Part 7

Yes, it was a small triumph for Anne and for Judy as well. Mr. Lurie strutted about the camp accepting compliments, he who was so modest about his own work. And Mrs. Lurie, still sitting in the hot sun, smiled with pride whenever she caught her daughter’s eye.

Judy was grateful her mother had come. She knew it entailed her giving up an important rehearsal that morning and that she would have to make it up that afternoon and again in the evening. Her debut with the entire Festival Orchestra was only five days off. It was from Lynne and Allen that Judy learned how much depended on this performance. Success might lead to an engagement at the City Center Opera Company of New York! As Judy mopped her own moist face, she thought more than once that her mother ought to get out of that sun.

At last the picnic, the games, the excitement were over! The parents took the children home. Allen was busy burning rubbish while Lynne and Judy were methodically taking down the exhibits.

Judy was thankful the tension of the last few days was behind her. Now she would have the leisure to think. Why hadn’t she heard from Karl in five days? Had she said anything? Absent-mindedly she fingered a puppet and threw it into the rubbish heap.

“What are you doing?” Lynne asked sharply. “Those puppets are not to be thrown out! The children expect to take them home.”

She glanced at Judy’s troubled face, then said with her usual gentleness, “Why are you scowling? I thought you’d be happy. Everyone praised you—”

“It’s nothing, Lynne. I guess it’s the heat.”

“But it’s much cooler now.” Lynne’s eyes twinkled. She thought of one subject certain to chase the gloom from Judy’s face.

“By the way,” she said with affected nonchalance, “guess who I met this morning at the post office. Karl!”

Judy perked up perceptibly.

“I asked him where he’d been keeping himself, that I hadn’t set eyes on him for a week.”

“What did he say?” Judy mumbled almost inaudibly.

“That he’s been busy, frightfully busy. Imagine, he’s entered a competition, written an original piece based on some theme—he was rather vague about it. But he’s been working on it every spare moment and expects to play it himself. He had to get an accompanist—your father’s idea. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Yes, it is. It’s wonderful! Did you say something about an accompanist? Who is he, Lynne?”

“It’s a she, a very nice girl, one of the students,” Lynne said brightly, too preoccupied with the cleaning up to notice the deep flush that suddenly appeared on Judy’s face. Lynne went on, “He put up a notice on the bulletin board and got an immediate response. The girl volunteered her services and isn’t charging Karl anything.”

“Really?” Judy said, immediately suspicious.

“Yes. You see it works both ways. She’s anxious to perfect herself as an accompanist and is interested in helping Karl at the same time.”

Judy emitted a long, skeptical “Hmmmm.” Interested in Karl, not in helping him, she thought to herself as she tried to shake off her mounting anguish. She tormented the wire figure in her hand. “What’s she like?” Judy asked in a tone elaborately casual.

“I really don’t know much about her, but I gather from what Karl said that she’s an older girl, that is, older than he is. He seems very pleased about her.”

Judy gloomily digested this piece of information while lost in thought. Karl had made no effort to tell her the great news—no. He had a new confidant now, had no need for her. Only her grandfather, voicing Hamlet’s foreboding of evil, would understand. “O my prophetic soul” now found a sympathetic echo in Judy’s heart.

Lynne looked up and eyed Judy keenly. “Why are you looking so tragic? I know what’s the trouble,” she said affectionately. “You’re just overtired. Let’s drop everything and go to the pool. It’ll be cool and refreshing and we can finish up tomorrow. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. I ought to go home.”

“Help me pull this last box of stuff into the shed. There, that’s fine. Allen, don’t burn anything more. We want to leave as soon as possible.”

After everything was carefully stowed away, Lynne walked to the log fence. “Let’s sit up here until Allen’s ready.”

Judy climbed up next to Lynne.

“On Saturday,” Lynne said, “we have a beautiful, free day, no concert, no rehearsal, no camp. For a long time Allen and I have planned to visit Toklat. You’ve heard of the huskies, the wonderful Alaskan dogs that live there, trained and bred by Stuart Mace.”

Judy nodded.

“I think you’ll love seeing them. Allen’s crazy about dogs and he’s been dying to go there ever since we came to Aspen. And not a stone’s throw from Toklat is a real ghost town, the kind you’ve been babbling about. Ashcroft, once larger than Aspen, is still deserted after seventy years.”

“You mean the silver-mining town?” Judy asked, interested in spite of herself. Karl’s faithlessness receded for the moment.

Lynne nodded. “The same. And maybe we’ll top off the day with a ride up the Chairlift.”

“You mean—you want me to go along?”

“Of course.” Pleased at having roused Judy from her lethargy, Lynne said, “I’m glad you like the idea. It’ll be fun having you with us, almost like having my sister Jane. I miss my family. I haven’t seen them in a year. So you see how much I need you!”

Is Lynne saying that just to cheer me?

“Saturday? I’d love to go. It’s wonderful of you to ask me.” After a pause she sighed, “How I wish Karl could come too—”

“Well, maybe he can—but Saturday is a very busy time at the Swiss Shop—but I can ask him.”

“He’ll probably have other things to do besides the Swiss Shop.” Lynne looked at Judy, understanding the girl’s troubled spirit.

“Karl or no Karl, we’re going to have a good time! Now, what about that swim in the pool?”

“No. I’ll go home. Mother’s rehearsing this afternoon and again tonight. She’ll be tired. I want to help with dinner.”

As they bumped along the stony road that separated the camp from Aspen, Judy was silent. She thought of the sad things she would have to communicate to her diary. Her happiness was forever gone! Her lips twisted into what was intended to be a cynical smile. A broken heart? As a potential writer she was critical of the phrase. No, not broken, but damaged, certainly. Karl had deserted her for another!

10 A CATASTROPHE WITH A HAPPY ENDING

Dinner was long over. The dishes washed, only the burned pots remained. While preparing the meal, Judy’s thoughts had been engaged on more important matters. Karl’s cruel neglect! She told herself, so what? It isn’t the end of the world! But in her heart she felt it was. Mr. Lurie, perched on the step-ladder, was putting away into the inaccessible closets plates and platters Judy had managed to assemble for this, her first experiment in preparing dinner.

As she scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the aluminum, she was thoughtful. She’d come home early, early enough to see her mother wasn’t feeling well. Minna had sunk into a chair, too tired, she admitted, to move. It was at Judy’s insistence that she went to bed. What mattered that the onions were burnt to a crisp, that the creamed spinach had emerged like green glue? The smiles and pleasantries of her parents were compensation enough.

Minna had sat through the dinner, refreshed by her nap, the color once more back in her cheeks. She ate little. Occasionally she touched her throat, a gesture no one noticed. It was only when pouring coffee that her hand trembled so violently that the cup and saucer fell from her hands.

“What made me do that?” she asked in a troubled whisper.

“It means that you’re going right back to bed for another rest before the boys come to rehearse.” And with a great show of assumed indifference, he persuaded her to lie down once more.

The telephone rang. Judy, struggling with steel wool and pot, paid no heed to the insistent ring. Her father, still perched on the ladder trying to fit a platter into a space several inches too low for its bulk, said, “Take the phone, Judy.”

She dried her hands on her apron and unhurriedly reached the phone. No one ever calls me, she thought with a touch of bitterness as she picked up the receiver.

“Hello. Who’s this? Judy?”

“Yes, it’s me, Karl,” she answered, too surprised to say more.

“Is your father going to be home tonight? There’s something I’d like to talk to him about.”

“Oh, Father?” An unreasoning resentment filled her. So it was her father he wanted to see—not her! Maybe it was always her father, or her mother—

“He’s rehearsing tonight, that is, Mother is,” she said dully. “He’ll be kind of busy.”

There was a long, disappointed, “Oh!” at the other end of the wire. Judy clutched at a straw. With a quick, turnabout gayety, she said, “Other people are available. Maybe—”

“Do you think I could come over and listen in?” Karl asked eagerly. “Your father said I might come sometime but we never made it definite. Then—I could see you too.” His voice rumbled away in silence.

“Hold the wire, Karl, I’ll ask him.”

She made a wild dash to the kitchen and found her father lighting his pipe after his kitchen labors. She asked her question.

“Oh, I guess it’s all right. I did promise—”

She barely allowed him to finish and bounded back to the parlor, knocking over a spindly chair in her marathon.

“Father says it’s all right. Yes, eight o’clock.”

She tore back to the kitchen, picked up a dust cloth, and began to tidy up the place. She was considering her strategy. “I’ll ask him immediately why he didn’t take _me_ into his confidence. And who is this girl, this accompanist? I won’t beat about the bush and I won’t act as if I cared.” She gave the table an extra rub and with a flourish of the cloth she swept some sheets of music to the floor.

“My goodness!” her father exclaimed as he picked up the scattered sheets. “What an eager beaver we’ve become! Is it Aspenitis or Karlitis?” he said grinning.

Judy felt her cheeks grow hot. “Father,” she said, “if that’s the way you appreciate my services, making despicable jokes—”

“Oh, come now, Judy, can’t you take a bit of razzing?” He looked at her flushed face and said with great sweetness, “I’m glad you know Karl. I think a lot of that boy and I don’t mean only in the music field. He has character and a great deal of talent and with hard work, I think his future looks bright. I’m trying to help him in a small way.”

She looked up gratefully. “Karl said he wanted to talk to you.” There was much more she wanted to say but she suddenly remembered her hair, her dress.

When the doorbell rang, a spruced-up Judy greeted the musicians and Karl. The music stands were taken from the hall closet, the lamps moved into place, and the men sat down busily chatting among themselves.

Judy motioned to Karl. “We can sit over here on this little sofa.” An innate delicacy made her refrain from calling it “the Victorian loveseat,” her mother’s term for this small, uncomfortable, but charming little piece. “We can see and hear perfectly,” she said as they seated themselves.

“I hear you’ve entered a competition for original compositions,” Judy said, plunging right in without further preliminaries.

“Yes. I guess Lynne told you, although I did want to keep it a secret,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “For one thing, it hasn’t been accepted as yet. I wanted to surprise you. I’m still working on it.”

“I thought it was finished.”

“No. That’s what I wanted to consult your father about. Maybe I should leave it with just a piano accompaniment since that’s pretty well worked out and the accompanist plays it well.”

For one bleak moment Judy regretted she hadn’t touched the piano all summer. If she had, maybe—Aloud she said brightly, “I hear your accompanist is not only beautiful, but plays like an angel!”

Karl looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re driving at. Marie Hoeffer is a fine young lady but she’s no Rubinstein, if that’s what you mean.”

Judy smiled her skepticism.

“She came to Aspen for a summer of music,” Karl went on, “but I guess she’s chiefly concerned with having a good time,” he laughed good-naturedly.

Judy knitted her brows. A serious musician one might respect. But for someone to come to Aspen under the cloak of music deliberately to waylay and ensnare a boy like Karl, that was a more serious matter!

The men were tuning their instruments and in the jangle of sounds she remained silent. But her curiosity was sorely tried. How old was she? Where did she come from? If from California or Maine or Alaska, all was not lost! She would have to go back to those remote places—

“I hear she’s quite ancient,” Judy said at last, her voice drooling sweetness.

Before Karl could gather up his forces to reply, Mrs. Lurie came into the room. She looked beautiful but terribly pale.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said, speaking barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t keep us waiting at all,” Mr. Lurie said. “We had lots to discuss. But now, my dear, we’re ready, if you are.”

Minna took up her position at the piano. Her husband tapped his bow and the opening measures were begun. Minna was given her cue to start. She sang a few bars, then stopped as if displeased with the tone.

Mr. Lurie held up his bow. “We’ll start again. We play five measures, Minna, then you come in.”

The opening bars were repeated. Minna came in at the appropriate beat. She sang three bars, then another. She opened her mouth for the next high note. There was a hoarseness, a thickness, then nothing. Finally a heartbroken whisper broke the strained silence.

“John, I can’t sing—I’ve lost my voice—”

In the confusion that followed, Judy only remembered the terror in her mother’s eyes and her father’s gentleness as he calmed her.

“Karl,” Mr. Lurie said quietly, “Dr. Keene lives down the block. No use telephoning, his wire is usually busy at this hour. Go quickly and tell him to come.”

The musicians left, murmuring their sympathy. Mr. Lurie carried the inert and almost helpless Minna to her bed. She was suffering now from a chill and Judy, without having to be told, fetched the hot water bottle and extra blankets.

She returned to the parlor and stared at the empty chairs, the shining music stands, the blaze of lights. She began pacing the tiny room. All these weeks she hadn’t given a thought to her mother, thought only of Karl. She murmured an inarticulate prayer—“Oh, God, don’t take away her voice. She’ll die if she can’t sing.” Her mother’s words spoken weeks ago beat upon Judy’s memory. “Struggle to get this far—” Judy knew now that it took a great deal to make an artist, hours, days, years of work.

“God,” she murmured again, putting her fist to her mouth to keep it from trembling, “help her!”

She heard the back door open and then close. That must be the doctor. The waiting was intolerable. She put away the stands and the lamps and chairs were back in their accustomed places. Anything to keep busy! Karl tiptoed into the room, “The doctor is with your mother.”

Judy nodded. He made her sit down and clumsily patted her shoulder.

At last Dr. Keene came into the room followed by Mr. Lurie.

The doctor smiled a greeting to Judy and told John to sit down. “I want to talk to you,” he said in his breezy voice.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand. Shall I send the youngsters from the room?”

“No, they can stay. Perhaps Judy can be of some help and, anyhow, it will be necessary for her to understand her mother’s condition.”

“Yes, yes!” John said impatiently. “Go on!”

“You heard me tell Minna,” the doctor proceeded calmly, “there is no visible damage to her throat or her vocal cords.”

“I thought you just said that to prevent her worrying, for psychological reasons,” John interrupted.

“Partially,” Dr. Keene nodded in agreement. “But I am convinced also this will clear up in a matter of days. If it shouldn’t,” he paused a moment, “then other measures will have to be taken. But we’re going on my diagnosis for the present until I see the necessity of changing it.”

John gave an audible sigh of relief.

“I’ve watched Minna all summer. She’s driven herself too hard, particularly as she continues the same pace all winter. She’s overworked and there are other contributing causes. Luckily, she has a fine constitution, otherwise I wouldn’t be so optimistic.”

At last John seemed calm enough to sit down. “You’re right, of course. I should have seen this thing coming. She’s taken this concert too seriously—and her teaching and her own lessons—to say nothing of helping students who should be on their own.” He spoke disjointedly. “She never spares herself.” He shook his head. “Then there’s the house, the meals, and she worries about Judy. I should have put my foot down,” he said reproaching himself.

“No, John. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about a person who has this excessive drive. Without it a great talent often peters out.”

Dr. Keene paused to light his pipe. “John, your wife needs rest, bed rest, and she is absolutely forbidden to use her voice, even to whisper. Whatever she requires or wishes to communicate must be written down. With good, light, and nourishing food, plenty of fluids, and the complete rest of her vocal cords, she will be all right.” He smiled reassuringly at Mr. Lurie. “She’ll sing at the concert. I gave her my promise and I mean to keep it.”

“Doctor, you can really promise—”

Dr. Keene nodded. “Unless something unforeseen—but I don’t anticipate any complications. I’ve come across this condition several times, particularly with pianists and singers. It is aggravated by too much exposure to the sun, later followed by a chill, exactly as was the case with Minna.”

The doctor looked thoughtful. “I would like to suggest you have a nurse except that I know that one is impossible to be had. Our Pitkin County Hospital is understaffed. Who’s going to help you, John? I know you’ve got to teach. Classes must go on—”

“Private lessons can wait or be postponed. It’s the music school that bothers me and—”

“Father,” Judy broke in, “you’re forgetting me. Dr. Keene said I could help.”

“And I’ll take your place at camp,” Karl said eagerly. “It’s only mornings and I can arrange it, if you wish, Judy.”

Dr. Keene got up. “That settles everything nicely. Judy, you and your father will relieve each other. Remember again, absolute silence on your mother’s part in her cure. I’ve given her a sedative and I advise you and your father to go to bed.”

Mr. Lurie accompanied Dr. Keene to the door and Judy followed with Karl. While the two men were exchanging some final words, Judy said, “I can’t thank you enough, Karl, for offering to help at camp. But I’m worried, too. You need every hour of practice.”

“Haven’t you enough on your mind without taking me on too? I’ll manage,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, I want to help. I’m doing very little really and Uncle Yahn won’t mind. He admires your family so much.”

He held Judy’s limp hand. “Don’t you understand how much your family and—you have meant to me this summer?”

Dr. Keene motioned to Karl and said, “Come on, young man, we’ve got to let these people get some rest.”

For four days Minna Lurie’s room was in semidarkness. No one rang the doorbell and no one was permitted to telephone. The music students came quietly, played with unusual softness and left just as unobtrusively. When Judy saw the first one arrive, she was alarmed and hastily inquired, “Shall I send the young Paderewski away?”

Minna wrote with a still unsteady hand, “No. Like hearing piano.”

Preparing three meals a day might have taxed an even older girl than Judy, but her confidence was undaunted. No worker in a scientific laboratory studied instructions with more meticulous care than Judy lavished over the fine print on boxes of jell-o, cream of wheat, or custard puddings.

The doctor smiled and told her a nurse couldn’t have been more efficient. On the following day Minna was permitted to sit in a chair for a few hours, the sun allowed to filter into the room.

Judy stood at the window, enjoying the play of the sunshine on the trees. She turned as she heard the gentle tapping of the pencil. Minna held up her pad. “I want you to go outdoors for a breath of air. Take a long walk.”

“No, Mother. Father won’t be home for hours. I won’t leave until he—”

“I’m staying with Mother and you’re to go out,” Lynne said breezily as she greeted them.

Judy warningly touched her lips. Lynne nodded, “I know the rules. I’ll do all the talking. I’ve so much to tell Minna—Now run along. I only have an hour and a half.”

As she followed Judy into the hall to speed her on her way, Judy asked, “How’s Karl making out at camp?”

“Not badly, but nothing sensational. He has too much on his mind. Three days were quite enough—I can manage for the rest of the time until you get back. Now go! To use your own overworked phrase, ‘tempus fugit!’”

Judy stood on the porch, hesitating. Where? Her feet led her unerringly to the practice room where she knew Karl would be working. She smiled joyfully as she heard his violin. She could recognize that tone no matter how many violins were playing! Hmmm, and that must be the accompanist, Marian. She stepped inside and sat down unnoticed. The playing went on. At a propitious moment of silence, she cleared her throat noisily. Karl turned, saw her, a smile lighting up his face as he waved his bow. The rehearsal went on. Talk—repetition of parts—more talk. Judy sat wondering if she should leave. Then Karl’s voice, “Hold it, Marian—”

He strode over to Judy. “It’s just wonderful to see you! I know your mother’s coming along great. Your father and Lynne told me.” He looked pensively at her, “You look peaked—”

“I’m all right, now that I know Mother’s going to be able to sing—How’s the piece coming along?”

“Slowly. It sounds so wonderful in my head, but when it comes to setting it down—it takes so much time and I feel so pressed for time—”

“I know. Sometimes I think of a story—everything seems so right until I come to writing it down.” She looked at him smiling, “But you have a wonderful basic theme. It has power to move one—nothing can spoil that. Folk tunes could be introduced, you know, the way Dvorak did in his ‘New World Symphony.’”

He shook his head approvingly. “I can clarify things just by talking them out with you. I miss you, Judy—so much!”

“Me too,” the budding author sighed, throwing grammar to the winds.

An impatient chord at the piano—

“I can’t keep Marian waiting. Tomorrow she comes at one o’clock and leaves at three—”

Another chord and the slightly sharp voice, “Work before pleasure—” and Marian smiled with a condescending graciousness, “Hi, Judy!”

Judy smiled back absently. Karl was saying urgently, “Meet me here tomorrow at three.”

Judy nodded, “I’ll arrange it somehow.”

When she reached home, Lynne was ready to leave. Mrs. Lurie’s eyes brightened as she looked at her daughter. She hastily scribbled on her pad and held it aloft, “You’ve color in your cheeks and your eyes have their old luster. You’re one of those who blossom in sun and air.”

“Yes, Mother,” Judy sweetly agreed, but she was deeply aware of the real reason for the glowing cheeks and brightened eyes—and judging from the smile lurking on Lynne’s face, so was she!

That evening Mr. Lurie examined his schedule and announced with great satisfaction, “Yes, I can come home early tomorrow—last session at two-thirty. If I get a ride, should be here ten minutes later.”

By two-thirty Judy was dressed. Her mother was in a comfortable chair, her music in her hands which she could study silently. That morning her pad had pleaded for a rehearsal. The doctor was obdurate. “One hour before you appear at the concert. Not before.”