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?
“My name is Shelley Latham.” No response. “Could I—that is, do you have time to answer a few questions for my school paper?” Shelley sensed the amusement of the faculty members, but it was too late to back out now.
“Well?” said Jonas Hornbostle.
Apparently the poet meant this to be consent. At least he was looking at Shelley instead of moving toward the door. Encouraged, Shelley quickly decided she had no time for notes. She would have to remember what he said.
“Mr. Hornbostle, what do you think of Vincente—this part of the country?” she asked, looking up into the tired, impatient face.
“Does it matter what I think?” he asked ironically but not unkindly.
Shelley felt confused. Probably what he thought really did not matter, but that was not the sort of answer she expected him to give. “Well…” She gulped and tried frantically to think of a question that would sound intelligent and start him talking a
bout himself. “Uh—how old were you when you wrote your first poem?”
Mr. Hornbostle raised one of his famous black eyebrows. “Poems?” he queried gently. “Have I written any? I am not so sure of that.”
I’m getting no place fast, thought Shelley, uncomfortably aware that the college faculty members found the whole scene amusing. “Mr. Hornbostle,” she began, determined that this time she was going to get a definite answer out of the man. “Where were you born?” That was a question that he could not evade.
Before Shelley’s eyes the tired, impatient face grew more tired and more impatient. “My dear young reporter,” said Jonas Hornbostle, “the answer to that question can be found in any one of a number of standard reference books that I am sure are available for your use in your school library. Have you never heard of Who’s Who in America?”
“Yes,” Shelley managed to whisper, unable to take her eyes from the poet’s face. This could not be happening to her. No, no. Not to her. Things like this did not really happen. It was happening, though.
“Then if you expect to gain practice in interviewing, I would suggest that you never ask a question that can be answered in your library. Who’s Who in America will not only tell you where I was born, it will also tell you how many children I have and give you their names. That, I presume, was to be your next question.”
Shelley managed to tear her horrified gaze away from the famous face. She looked at the floor and whispered, “Thank you.” Then, with tears in her eyes, she turned and walked halfway up the aisle until she could stand it no longer. She broke into a run and ran the rest of the way out of the building.
Safe inside the station wagon, Shelley sat trembling behind the steering wheel. Outside the world still seemed serene. A breeze moved the pendant branches of a pepper tree in front of the car, and down the block two little girls were playing hopscotch and laughing. Shelley rested her forehead on the steering wheel. What did I expect, she asked herself bitterly, the whole world to change because she had made a fool of herself in front of a famous man and a good part of the faculty of the Orange Belt College? And she had thought herself so smart, starting out to interview a celebrity. She had planned to impress Hartley and to knock the whole Journalism 1 class right back on its heels with her cleverness. And who got knocked back on her heels? Shelley Latham, the girl who was too stupid even to be a cub reporter. Shelley Latham, sub-cub, that was what she was. Whatever would she tell Hartley? She had promised to let him read her story and now there would be no story.
Shelley lifted her head from the steering wheel. She could not sit there all afternoon trying to pull herself together when Mavis was expecting her to return with the car. Automatically she inserted the key in the ignition and as she turned it, anger toward the poet swept over her. What a rude man he was! And where would he be without a public to admire him? And she had been his admirer. That was what hurt Shelley most—she had truly admired the poet, and then to have him be so curt to her…
Shelley drove slowly home and as she turned into the familiar streets of San Sebastian, the anger drained out of her and she felt suddenly very tired. She could no longer be angry with Jonas Hornbostle. He was right. It was she who had been rude in expecting a tired and busy man to take time to answer her inexpert questions. Why, in every town he visited he probably met at least one journalism student along with the autograph seekers and the ladies in flowery hats. And probably they all asked him the same questions.
The words of the young man who had sat beside her came back to Shelley and she now felt that perhaps he had been right after all. Jonas Hornbostle was a poor reader of his own poetry, and for that reason she began to feel sorry for him. It must be difficult to read badly in front of an audience and then to be pestered by journalism students. He had really not been angry with her so much as terribly, terribly weary.
Shelley turned onto North Mirage Avenue and then into the Michies’ driveway. She had failed. On Monday morning she would have to admit to Hartley that she had failed. Hartley, of all people. If he had gone to Vincente he would have come back with an interview. He would have gone prepared with a list of interesting and intelligent questions, because Hartley was the kind of boy who always knew exactly what he was doing.
Early Saturday evening the telephone rang. “It’s for you, Shelley,” said Katie. She added in a whisper, “It’s a boy.”
“Hello?” said Shelley, wondering what boy could be calling her. Maybe Philip’s father had relented after all.
“Hi, Shelley,” answered Hartley. “Did you get the interview?”
“No,” answered Shelley reluctantly, but feeling that she might as well bring to an end the whole unpleasant incident as soon as possible. And just when she had succeeded in attracting Hartley’s interest once more, too.
“How come?” There was disappointment in Hartley’s voice. “Wouldn’t he talk to you?”
“Oh, he talked to me all right,” said Shelley, not wanting to admit what had happened.
“Well, come on, tell me about it,” persisted Hartley. “If he talked to you, you must have an interview.”
“Oh, no, I don’t,” said Shelley.
“What happened?” asked Hartley.
Shelley was silent a moment. “Wait a minute!” she exclaimed. “Maybe I do have a story after all.” Briefly she described the episode. “And how do you think it would be,” she concluded, “if I wrote it straight and told what really did happen? I mean, wouldn’t that make a story?”
“Sure it would,” said Hartley enthusiastically. “That would be a better story than if he had answered your questions straight.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Shelley eagerly.
“I know it,” said Hartley.
“Then I’ll do it,” said Shelley. “It will make me look like an awful idiot but I don’t care.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Hartley reassured her. “We all have to learn sometime and besides, the fact that you had a hard time asking questions will make a good angle. You know, a headline something like ‘Famous Poet Gives Cub Reporter Lesson in Interviewing.’”
“That’s so,” agreed Shelley. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Say, Shelley,” said Hartley, as if he had just had another idea. “If you aren’t doing anything this evening, maybe I could come over and help you write the story.”
“Why—I’d love to have you come over,” said Shelley truthfully. She had not expected this much.
“Swell. I’ll be over in about an hour,” said Hartley.
“Do you have a date?” asked Katie eagerly when Shelley had hung up. She had been following the conversation from the living room.
“Yes,” said Shelley happily. “At least a sort of date. Hartley is coming over to help me with my journalism.”
“That counts as a date,” Katie assured her. “Would you like me to bake a cake?”
Shelley laughed. “I’m sure Hartley would enjoy a piece of cake.”
“I can make cocoa, too,” said Katie. “Like we made at school. Of course at school we called it breakfast cocoa but I don’t see why it wouldn’t taste all right at night.”
“It will probably taste better,” said Shelley. “And now I’ve got to change my dress.” Blessings on thee, Jonas Hornbostle, thought Shelley, as she ran up the stairs to her room. Poor tired old poet.
Chapter 13
Dear Mother and Daddy, Shelley mentally wrote as she opened the door for Hartley. This evening Hartley, the boy who took me to Vincente that time when I first came down here, came over to see me and we worked on our journalism assignment….
“Hello, Shelley,” said Hartley as he entered. “I hope you won’t write like the Argus-Report and call a poet a bard.”
Shelley laughed. “Bard is a funny word to use, now that I stop to think about it, but the Argus-Report uses a lot of funny words. Like tot. They use that a lot—I suppose because it is easy to fit into a headline.”
“There is a ‘Dog Bites Tot’
or a ‘Tot Lost’ story in almost every issue,” Hartley agreed with a grin.
Tom was attending a meeting and after greeting Hartley, Mavis excused herself, saying she was going to her studio. Shelley produced the rough draft of the interview that she had managed to write, and she and Hartley sat down in the living room at the long table below the handmade hooked rug that hung on the wall—Tom could not bear to see anyone walk on Mavis’s hard work, so the Michies had hung the rug on the wall. Shelley felt perfectly natural sitting there with Hartley, almost as if they had sat there together often. This rather surprised her, but she decided she must feel at ease with him because he sat behind her in her registration room at school.
Shelley was not disturbed by Luke’s sitting in his favorite chair studying a catalogue of motorcycle parts nor was she annoyed when Katie, in a fresh cotton dress, wandered in and out of the room. She was amused that Katie had dressed up for her date and she knew that Katie was interested in everything she and Hartley said. Katie was thinking that someday she could have a boy come over to study, too.
Hartley read Shelley’s interview and they talked it over. He made suggestions, Shelley made suggestions, and they had one argument. Hartley thought that after the first sentence she should refer to Jonas Hornbostle as Mr. Hornbostle.
“But I never think of him as Mister,” Shelley protested. “Of course I called him Mr. Hornbostle when I spoke to him, but writing is different. Nobody writes about a poet as Mister. They are called by their full names or just their last names.”
“But he’s a human being,” Hartley pointed out. “Why shouldn’t he be called Mister?”
“It doesn’t sound right. Did you ever hear anyone call Shelley—Percy Bysshe, that is—Mr. Shelley?” Shelley asked. “Of course not. It is always just Shelley or Percy Bysshe Shelley.”
“I guess that’s right,” admitted Hartley. “But on the other hand, I’m sure that I have read about T. S. Eliot as Mr. Eliot.”
The Luckiest Girl Page 15
