Evening star. [volume], August 17, 1947, Page 11, Image 84

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
shoulders. Liz would grow out of it. But it
was sometimes discomfiting to realize that by
the time Liz had grown out of it, Abby would
be past forty and might not feel like wearing
pedal pushers or short hair.
Liz was growing into a remarkably pretty
girl, after being a remarkably homely child,
which was a comfort. Boys had already begun
to clutter up the front walk. Even Little
George’s pals occasionally gave her more than
a passing glance... And now she was out on
her first date, at a fraternity house, with a
college freshman of seventeen.
Abby reminded herself sharply that she
was going to be smarter about Liz and her
dates than Abby’s family had been. Abby had
grown up with spotty notions about sex, and
enormous curiosity. Liz, on the other hand,
■had been exposed to the recommended theo
ries and books all along the way. She was
given Cleo, a spaniel bitch, and encouraged to
explain freely to guests why the dog had to
be shut up at the vet’s during certain periods.
At eight, she was allowed to stay up until
after midnight, witnessing the arrival of
Cleo’s puppies. Also, for her daughter’s first
date, Abby had presented Liz with a sheer
pair of nylons, a lipstick in a gold metal case,
and a bottle of smelly cologne rather repul
sively called Her Moment. She’d also been
firm about Liz being allowed to take her date
without chaperonage. What was the use, she
argued, of spying on your daughter? Didn’t
you trust her?
Maybe it was the memory of her own first
date that had made Abby so insistent. But
George couldn’t possibly understand what
that had done to Abby. She was fifteen or
maybe even sixteen, and the boy had been
the older brother of one of her school friends.
She couldn’t remember his name now, or
even what he looked like, because her first
date with him had also been their last. Abby's
father and uncle had driven her and her date
to the country club at eight-thirty, long before
the party really was under way. They had
called for her at eleven o’clock and consider
ately dropped the boy off first on the way
home.
For a long time, Abby had refused other
invitations for fear of a repetition of that
chaperonage. When she finally worked her
family to the stage where they permitted her
to attend an evening movie with a boy, she
would invariably meet her mother and father
coming out of the same picture at the same
time, and they would all stop cozily for 9odas
together.
Even after she was in college, and accepted
various fraternity pins in the same manner
that she sampled the varieties in a box of
assorted chocolates, she was still a little girl
at home. She never was able to say good night
without the knowledge that her mother was
hovering in the darkened living room off the
hall.
And once the door was closed, her mother
would step cheerfully into the light, pulling
her robe about her and saying: ‘‘Abby, I
couldn’t sleep, so I made some cocoa. Let’s
you and I have a cup and talk things over.”
Girls don’t want to talk things over, Abby
thought; at least, not with their mothers.
That’s why you get your husband to bed early
on Saturday night, under the pretense of
driving to the country on Sunday morning.
That’s why, at twelve o’clock when your
daughter comes home, you can be expected
to be asleep, beside your sleeping husband.
That’s why Liz had a latch-key, given casu
ally and with no strings attached. You can’t
protect a girl or live her life for her; the psy
chologists say most of the harm or good is
done before she is five anyway. All you can do
is let her meet her own situations and hope
that you’ve helped her to handle them and
ask no questions. . .
Abruptly, she heard Cleo drop off Liz's
bed with a flumph. Abby moved quietly away
from George, listening. As a secret compro
mise with herself, she’d left their bedroom
door open a shadow of a crack. She only, she
told herself, wanted to be sure that Liz got
in safely; and that she could hear the phone
in case Liz called up and was in any kind of
trouble. Liz need never know. Even if George
should waken and find the door open, Abby
would say the wind had done it.
She heard the click of the spaniel’s toenails
going slowly down the stairs. Cleo could be
mistaken, of course, but she hardly ever was.
Even though she was getting ancient and
deaf, she seemed to have a sixth sense about
Liz. Abby waited tensely. Then, with a gush
of relief, she heard the key in the lock.
She lay tense, waiting for voices. It might,
of course, be Little George. But you never
had to strain to hear Little George’s farewells
to his friends. George was a junior, living at
the fraternity house and only coming home
sporadically on week ends.
He had plenty of girls, but he and his fra
ternity brothers often thriftily took their
dance dates home early and then stopped for
sandwiches and beer. Sometimes they had
quite a lot of beer. Once, he’d tiptoed loudly
halfway up the stairs, lost his balance and
clattered down. Then, after a long moment,
he’d picked himself up and tiptoed up again.
Big George and Abby had clutched each
other in silent hysterical laughter, but they
hadn’t mentioned the incident to George. It
wasn’t part of the game.
At last Abby heard voices. Low—murmurs.
Liz’s, sounding little-girl polite. The front
door closed. Abby settled back on the pillow.
For what seemed like an eternity, there was
no sound. Then the clock struck twelve, de
liberately. Abby sat up in bed. From the
bottom of the stairs, she heard a strangled
gasp. She waited, her ears aching from the
effort of trying to hear more. The gasp was
repeated. Abby slid out of bed, put her feet
in feathered mules and drew her robe with
the gold dragons around her. She closed
the bedroom door softly after her.
Liz was standing facing the door, still
in her short white coat.
Abby padded down two steps. “Dar- /
ling,” she said cheerfully, “I couldn’t sleep '
and I thought I would make myself some ..
cocoa. Now that you’re home, would you
like a cup?”
“No,” said Liz. She didn’t move.
“All right, dear. Run up and get in bed.
Don’t open your window too much. It’s
cold.” She waited a second on the stairs
“Have a good time?”
“No,” Liz said, in the same flat voice.
But she turned around slowly. Her face
was white and her eyes looked awful, even
in the faint light.
"That's too bad.” It was inadequate,
but Abby felt inadequate. There were any
number of things that a wise mother
would say, but Abby couldn’t think of
one of them. She stared at her daughter
and her heart ached, horribly.
u ."Liz, maybe I was wrong, suggesting 4
that you go alone with him. Maybe next
time we’ll arrange it so you can go with a
crowd. He’s in college, and he’s older than the
boys you know and sometimes ..."
"Mother.” Liz’s voice was harsh. “Let’s
not kid ourselves. There won’t be any next
time. I’m a drip.”
Abby went down the stairs quietly. She
put one hand on the post. “Darling, don’t be
dumb. You’re not a drip. You’re very pretty.”
Liz laughed. It wasn’t a funny laugh. It
was a horrible laugh for a fifteen-year-old.
"That’s what he said, before tonight. He told
me I was alarmingly pretty. That’s what he
said. Tonight he talked about the wrestling
team. He didn’t even have the common
politeness to say I looked nice.”
Abby folded her arms. “Liz, he may seem
old to you. He’s a college man but he really
isn’t so old. Maybe he was just shy.”
“Mother — Ned was voted Chief Fresh
man Wolf at his fraternity.”
"Yes, darling, but ..."
“Look, Mum. I know other girls who’ve
been out with him. They gave me a preview.
I went prepared to fight for my virtue — and
he didn’t even try to hold my little finger.”
She tried to laugh again. This time it didn’t
come off at all. It was a sob.
Abby put out her hand. “I hate to make a
noise like a mother. But I’m older than you.
Ned likes you, or he wouldn’t have asked you
to the party. Maybe he liked you too much
to be a —Chief Wolf.”
Lu put her hands over her race. Dry up,
Mother. Just skip it. Skip it. I'm a drip.
I could tell. I haven’t got it. He didn’t even
say he’d call me again sometime. Now let me
alone, won’t you? Make your cocoa.”
"Baby.” Abby said it softly. "It will be
better tomorrow. He’s just one boy. There
are lots of others."
“Mother,” said Liz, “please shut up. I
• don’t want to discuss it.”
Liz walked past her mother and up the
stairs. At the top, she turned. “Just leave me
alone. I’ll get along.”
She ran into her bedroom. Abby looked up
at George’s door. It was still closed. Abby
absent-mindedly pinned up a curl. She tried
to remember how it felt to be fifteen and gave
up. She wondered if Liz was right about Ned.
He had looked like any other run-of-the-mill
boy, but he might be a Chief Wolf, at that.
Maybe Liz didn’t have it. Maybe looks didn’t
matter, maybe...
Abby shivered and went into the kitchen.
It was cold; she lighted the gas oven. As an
excuse for George, if he should waken, she
“I took core
of Ned. I told
him to behave
— or else..."
began getting out milk and sugar and cocoa.
She watched the sugar and cocoa and water
bubble. For the first time in her life, she felt
understanding for her mother, waiting in the
dark living room. You bear children, you wipe
their noses and their bottoms, you correct
them and praise them and, somewhere along
the way, you lose part of yourself in them.
There is nothing you can do about it. You
try to be objective, but you bleed when they
bleed. Even when your daughter is bigger
than you are. she’s still your baby. Even when
her teachers tell you she has nearly a genius
I.Q., you want to protect her. to stand be
tween her and the world. You want to grab
the brat who didn’t even tell her she looked
pretty, and bring him home by the ear and
make him apologize..,
“Leaning over a hot stove at this* time of
night?”
Abby whirled. Little George was standing
in the door. She hadn’t even heard him come
in, which gave her a rough idea of her condi
tion. She tried to smile up at him.
“Cocoa. Have a cup?”
He made a face. “But if there's a bottle of
beer on ice. I’ll keep you company.”
She shrugged. George worked on the theory
that if a boy was going to drink, he should be
able to drink at home. Besides, she needed
companionship. “Look and see.”
He rummaged in the icebox, came out with
a bottle and opened it. She added milk to
the cocoa, watching him. He tilted the bottle
into his mouth, took a swallow and grinned
at her.
"The glamour girl home yet?”
“Yes,” said Abby. “Yes, she’s in.”
“How did it go?”
Abby sat down quickly. Suddenly, her legs
couldn’t hold her any longer. “Buzz,” she
said. It came out unexpectedly. Buzz was his
old baby nickname. He had discarded it forc
ibly when he went to grammar school and she
hadn’t thought of it for ages. "Buzz, let’s be
frank with each other. Has your sister got —
does she appeal to boys? You’d know,
wouldn’t you?”
He put the bottle down on the kitchen
table. “What are you driving at, Mom?”
Tears came into Abby’s eyes. “She — she
had a lousy time tonight.”
The boy stiffened. “Why? Did he make a
pass at her?”
Abby shook her head. “No, he didn’t even
try to hold her hand. And she says he has a
reputation as a — Chief Wolf.”
George nodded. "And how.”
“But he didn’t even try to — she thinks
she’s a drip.”
George yawned. "Relax, Mom. 1 took
care of Ned. When I found out he was dat
ing Liz, I had a little talk with him. A
little chat. I told him how to treat my
sister. With hands off."
The cocoa was burning. Abby smelled it
but she couldn’t get up. “You — Buzz,
you.didn’t.”
He nodded again. “But of course. You
didn’t think I’d have him pawing over
Liz, did you? I’m captain of the wrestling
team next year, and he wants to make it.
I told him to behave or else.” He made a
boxing motion with his right hand and
ducked.
Abby stood up and went over to the
cocoa. She turned it out and stared down
at it. “Darling, you meant well. But you
can’t go through life keeping people off
teams if they make passes at your sister.
Your father and I have left you on your
own. You have to let her take care of her
self.”
"Then why are you prowling around
making cocoa at midnight? You were wor
ried about the brat. Now, weren’t you?”
Abby blushed. “I wasn’t. I just woke up
and couldn’t sleep and — Darn it. Buzz, no.
I was worried about her, but I wasn’t going
to let her know. Then I heard her crying.
I made the cocoa an excuse so I could come
down.”
“Crying?” George finished the bottle in
one gurgle. "That’s ridic."
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