The Luckiest Girl (14 page)

“Katie, I'm surprised at you,” said Mavis coldly.

“But Mommy,” protested Katie with conspicuous innocence, “I couldn't help it. I was running along with Sarge in the grove and I picked up a stick for him to fetch and before I could throw it, he jumped up on me and tore my sweater. Honest, Mommy, it all happened so fast I didn't even know what was happening.”

Shelley watched fascinated. Surely Mavis would not let Katie get away with this.

“Don't you believe me?” asked Katie, wide-eyed.

“No, I do not.” Mavis dropped a lump of butter into a pan of peas. “Take your sweater off,” she said mildly. “After supper you must write your grandmother a nice thank-you letter. And we won't be able to buy you a new sweater. We do not waste clothing in this household.”

“Mommy,” exclaimed Katie tragically, “I don't see why you don't believe me.”

Mavis looked levelly at her daughter. “Supper is almost ready,” she said.

After supper Katie went to her room without having to be told, and in half an hour she appeared with a sheet of notepaper in her hand. “Is this all right, Mommy?” she asked.

Mavis took the letter and read it carefully. “Except that there are two
p
's in
appreciate,
it is a very nice letter.”

“Okay, I'll fix it,” agreed Katie cheerfully.

“And when your grandmother comes to visit us perhaps she can reknit the part of the sweater that was torn,” said Mavis.

Katie groaned, but it was a cheerful groan. She had worked something out of her system and as far as she was concerned, the incident was closed. She sat down on the couch and said softly, as she curled up beside her mother, “Mommy, tell me what it was like in the olden time when you were a little girl.”

Mavis smiled down at her daughter and glanced toward Shelley, explaining in her glance that this was a family joke. “In the olden time when I was a little girl,” she began, as if she were telling a story,
“there were no nylon stockings or Kleenex. Ladies wore silk stockings and little girls learned to iron by practicing on linen handkerchiefs. And three times a week a truck came down the street bringing ice for the iceboxes in people's kitchens, and all the neighborhood children climbed onto the back of the truck to pick up bits of ice to suck….”

Shelley smiled at Mavis and her daughter as she listened. So the argument about the sweater was all over. Neither had won. Mavis had not succeeded in making Katie wear a sweater she did not want to wear, and Katie would have to go without a new sweater that she needed. And yet somehow it made no difference in their feelings toward each other. Maybe that was the way it was with mothers and daughters. Nobody ever really won.

That sweater was to Katie as roses in the Disposall were to me, thought Shelley, stating the whole thing like an algebra problem. But this was a problem that could not be solved by algebra. That was the trouble with people—they didn't fit into formulas. Perhaps every girl had to throw roses into the Disposall at some time, because that was part of growing up. And suddenly Shelley knew that this was true. She did not understand why, but she knew that it was true.

Shelley knew then that she was not going to be haunted by those roses nearly so much, now that she knew she was not alone in her rebellious feelings. But she still had another problem to occupy her mind and she turned her thoughts to it now—how she was going to keep her mother from knowing why Philip did not come to see her anymore. She would have to mention Philip less and less and write about Hartley more and more…. There must be some way she could make Hartley take an interest in her again….

“And in the olden time when I was a little girl,” Mavis continued, “cars did not have heaters or radios. Everyone carried an auto robe for people who rode in the backseat to put over their legs in winter. Some cars had little vases for flowers on the dashboard—”

“Flowers on the dashboard?” Katie murmured sleepily. “Mommy, you are just making it up.”

Shelley was happier than she had been since the day she received her D in biology.

At school Shelley set out to recapture Hartley's interest, not only to be able to write home about him, but because she missed the companionship of a boy. She managed to walk down the hall toward the journalism room a step ahead of him. Since they shared a common destination, Hartley naturally caught up with her.

“Oh, hello, Hartley,” said Shelley, acting surprised to see him. “I liked that personal interview you wrote for class last week. It was different from what most of the class wrote.”

“Thanks, Shelley.” Hartley was pleased by her compliment. “I think a lot of interviews printed in the school paper are pretty silly. You know, the
reporter always asks what was the subject's most embarrassing moment and who is his current heart interest. I thought I could make an interview with the janitor more interesting than that stuff.”

“You did,” Shelley assured him.

“By the way, have you decided what you are going to do for that informative interview assignment?” Hartley asked.

“Not yet,” admitted Shelley as they entered the journalism room. “Mrs. Boyce said it was all right to go to church and write up the sermon, but that doesn't seem like a real interview.”

“I haven't thought of anything either,” said Hartley. “I suppose I could interview my dad on the state of citriculture in California.”

“But interviewing your father doesn't sound like a real interview either,” said Shelley.

“I know,” agreed Hartley, “but I haven't thought of anybody better.”

“Me either,” said Shelley, thinking that perhaps this was her chance. If she could think of a really good subject, she and Hartley might interview him together if she suggested it in the right way. But the subject would have to be interesting and unusual. Hartley was serious about journalism, as he was about all his subjects.

That evening Shelley was still trying to think of someone to interview as she picked up the
San Sebastian Argus-Report
and glanced idly through its pages. She was thinking that it was a gossipy little paper, compared to the newspapers she had grown up with, when the photograph of an elderly man caught her attention. “Bard to Appear” was the caption and beneath it, in smaller type, Shelley read, “Jonas Hornbostle, noted poet and winner of the Biddle Prize for Poetry, will appear at the Swancutt Hall of Music, Orange Belt College, Vincente, Saturday afternoon at two thirty. Mr. Hornbostle will read from his own works, which include such distinguished works as
Litany for a Lizard
and
Prairie Depot
.”

A real live poet, and Jonas Hornbostle at that! Shelley meditated on this bit of information. She had not realized that Jonas Hornbostle was still living—so many people whose works were required reading in English were dead. Jonas Hornbostle, whose poem
Buffalo Bones
was included in the textbook for English 5. Shelley preferred the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay, but she was impressed by the works of Jonas Hornbostle, who rarely used rhyme and who wrote so vigorously about earthy subjects. Shelley
examined his picture more closely. The poet had a shock of unruly gray hair and heavy dark eyebrows. The photograph revealed every pore and every line in his face as he appeared to be squinting into the sun at some distant object, an eagle perhaps.

Shelley dropped the paper. She knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to tell Hartley that she intended to interview Jonas Hornbostle. If she told him in the right way, perhaps he would suggest they go together to the Swancutt Hall of Music, hear Jonas Hornbostle read his poetry, and then go backstage to interview him. That would really be something to write home about!

The next morning, in their registration room, Shelley turned around to Hartley the first thing and said, “I have a marvelous idea for that interview assignment.”

“Who's your victim?” asked Hartley.

“Jonas Hornbostle,” Shelley announced.

“Hey!” exclaimed Hartley. “Smart girl! I read about him in last night's paper and didn't even think about interviewing him. I guess I thought he was too famous.”

“There is no reason why two members of the
class can't interview the same person, is there?” Shelley hoped this would give Hartley the right idea.

“No, I guess not.” Hartley frowned. “Darn it all, anyway. This is the one Saturday afternoon that I can't go. But it sure is a good idea and I wish you luck. Meeting a famous poet should be interesting.”

“Yes,” agreed Shelley, with less enthusiasm. Somehow it had not occurred to her that she might have to do this interview alone. She had counted on Hartley's presence to give her courage, and now she was frightened at the thought of facing the famous man without him.

“Be sure you let me read the interview before you hand it in,” said Hartley. “I'd like to see it.”

“Of course,” agreed Shelley. Letting Hartley read her story should be an inspiration to her, because she would not want to show him a poor piece of work. She valued his opinion too much.

When Saturday afternoon arrived, Mavis's insistence that she take the station wagon rather than the bus added to Shelley's pleasure and excitement at the afternoon before her. It was one of those California days that seemed to belong to no season at all. She felt very mature to be driving alone past
the groves where crews on ladders were picking oranges, past the used-car lots and the Giant Orange on her way to meet a famous poet. Mr. Hornbostle? My name is Shelley Latham, she would say. And he would answer, Shelley—a poet's name. Well, no, he probably wouldn't, because he was an earthy poet, but it would be nice if he did. And if he did, could she put it in the interview without sounding as if she were bragging? Yes, of course she could. Anything he said would be part of the interview. Such a remark was full of human interest and belonged in the interview with a real live poet. Accuracy, accuracy, accuracy Mrs. Boyce always stressed in journalism class. Shelley mentally sharpened a pencil and prepared to be accurate, accurate, accurate.

Shelley began to recite in ringing tones as she drove toward Vincente:

She wished she could remember more than the first three lines of
Buffalo Bones
. What she did remember was looking up
leach
in the dictionary
when she studied the poem. It would be so much easier if Jonas Hornbostle wrote poetry with a regular rhyme scheme. Oh, well. “‘Highway 30 bisects the sod,'” she repeated.

Driving to Vincente was easy enough, but finding a parking space near the Orange Belt College was not so easy. So many people had come into town to shop on Saturday afternoon. Every time Shelley thought she had found a place to park, the space turned out to be occupied by a small foreign car. Time was getting short and Shelley, eager for a good seat, finally drove around behind the Swancutt Hall of Music and held up honking traffic while someone backed out of a space. Glad that the streets were wide enough for diagonal parking, Shelley slid into the space, jumped out of the station wagon, and carefully locked it before she ran around to the front of the auditorium and up the steps to purchase her ticket along with the rest of the crowd that had had difficulty finding a parking space.

It was after two thirty when Shelley slid past a long line of knees and into a seat. The audience, which was not as large as Shelley had expected for such a famous man, appeared to be made up mostly of college students and women who were
removing their flowery hats. Shelley had not seen so many hats since she had come to California. As she sat down, the president of the college was finishing his introduction to the poet and the sound of applause gave Shelley a moment to catch her breath.

Jonas Hornbostle rose from his chair, walked to the lectern, laid down a sheaf of papers, removed a spectacle case from his pocket, opened it, put on a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles, removed them, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped each lens carefully, to a ripple of sympathetic laughter from the audience. Shelley settled back in her seat. She was, at last, in the presence of greatness. It was too bad Hartley could not be there to share the experience with her.

Jonas Hornbostle put on his spectacles, hesitated, removed them, and meticulously wiped the right lens to the accompaniment of more sympathetic laughter. At last the spectacles were settled on the bridge of his distinguished nose and Jones Hornbostle began to read. Shelley was thrilled. A truly famous man speaking famous lines and she was listening! And before the afternoon was over she, Shelley Latham, would actually speak to him. (Dear Rosemary, You'll never in a million years
guess what I did today! I interviewed Jonas Hornbostle—you remember from English 5. Yes, little old me. I walked right up to him and…)

Shelley was only slightly disappointed when she had difficulty understanding Mr. Hornbostle. He did not exactly mumble, neither did he speak with an accent, but it was not easy to catch his words. The audience coughed a lot and that did not help. Even so, Shelley admired the poet wholeheartedly. That famous shock of gray hair, the loose knot in his tie, his suit rumpled as if greatness had no time for sending a suit out to be pressed. How wonderful it would be if he really did say, “Shelley? A poet's name.” Shelley caught the familiar words “Highway 30 bisects the sod” and a thrill went through her. Little had she dreamed when she was studying English 5 that someday…

Intermission came, and it occurred to Shelley that from her present seat in the center of the auditorium she might have some difficulty reaching Mr. Hornbostle when his program was over. She peered around the auditorium for a seat on an aisle.

“Disgusting, isn't it?” Shelley was startled by a voice beside her. She had been only vaguely aware
that the seat was filled. Now she turned to look at the fairly young man, probably a college student, who was sitting beside her.

“Disgusting?” she echoed. “What's disgusting?”

“Hornbostle. The whole performance,” answered the young man who, like the poet, was wearing dark-rimmed glasses.

“Jonas Hornbostle?” asked Shelley, in the rising inflection of astonishment. Jonas Hornbostle disgusting? This man must be mad.

“Of course,” answered the young man disagreeably. “Can you hear him?”

“Well, not every word, but—” admitted Shelley.

“You see?” said the young man. “The whole thing is an insult to your intelligence. He's really on exhibit.”

Shelley looked shocked.

“Don't look that way,” said the stranger impatiently. “What good is it to listen to a poet if you can't understand a word he says? And all that nonsense about wiping his glasses. I tell you he is just on exhibit. He and his manager think we are lucky people because we paid a dollar and a half plus tax just to look at him.”

“But—” protested Shelley.

The young man was not going to listen to a
protest. “Anyway,” he went on, “just because he once wrote passable poetry doesn't necessarily mean he can read it.”

Jonas Hornbostle's poetry
passable
? Shelley stared at this person beside her, who by this time was collecting frowns as well as smiles of amusement from the other members of the audience.

“I'm glad I didn't waste my money on the LP record he made. I'll bet he's even worse on hi-fi,” said the young man. Suddenly he rose from his seat. “I've had my intelligence insulted enough for one afternoon,” he announced, and left.

At least Shelley was able to move one seat closer to the aisle. I don't care, she told herself. He
is
a famous man and his poetry
is
good and I
am
lucky to be listening to him and my intelligence feels just fine. But Shelley had difficulty even trying to listen to the second half of the reading. The moment of her interview was drawing closer. She folded back the cover of her notebook and fumbled in her purse to make sure she had not forgotten her pen. Mr. Hornbostle? I'm Shelley Latham. May I ask you a few questions for my school paper? She did not have to tell him that she was only a first-semester journalism student. First she would ask him a few factual questions to get him
started talking and then she would ask what advice he had to give to students who wanted to write poetry. That would be the most important part of the interview. Accuracy, accuracy, accuracy, Shelley repeated to herself for reassurance and, from her journalism textbook, who, what, when, where, why.

Shelley sat on the edge of her seat waiting for the reading to end. She would have to move quickly to reach the poet before he left the auditorium. When at last applause filled the auditorium, Shelley did not wait for the clapping to subside before she whispered, “Excuse me, excuse me,” and edged past knees and over toes to the aisle. She struggled against the tide of the departing audience and made her way to the front of the auditorium, where Mr. Hornbostle, a taller man than he had appeared to be from her seat, was surrounded by important-looking people who were, she supposed, members of the college faculty.

Shelley edged as close as she could. This was not going to be easy, she could see. Maybe she had better skip her name and start by asking questions. Still, she did not want to do that. She peered anxiously through the crowd at Mr. Hornbostle, who was busy signing autographs. He was considerably
older than his photograph in the
Argus-Report
and he looked tired. The price of fame, thought Shelley.

When the last autograph was signed, and the last lady thanked for telling him she liked his poetry, and only a few members of the college faculty remained with the poet, Shelley clutched her courage, moistened her lips, stepped forward, and spoke to the man, who was about to leave. “Uh—Mr. Hornbostle?”

“Yes?” Was that impatience in his voice?