Up a Road Slowly

by Irene Hunt

  “Good night, my girls,” he called, and strode away toward his carriage-house apartment.

  “You sent him out there for me, didn’t you, Aunt Cordelia?” I asked after a while.

  “He went of his own accord,” she said quietly. “I was frightened tonight, Julia. For the first time that I can remember, I gave way to panic. Then I called Haskell. I guess you realize that he has never in his life lifted a burden from me; that is why your father and Jonathan have disliked him so much. But tonight, he did. He treated me the way a strong brother treats a sister when she is weak.”

  Upstairs in my room I stood at the window and looked out at the silver world.

  “On such a night,” I thought, “were ill and

  good,

  Bright and unlovely; precious, tawdry,

  All mingled into one

  And pressed against my heart.”

  It was a long way from Shakespeare, but it gave me a bit of comfort to think in blank verse at the close of a particularly wretched day.

  9

  That spring, which marked the end of my junior year in high school, was a difficult one for me. When Brett had the hard news straight from Uncle Haskell that E. J. had felt the academic record of Bishop’s protégé made an interview unnecessary, Brett was through with me, my family, and any person who had a kind word for any one of us. He immediately began taking Carlotta Berry to all the spring activities at school whereupon Carlotta glowed and began regarding me as if I were a country cousin. Even Danny refused to let bygones be bygones, and he invited Eden Brownlee to go to the prom with him when he knew that I had no choice but to stay at home. Ted Bolling, who, Alicia said, had brightened at the mention of my name, had in the meantime brightened at the presence of a young secretary from the English department. I was a social outcast as suddenly as I had become the envy of half the girls in school when Brett first paid attention to me.

  The loneliness and sense of loss left an aching void inside me, and the knowledge that everyone knew I had been jilted was an added stroke of bitterness. I chose not to remember Brett’s inadequacies, but to dwell upon his attractiveness, his moments of tenderness; there were many sweet memories, and they made the bitterness of Carlotta’s taking over everything that had belonged to me very hard to bear.

  I wrote a little poetry as a release, and it helped somewhat, although even in my misery, I knew that it was not very good poetry. I grew apathetic about my schoolwork and did a C paper on Civil Disobedience for Alicia, who made no comment, but shook her head ever so slightly when she handed it back to me. It was a pity; I had intended writing a really superior paper for her on that day when she made the assignment.

  From my window I watched the full moon—a moon that reminded me of Brett—become shadowed, little by little until there was only a deep blackness in the woods at night. I would sit there wakeful, hour after hour, and wonder if this aching around my heart, this sense of being alone, forlorn and unwanted in a world where there was gaiety and love for others of my age, was going to continue for all of my days.

  Everyone in my family was kind to me that spring. Father came out and took me for long drives; Alicia gave me a crisp, white suit with a coral blouse that would have sent me into raptures ordinarily; Laura wrote that she and my small namesake were looking forward to visiting me in August. And Aunt Cordelia was wonderful. There was not one sermon or high and mighty word from her. I think that I began to love Aunt Cordelia that spring.

  Day followed day, each heavier than the other, for six weeks or so, and then the miracle happened. I have often thought about that miracle: surely the weight under which I had labored had gradually been lessening and the miracle was not a miracle at all. I think not though; it still seems like a miracle and this is how it was:

  I had gone to sleep in sorrow and longing; I awoke the next morning—and something had happened. It was a bright summer morning and every leaf on the trees outside seemed to have been polished, glittering as they were in the sunlight. The white curtains at my window moved just a little at the touch of the breeze that drifted inside, and my room somehow became a vivid picture to me as if I had pulled aside some veil of indifference and was suddenly aware of it. The walls were as pale as they could get and still be called yellow; the surface of the old walnut bureau and bookcase that Aunt Cordelia and I had refinished was deep with lights which were absorbed in its brown depths. There were white throw rugs on the floor—white rugs that Aunt Cordelia had allowed me to have against the judgment of her practical mind—and there was the small rocking chair upholstered in worn velvet which had been hers when she was a girl. On my desk stood a framed photograph which my aunt had allowed me to keep, the photograph of a lovely young girl smiling at the thought of Jonathan Eltwing, and of a blond young man standing in a studied pose, and a little girl who looked like Laura, laughing at the camera that photographed her.

  All these things I saw in that moment of awaking; it wasn’t until seconds later that I realized how I was lying, cool and relaxed in my bed, with a sense of serenity and quiet happiness enveloping me. I made myself think of Brett as one might touch an old wound to determine whether or not it is healed, and the thought of him miraculously did not hurt. I was neither angry nor contemptuous; I just remembered a beautiful boy I had once loved and it was as if something inside me said, “Well, wasn’t that lovely? And now, shall we think of other things?”

  For a while I was almost afraid to move, fearful that just starting the ordinary duties of another day would break the spell that had descended upon me. Then I stepped carefully out of bed, and stood in front of the window breathing deeply. All was well. Still only a sense of well-being within me. After a moment I ran into the bathroom, turned on a cold shower and exulted while the cold lines of water pelted my body. As I stood glowing after I had rubbed myself with a big bath towel, I wondered why so much had been written about love’s pain and so little about the glorious relief of being delivered from love’s pain. I regretted that I did not have more talent for expressing myself in poetry; I did resolve, however, that I’d do another paper on Civil Disobedience —it was too late for credit, of course, but it would give me a chance to show Alicia my real ability.

  I brushed my hair furiously for a good five minutes and tied it back with a strip of rose velvet. I had a new housecoat, a gift from Laura, too beautiful for ordinary occasions, being all of white eyelet cotton over a lining of petal pink dimity, but I put it on recklessly and stood before my mirror in unabashed self-approval. I had sparkle that morning, sparkle that originated somewhere deep inside me and spread outward to my cheeks and eyes, even, it seemed, to the gleam of my hair.

  Down in the kitchen Aunt Cordelia was preparing breakfast; the aroma of coffee and Canadian bacon and hot, buttered toast met me as I ran downstairs, and I, who for weeks had been growing thinner as I picked indifferently at my food, was suddenly famished and eager.

  We often ate our breakfast in a sunny corner of the kitchen, and Aunt Cordelia had placed two blue bowls on the table, two of Grandmother Bishop’s best china bowls, and they were filled with raspberries picked only that morning and still frosted with dew. I was especially perceptive to all things beautiful that morning—raspberries in blue china bowls were enough to make the heart sing.

  Aunt Cordelia glanced up from her work as I entered the fragrant kitchen, and I saw a light come into her eyes. She liked seeing me carefully dressed of a morning; she was relieved, too, I am sure, to see that I had emerged from the despondency that had weighed upon me for weeks. I smiled at her and hurried to pour the coffee.

  “Aunt Cordelia,” I said in the tones of a Biblical proclamation, “I have been visited by a miracle.”

  The light in her eyes was clouded instantly, whether in concern over my sanity or recognition of the fact that miracles could sometimes be embarrassing to a family. She let a circle of pink bacon fall back into the frying pan, and stood looking at me. I laughed at her expression and poured the coffee so recklessly that
it overflowed one cup and filled the saucer.

  “There are miracles and miracles, Aunt Cordelia; this one has just given me a new outlook on life. I went to sleep last night still feeling hurt over Brett; this morning I am completely free of him. He no longer matters. It’s all over.”

  She was relieved, there was no doubt about that, but she took her place at the table as sedately as always. “Love is not love which alters,” she quoted as she passed a basket of toast to me, “when it alteration finds.”

  I knew then that she was happy. Aunt Cordelia was likely to be in one of her better moods when she felt like quoting Shakespeare.

  As we sat together at breakfast that morning I thought that food had never before tasted so wonderful.

  “You know, Aunt Cordelia, there will come a time when I’ll eat berries like these some morning, fresh, dewy berries like these, and I’ll think, ‘What’s the matter? These are not like the ones I ate with so much pleasure long ago.’ And then I’ll tell myself, ‘Of course not, for where is the sunny kitchen overlooking the woods, and where is the beautiful room upstairs where you awakened that morning, where is the aunt who quoted from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets and above all, where is the sixteen-year-old girl who had just experienced a miracle?’ It will never be the same, Aunt Cordelia; I’ll never eat raspberries like these again.”

  Aunt Cordelia just smiled gently. “Maybe not,” she said.

  I changed into my blue jeans after breakfast. The first evidence that things were getting back to normal was Aunt Cordelia’s sharp, “Not in that beautiful housecoat, Julia,” when I commenced to gather up the dishes. All that morning I worked in a near frenzy of housewifely enthusiasm, polishing furniture, dusting rows of books, washing windows, arranging flowers. Everything I did was a delight; it was a beautiful morning, and I was free of Brett Kingsman!

  When I had the house shining, I called Alicia, who got a little bit into my mood of euphoria when I told her all about recent developments. Alicia and I hadn’t talked for a long time, but that morning we ignored the coldness that had been between us. “Julie, I’m so happy I could shout,” she told me, and we laughed and chatted like two girls again. Later I wrote a long letter to Chris and then one to Laura in which I enclosed a little story for young Julie with crazy drawings which I knew she would like. It was as if I had been away from my family for a long time, and communicating with them again was a great satisfaction.

  After supper that night I saddled Peter the Great, and rode down through the woods to the road that led south of our place and which, incidentally, went past Danny Trevort’s home. I saw Danny out in the yard striding behind a noisy lawn mower as I approached; he had grown very tall, and I smiled to myself because I could remember a good many years in school when I had been as tall as he was although he was almost two years older. Then suddenly, he had shot up, leaving me far below; it had seemed very strange for quite a while. His hair, that used to be so yellow when we were younger, had grown much darker except where it was bleached by the sun and there was a taut, well-knit look about him that suggested strength in spite of his slenderness. I waved casually as I passed and he gave me a nod; I wasn’t too much surprised, however, when some minutes later I heard the pound of his horse’s hooves as he rode to overtake me.

  We had often raced when we were kids and that night I spurred Peter the Great, urging him to forget his years and give Danny’s younger mount a run for his money. We pounded down the hard-packed road, and I felt exhilarated and joyful with the strength and the gallant effort of old Peter as he strove to do me proud.

  Finally, Danny drew rein and called to me; after a minute or two we were trotting quietly, side by side.

  “You ride too hard, Julie. You’ll break your neck one of these days,” Danny said. His eyes were friendly and he laughed at the way strands of hair had blown across my face and into my eyes.

  “I don’t suppose I could have grown up without you and Chris to advise me,” I said.

  “We did seem to have more sense,” he agreed amiably. “You were always one to fly apart in all directions.”

  “You were both Aunt Cordelia’s pets—you know that well enough. Two big, disgusting pets, just because you were male.”

  “Not at all. She just recognized a certain quality of integrity and maturity of judgment in old Chris and me. You could hardly blame her for that.”

  “Oh, slurp, slurp, Trevort, I can’t stand it,” I cried, getting Peter the Great into action again, and we were off, laughing and pounding down the road like two kids gone berserk.

  It was fun being with Danny again; it had been a long time since we had been friendly, a whole school year, in fact. Ever since I had started going around with Brett. I had never thought of how Danny might fit into the role of sweetheart; he hadn’t seemed to care much about girls until very lately. I knew that he had taken Carlotta to a school dance one night; she had giggled and told me that Danny hadn’t so much as held her hand on the way home, no good-night kiss, no more romance about him than when we had been grade school kids under Aunt Cordelia’s watchful eye. But he had taken very pretty and popular Eden Brownlee to the prom only a few weeks before, and I had heard no criticism of his behavior from her. It stung me just a little to think of Eden. I believe that I had always considered that Danny was my special property if I wanted to claim him. I had a note up in my leather box of secret treasures, a note from Danny which I had received when I was about nine. It read, “I have for many, many years always thought that you was the nicest girl in school. I will always love you till deth us do part. Yours truly, Danny Trevort.” With a document like that in my possession I couldn’t help but feel that I had certain rights, and I had rather wanted to claim them that lonely night of the junior prom.

  “How are you and Kingsman doing these days?” he asked, when we had quieted down a bit. There was no apparent reason for his asking the question; everybody in school knew how Kingsman and I were doing. However, I was somehow glad to tell him.

  “A broken melody,” I said, “a shattered remnant of the past.”

  “Your guardian angel must have been on duty,” Danny commented.

  I didn’t answer. I thought to myself, “No, but there was Uncle Haskell.”

  “How about you and Eden Brownlee?” I asked. I was conscious of what I rather hoped he would say.

  But he didn’t say it. He looked thoughtful for a minute, and then he said, “She’s a right sort of girl. I like her; I guess I like her very much.”

  So that was that. “Deth” hadn’t parted us, but Brett Kingsman had driven quite a wedge between us, and now it looked as if Eden Brownlee was going to finish the job. Danny and I were going to enjoy one of those beautiful brother-sister relationships that summer. Maybe not even that. Not if the Eden Brownlee influence became too potent.

  Chris came home for a visit that summer; he, like Danny, was ready for college and a bit patronizing toward me who still had another year in high school. But it was wonderful having him home. We rode and swam, played tennis and went dancing with Danny and Eden. I had never felt so happy and relaxed; I even came to like Eden after a while. After all, it was not her fault that I had lost Danny.

  Later in the summer there came Laura and Bill and little Julie; then Father and Alicia joined us and for two joyful weeks Aunt Cordelia and I had our family around us. Jonathan Eltwing often came over for the evening, and occasionally Uncle Haskell risked the failure in meeting a deadline in order to be with us. All the rooms upstairs, so long empty, were filled with people very dear to me. Sometimes I would stand in my own room listening to the buzz of talking and laughter, and I would think of how much life had changed since the October day when I had been brought out to Aunt Cordelia’s place under the influence of the doctor’s sedative.

  Young Julie was my roommate during those two weeks, little Julie, all dimples and rosy curves, but with what seemed to me a reflective wisdom in her large eyes. She followed me around with a devotion I had never known bef
ore, and at night she lay beside me, begging for more stories until she grew sleepy.

  “It’s a Laura and Julie relationship all over again,” I heard Father tell Aunt Cordelia. I recognized it too, never so poignantly as on the night when she breathed a long sigh of delight over the end of a story.

  “We’re always going to be like this, aren’t we, Julie? We’re always going to be two Julies together in your room when I come here, aren’t we?”

  My heart got out of rhythm for a second as I remembered things long past. “For quite a while, Julie; perhaps not always, but for a long time,” I whispered.

  “Till you marry a big boy and go away?” she asked.

  “I’m not going to marry anyone for a long time, Julie.”

  “Grandpa and Alicia wish that Danny was your boyfriend,” the small gossip continued.

  I laughed. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that, sweetheart; Danny has another girl.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to have a boyfriend and get married. I want you to stay right here so we can always be two Julies together in this room when I come to see you.”

  Then the summer was over, and the sweet, sad days of autumn moved in once again. Fun was over, and another year of work had commenced. I didn’t see Danny and Eden so often after Chris went back to school; Danny still came over to do any heavy work for Aunt Cordelia, putting up storm windows one week, cutting down a tree that leaned too near the electric power line another time. I felt that since he and Eden entered college he treated me as if I were a somewhat dull younger sister. I often sat at my window during the nights of early fall that year, and it seemed to me quite likely that I would, indeed, stay right on being another Julie in the same old room when my little niece came to visit me.