“Mona Lisa”
Listen to this story, “That Morgan Boy”
It was a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon, and Grandpa was snoozing as usual beneath the big elm. Mrs. Scott and Julie sat on the patio. Julie was writing a letter to a pen pal, and her mother had a pile of mending on her lap.
All at once, out of the clear blue, Mrs. Scott said, “Julie, I don’t want you hanging around that Morgan boy so much.”
Julie stopped her writing and looked up. “Huh? What do you mean?”
“At church. I don’t want you standing around talking to him.”
So, Julie thought, that’s why you rushed us home, huh? “But why,” she asked, “can’t I be friendly?”
“That’s not it,” her mother said. “I don’t want you to get too involved with him.”
“Oh, Momma, you know better than that. I won’t get too involved. What do you mean by ‘involved,’ anyway?”
“I just don’t want you to get tangled up with that kind of family.”
“What’s wrong with ‘that kind of family’?” Julie demanded.
“They’re good people, I guess,” Mrs. Scott said. “But they just move around from post to pillar getting work wherever they can and dragging those kids along with ’em. I don’t want you to end up marrying an ol’ potato picker.”
“Now, Momma, what’s wrong with potato pickers? Somebody’s got to pick potatoes or we wouldn’t eat ’em. Anyway, just because I’d like to get to know him better doesn’t mean I’m gonna marry him.”
“Well, any girl that gets Victor can just promise herself one thing—a trailer full of kids.”
“Oh, Momma, who knows? Victor may grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer or something, you can’t tell.”
“Well,” Momma persisted in her perceptions, “that’s the way they most always turn out. I want my little girl to find somebody worthwhile, somebody who’ll share her life ambitions.”
My life ambitions, Momma? No, yours. Why do you insist I grow up to be some prominent person? Why is that so important to you? Just because I have a little talent and don’t mind practicing piano? Momma, you can’t run my life for me always. I know you love me and want only the best for me. But I want to be a plain ol’ schoolteacher and maybe someday get married and settle down and have a nice little home. But I can’t tell you this, Momma. Your hopes are too high for me. And about Victor—how do you know “that’s the way they most always come out”? Grandpa raised you in the South and you lived among poor people until you came to California. During that eight years, did you meet and fall in love with a potato picker? Momma, I wish I knew!
Julie looked into her mother’s face. Those eyes had seen the dawn of many a day, and that mind was filled with knowledge gained through experience. Those hands, precious hands, had sacrificed much for Julie. In her heart Julie knew that Momma, in her strict old-fashioned ways, did everything for Julie’s own good.
The days passed. Every day Julie waited for the mail, and every day disappointed her. Why doesn’t that boy write? The Macintoshes had gone to Arizona. And Julie knew that Jonelle, Allen’s first girlfriend after he became converted, lived in Arizona. No doubt he liked her because she was very Christian. And Julie was fearful about the last impression she had left on Allen. It was coolness and indifference. But, no, Allen had said…
A week passed. It was Friday afternoon, and Julie waited for the mail. If Allen hadn’t written by yesterday, Julie knew she needn’t expect anything from him. Jonelle was a good-looking girl, Mrs. Macintosh had said. Oh, forget about Jonelle, Julie told herself. Allen’ll be home Sunday or Monday and everything will be all right then. But what about Victor? Julie had almost forgotten about him. She hadn’t seen him all week long. She knew she shouldn’t and wouldn’t and couldn’t give up Allen completely. Yet she wanted Victor, too. Oh, Julie, she demanded of herself, what’s making you this way? What happened to the sweet, shy, quiet Julie that Allen had first known and liked? Where was this wild streak coming from? She was being another Gloria Martin! She knew Victor liked her. He had told her so in a thousand little ways that only she could interpret—the warmth of his smile, the stars in his eyes, the gentleness of his voice, the way he had whispered, “Adios, Bonita,” that Tuesday night at the beach. And Allen had said he loved her—with his lips, with the hurt in his heart.
But Julie came out of her daydreams as she saw the postman approaching her house. Her heart pounded. She hurried to the mailbox. There was the light bill, an ad from the grocery, a letter from Aunt Pauline, and, and—what was this postcard? “Miss Julie Scott,” it said. Surely it couldn’t be from Allen. But it was! Slowly, she started back toward the house as she read the card.
“Hi,” it began. “And how are you? We’ve been having a wonderful time! Will be home probably Sunday. How’s your bike? Tell me about it then. Allen.” And that was all. Just as simple as that. Julie was a little disheartened. “How’s your bike?” was the most personal thing on it. But he did write. So she went on into the house and lay the card on a shelf.
The weekend came and Julie saw Victor at church. This week he sat by her during part of the service. And when church was out, he began talking to her. But no sooner had he started when Mrs. Scott appeared, took Julie’s arm, and said, “Come on, dear, your Aunt Jenny’s in a hurry to get home.”
So Julie, not eager for a scene in front of the church, bade Victor a brief goodbye and followed her mother. After dinner, when Julie and her mother were alone doing the dishes, Julie said, “Why did you have to rush me away from church so soon today, Momma?”
“Aunt Jenny wasn’t feeling well,” was her reply. “Anyway, you know she’s always in a big hurry.”
“I know, Momma,” Julie said, “but I think that was just an excuse to get me away from Victor.”
“Well, you don’t need to be standing around talking to that Morgan boy!”
“But why? I don’t exactly need to, but…” Julie’s voice faded. Why argue with Momma? Allen would be home soon and there would be nothing to worry about, at least not on Momma’s part. But, oh, if Julie had only known!
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