely, found the small button and pressed it hard. There was a resounding ring. She jumped at the sound and then, quite by accident, found the light switch. Cautiously, still on her knees, she began pulling off her sweater. “What is it, Miss?” The kindly face of the porter peered at her. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Judy said thickly, her sweater wedged over her nose and mouth. “I couldn’t find the light. But it’s all right now.” “Ring whenever you need me.” He quickly withdrew his head. A battery of bells called him. She finished undressing lying flat on her back, struggled into pajamas, and tossed her jumbled clothes in a heap at the foot of her berth. “It’s six-thirty, Judy.” It was her mother speaking. “We want to get an early breakfast so that we can get seats in the Vista Dome.” Her mother was already dressed, when she could have slept through the morning, a luxury Minna loved but rarely enjoyed. When Judy made her appearance, her mother looked at her. “Your hair!—You look as if you fell out of a grab bag.” In the dressing room, overflowing with crying babies and their mothers, Judy made herself presentable. Once again they went through the lunging cars. For Judy, the dinner of the night before hadn’t been much of a success. She flushed as she remembered the white rivulet of milk coursing down her new sweater. “No fluids, thank you—something solid and substantial, like pancakes with syrup. Besides,” she whispered to her father, “imagine, orange juice, forty cents a glass!” His smile and nod commended her for her good sense. After breakfast they hurried to the last car. It was a comfortable lounge in the center of which was a short flight of steps. They ascended the stairway and entered the Vista Dome, a train above a train, completely glassed in, even the top. The Luries crowded together in the last vacant seat. They were silent, enraptured by the beauty of the scene. Mountains hemmed them in on both sides. “What if there were a landslide?” Judy thought, “and one of those overhanging crags came crashing down on the glass dome!” The train climbed steadily. As the hours passed, the mountains took on a somber brown and dullish red and assumed the fantastic shapes of turreted castles. Frequently the train disappeared into a tunnel cut through the mountain. One of them, “the Moffat Tunnel,” the loudspeaker announced, “is a great engineering feat and is six miles long.” Many seats were vacant now. People were getting tired in spite of the glorious views. Judy noticed a girl about her own age sitting alone. “Why don’t you go over and speak to her,” her mother suggested. “She’ll probably be glad of your company.” Within a matter of minutes Judy and Audrey were like old friends. “We’ve lived in so many cities,” Audrey said with a tired shrug. “Now we’re bound for L.A.” At Judy’s look of interrogation, she added, “Los Angeles.” “We’d only just bought a house in Omaha. Now it’s up for sale! Honestly, my father says his boss moves him around like a piece on a checkerboard!” Judy was sympathetic. “I thought only musicians move so much.” “Musicians? You?” “No,” Judy answered quickly. “My mother and father. That’s why we’re going to Aspen. Mother’s a singer and Father plays the viola. And they always practice at home—Mother with her accompanist and Father and his quartet—can you imagine what it’s like sometimes?” “Awful! How can you stand it?” “You get used to it. Sometimes, I must admit, it’s very nice.” “Have you a job or something out in Aspen?” “Not exactly a job, but I—I—er—expect to act—in one of those little summer theaters,” Judy spoke diffidently, but she couldn’t quite conceal her exultation. Audrey was impressed. “An actress! But you don’t look like one!” “Well, you know, Audrey, with grease paint and makeup—besides, I probably will have the most minute role,” she smiled with a deprecating little gesture. Audrey returned to her own problems. “I don’t mind telling you, it is a tragedy for me to leave Omaha.” Judy was about to inquire what she meant by those solemn words when a big voice boomed behind them. “You can see the broken-down, deserted cabins halfway up the mountains.” The girls turned toward the voice. A short, stocky man was standing near them, a pair of field glasses in one hand and pointing to the mountains with the other. Judy smiled out of politeness and he returned her smile. “Like to have a peek?” He handed her the glasses. She too could see the trails and dilapidated shacks that led to the mines. “Here, Audrey, you look.” “Oh, yes, I see them,” Audrey said, returning the glasses to the owner. “And do you know what was in those mines?” the man continued in a stentorian voice. “Gold! That’s what brought them to Colorado, gold!” “I thought it was silver,” Judy said quietly. “My grandfather told me that silver—” She got no further. She could hear the subdued chuckling of the passengers. “You’re right, Miss, but only half right. First they came for gold, then for silver. Tell that to your grandpa!” He went on talking, explaining.... Judy’s eyes ached from the sun that blazed through the glass dome, and her neck was stiff from looking and straining. “Attention, please!” The voice of the loudspeaker broke in on the man’s eloquence. “When we reach the next station, there will be a wait of twenty minutes for the automatic car washing. This process will be of interest to our passengers.” The two girls had only one thought, to get off the train and stretch their legs. Arm in arm they walked down the long platform, soon engrossed in their former conversation. “The reason I hated to leave Omaha was not because of the new house, but because I was going steady with a boy! Now we’re separated, maybe forever.” Judy pressed Audrey’s hand to indicate how deeply she understood. With slow, leisurely steps they walked back, remembering the car washing. They looked down the tracks. The train had vanished. “What will we do?” “And we haven’t any money to telegraph or anything,” Judy waved her empty purse. A stone would have been moved by that gesture. “What’s the matter, girls?” A nice-looking gentleman, standing nearby, having heard their cries of alarm, smilingly faced them. “The train!” they stammered in one breath. “It’s gone!” “I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” his mouth twitched as if he wanted to laugh. “The train is down a siding, about a mile, having that grand wash. Remember? It’ll come back.” The girls were too miserable to talk. They kept staring down the empty tracks, not quite believing, yet hoping the train would return. At last the train, beautifully clean, slid down the tracks before them. The girls stood together on the train as it began to move. “Be sure to write,” Judy said tensely. “Remember, everything about him.” Addresses were hurriedly exchanged. Feeling almost like sisters who have just met, only to be cruelly torn apart, they kissed fondly and separated, Audrey to her car and Judy to the Vista Dome where she had left her parents peacefully sleeping. Glenwood Springs, the railroad station for Aspen, was the next stop. The Luries hurried back to their car. Their berths were made up and the luggage was once again piled on the seats and under them. Mr. Lurie methodically counted them. “One, two, three—where’s the viola? I don’t see it!—” His voice was almost a gasp. “The porter has probably taken it out with our large case,” Minna said confidently, but her face was as white as his. “I’ll ring for him.” The porter appeared. “Where’s my viola?” Mr. Lurie asked in a voice that scarcely concealed his rage. “Your what, Sir?” the porter asked calmly. “My viola,” Mr. Lurie snapped. “It looks like a violin, only larger. It was in a black case. It’s not here. We’ve looked everywhere.” His voice shook. “Did you take it out with any other baggage?” The porter shook his head. “I remember that violin thing. Just took the things from the bed, laid them down while I made up the berths.” “And why did you make up my berth? Didn’t I ask you to leave it alone?” “But I has to make up the berths,” the porter argued mildly. “That berth down there isn’t made up,” Mr. Lurie’s eyes flashed as he pointed to the one that still had its curtains drawn. As if startled by the turmoil, the head of an elderly woman, her hair secured in a pink net, suddenly protruded from the curtains. “Porter,” she asked querulously, “how many times must I ring? You promised to bring my tray an hour ago.” “I know, Ma’am, I was just fixing to bring it when this gentleman here got some trouble.” A slow smile broke over the porter’s face. “I recollect now—everyone leaving at one time to get to the Vista Dome. I piled things everywhere. That lady down there, I couldn’t make up her berth. She was feeling poorly. When she went into the ladies’ lounge, I naturally set a lot of things in her upper berth. It was empty. Then she comes back unexpected and—” “Instead of all this palaver,” Mr. Lurie interrupted, “will you kindly see if it is there?” “Pardon me, Ma’am,” and with a practiced hand he reached into the upper berth and drew out the black case of the viola. “There you are, Sir. No harm done. Never lost a thing in all my—” “Thank Heaven!” Mr. Lurie said fervently, wiping the beads of perspiration from his face. “You have no idea, Porter, what the loss of that instrument could mean to me. You were negligent,” Mr. Lurie reiterated, not nearly so belligerently, “but the main thing is that it was found.” Everybody smiled with relief. The train was slowing down. Judy and her parents said good-bye to their fellow passengers and a few minutes later they were standing on the platform. Judy watched the long train slowly pull away. It took on speed and was soon lost to sight. “Come on, Judy,” her mother called impatiently, “stop dreaming. We still have a short bus ride to Aspen.” |
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