We read together awhile longer, quietly, each drinking in the words. We didn't speak with one another and I quickly lost myself in the story in my lap. I was so taken with my book that I didn't notice when Aunt Myrna had left. After awhile I, too, set my book aside and went upstairs.
Papa had moved some furniture away from one of the walls in the living room and he had his camera, backdrop, and lights set up. He loved photography, and on special occasions he turned this wall into his private studio.
Today, I guess, was a special occasion.
"Here, Myrna," he pointed to the bald wall, "You stand there. Let me see if I can get a good shot of you."
We had all learned that when Papa wanted to be a photographer we were to humor him. Aunt Myrna, who had known Papa longer than any of us, had learned this very well and she obediently took her place against the wall.
"You know how I hate having my picture taken, Walter," she scolded, but there was a chuckle in her voice.
"And you know how I love to take your picture, Myrna," Papa replied, and they both laughed together.
Papa made a great production of taking pictures. He peered through the camera on the tripod, adjusted the lights, peered some more, rotated the focus dial back and forth a bit, moved the tripod to the right, then back to the left, peered again, and after a little while the lights flashed, blinding everyone in the room for twenty seconds. Then he did it all over again.
Aunt Myrna stood patiently while Papa fawned over his equipment. Once she looked in my direction and winked, and without thinking I winked back, then felt mortified that I had betrayed myself by being friendly.
After Papa had taken a couple hundred pictures of Aunt Myrna he excused her and she sat down wearily in the Morris chair.
"Come here, little Squirt," Papa reached toward me, and, happy for the attention, I ran to him. Three pictures later, I was tired of the attention and began squirming.
"Just one more shot," Papa said, and then he turned around. "Myrna, you come get in this one."
Aunt Myrna heaved herself heavily out of the chair and stood next to me, but the disparity in our heights caused Papa to frown. He pulled the tripod away from us, looked into the camera, and pulled the tripod further back. His frown deepened into a full-blown furrow.
"What if Myrna sits down, Walter?" Mama suggested, and she waited for Papa to nod before handing one of the dining room chairs to Myrna.
Myrna sat down, and I stood next to her, and without thinking about it I draped my arm lazily across her shoulder. She reached around me and held me close at the waist, and I heard Papa mumble as he smiled, and then we were all blind for twenty seconds.
Aunt Myrna was leaving the next morning, and Mama said I could stay up late if I wanted. Few things pleased me more than bending rules. The four of us sat around the small kitchen booth until late into the night. Papa and Aunt Myrna reminisced about lazy Nebraskan days long gone by while Mama and I listened quietly.
Silence is not something that generally comes naturally to me, but in the presence of good story telling I am struck mute with admiration. Papa and Aunt Myrna both knew how to spin a good yarn, and watching them that night was better than the Ed Sullivan show. I was so enthralled with their enchanting tales that whatever lingering irritation I had for Aunt Myrna quietly slipped into away.
When I woke up the next morning Aunt Myrna was gone and Papa had already left for work. I ate corn flakes and was sullen, and Mama didn't try to cheer me up. After breakfast, just before I went to find Danny and Timmy, Mama reached into the pocket of her shirtwaist dress and pulled out an envelope. "Aunt Myrna asked me to give you this, Honey."
I opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. The printed handwriting was a little stilted and I could tell Aunt Myrna had taken pains to not write in cursive. Even as I glanced at the letter, I saw a handful of words I did not recognize.
"I can't read this," I told Mama. "She used too many big words. You read it to me," and I handed it to my mother.
Mama took the envelope from me and read it. "Hmm," she frowned.
"What's the matter?" I asked, mirroring her frown. "You can't read it, either?"
"It's not addressed to me. See?" she pointed to the envelope. "Right here. 'Kate Arlene
Morgenstern.' It's written to you. Looks like you'll have to read it yourself." Her face shifted into a slight grin.
I went to the basement and pulled out the dictionary, climbed up onto the old couch and began reading.
Dear Kate,
I had hoped to say goodbye to you in person, but I needed to get an early start. I want to cross the Mississippi Bridge in St Louis before it gets late. I detest bridges, and I detest St Louis, and I'm anxious to get both of them behind me as quickly as possible.
I'd enjoy corresponding with you if you're inclined.. I'll post you a letter in a few weeks and I'd appreciate you writing me back if you like.
I'd love to hear your thoughts about Lost Horizon, and I want to know how you and Sister Martha Louise make out this fall. That is, if you decide to return to school, and I hope you will. For one thing, they start teaching cursive in second grade, and I hate printing, so please, go to second grade and learn how to read and write in cursive.
My hand is starting to cramp so I will close for now and get on back to Hendley. Have a good summer, and I'll write soon.
Aunt Myrna
I folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope, and crammed the envelope into the back pocket of my jeans before I ran out the sliding doors to play. A few days later my mother found the letter while she was doing the laundry and placed it carefully in the second drawer of my dresser, right next to my chapel veils.
The summer blazed away too quickly, as summers so often do. Danny got his new bike and Timmy got Danny's old bike, and I begged Papa for a new bike, but he said we'd wait for now. Danny and Timmy and I had several more outings to Whirlies, and we had to take Janey with us once. Mr and Mrs Gray, four doors up from the Watsons, got a new refrigerator and donated the cardboard box to us, and we wore the our little section of the hillside bald.
And for a little while I forgot about Aunt Myrna and Grandpa Wilhelm's old pickup truck and Lost Horizon.
CHAPTER 7