The ferry came around the bend on schedule. At least Sara would not have to keep Clay waiting at the airport. But there would be no time to drop the kids off at the cottage. She would just have to take them with her and hope that Clay would forgive her for not coming alone.
EMBRACES AND INTRODUCTIONS
There were embraces and introductions and the father of the flock, using legerdemain (slight of hand), extracted Penny’s and Jill’s luggage from the tottering mountain without breaking the head of any member of his family.
To Sara’s horror a large dog was unloaded, too, and handed over to Jill, who carefully explained that Pete was a recent present, and didn’t really know yet that he belonged to her. If she had left him at home, he might have thought he belonged to her mother and father. She had sneaked him out of the house -- another act of legerdemain. Sara thought bitterly -- she must remember to telephone home that Pete wasn’t lost.
Sara headed her car towards the airport, with the kids in the back seat, and Pete undecided. As the car got underway, he made a graceful leap from back seat to front, landing hard and lovingly against Sara. She steadied the wheel, cleared her throat of fright and ordered him back. Tail down he briefly obeyed, then hurled through the air again. This time it was Jill who entreated him to return. Reluctantly he did so, but only on the wing, for once more he sailed through space to take the seat of his preference. Sara said shakily, “he seems to want to sit here. Lets let him.”
Just as her nerves settled back in place a sudden burst of rock and roll tangled them up again. Pete, scared out of his wits, too, tried his best to (climb her back.) “Girls,” said Sara fiercely, “what’s that.”
“It’s my radio,” Penny said in a hurt voice. “Mother gave me a battery radio, so I wouldn’t play yours and waste your electricity.”
“Well, you mustn’t waste your battery either,” Sara said with quick thinking. “You many not be able to get another one. The island stores are not stocked like the city stores.”
“I brought some extras,” said Penny cheerfully.
All Sara could answer was, “Oh.”
As the plane taxied down the runway, they reached the airport. The plane doors opened and presently there was Clay. His searching eyes rested briefly on her and her entourage, wrote them off, scanned the other cars, came back to hers, widened with recognition and she noted surprise.
Smiling, he came to her. It’s wonderful to see you, he said, but she wasn’t sure she believed him.
She introduced him to her nieces. Will you get in back with them? I can’t budge this beast. And, Penny, will you turn your radio off so Clay can tell us all about Europe?
NOT FAR FROM THE INN
“Aunt Sara,” wailed Penny, “this half hour is all Elvis Presley.”
Clay said lustily, “I’ve expressed myself on that young man without ever hearing him. Now’s my chance to arrive at an honest opinion.”
“We’re not far from the inn,” Sara said in apology, “You can get settled, and I’ll pick you up for diner at eight?”
Now it was Jill who wailed, “Dinner at eight. Were starved aunt Sara. Why can he eat now and get settled later?”
“I’d like dinner now,” Clay said quickly, “island air sparks the appetite.”
“Fine,” said Sara weakly. It was much too early for a candle lit dinner. At this common place hour she could hardly dress or change at all if Clay was coming home with her.
They arrived at the cottage and Mollie, Sara’s housekeeper, took the girls upstairs to their room, while the unfaithful Pete stayed behind with Sara and Clay.
Leaving Clay to mix cocktails. Sara went ostensibly for ice, but privately to freshen her make-up.
She reckoned without Pete. Not wanting to let her out of his sight, he dashed past the unsuspecting Clay, who, busy with bottles, glasses and pitcher, then got even busier with broken glass.
PETE COWERED BEHIND CURTAIN
Sara, hearing the crash, rushed back into the room, while Pete flew to cover in the folds of a curtain.
“Oh, Pete,” cried Sara. Pete, misunderstanding, rushed to join his protector, bringing the curtain with him. entangled and terrified anew, he tore about the room, barking wildly.
Mollie raced downstairs certain the sounds below were those of a dog gone mad. She opened the back door, concealed herself behind it, and called, “here, dog, here Dog.”
Expecting deliverance, Pete galloped toward the voice, upsetting everything in his way, including a service table, on which Molly had placed her filet mignon to thaw.
The curtain caught on the overturned table, and Pete was free. His fear dissolving, he took quick inventory, snatched up the filet mignon, and spirited through the open door.
Mollie slammed the door and rushed to the kitchen phone, Sara and Clay reached the doorway just as she began to dial.
“I’m calling the police,” she said excitedly.
“The police?” echoed Sara.
“To shoot the dog,” said Mollie impatiently.
Penny and Jill tumbled down stairs from their listening post with tears and entreaties to spare Pete’s life.
Clay took command. The dog isn’t mad, Mollie. He was just frightened. “Girls, stop crying. Well all see the funny side on a full stomach. I suggest we have dinner.”
The suggestion was so ill timed that Penny and Jill stopped crying and began to giggle hysterically. Clay, with comprehension dawning, felt the laughter building inside him. He stole a glance at Sara. Their eyes met, and they burst into brighter laughter than either had ever heard from the other.
Mollie said indignantly, “You won’t laugh if your flower beds look like my kitchen.”
They crowded out the back door. Pete lay in a bed of beheaded snapdragons, gnawing on filet mignon.
“Oh, Pete,” Jill shrieked.
He grabbed his prize and raced around the garden, with Penny and Jill and Mollie in pursuit, their feet tripping no lighter than his.
“I give up,” said Sara. “I wanted everything to be right and everything’s been wrong. Go back to New York, if you want to. There’ll only be more of the same tomorrow.”
Clay said gently, “I want to stay more than I wanted to come, I was afraid I was going to take part in a play in which you were the poised and lovely star, and I was the bungling amateur, missing my cues and entrances. But all of us seem to have two left feet.
“If there’s going to be more of the same tomorrow, there’s no use waiting for a better time and place. Sara, will you marry me?”
“What?” she said faintly.
“You see,” said Clay Triumphantly, “you missed your cue.”
The Lean and the Plenty
News Syndicate Co., Inc.
March 6, 1957
Kate Callow had been mother’s youngest child, born into a large and extrovert family, where her soft, small voice never had a chance to be heard. On the rare occasion when someone stopped to listen, she was overcome by this unexpected (feeling) that everything flew out of her mind, tears of embarrassment flooded her eyes and she knew she could say nothing at all.
In primary school, she did not emerge from her shell. Her classmates were too young … to sympathize with her shyness. They gleefully chanted that the cat had got her tongue, which tied it up more than ever. In grade school, Katie was still a stuttered. Her sisters and brothers were thoroughly ashamed of her. If they talked to her at all, it was only to scold her for being different. And she could not find the words to tell them that she longed to be the same. At home, her busy mother had no time to give thought to Katie’s problems.
Instead, she found Katie’s quietness a restful relief from the clamor in which she constantly moved.
FAILURE AT DATING PLEASED HER MOTHER
She knew that boys of similar age expected girls to chirrup and chatter while they stood dumb and adoring. That she always came straight home from school and never had a date was a source of satisfaction instead of [worry] to her mother., who felt
that none of her other children cared enough for their home to spend one evening enjoying it. As Katie grew out of her teens, she became an unobtrusive part of her parents’ small circle of friends. Among them the widowed Mr. Keller. Mr. Keller had been a family friend during all the long years of his bachelorhood.
As a child, Katie had been ease in his presence because Mr. Keller had never tried to make her talk, he was wary even of little girls because they grew up to be big girls with marriage intentions. Then at forty-five, Mr. Keller fell headlong in love with a gay young girl who came to work in the office of his service station. Within two weeks, he proposed to Corinne and sweated out the days of waiting while her practical mother made up her mind for her. Mr. Keller never noticed that Corinne was too young to return his middle-aged love. He was a man bewitched and he lived in that state of bewitchment for the eight years of his marriage. When his twin sons were born, he endured their babyhood because he had to, but he never got use to having them in the house nor being called their father.
When Corinne died suddenly, as the result of neglected infection, all that gave Mr. Keller’s life meaning died with her. He regarded his six-year-old sons with a kind of astonishment and tried a succession of housekeepers. These kindly women had a normal share of friendliness that they could not turn off an don toe suit Mr. Keller’s indifference.
After a few weeks, they left because of loneliness. That Mr. Keller married Katie Callow was the only thing he could think of that was closest to living alone. That Katie accepted him was because she too had no other solution to her own problems of living. She was then six years out of high school and six years in and out of jobs. Mr. Keller’s offer of marriage was like a lifesaver, which Katie clutched with both hands and pulled herself to safety of a suburban house surrounded by tall shrubs. Mr. and Mrs. Keller settled down to their separate rooms and separate ways with Katie feeling only relief that she was unnoticed and ignored. But their father’s attitude brushed off on the boys and Katie had no words with which to win them over.
When they were seventeen, they joined a branch of the [military] services. Their father watched them go as if they had long ago worn out their welcome. Katie stood wordlessly before them knowing it was years too late to tell them how often her heart had embraced them. Now the silence surround her was complete. Mr. Keller left early and came home late, eating most of his meals in town and stopping at the living room door only long enough for a grudging good night. Loneliness Katie had always borne as the burden of the shy, but aloneness she had never really known until now. Though only the fewest possible words passed between herself and her stepsons. The sounds of their voices had kept the spark alive in her. In the shrouding aloneness, Katie sat unmoving for long hours as if the spark was already extinguished. An act of fate fanned it alive.
Mr. Keller fell ill and the weight of his years put an end to his activity. With no sons to carry on for him, the only course was to sell his business. Though in time he left his bed, Mr. Keller refused to leave his room. He had no interest in anything outside it. Katie gave him a bell to ring but he never rang it. Katie was well over fifty when Mr. Keller in a last spurt of stubbornness, died. The years of his retirement had exhausted his savings. There was little left for Katie except for the house. She saw nothing to do but sell it.
PUT HERSELF INTO A QUIET EXISTENCE
For the first time in years, Katie began to go out daily and spend more hours away from home than in it. Like all lonely people she went to the park and watched the life around here, trying to think through a life of her own that would have some reason for being. One day she noticed a new comer to the park, a middle-aged woman who sat alone and looked as lonely as herself. Emboldened by sympathy, Katie smiled and nodded. The lady returned the greeting and observed that it was a nice day. Katie eagerly said yes, but could think of nothing to add to it. After a moment of expectancy, the lady lowered her eyes to her knitting.
The following afternoon, Katie found the lady seated on the bench she had come to think of as her own. She said “good afternoon,” and started past, not wishing to presume on their short acquaintance. The lady rose at once and said, I’m sorry, this is your bench, isn’t it? I mean you always sit here. That’s why I sat here. I want to be friends.
Katie knew what an effort cost a shy person to make so revealing a statement. It persuaded her to make one of her own. “Please sit down again. I’m Katie Keller. I’m a widow. I live alone in a house that’s too big for me. That’s why I come to the park. I’m shy like you. I want friends too.”
The lady laughed. It was a great explosion of laughter, deep and joyous. She laughed as if these lusty sounds of life were part of her.
“I’m Martha Bigsby, I’m not shy. That’s my trouble. I make friends too easy like now. I’m making a friend of you. The next thing you know, Ill be bringing you home with me.” “Oh,” said Katie, uncertainly. It’s my married daughter’s home,” Martha explained. She likes things quiet. I like things lively. I’ve only myself to blame. When my husband died, I sold my home and came here.” Katie said understandingly, it isn’t easy for a woman alone to make ends meet.” I could have managed,” said Martha, refusing to be forgiven, “but I let my daughter persuade me. I should have thought for myself.” Katie sighed in sympathy. Here they both were on a park bench because one had too many friends and one had none at all. Martha continued, “so if I spend most of my time in the park, Ill be out when my friends call or come by. They’re new friends. They’ll soon stop trying to keep in touch and my daughter will have her home like it was.” Katie said impulsively, “you can bring your friends over to my house.” Martha said blankly, “you’re joking.”
“No I’m not,” said Katie firmly. “I’m no talker and never will be. But I love to h ear other people talk. I love to listen to laughter.”
“Well,” said Martha laughing happily, “I believe you mean that.” She added exploringly. “I believe you wouldn’t bat an eye if I was to move in with you. I’d pay a fair share. Might be I’ll find a friend of two who’s dying to make a change from living with her married children. Anyway, we’ll talk about that later.”
“I tell you what lets do right now,” said Martha the organizer. “Let’s go over to your place and call up the girls and ask them over. They’re good for a lot of laughs. They’ll love you for being a listener.”
They hurried home together with Katie’s role in life not really changed completely.
Babe
News Syndicate Co., Inc.
July 11, 1957
Summary: A mother and daughter, thirty years apart in age, begin the journey of growing up together and at the same time in this story.
Mrs. Dieterling at fifty, was still a great beauty who looked less than forty. No one who did not actually know, would have dreamed she was the mother of a married daughter of thirty. No one, still unaware of the facts, would have dreamed that Babe was a mother at all, let alone the mother of three. She could have passed for a teenager. It was as if time had forgotten both Babe and Mrs. Dieterling, or had given them some magic formula.
What was most remarkable however, was Mrs. Dieterling’s dedication to Babe. It would not have been so surprising if Babe had worshipped her lovely mother. But it was unusual that Mrs. Dieterling, adored for her beauty by so many, seemed not to have a spoiled bone in her body, and did everything but breathe for Babe.
WIDOWED WHEN CHILD WAS FIVE
Mrs. Dieterling had been widowed when Babe was five. her husband had died just when she was beginning to wonder why she had married a man so much older. She might easily have remarried but she had been left a comfortable annuity and she could not decide on any one of her suitors.
Besides, there was Babe. Though Babe was a sunny child, who showed no disposition to dislike the men who called on her mother, nevertheless, Mrs. Dieterling maintained that children felt superceded by a stepfather and lost their sense of security.
“But you don’t want to grow old alone,” a meddlesome
friend advised. “Babe won’t stay a child forever. One day she’ll have a life and a home of her own.”
Mrs. Dieterling gave a bright little laugh to dispel this evil portent (prediction). Babe was five. To think of Babe growing up or herself growing old was an exercise of imagination that only a morbid mind would indulge in.
“When a woman has only one child, she patiently explained, “she keeps her a baby as long as she can.”
Over the years, she tried, with undisputed success. Her meddlesome friend said that she was ruining Babe. Babe never made beds or helped with the housework.
But what will she do when she marries?” the meddlesome friend inquired, when Babe was well in her teens and no better equipped to be a wife.
“Marriage,” said Mrs. Dieterling, as if the word were a new one, “Marriage has never entered Babe’s mind.”
WHOLE WORLD TO DAUGHTER
She looked at her meddlesome friend with charity for her lack of understanding. “I’ve been Babe’s whole world ever since she was five. We couldn’t be closer. She’ll think a long time before she leaves me, if she thinks about it at all.
Nothing then could have shocked Mrs. Dieterling more than Babe’s elopement with Bill Taylor. Only that morning she had waved Babe goodbye, as she watched her board a bus for high school, where she would join the other members of her senior class who had won a week’s tour of Washington as first prize in a good citizenship contest. Mrs. Dieterling had bought Babe everything new for the trip, including handsome luggage. She had, quite unwittingly, furnished her with a trousseau.
That night, Mrs. Dieterling was waked from an uneasy sleep by the ringing of the telephone.
The Last Leaf of Harlem Page 24