dirt and grime. They dropped down wearily and Marian stretched out flat
on her back as if she never expected to rise again. Her eyes were closed
as she groaned, “I ache in every bone, every muscle of my body. It’s
going to be years before I feel human again.”
As for Karl, his weariness soon left him. He rested as the others had
and sat up. Wordlessly, he looked at the magnificent range of peaks
jutting into the sky. Then he murmured something: “What wonders He has
given us this day to behold,” adding the Hebrew words.
“Is that a prayer of thanksgiving?” Judy asked quietly.
Karl nodded.
Fran, always practical, broke in, “Have you eaten yet?”
“No,” Karl said as if awakened from a dream. “I’m glad you reminded me.
I’m hungry as a bear.”
He reached into his rucksack and took out a brown paper bag and a
daintily wrapped box.
“Better have something to eat, Marian,” he said, placing the package
beside her.
“Thanks. I don’t want anything.”
“Look, folks,” Fran said impatiently, “if we’re to make the top and get
down before dark, we have to leave in ten minutes.”
“I’m ready to leave as soon as you say,” Karl answered, “but I can’t
speak for Marian. Look at her right sneaker. The sole has been flapping
for the last hour. It’ll be off entirely any minute.”
They examined the sneaker and even Judy hadn’t the heart to gloat or to
say, “We told you so.”
Marian lifted her head from the stone. “Please, all of you, go ahead
without me. You’ll find me here when you get back. I’ll drink in the
view. In fact, I’ll do anything but climb another foot of this mountain.
Unfortunately, I’ll have to climb down!”
Mr. Lurie laughed. “Marian, you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten and
rested a few minutes longer. You’ll get your second wind.”
“Second wind!” She moved uneasily to a different position. “I used that
up long ago. What I need is a pair of bellows to keep my lungs going, to
say nothing of a relay of fresh, untrodden feet!”
Judy too couldn’t help laughing. She sat down next to Marian and fed her
pieces of orange. She put a sandwich in her hand and coaxed her to take
a bite, then another, until it was finished.
“You’ll be all right, Marian. I have an idea. Father has some string in
his knapsack. Fran can wind it around your sneaker to reinforce it so
that it holds.”
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
“Please,” Marian pleaded, “all of you, go ahead and that includes Karl.
I’ll sleep here peacefully with the birds and beasts—and mountains, and
dream peacefully of a hotel room with a hot, steaming bath!”
“No,” Karl said firmly, “I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“It’s a darn shame,” Fran protested. “You’re the one, Karl, who wanted
to see Maroon Peak most of all.” He turned dejectedly to Mr. Lurie.
“What do you say, Professor?”
“I agree with Karl. We can’t leave Marian alone. There’s no actual
danger. We don’t expect any landslide or sudden snow flurry.” He looked
at the unclouded sky. “But,” he paused as he tried to hide his own
disappointment, “maybe we should give up and all of us return together.”
Judy looked heart-broken. “Marian, I know you feel better now. Why don’t
you let Fran fix your sneaker?” she urged. “I know it worked with a girl
who went up Mt. Washington with me! We’ve gone three quarters of the
way. To turn back now is to admit defeat! You’re spoiling everybody’s
fun. Don’t you see!”
“No, I don’t see. But I don’t want to be a spoilsport either.” She
dragged herself to a sitting position.
“Once I played in a golf tournament,” she went on. “At the end of
eighteen holes the score was tied. I’d just gotten over the flu and I
shouldn’t have played at all. I was all beat out but I played another
nine holes before the match was finished. It didn’t kill me. All right,
you win!”
Judy felt a new respect, almost an affection for this girl whom she had
secretly called her “hated rival.”
Fran fixed the offending sneaker and then he announced in his best
“guided-tour voice,” “Let everyone attend to his needs.” And with that
command the boys and Mr. Lurie discreetly retired to a declivity and
were quickly out of sight.
“Where are they going?” Marian asked.
“You know. You heard Fran. This gives us our chance too. I’ve learned on
other mountain trips,” she said as she led Marian down to a deep cleft
among the rocks.
16
NEAR TRAGEDY AND RESCUE
The last hour was brutal. Mr. Lurie took the lead with Karl and Judy
close behind. On hands and knees they crawled over boulders until they
secured a foothold. At one spot Judy was left dangling until her father
and Karl inched toward her on their stomachs and pulled her to safety.
Marian’s role was more passive. The coil of rope that Judy had
skeptically regarded as a showpiece for Fran now proved its usefulness.
Tied under Marian’s arms, he hauled her over rocks and boulders she
pluckily attempted but could not scale.
At last they reached the summit. Their salute to the mountain peak was
brief. A sharp wind blew through their wet and clammy sweaters. Jackets
and windbreakers were pulled from knapsacks. They stood awed and
shivering, surrounded by the nearby peaks, silent in the vastness of its
forbidding grandeur. Only the cairns, little heaps of massed stones,
marked the path of retreat to a world of safety. Mr. Lurie put his arm
around Judy and held her close. Fran, as moved as the others,
relentlessly pointed to the slanting rays of the sun.
Ten minutes later, they began the descent. Fran rushed ahead with Karl
and Judy followed him down the dizzying path. It was fun racing down at
almost breakneck speed. The boulders that had defied them and were so
hard to grip on the upward climb were friendly on the descent. They sat
and slid down, the well-padded leather seats of their pants taking the
punishment instead of their young, tough bodies.
Looking back at intervals, they saw Mr. Lurie patiently guiding Marian
down the trail, supporting her as she slid down the slippery boulders.
Still high above them on the trail, they looked unbelievably small
silhouetted against a background of rock and sky.
With high spirits and exuberant bursts of laughter, the three
forerunners reached the plateau they had left only an hour and a half
earlier and were content to rest as they waited for Marian and Mr.
Lurie.
“If you’re game, we can take another trail down,” Fran said. “It’s a
little tough in places, but much shorter. We’ll see what they say when
they get here.”
When Mr. Lurie and Marian approached and were within hailing distance,
Fran called, “Hurry, I want to—”
He got no further. He and his companions eyed Marian with amazement. Her
jeans were torn. Long strips of fabric hung in ribbons and light pink
stuff showed through the rents of the once slick garment. Her cap was
gone and Mr. Lurie’s leather jacket hung loosely on her shoulders. With
her rumpled curls falling limply over her brow, she looked like a
desperate young bandit.
“Well, here I am,” she greeted them, “a thing of rags and patches, minus
the patches.” She flopped down beside them with an anguished “Oh!” as
her knees crumpled under her.
Fran gave her a sad, appraising glance. “I was just saying, there’s
another trail down. We’ll have to slide on some ice, but it’s nothing
much and we can save an hour, maybe more.”
Mr. Lurie shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we better stick to the
same trail even if it’s longer.”
Marian perked up, suddenly alert. “Fran, did you say we can save an
hour? That would get us down by six or seven. Golly, what’s keeping us?
It can’t be worse than what I’ve been through already!”
“No,” Fran said reassuringly, “in many ways it’s easier. Just a slide or
two, nothing to it.”
“Good! I’m ready,” she said, getting up shakily. “The sooner this
ghastly trip is over, the better.” She tenderly felt her mud-spattered,
torn jeans. “If these rents get any worse, I may be very anxious for
night to fall,” she said, still able to smile at herself.
In twenty minutes they reached a gully, crossed it, and came to what
looked like an icefield. At one extremity it sloped precipitously and
beyond it lay a stretch of flat land with scrub.
“From there on,” Fran gestured, “there’s a trail going straight down. I
heard it was once the bed of a river made from centuries of melting snow
from the mountain top. Anyhow, the trail’s pretty dry at this time of
year. Steep all right, but short.”
He picked up a large, sturdy stick that lay discarded among the stones
and walked on the ice, hitting it several times, testing it.
“Couldn’t be better.” He turned and faced his companions. “Each of us
will in turn sit on this ledge of ice, getting as close to the very edge
as we can. Then let yourself go. Slide down the ice. That’s all there is
to it. I’ll go down first. Remember, the main thing is to let yourself
go—easy like. There’s some brush that I’ll grab as I hit the bottom and
break my speed. Then I roll over. But you don’t have to worry about
that. I’ll be there as you come down.”
He threw down the stick, adjusted his rope and knapsack, and sat down on
the ice as if on his own toboggan. Without another word, he slid down
the ice. It was over. Before they knew it, they saw him roll over, pick
himself up, and wave. Mr. Lurie went next, then Karl. There were the
three of them waving and smiling, urging Judy and Marian to follow.
Judy turned to Marian, “You want to go next?”
“No, you go. I want to see how you make out.”
Judy sat down as the others had, closed her eyes to block out the steep
drop. She shot out like an arrow and before she knew it, she felt her
father’s powerful arms grasping her.
She stood up now and waved with the others. “Come on, Marian, it’s
nothing.”
“What’s she waiting for?” grumbled Fran.
Marian stood there, Fran’s discarded stick in her hand, looking like a
statue contemplating the ice.
All yelled together, “Sit down! Slide! Don’t keep standing there!”
She heard them for her answer came clearly. “No, I can’t sit down on
that cake of ice! It’s too cold. I’ll go down standing. I’ve got the
stick.”
“You’re crazy,” Fran shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to make
sure his voice carried. “Sit down! Don’t be an idiot! Sit!”
Before he could shout another warning, she stepped firmly on the icy
slope, took another step—a terrifying shriek tore the air! They saw the
stick fly from her hand. She pitched forward, doubled over, then rolled
down the other side of the precipice.
Judy couldn’t look—was afraid to look. Fran’s practiced eye marked the
direction and he and Mr. Lurie ran to where she fell. Karl and Judy,
panting with fright, followed.
She lay there stunned—or dead. They didn’t know which. They could only
hear their own heavy breathing. Fran was bent over her. Mr. Lurie was on
his knees with Fran. They touched her hands, her face. She opened her
eyes.
“That you, Professor?” She tried to smile but the pain in her badly
bruised face made the smile a grimace. “You see, I got here on my own
after all.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She tried to turn her head.
“I just want to investigate—the damage.”
“Don’t move, Marian!” Mr. Lurie said quickly. His face was pale, his
voice tense. “You may be badly hurt. At first one can’t tell ... shock,
you know—”
“Nothing hurts, except—all of me.” Again, that grimace of a smile.
“Ouch! My ankle!”
Fran looked stern. “You’re mighty lucky! If you’d rolled another hundred
feet—there’s a sheer drop over there.” He shook his head, the picture of
misery. “I’ll never understand why you did it.”
There was no further talk. Mr. Lurie and Fran made a carry out of Fran’s
rope, cutting it and weaving it like a basket. They spread their jackets
over the rope and carried Marian gently to a spot where shrub and a huge
rock gave some shelter from the wind. Her ankle bulged big over the
sneaker, which miraculously held together. Extra sweaters were piled on
Marian, whose teeth were now clattering like castanets.
“I’ve got something to fix her up,” Karl said as he took a large thermos
from his rucksack. “Hot coffee! Uncle Yahn’s idea.”
It was a godsend. Marian sipped it as if it were nectar and immediately
felt warmer. Judy and the others had a few good swallows and nothing
ever tasted half as good.
Mr. Lurie now took command. “Fran, go down the trail. Make as good time
as you can and notify the ski lodge of the accident. They’ll send up
relief. They always do. That’s the unwritten code among mountain
climbers. Judy will go with you. Karl and I will remain with Marian.
After the ski lodge has been notified, try to get Judy home. Her mother
will start to worry. Oh, yes,” he said as an afterthought, “have you the
keys to Marian’s car?”
Fran nodded.
“Good! That will help rounding up volunteers.”
Fran stood irresolute. “I think maybe you should go down the trail with
me, not Judy. We can make better time and you’re the one who can get a
rescue party together.”
“He’s right, Father,” Judy broke in. “Let me stay with Marian and Karl.”
After a moment’s hesitancy, Mr. Lurie agreed that this was the wisest
thing to do. Without another word he took off his sweat shirt and made
Judy put it on. Fran did the same, giving his to Karl. Neither of them
now had any protection against the increasing cold and wind except their
thin cotton shirts.
Judy protested but Mr. Lurie said, “Don’t worry about us. At the speed
we’ll be going, we’ll keep warm enough.”
He stood there for a moment thinking. “It’ll be four or five hours, if
we’re lucky, before anyone can get here. The cold’s going to get worse.
Keep close as you can to each other. Your bodies will provide some heat.
So long, kids. Keep your chins up!”
With that he and Fran were gone.
It was a long vigil. Judy and Karl sat huddled together close to Marian.
Darkness fell quickly. They tried to pass the hours talking of school,
their plans for the future. They sang snatches of songs and discovered
to their surprise they dozed off while they thought they were still
singing, only to wake, cramped and stiff with the cold.
They had no watch by which to measure the passing hours, but when the
moon lighted up the dismal, fearsome darkness, they cheered! They knew
how much the moonlight could ease it for those who, guided only by
lantern, must make the steep, hazardous climb to reach them!
In one of the quiet lulls between sleep and wakefulness, Judy, no longer
able to bear the increasing pangs of hunger as well as the weight of
silence said, “I know a poem. It’s called ‘The Trail’ and it’s symbolic
too. My grandfather wrote it for my grandmother.”
“Good,” Marian drawled from under her heap of jackets. “We’re the
helpless victims. We’ll listen.”
“I’m not sure I remember it exactly—”
“So you’ll skip a few lines. We won’t know the difference.”
“Want to hear it, Karl?” Judy asked, suddenly feeling shy.
“Of course I do.”
“You know,” Judy said half defensively, “my grandparents climbed
mountains all their lives, even went up Mt. Rainier.”
“Never mind the build-up. Just begin,” Marian ordered, like a stage
manager.
Judy cleared her throat.
The rocky trail
Steep-periled cliffs and far below
The deep ravine where mountain torrents flow.
Stay for a moment on this extended ledge.
Look back the way we’ve come.
Far, far below the starting of The Trail
The distant lakes that lie like mirrors
To the Heavens.
The hush of silence, the stillness of the scene,
The circling hawk, the woods, the valleyed hills
A panorama of the world. One seems enchanted in a land of dreams
Come, come away. I ask no better trail than this;
Thy voice, thy love, thy hand in mind, thy kiss.
“It’s beautiful,” Karl whispered. “Do you think I’ll ever meet your
grandfather?”
“Yes. He knows all about you.”
“But he left out a lot of things a realist like myself would have
included,” Marian said with a sigh. “That’s the trouble with being a
poet. What would rhyme with broken ankles or shredded pants!”
“I suppose,” Marian went on, as she cautiously tried to change her
position, “you’ve sharpened a carload of pencils to carry on and maybe
even snatch the mantle from your grandfather!”
Embarrassed, Judy muttered, “I’ve never been able to write even a
jingle!”
She impulsively put her hand on Marian’s. “I know how you must feel, all
that pain and probably starving too. Why don’t you lay your head on my
lap—you tell her, Karl! That rock must be cutting ridges in her scalp!”
Marian took the proffered hand. “Why stop at the scalp?” she said
lightly. “I’m certain it’s penetrated deep below the bony structure. I
wouldn’t be at all surprised if the brain was in danger! At least it
certainly feels addled. No thanks, Judy dear, I’ll stay as I am.
Besides, one pain offsets another. I didn’t know I was hungry until you
mentioned it.”
It was the first time Marian had displayed any affection for Judy. There
was a significant pause. Then Marian went on.
“I have to get something off my chest. For weeks I thought of you as an
insufferable brat and,” she went on quickly before Judy could interrupt,
“I know what you thought of me—a vampire trying to ensnare Karl! Don’t
deny it! You gave yourself away more than once,” she gloated happily.
“Stop talking such rot!” Karl said, bristling with suppressed anger.
“Between the two of you—”
But Marian went on serenely. “Now I take it all back. I like you, Judy,
and I hope you like me.”
“Marian, you’re just the most,” Judy gulped. “I guess I was—I don’t
know—maybe I didn’t take the trouble to understand you. I was awful,”
she said, on the verge of tears.
“As for Karl,” Marian continued in a voice as if she had already joined
the heavenly choir—“I have a Karl of my own. His name happens to be
Charles, which is close enough. He’s very sweet—too much money for his
own good—too much of a playboy—but very sweet,” she repeated sleepily.
“And now I think I’ll take a little nap.” With that she closed her eyes.
When the rescue party arrived, they found the three fast asleep, fallen
on each other, in a state of complete exhaustion. Awakened, they were
given hot drinks and food. Marian was lifted onto a stretcher and
covered with blankets. There were sweaters and coats for Judy and Karl,
and friendly hands helped them down the mountain. By midnight they
reached the foot of the trail. An ambulance waited there and in less
than an hour Marian was in Pitkin County Hospital. Her mother and the
impeccably dressed Charles flew in from Chicago the next day to visit
the invalid. They found her holding court with two Appalachian mountain
climbers, visitors in Aspen, a reporter from the _Aspen Times_, a
photographer, and others.
For two issues the _Aspen Times_ featured the story as “Dramatic
Adventure Up Maroon Peak.” Marian, looking very chic in her elegant
lounging robe, was photographed with her broken ankle, chipped knee,
lacerations, and bruises under the caption, “Lucky Girl.” Fran, Karl,
Mr. Lurie, and Judy also came in for their share of glory.
But the real heroes, the _Aspen Times_ noted in its editorial, were the
six volunteers who reacted immediately to the plight of those on the
mountain.
“... there are no tangible rewards. No law requires them to undergo the
physical hardship and possible danger to aid the injured girl.
“We are proud of the men who answer to an unwritten code, always present
in the mountains, to go to the aid of his fellow man when in danger. The
men who participated in the rescue are the real heroes and merit the
gratitude of all.”
None subscribed more feelingly to this sentiment than did the little
band of five who were the principals in this adventure on Maroon
Mountain.
17
CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON
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.”
18
A DREAM IS CRYSTALLIZED
“Cute, aren’t they?” The woman smiled indulgently at the man standing
beside her, as she watched Judy and Karl make their way through the maze
of guests.
The man nodded. “I’ve seen them together many times—those who’ve
forgotten call it ‘puppy love.’ It’s a beautiful time! Wedekind calls it
‘Spring’s Awakening.’” The man looked thoughtful. “It can be desperately
serious too. I’ve never forgotten my first—”
The boy and girl couldn’t help hearing the whispered words and tried to
look as if they hadn’t heard.
They stood on the porch a moment. The sky was heavy with stars
brightened by the crescent moon. It was so wonderful to be together away
from the prying eyes of others. They walked arm in arm down the silent
street, absorbed in their thoughts.
Judy wondered about her mother; her recent turnabout, her surrender. We
love each other. Why do we hurt each other so often? She glanced at
Karl. His face was serious. Had it anything to do with the news he
wished to tell her?
When they reached the Chairlift, Karl’s face brightened. “Let’s sit
here. This is where we ate our first sandwich together.” He smiled.
“Remember?”
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
They sat close, their arms and hands interlocked.
“It’s too bad you have to leave so soon—”
“I know. I just hope Grandfather’s illness isn’t serious. It frightens
me!”
“It can’t be so bad, otherwise your grandmother would have telegraphed.”
“I guess you’re right. He was never sick a day until that attack four
years ago. A walk with him or a talk was an adventure.” She stopped,
embarrassed. “You must be tired hearing me speak of him so much.”
“You know very well that isn’t so. Actually since I’ve known you and
have heard you talk about grandparents, aunts and cousins, I’ve had a
longing to be part of a big, interesting family.”
Judy nodded. “It is fun when the clan gets together. Grandmother’s house
can expand like an accordion. My cousins and I usually beg to sleep
overnight. Couches miraculously open into double beds, cots are hauled
from the attic. It’s bedlam, really, but we love it. On Thanksgiving Day
two turkeys are necessary to feed the hungry mob. The Seder, the
Passover Feast, is unforgettable—dignified and joyous. The story of the
Passover, the Exodus from Egypt is especially interesting today—the
songs are fun and such food—until you could burst!” She smiled at Karl.
“You’ve been to a Seder, haven’t you?”
“Not for a long time. Not since—My mother is sad at such times.”
“Next year you and your mother will come to us,” Judy said with warmth.
“We’d love it. After all, a table that seats twenty-five can just as
easily have two more.”
After a moment she said, “A big family’s pretty wonderful but when you
come down to it, it’s your own parents that matter. You have to live
with them!” She smiled, “and they with us! I’ve discovered in the last
year or two that parents don’t understand their children, at least in
the growing-up stage. I’m not speaking just for myself. Girls at school
have talked to me and they admit there’s a sort of undeclared war
between them and their parents.”
“What do kids that age have to complain about? I think you exaggerate.
Small tensions exist everywhere. Parents are only human.”
“I don’t exaggerate, Karl. Believe me, there’s always something to argue
about! If it isn’t clothes, and their taste is awful, then it’s money!
You’re either a spendthrift or a miser. If you happen to hate math, they
think you should make a special effort and deliver A grades. Your
reading is either childish or far beyond your years. They disapprove of
your best friend and look aghast when at the age of fourteen you wish to
go to a party to which boys are invited!” Judy shook her head solemnly.
“I tell you, either they interfere and make your life miserable or
ignore you altogether!”
Karl laughed. “You can’t be serious. Your father is terrific and so is
your mother. You don’t know how lucky you are to have such parents.”
“Yes, I do,” Judy said, on the defensive at once. “I love them. I’m
proud of them, but I don’t understand them. I used to think that Father
was always making fun of me. But now I’m beginning to enjoy his brand of
humor. This summer at Aspen has really made a big difference. He and I
are pals. But Mother is different. It could be funny if it weren’t so
irritating. She treats me like a subject in one of those child-study
books she used to read.” Judy shook her head. “She hasn’t the faintest
idea what goes on in my head, or of my feelings. At least so it appears
sometimes—”
For the first time Karl looked sympathetic. “I guess that’s true of all
mothers. I’m in that sort of jam myself.”
“You?” Judy said incredulously. “You’ve said your mother lives only for
you!”
“Yes, that’s just the trouble,” Karl said gloomily. “It all started
since Mr. Werther came into our lives. That’s what I wanted to talk to
you about. Your father knows, from what Uncle Yahn told him the night we
were at your house and what I’ve told him since.”
“I remember overhearing some things your uncle said—and that your mother
met Mr. Werther through some—”
Karl nodded. “Mr. Werther calls it fate ... my mother, the hand of God.”
“Tell me the rest,” Judy urged.
“Mr. Werther asked many questions about me. Need I tell you that she
plunged into the subject with enthusiasm! She showed him my photograph,
the prizes I had won—” He shrugged his shoulders. “In short, she gave it
as her unbiased opinion that I was a budding genius! Being pressed for
more details, she admitted we were poor and with few friends.”
Karl went on. “Mr. Werther is rich. He’s married, but has no family.
Music is still his passion and is bound up in his love and remembrance
of my father. He offered almost at once to become my patron. You know
what that means, Judy?”
“I guess so. A sort of benefactor?”
“Well, yes, a patron is a lover of arts who has money and wishes to
encourage some struggling musician or artist. It’s not a new idea. In
medieval times it was the Church that commissioned paintings, allowed
the artist to flourish. Sometimes it was the government or a nobleman
who provided this encouragement. Today Foundations do the same.
“Anyhow,” Karl went on. “Mr. Werther became fired with this idea. My
mother was quite carried away by his generosity. Both agreed I should be
consulted. My mother wrote all this in her letters. She was careful to
add that after all the offer was made on impulse. He wished to speak to
his wife and that we must not count on it too much. I was interested but
I gave it little serious thought. It was something for the distant
future, if at all.”
Judy’s face was downcast. Karl asked, “Do you really want to hear all
this?”
“Of course. Please don’t stop every minute.”
Thus prodded, Karl continued. “Last week Mr. Werther came again, this
time with his wife. He had made all the necessary inquiries and had a
definite program. He goes to Europe every year on business. Next year,
after I graduate in June, he expects me to go with him. No more talk of
consulting me. The plan is ready. I go to Europe, study in Paris and so
on—”
“And does your mother now object?” Judy asked, suddenly hopeful of an
unexpected ally.
“Far from it! Judging from her letters, the sooner, the better!”
Judy’s face was now as gloomy as Karl’s.
Fumbling for words, Karl tried to explain this change in his mother.
Loyal as he was, he could not conceal his resentment. “She doesn’t care
that I’m to be uprooted again or separated from those I care so much
about—” He looked yearningly at Judy. “It’s only my career that matters
to her now!”
“But wasn’t that always uppermost with her?” Judy asked, trying to be
fair.
“Not the way it is now. Happiness was a goal as well as one’s ambition.
We worked hard but we both loved what we were doing—for each other.
She’s changed, I tell you. She’s possessed by this—glitter of my
success.” He sat there thinking.
“When I wrote to her about the wonderful friends I made in Aspen, your
parents, you, Fran and Marian, she wrote with such happiness, grateful
that I had such warm friends. But after Mr. Werther came with his golden
promises, her letters became enigmas. New words, new
phrases—‘single-mindedness of purpose, friends must not be allowed to
take time from hours needed for study or practice,’ a whole philosophy
on how to become the great and successful musician!”
Judy’s heart ached for Karl. With amazing intuition she understood that
his anger was less directed at his mother than at himself and the choice
he must make.
“I don’t want to be pushed,” he said finally. “I have my own ideas.
Maybe I could get a scholarship and go on as I have, take my chances. I
admit that at first I thought it a pleasant thing to have Mr. Werther
obligingly in the wings, like a good fairy, until I gave the signal. Now
it is he and my mother who give the signals.”
Judy felt crushed. Her beautiful dream of love and romance was
disintegrating into thin air. How could she combat the forces against
her? Karl’s mother, her own, Mr. Werther—and Karl? Was he so sure of
himself? Wasn’t he glad at first? What really mattered was Karl’s
future! It was hard to look at the question objectively, as if it were
someone else, not one about whom she cared.
Karl took a letter from his pocket. “Maybe I haven’t done justice to my
mother or her reasons,” he said, with a tinge of self-reproach in his
voice. “She’d gladly keep on working all her life. It’s only my good she
wishes.
“This came yesterday. Will you hold this flashlight so I can see.” He
turned the pages. “I’ll read part of it to you.
“‘... Karl, my son, there are hundreds of talented boys who may or may
not be as gifted as you. Everyone cannot get scholarships. There just
aren’t enough. To be able to study with the best teachers, to do this
without worries about money or part-time jobs—the freedom from such
responsibilities often makes the difference between a mediocre player
and a great one. And later one must be heard. Where is the money to come
from in order to play before the right audiences? Write to Mr. Werther
that you accept his generous offer.
“‘Put away your childish thoughts. Running up and down mountains!
Friends are not so important. That can come later when you have the time
for it.
“‘The few years ahead may be lonely, for me certainly, but I do not
hesitate, nor must you—’”
Judy’s hand shook as she held the light. “Your mother is brave!” she
said feelingly, for the first time forgetful of her own unhappiness.
Karl folded the letter, put the flashlight back in his pocket.
“I must write to Mr. Werther. But what? He’s waiting to hear from me. He
doesn’t know me. He’s never heard me play. Suppose I don’t live up to
his expectations—and all that money wasted!” He touched Judy’s hair, no
longer the thick pony tail, but hanging soft and luxuriant on her neck.
“Here I am bothering you with my troubles and uncertainties.” He shook
his head. “Although you’re a kid as years go, you’ve lived all your life
with musicians. You must have heard some of their problems discussed.
Tell me, how does all this strike you?”
“I’m thinking, thinking hard, Karl.” She stared in front of her. She
must be honest. Suppose this chance had come to another boy, not to
Karl, not to the boy she loved. What would she say? She was remembering
her mother and father speaking. Why had this friend not taken the
position in the orchestra he had wanted so much? Was it because he
didn’t feel good enough? No, it was money! He just couldn’t afford to
wait the six months or more before the position came through. His family
needed money. He took a job with a musical show instead.
“These men,” her father had said, “never get back to the playing they’ve
been trained for and really love.”
But Karl with Mr. Werther’s help can get to the top! She pressed her
hands together as if seeking some inner strength. “It’s a wonderful
opportunity, Karl!” She was surprised at her voice, its fire and
enthusiasm. “You shouldn’t hesitate. Such a chance may never come
again!”
The flame in her eyes kindled his. “That’s what your father said to me
tonight.”
He took her hands in his, pressing them until they hurt. “I feel as if a
stone has been lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t know how much I wanted
you to say just that.”
“And you’ll leave in June?” Her voice was small. Her heart, now that it
had spoken, felt like lead.
And Karl, in his unexpected feeling of relief, noticed nothing of the
effort it had cost Judy to speak so honestly. “We have months before
us—fall, winter, spring! And after I leave, long letters to and from
each other across the ocean. This is not the end for us, Judy, only the
beginning of something wonderful—”
Judy shivered. Karl took off his coat and placed it on her shoulders.
His arm tightened, holding her close to him.
“Autumn comes early in the mountains.”
His head was close to hers. “I can’t put into words what you’ve meant to
me. I’ve found the sweetest, the most wonderful girl in the world.
You’ll wait for me, Judy—You must! You’ll be going to college—” Their
lips met.
A burst of harsh laughter made them draw hastily apart. Two boys, not
much older than Karl, came from their hiding place and stood before them
jeering.
“You call that a kiss? Need any help? Give her a good squeeze—that’s
what the kid’s asking for!” They laughed uproariously. There were more
jests, unpleasant—the boys came closer.
Judy tried to hide her face on Karl’s shoulder but he got up and
advanced toward them.
“Beat it,” he said sternly, “and be quick about it.”
“Look, Romeo’s looking for a fight!”
“Aw, come on,” the other said, “let’s leave the smoochers alone!”
They ambled off, looking back every few steps to laugh, to whistle,
until they were out of sight.
“Thank heaven, they’re gone,” Judy whispered. “I was frightened.”
“The movies must be over,” Karl said absently, as he sat down and put
his arm protectingly around Judy. “Last year, I went with Uncle Yahn to
Hanover, to help him on some business matter. Late in the afternoon we
went to a movie. The place was crowded with college students. At every
love scene there were catcalls—they pelted the screen with peanuts. I
couldn’t understand why they did it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Nor do
I understand them,” and he motioned to the two figures disappearing down
the street.
“Don’t think about them,” Judy whispered. She wanted to hear again the
words so lovingly spoken, words so full of promise for their future. But
the tender mood was gone. Karl stood up.
“Come, Judy, it’s time for us to go.”
They walked back slowly, their bodies pressed close, wishing they could
walk on and on. They forgot the inevitable separation, the drive and
ambition of the most devoted of mothers. A sweetness enveloped them, a
confidence in their future they could neither understand nor explain.
Karl stood before Judy’s home as if he couldn’t bear to break away.
“I’ll telephone to you as soon as I return to New York.”
“Mother and I will be staying at my grandparents’ for a week, maybe two.
I gave you their address and telephone number, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” He stood there awkwardly. “Good-bye, Judy. Say good-bye to your
mother for me. I’ll see your father every day, I guess. Good-bye again—”
He bent down and kissed her on the mouth, holding her tight. Without
another word he rushed down the path.
As in a trance, Judy walked into the house. The guests were gone. Only
the hall was lighted. She climbed the stairs to her room.
“Is that you, Judy?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I was just beginning to worry what was keeping you so late.” Her mother
spoke evenly but Judy could detect the annoyance in her voice.
“Get to sleep quickly, dear.”
Judy lay huddled on her bed, her clothes negligently tossed on a chair.
She murmured to herself, “He loves me—thank Heaven, he loves me—” She
closed her eyes to live over again this last wonderful hour.
Between half-consciousness and sleep, she saw Karl bowing before a great
audience in Carnegie Hall, a Stradivarius under his arm. She, looking
beautiful and elegantly dressed, sat in a stage box. As the wife of the
newly acclaimed artist—her lips trembled, overcome with joy.
A hand lightly touched her forehead. “Feel all right?” It was her
mother. “I got up to get a blanket and saw the light on in your room—”
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
“Forgot, I guess,” Judy’s eyelids flickered for a second. She turned on
her side to continue dreaming.
Mrs. Lurie, sighed, shook her head, and turned off the light.
19
FAREWELL TO ASPEN
Pale and apathetic, Judy waited on the porch for the Little Percent to
take them to Denver. It was cold. A mist hung over the valley. The
elation of the previous night was gone. Through the open door she could
hear her parents talking. What can she know of life ... hardship ...
disappointments ... give her stability, direction—They mean me, she
thought bitterly. Then her father’s comforting words about Grandfather—
The car swung briskly before the house. Fran jumped out, picked up the
suitcases from the porch, and hurriedly whispered to Judy as he passed,
“Sit up front with me. You don’t want to sit with them,” indicating with
a nod the other passengers in the car.
While Fran stowed away the luggage, the Luries stood at the curb. John
kissed his wife and helped her into the car. Judy still gazed at the
mountains, overhung with low clouds. She sighed heavily. She felt her
father’s hand. He started to say something about Karl. Instead he took
her in his arms. “Clouds have a way of disappearing,” he said gently,
“just as yours will.” He wanted to see her smile. “You’ll soon get a
glimpse of the two characters on the back seat. They’re smothered in
robes and scarves all set for a polar expedition.” He chuckled. “The
ladies may be young and beautiful, but who can tell?” Judy returned his
smile.
Mrs. Lurie was already seated with the two characters—caricatures would
more aptly describe them, Judy thought. Yet they looked vaguely
familiar.
“Would it be all right, Mother, if I sat up front with Fran? This little
straight-back seat doesn’t look too—”
“Of course, dear. You’ll be more comfortable.”
The car rushed forward in a cloud of dust with Mr. Lurie’s voice
trailing it, “Don’t forget to send me the wire when your plane reaches
New York.”
Aspen was soon left behind. From the back seat came a continuous stream
of talk. Whenever her mother addressed her, Judy turned with a dull,
indifferent glance. It was during one of these fleeting moments that
Mrs. Lurie attempted an introduction to their fellow passengers. “This
is Miss Simms and Miss Clark—” Judy, wrapped in her own thoughts,
couldn’t care less.
The sun broke through the heavy mist and the two ladies peeled off
several layers of covering. For all Judy’s abstraction, she couldn’t
help identifying them through their formal address of each other.
“Miss Simms, that mountain is Granite.”
“Look at the map, Miss Clark, it’s Mt. Massive.”
The gray, fuzzy ringleted Miss Clark in her mouselike turban was still
cheering for Granite. Miss Simms, her hair a shiny black, two spots of
rouge giving her an odd, clownlike look, stoutly maintained otherwise.
Suddenly Judy remembered: These were the two birdlike visitors whom she
had tried to sketch at the Seminar Building.
“I see you lost your job as guide,” Judy remarked to Fran.
He nodded, “Teachers are smart but queer. Imagine, they came to the
office yesterday just to find out the exact route so they could be
prepared with maps and things.”
“Not music teachers?”
“No, High School. They were in Aspen three weeks and took in every
lecture night and day and concerts in between.” Fran shook his head over
such incredible industry. “In the fifteen minutes they were in the
office they gave me advice as if I were their long lost brother.”
“About what?”
“About learning. ‘You don’t want to be a cab driver all your life? How
about studying at night? Or taking correspondence courses. There are
some good ones.’” Fran shrugged his shoulders. “I told them I like what
I’m doing—making money, helping Mom out with the kids, skiing in winter,
and I make money then too, enjoying life. They looked kind of disgusted
or maybe just disappointed. ‘Where’s your ambition?’ they asked.”
The car made a turn skirting a deep precipice. Accustomed to Fran’s
sadistic pleasure in scaring his passengers, Judy repressed her own
impulse to cry out. Besides, there had been enough terrified “Ohs”
during the last two hours.
“Will I be thankful when we get to Leadville,” Miss Clark said
resignedly. “I understand we can get an excellent meal there—a
restaurant famous in the old silver-mining days.”
“I’m hungry too. How much longer will it be before we get there?”
Fran turned around squarely, an old habit of his. “In about an hour or
so.”
“Don’t you dare turn around like that!” came the stern rebuke. “Look,
another car’s approaching.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Simms, that car’s not moving, waiting for us to pass,
I guess.”
They approached the waiting car. It rested precariously on the edge of
the road, part of it in the deep gully. A young man stood beside it, an
anxious smile on his unshaven face.
“What’s the trouble?” Fran asked, sticking his head out of the window.
“I hit one of those rocks.”
Fran didn’t wait to hear any more. He got out, followed by all his
passengers.
“The rocks must have fallen during the night,” the man went on. “I was
trying to steer clear of one boulder when I hit the other. The tire
blew. I guess we were lucky at that.”
A baby’s wail startled the group. “Is that a baby crying?”
The man pointed to a piece of flat ground partially hidden by scrub and
trees. “My wife’s over there. The little feller hasn’t stopped yelling
for an hour.”
Mrs. Lurie started toward the clearing, followed by the teachers and
Judy.
“Can we be of any help?” Mrs. Lurie timidly inquired.
The young woman looked up, a radiant smile transfiguring her thin face.
She was sitting on a rug untidily surrounded by cans, pots, and zippered
bags.
“Awfully nice of you folks to stop,” she said, talking over the head of
the screaming child. “I was beginning to think ours was the only car on
this terrible road. Your driver going to help my Jim?”
“Of course,” Judy said quickly. “He’s getting the tools out of the trunk
right now.”
“What a beautiful baby!” cooed Miss Simms.
“Beautiful,” echoed Miss Clark.
“I was just thinking maybe I should warm some milk. He won’t touch the
nice bologna sandwich we brought along.”
Miss Simms shuddered visibly. “Maybe it’s just as well the little man
refused it. Why don’t you and Mrs. Lurie see about the milk. Miss Clark
and I will amuse the baby.” She firmly took hold of the protesting
child.
“High-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle—” on and on went the
strangely sweet tones, while Miss Clark bounced the baby up and down in
what even Judy knew was thoroughly unorthodox fashion. The baby quieted
... smiled.
“Judy,” Fran shouted. “Come over here and lend a hand. We’ve got to get
the car squarely on the road before we can take off the tire. Lucky
she’s light. You, Judy, grab the front with Jim. I’ll take the ditch
side. One, two, three, heave—” The car was set on the road.
In half an hour tube and tire were patched, air pumped in, and the spare
examined.
“Everything’s O.K. Where’d you say you were heading for, Jim?”
“Los Angeles. I’ve a good job I’m to take over in two weeks. A lucky
break. I was laid off back in Detroit for two months.”
Mrs. Jim joined them and placed the sleeping baby into the car bed. Her
bundles, neatly packed by the faithful, were beside her.
“Our only worry,” Jim went on, “is where we’re going to live. The
company couldn’t promise a thing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve got
to take our chances.”
“Not have a place to live—and with a baby—that’s awful!” Judy exclaimed
involuntarily.
Mrs. Jim turned. “No, it’s not awful. Jim’s got a job and we’ve got our
health. The rest is in the Lord’s hands. Didn’t He send you good people
along?”
A few minutes later they were saying good-bye after having wished each
other well. They drove off in opposite directions.
For a while something intangible silenced the energetic teachers.
Perhaps they and Mrs. Lurie were weighing the possible hazards that
still awaited Jim and his family.
Fran finally found his tongue. “I think it’s putting quite a strain on
the Lord to expect Him to send a car along—or find sleeping quarters!
Don’t you agree, Judy?”
“Maybe.” She was thinking of her own problems now dwarfed by the recent
encounter. “Faith is beautiful,” she said dreamily.
“Beautiful, but not sensible,” Fran answered with a skeptical grin.
An hour later they reached a town. Passing warehouses and unpretentious
stores, Fran drove straight to a plain-looking restaurant with an
enormous sign, “Welcome to Leadville and Walker’s Cafe and Bar.”
“Here’s where we eat,” Fran told the crestfallen Judy, who had envisaged
a gilded palace.
Seated at a longish wooden table, each studied the oversized menu card.
Next to such tempting items as sizzled hamburgers with Western
trimmings, steak hunter style, and the like were pictures of once famous
mines and in fine print, the history of Leadville. Judy, her appetite
for the printed word unimpaired, read avidly while munching her food.
“The population of Leadville, once sixty-five thousand, has dwindled to
five. Look, here’s a picture of Matchless that Horace Tabor gave to Baby
Doe!”
“What, another baby?” Miss Simms innocently inquired.
Judy shrugged her shoulders.
“Why of all things!” Miss Clark eagerly turned to Fran. “Climax is only
fifteen miles from here. Any chance of our passing it? It’s the biggest
molybdenum mine in the world.”
“No, I’m afraid not. What kind of a mine was that you mentioned?” Fran
asked, stumped for once.
“You mean molybdenum? It’s a metal used in steel. You see, being a
chemistry teacher, I happen to know about it.”
If there was anything left of the glamour of the old silver-mining days,
the Little Percenters got no glimpse of it. On they traveled over the
winding road, seven thousand feet high, the ravines dotted with mines
worked today for uranium and other strategic metals.
Barely leaving the towering peaks behind them, they drove into the
shining city of Denver, as impressive in its setting of modern
skyscrapers as Leadville was mean and dingy.
“We’ll soon be getting to the airport, Judy—”
“Yes, Fran.”
“I just wanted to tell you that Karl promised to write to me. Could
you—that is when you have time—would you—”
“Of course, I will. It’ll sort of be a link between us and Karl.”
“Thanks. I want to ask you something else. Do you think I should study
the way those teachers said?”
“It would be wonderful if you can manage. Why don’t you speak to them
before they go on the train? They’re very nice and kind. They like to
help people.”
“I will. One thing more. Books, the kind you and Karl go for—” He
paused, then smiling sheepishly, said, “Maybe I’m biting off more than I
can chew.”
“No. Books are wonderful. I can send them. We’ve shelves and shelves
filled with them. And I’ll get the list from our librarian. You’d be
surprised at the wonderful books there are, in the libraries just for
the asking.”
“You see, I don’t want Karl to be ashamed of me—when he comes back—maybe
famous.”
“When Karl comes back,” Judy’s voice shook a little, “we’ll have a grand
reunion in Aspen!”
At the airport, Mrs. Lurie shook hands warmly with the teachers, whom
she had gotten to know and like. To Fran she said, “You’re a fine driver
and a kind and capable young man.”
Judy too made amends for her early indifference. “We’re like ships that
pass in the night,” she told the astonished teachers, “friendly, helpful
ships,” and she smiled enigmatically.
The Little Percent with its remaining passengers drove off.
20
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
Judy, seated next to her mother, watched as the plane raced along the
runway and without a tremor felt it rise skyward. Experience had already
dulled the fine edge of wonder.
The girl slumped in her seat, closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. She
had to think. Her mother tentatively turned the pages of a book.
Judy’s brows were knitted, her lips moved wordlessly. Think things
out—face reality! How often in the months ahead could she see Karl? She
knew his demanding schedule: newspaper route ... final year at school
... homework ... violin lessons ... practice ... practice. The lone
pupil anxiously retained ... concerts ... people to see ... Mr. Werther
... preparations to leave ... when would there be time for her?
She had recoiled from the thought of the vast Atlantic Ocean dividing
them. But what of the hour and a half journey from his home in
Washington Heights to hers in Washington Square? No more would there be
the casual dropping in as at Aspen. No time for soul-searching talks,
their dreams and hopes: books, America, Israel, even religion! No, nor
hear him play some new, aborted little tune he’d just composed!
She recalled the romantic stories in magazines she affected to despise
but frequently enjoyed. “True love never runs smooth!” The magazines,
she acknowledged, had cheap, lurid covers but they tell the truth about
love! Her shoulders sank even lower nor could she restrain a deep sigh.
Mrs. Lurie let the book slide from her hands. She put an arm around her
daughter. Her heart ached for her and she wanted to say something. But
what? I can’t tell her she’ll probably get over it like a case of
measles! Mrs. Lurie blushed at her own callousness. Her fingers pressed
the girl’s shoulders, each finger saying, “I love you. I want to help
you. I want you to talk to me.”
Her eyes no longer pretending sleep, Judy responded to the unspoken
tenderness. “Mother, did Father tell you that Karl is going away for
perhaps years?”
“Yes, he told me last night.”
“And in the months before he goes, how often will I be able to see him?
He’s so busy,” she said dejectedly.
“If he wants to see you, he’ll make time somehow. Nothing will stop
him.”
“You think so?” A quick smile lighted the girl’s face, only to vanish a
moment later.
“He’ll be in a foreign country, meeting students from every part of the
world, maybe travel, get to know clever, sophisticated girls like
Marian—while I remain a dull schoolgirl. What is there so special to
remember about me!”
“You’re far from dull, Judy, and so much humility isn’t exactly becoming
to you or in character. Remember all the things you threatened to do!
Paint, write—”
She patted her affectionately. “Besides, Karl isn’t going on a picnic
exactly or touring Europe in the grand manner. He’ll have to work hard,
harder than ever. It isn’t only his violin technique, but studying and
understanding the great music of the old masters as well as the moderns.
He’ll need every ounce of concentrated effort. Since you love him and he
loves you, be content with that! Have faith in each other—”
Judy pondered. Faith—that’s what Mrs. Jim has.
Aloud she said, “A week ago, Mother, you spoke very differently. You
dismissed me and Karl as if—”
“I know.” Mrs. Lurie hurriedly broke in. “I didn’t believe you were old
enough or capable of feeling so deeply about a boy. I’ve done a lot of
thinking since then. Besides, you’re not going to sit idly waiting like
a lily in a pond, looking pale and wistful. In your way you’ll be as
busy as Karl.”
“You mean college?”
“Yes. Major in English as you so often said, or sociology. You seem to
have a curious bent in that direction, a heritage, no doubt, from your
grandmother. And you said you wanted to take up your music again—now
it’s sort of inevitable,” she laughed, “if only to keep pace with Karl.”
Mrs. Lurie paused. “Karl will meet young people and,” she added
cautiously, “so will you. You’ll have dates, have fun, and live the life
of a normal young girl. With work to do and plans to make for yourself
and others, the few years of so-called waiting will pass more quickly
than you now think possible.”
“I hope you’re right, Mother.” Judy’s spirits lifted.
In a crisp, matter-of-fact voice Mrs. Lurie went on, “Most young people
today have to endure separation before they are ready to make a life
together. They go to different colleges, are often compelled to take
jobs that take them far from their home moorings, like your Cousin
Robbie who got his first opportunity at engineering in South America.
And, of course, today young men have to serve in the armed forces,
usually overseas, even in peacetime. Yet, most of these early loves
endure.”
“I’m glad you say that, Mother,” Judy’s eyes shone.
Mrs. Lurie pressed the girl’s shoulder lovingly. She smiled a little
self-consciously. “It wasn’t only your grandparents whose love, as the
novels say, overcame all obstacles—”
“You and Father?”
Mrs. Lurie nodded.
“Funny, I never heard you speak about your romance. Why?”
“I don’t know. You never asked and we’ve been busy being happy and
enjoying our work. We never think of the past. Maybe when you’re old,
memories are more important. But as I look back, the years of waiting
didn’t hurt us. I saw many of my friends marry while still at college,
the boy and girl graduating together, sometimes with a baby on the
campus. Maybe we would have liked that too, but John was studying and
playing the viola in Philadelphia and getting his M.A. at the same time.
I had school and was studying voice in New York.” She smiled at the
recollection. “It only toughened our resolution to marry as soon as we
could.”
“I think it’s exciting to know about you and Father. It makes me happy.
If you could do it, so can I.”
“Of course, you can. There’s only one little difference. When your
father and I went together, what you youngsters call ‘going steady,’ I
was nineteen and your father, twenty-two.”
“Oh, Mother, what difference does a few years make! The main thing is
that we love each other. Karl is mature, much older than his years. Why
wouldn’t he be with all he’s gone through and endured? He’s not like the
boys who only live for a football game or having a good time.” She
clasped and unclasped her hands, then said quietly, “I want to be
perfect, be all that I know Karl admires. Of course, I won’t be able to,
not always. Maybe never. But I’m going to try.”
At her mother’s look of slight alarm, Judy laughed. “Don’t worry, I know
I can’t live like a hermit. I’ll go places and to parties when I’m
invited. But,” and she shook her head emphatically, “every boy will know
in advance I’m going steady, at least in spirit!” She laughed gaily at
her little joke.
It was now Mrs. Lurie who sighed, but with relief! Judy, for all her
acceptance of the role of waiting for her hero to return, would be no
princess locked up in her lonely castle. Her self-pity had vanished. She
was ready to admit that life wasn’t finished at sixteen.
Mother and daughter leaned back in their seats, relaxed, conscious of a
new closeness. Mrs. Lurie was wise enough to know there would not always
be clear and easy sailing in the months and years ahead. There would be
other storms, other moments of anger or dispute. But the basis for
understanding between them was deep and could never be shaken.