Эд Макбейн - Love, Dad

She told her parents nothing at all about Judd. One thing she had learned since Woodstock was that you didn’t ask your parents beforehand and you didn’t tell them afterward. When she’d called the Vineyard from Rutledge that August day almost three months earlier, she hadn’t asked if she could go up to Woodstock with Rusty, she’d simply said she was going, knowing damn well there wasn’t any way they could stop her. And even though her mother had made some feeble noises about making sure Rusty had permission to use the family car, Lissie knew she’d won a major victory that day, and had gained as well an important insight into what was to be her future relationship with her parents.

Besides, she wasn’t too sure how long this thing with Judd would last, and she saw no reason for bringing her parents into her personal life if this turned out to be a romance of short duration. She had, by early December, heard Gordon and Steinberg in concert at a bar in West Newton, and had calculated that the odds against their ever achieving success as rock musicians were, generously, about ten million to one; she suspected that before long Judd would pack his guitar case and head home to Sarasota, perhaps to attend the University of South Florida where he could major in basket weaving at his father’s expense.

She hadn’t even known where Sarasota was at first. She’d thought Judd had said Saratoga. “One of these days,” Judd told her, “I’m going to write a novel, and there are going to be two hookers in it, a Greek hooker and a Japanese hooker. I’ll call the Greek hooker Sara Toga, and the Japanese hooker Sara Sota.” Lissie still didn’t know which was which until she studied an atlas at the school library, and pinpointed each town, and decided she’d never care to live in either, thanks. “One of these days” was one of Judd’s favorite expressions. “One of these days, when Steinberg and I get a recording contract...” or “One of these days, when I get that little Porsche I’ve got my eye on...” or “One of these days, I’m going to paint this whole apartment red, the floors, the ceiling, the toilet bowl...”

One of these days, Lissie thought, you’re going to get tired of playing one-night stands in sleazy bars for crackers and beer, and you’re going to head south where Mommy and Daddy will welcome you with open arms. I’ll press you in my memory book, Judd, together with my senior prom corsage and my autographed picture of Elvis. Had she ever swooned over Elvis? Had she truly been to Henderson’s senior prom with a pimply-faced boy whose name she couldn’t even remember now? David? Daniel? Had she ever really been that young?

In just a few weeks, she would be eighteen.

Oddly, the promise of the Christmas break — the return to Rutledge and what she supposed was still her home, the living room hung with her photographs, the lighted tree in the far corner of the room, the familiar rush of the river beyond — left her feeling only indifferent. She imagined herself going back to school again on the fifth of January, and settling once more into a now familiar and, yes, dull routine. The year would have gone by like a whisper, leaving not an echo of itself, and, more depressingly, causing very little real change in the person who was Lissie Croft, a person she no longer thought of as a kid, but could not yet truly consider a woman.

As she packed her duffel to head for home, she wondered bleakly if anything as exciting as Woodstock would ever in her entire life happen to her again.

The name and return address on the envelope were unfamiliar to Jamie. Someone named Carol Steinberg in Chicago, Illinois. He tore open the envelope flap. The handwritten letter read:

March 16, 1970

Dear Mr. Croft:

After failing to reach you by telephone this morning (I’ll keep trying), I decided to send the enclosed summons — one copy for you, one for Judd’s parents, and one for me. As stated in the court notice, the balance of rent due is $130 for the month of February, but actually it will be an additional $130 after March 31, covering the month of March.

I have been paying Joshua’s share of the rent myself and sending it directly to Matheson Realty at 1283 Commonwealth Avenue, Allston, Massachusetts. I did this purposely, not only because I’m the one who signed the new lease, but I also wanted to be certain the rent was paid on time, knowing how unreliable young people are. Joshua is now alone in the apartment and he certainly (or me certainly) cannot pay a total of $195 monthly for the apartment.

Joshua is truly upset by all this. He told me he disliked ending his personal and professional relationship with Judd in this distasteful way, especially since they have been roommates since they were still students at Harvard. But he’s alone in the apartment now, and he told me in a letter that enclosed the court notice that if you people (you and Judd’s father in Sarasota) would pay the $130 for February, he will try to find another roommate to pay for March.

I must tell you that I am in no position to be paying any additional rent on the apartment. I am a widow living on a small pension, and it is enough of a burden to keep myself and my son going. I feel we are all responsible for this together, and I feel it would be fair for you and Judd’s father to pay for February and March, and if Joshua is able to get a new roommate (who will pay before he moves) I will see to it that whatever rent money Joshua receives would be returned to you and to Judd’s father in Sarasota — to whom I’m sending a Xerox copy of this letter, which I had made at the bank.

I would appreciate hearing from you as to what decision you come to. I’ll keep trying you by telephone up until March 31st. I do hope I’ll be successful in reaching you so that I can elaborate further.

Sincerely,

Puzzled, he read the letter again, and then went back into the barn, past the darkroom door he’d left open when he’d heard the mail truck outside, closing the door as he passed it, and walking directly to his desk. The telephone was surrounded by a clutter of contact sheets, grease pencils, bills from photo suppliers and custom labs, an illuminated magnifier, a stamp pad, a rubber stamp reading PHOTO CREDIT: JAMES CROFT, another reading PHOTOS, DO NOT BEND OR FOLD, several letters from Lew Barker, and half a dozen uncashed checks. He pulled the phone toward him, through the besieging debris, picked up the receiver, dialed the operator, and asked for Chicago information. When he got a listing for Carol Steinberg at the address on her stationery, he dialed the 312 area code and then the number, and waited while the phone rang on the other end.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

“Mrs. Steinberg?”

“Yes.”

“This is James Croft.”

“Yes, Mr. Croft, I’ve been trying to...”

“I have your letter.”

“Good, I was hoping...”

“What’s this about, Mrs. Steinberg?”

“About?” she said. “It’s about the rent.”

“Yes, I gathered that. But what makes you think I’m responsible for any rent due on an apartment your son is sharing with some other boy?”

“What?” she said.

“I said...”

“Yes, I heard you. But I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean I don’t know any of these people you’re talking about.”

“Joshua, do you mean? Judd?”

“Yes, Joshua and Judd, this is the first I’m hearing of them.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Steinberg said.

“So would you mind...”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I thought you knew.”