The Velvet Room

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Dad explained how it was. There had been a letter from Uncle Joe. It seemed his doctor had advised him to sell his store and spend most of his time resting. But Uncle Joe didn’t want to do that, so he had written to Dad. If Dad would come and run the store, Uncle Joe would pay him sixty dollars a month and they could have one of the motor cabins to live in. Only one cabin though; because with Mama and the girls there to do the cleaning, he’d be opening the rest up for tourists again. Dad said that as far as he was concerned, there were some pretty good reasons for accepting Uncle Joe’s offer and some other pretty good reasons for not accepting it. There wasn’t much difference in the pay, and a weather-beaten motor cabin wouldn’t be an improvement over the Village houses, except for a little more indoor plumbing. Accepting would mean, of course, a change of schools for everybody in the middle of the year, just when they’d all been counting on staying a whole term in the same school. They’d all made friends they would hate losing; and the green Santa Luisa Valley was certainly prettier than the flat dry country around Uncle Joe’s. However, the job at Uncle Joe’s would be permanent. And there was one other advantage: working with a pitch fork and shovel and hay hook all day seemed to be getting a little harder all the time, and the job at the grocery wouldn’t require lifting anything much heavier than a few cans of tomatoes.

  Dad stopped talking and looked around at the silent, stricken faces of the family. “I’ve decided to leave it up to you,” he said. “Tomorrow morning we’ll take a vote. That gives you a night to sleep on it. And that’s just what I’m getting ready to do.”

  After Dad left the room, everybody started talking at once; all except Robin, who, in the confusion, drifted out the door and into the orange grove. It was dark outside with only a thin rind of moon in the black sky. Robin usually wasn’t too brave about darkness, but the need to get away was very strong.

  A way into the orchard she stopped and just stood staring in the direction of Palmeras House. She wasn’t really thinking at all.

  First, there was Uncle Joe’s. She could see it plainly—the shabby store building crouched beside a skinny sycamore tree, whose ravel of shadow offered the only shade in miles and miles of flat dry land. She could see details she hadn’t even known she remembered: the saggy screen door with the wide metal doorpull that said Coca-Cola in bright enameled letters, making the paintless door look even dingier in comparison; the glass tanks on the gas pumps in front of the store that filled themselves with a gurgling rush of amber liquid when a crank was turned; the deserted stuccoed cabins out in back, like a row of oversized ovens under the hot valley sun, forever broiling the same batch of dust and spiders and rusty bedsprings.

  Then, Uncle Joe’s was gone; and there was Gwen, leaning down from Mirlo’s back, holding out her hand; there was Mrs. Jennings’ face with its encouraging smile; there was the big black piano in the McCurdys’ living room and Miss Andrews smiling and beating time with her hand, as she did when the music was going well; there was Bridget and the stone cottage and finally—bigger and clearer than anything else—there was the Velvet Room.

  But that picture faded away, too, although Robin tried to make it stay; and she could see Dad’s face the way he had looked that night in Santa Luisa when he had sat down on the bench to rest—pale and thin and very tired.

  On her way back to the cabin a little later, Robin met Mama, who was just coming back from the rest-room.

  “Oh, there you are,” Mama said. “I couldn’t imagine where you’d gone to so quickly. One moment you were right there beside Cary, and a minute later you’d disappeared.” But she didn’t say anything about “wandering off”; and just before they got to the cabin, she put her arm around Robin’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.

  “I was just out by the orchard,” Robin said. “I was thinking.” But it hadn’t really been thinking. At least, not the kind of thinking that arranges things in an orderly fashion in your mind so that in the end you can see a pattern and meaning to things. It had only been a bewildering blur of memories and ideas and hopes and feelings. When Robin went to sleep that night, she still didn’t know how she would vote.

  Choices and Reasons

  AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning Mama passed a coffee can around for everyone’s vote. Up to the minute when the pencil was poised over the scrap of paper, Robin didn’t know what she was going to do. But some hidden part of her mind must have been working on it secretly because, with the pencil in her hand, she didn’t hesitate. She just wrote “go” as quickly as she possibly could and dropped her ballot in the can. Then she jumped up and ran out of the cabin, and no one tried to stop her and make her come back.

  It was a hard day at school, and that afternoon she went straight to Palmeras House and up to the Velvet Room. In the alcove she pulled all the drapes shut so that it was almost dark, and she was alone in a soft reddish twilight. Then she collapsed on the window seat and began to cry. She hadn’t cried for a long, long time, not since she was a very little girl back in Fresno. But that Tuesday afternoon she cried enough for all the times in between when she had wanted to and hadn’t, for all the fear and shame and confusion of those three years, as well as for what she would lose when she left Las Palmeras. When at last the tears were gone, there wasn’t anything left—except a strange empty numbness.

  That afternoon was the end of crying. After that Robin was able to take part in conversations about notifying Lincoln School and in all the other preparations for leaving without tears or even a quaver in her voice. Even when Dad said, “I know how you feel, Robin, and I’m sorry,” with so much sympathy in his voice, she was able to answer calmly.

  “It’s all right, Dad. I don’t mind.”

  Strangely enough it was true. Nothing seemed to matter any more. It was almost as if all the feelings Robin had ever had were drained away by the tears that had soaked the cushion in the alcove of the Velvet Room. During the next few days she listened with a faraway calmness as Mrs. Jennings told her how sorry she was to see her go, and Miss Andrews urged her to try someday to go on with her music, and Gwen stormed around vowing that she wasn’t going to let her go. Nothing broke the wall of calm, not even Bridget, when her dark eyes filled with tears and she said, “My dear, I’ll miss you so much.”

  During the Williamses’ last week at Las Palmeras the weather was clear and cold. Almost every night the smudge pots were fired in the orchards to protect the trees from the frost. Dad agreed to stay on until the cold snap broke, since he and Rudy were needed on the smudging crews. But as early as Thursday afternoon Robin began helping Mama pack for the trip to Fresno. The Williamses had collected a few new belongings during their stay at Las Palmeras, and it wasn’t going to be easy to fit everything in and on and around the Model T.

  Dad came in from the mule barns at about his usual time, but as he walked in the door, there was an unusual look about him. He hardly said hello before he added, “Robin, you go outside and stay until you’re called. I want to talk to your mother.”

  From the front steps Robin could hear the murmur of their voices. She didn’t feel really curious. After a while she stopped thinking about what they might be saying. She was remembering how she had hated their cabin when they first came because it was not what she had been hoping for. But then afterward she had come not to hate it any more because it was familiar and because of all the good things about living at Las Palmeras. Leaning forward, with her chin on her knees, she studied the hard-packed earth around the bottom stair. She could remember some other little patches of earth that she had known well. It was funny how well acquainted you could become with a certain arrangement of clods and stone and twigs and ant holes. As she pondered, Dad came out carrying her sweater. “Come on, Robin,” he said. “I want you to go up to the McCurdys’ house with me.”

  It wasn’t a long walk to the big house, but that day Dad took the Model T. The old car made such a racket on the rough dirt road that it wasn’t worthwhile even trying to talk; but when it had jangled t
o a stop near the McCurdys’ house, Dad said, “Robin, the McCurdy’s have something very important to ask you. I’ll let them tell you about it; but I just want to let you know that your mother and I have discussed it, and we’re going to leave it up to you. I’m not happy about making you accept the responsibility for such a big decision; but for reasons you’ll understand when you have children of your own I feel I haven’t the right to decide for you. Just remember that however you decide, I’ll understand.”

  Robin got out of the car reluctantly. Somehow the word “decision” made her feel frightened. Dad smiled reassuringly as he leaned over and closed the door. The Model T groaned into reverse, backed and turned loose-jointedly, and clattered away toward the Village, leaving Robin standing all alone outside the McCurdys’ house. As if in a trance, she started up the walk.

  The door flew open before she could reach it, and Gwen bounced out looking happy and excited. She grabbed Robin’s hand and pulled her down the hall toward Mr. McCurdy’s study. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry! Mom and Dad want to talk to you.”

  In the study Mrs. McCurdy was standing near the window. Mr. McCurdy patted the leather couch beside where he was sitting. “Come in and sit down, Robin,” he said. “And you run along, Gwen. You can talk to Robin later.”

  “Oh, let me stay,” Gwen begged. “I’ll be quiet. I’ll let Robin decide. I won’t say a word.”

  Mrs. McCurdy laughed. “You wouldn’t have to say anything, dear. There’s at least a volume written all over your face. Now run along.”

  Gwen backed out the door, still protesting. When her excited face finally disappeared, Mrs. McCurdy came over to the fireplace. She leaned against the mantel and smiled her special smile at Robin. Standing there, against the dark wood of the mantel, she looked like a painting; but to make the picture complete, she ought to have been holding a little pug-faced dog or a frilly fan.

  No one said anything for a minute, and Robin was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. She looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. Then Mr. and Mrs. McCurdy both started talking at once. “Robin,” they said. They both laughed, and Robin managed a weak smile. “Let me explain it, Don,” Mrs. McCurdy said.

  “Robin,” she said, “we’ve been discussing with your father the possibility of your staying here with us at Las Palmeras until the end of the school year. As you might guess, it was Gwen’s idea at first; but Mr. McCurdy and I agree that it would be a fine arrangement. Gwen is so fond of you, and she insists that nothing in the world would make her happier.” She paused and smiled again.

  Robin opened her mouth, but for a moment nothing came out. “What did Dad say?” she managed at last. “Did my dad say I could stay?”

  “Yes, he did,” Mr. McCurdy said. “We pointed out to your dad that he would be doing us a big favor by letting us borrow you for a while this way. Gwen is lonely here. The ranch takes such a lot of my time, and Mrs. McCurdy’s clubs and things keep her pretty busy. And Gwen’s certainly been doing better work at school and on her music since you two got together. When we put it that way, your dad said he’d leave it up to you. He said he’d be willing to abide by your decision.”

  “Your father agreed that it would be a shame for you to have to change schools in mid-term when you’ve been doing so well at Lincoln,” Mrs. McCurdy added. “And it seems to mean a lot to him that you could continue with your piano here. I know Miss Andrews will be pleased to have you as a regular pupil. She is so enthusiastic about your musical ability.”

  Robin stood up suddenly. So many things were whirling through her mind that they kept getting all mixed up. She started backing toward the door. “I ... I don’t know.”

  To her relief Mr. McCurdy interrupted. “How would it be if you let us know tomorrow? This is a pretty important decision for you to make. Maybe you’d like to think about it and talk it over with your family.”

  “Yes,” Robin said quickly. “I would. I’d like to think it over.” She turned and hurried from the room. Just outside the door she stopped and rushed back. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for ... She made a helpless little gesture and rushed away again.

  Gwen was waiting in the kitchen. She threw her arms around Robin and bounced her up and down. “Isn’t it wonderful!” she squealed. “Isn’t it great?” They walked as far as the stables together, with Gwen chattering enthusiastically all the way. She had all sorts of plans. Robin was to have the blue room, right next to hers. They were going to be like real sisters and do everything together. Mr. McCurdy had promised to bring a cow pony down from El Pasto so they could ride together, and it would be just like Robin’s own horse as long as she stayed at Las Palmeras. Of course, when summer came, Robin would have to go back to her folks; but next year when school started again—well, Gwen hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet, but she would after a while, and she was sure Robin could come back then, too.

  Robin agreed that it was wonderful and that she was excited but she didn’t have to say much because Gwen was so busy talking. When they reached the stables, Gwen turned back and Robin began to run, past the stables, past the barns, past the Criley’s house, until finally she had to stop and catch her breath at the hedge of eucalyptus trees. Then she went on more slowly. When she reached the Williamses’ cabin, she climbed the stairs very quietly and stopped at the door. She just stood there for a while on the top step because somehow she couldn’t go in, not just yet.

  But the minutes passed, and nothing happened. She still couldn’t seem to think very logically. For one thing, the sun had gone down over the tops of the hills, and it was suddenly very cold. Nobody could make an important decision while she shivered all over and her teeth chattered up and down. And besides, she kept hearing things from inside the cabin.

  Through the thin door she could hear the murmur of voices, Theda’s mostly, and Mama’s. She heard Dad cough and the funny noises Cary always made when he was pretending to be some kind of a machine. Then quite clearly she heard Shirley calling from the bedroom. Her voice had a fuzzy, sleepy sound. “Robin, I need Robin to read me to sleep.”

  Without even knowing she meant to, Robin turned and tiptoed down the stairs. She began to run again, this time into the orchard. The aisles between the trees were lined with smudge pots so that she had to keep dodging around them as she ran. But she didn’t slow down until she was almost at Bridget’s cottage.

  It was a strange time for a visit, but Bridget didn’t seem very surprised. At least she didn’t ask any questions until she had hurried Robin in and sat her in front of the fire, then she put some milk on the stove to heat. When they were both sitting in front of the fireplace with steaming mugs of hot chocolate, Bridget asked, “Did you want to tell me something?”

  “Yes,” Robin said. “I have to decide something and ... well, I guess I’ve already decided, really, but I want to talk about it to someone. If I told you about it, would you tell me what you think?”

  “Of course, dear. I’d be glad to tell you what I think, if you feel it would help.”

  It was hard to find a starting place. Bridget knew part of the story, but Robin wanted to start at the very beginning because it was so important to make her understand. It all seemed to start a long way back. There was the letter from Uncle Joe and Bridget had to understand what it was like at Uncle Joe’s store in the San Joaquin Valley. There was having to move again, and start all over at a new school. There was never seeing Gwen again, or Bridget. There was losing the grand piano and the lessons from Miss Andrews. And then all of a sudden there was the chance to stay—the chance to stay at Las Palmeras.

  “So I have to decide what to do,” Robin said. “In a way it all seems wonderful, like a dream come true. But there’s my family, Dad and Shirley and Cary and everybody. I don’t know what it would be like—seeing them go without me.”

  “But you said at first that you’d already decided,” Bridget said. “What is it that you’ve decided to do?”

  Robin turned away from Bridget’s dark
eyes. “I’m going to stay here, with the McCurdys,” she said; and there was a defiant ring to the words that she hadn’t known would be there. Bridget said nothing at all, and after a while Robin asked, “Do you think that’s a bad decision? You do, don’t you?”

  “No, Robin,” Bridget said softly. “Not necessarily. It may be a good decision. It depends, I think, on your reasons for deciding. Many of the things we do are not right or wrong in themselves. But our reasons for doing them can be very right or very wrong. Have you thought about your reasons for wanting to stay with the McCurdys?”

  “I told you,” Robin said quickly. “I was just telling you all the reasons. Aren’t they good ones?”

  “Yes, they are,” Bridget said. “Wanting to continue your music and to go to a fine school like Lincoln are very good reasons. If they are real ones. And wanting to be with Gwen is fine, too, if it is really very important to you.”

  Robin’s head dropped again. “I like Gwen,” she said. “She’s the best friend I ever had. I like her a lot.”

  “Of course you do,” Bridget said, “and I know you like her parents, too. But somehow I don’t think the McCurdys are really your reason for wanting to stay at Las Palmeras.”

  There was a scratching at the door, and Bridget went to let in Damon and Pythias and give them a bowl of bread and milk. While she was busy, Robin got up and went to the front window of the cottage. Through the winter-thinned grove of trees she could see part of the roof of Palmeras House. After a while Bridget came and stood beside her.

  “Is that the real reason?” Bridget asked. “Has it something to do with Palmeras House?”

  “No!” Robin said quickly. She whirled away and went back to her chair by the fire. Bridget followed more slowly. They sat side by side watching the flames leap, orange and gold against the blackened stones of the hearth. At last Robin took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I guess it is.”