And This Is Laura. Ellen Conford

count to afinity?” he asked my father.

      “You mean infinity?”

      “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

      “No, I don’t think so.”

      “Why not?” Dennis asked.

      “Because you’d never get there.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because that’s what infinity means.”

      “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do after I get to a million.”

      “You could count to two million,” my father suggested.

      “No, that would just be the same thing. I wanted to do something different.”

      I had to practically drag Beth out of the kitchen.

      “He’s so cute,” she said. “Not at all like Roger. And so smart.”

      “Yeah,” I agreed sourly.

      We were no sooner up in my room with the door shut than Beth remembered she wanted some of my mother’s books. I had been marveling at how fortunate it was that Jill and Douglas were out and I was looking forward to a nice, quiet afternoon of rehearsing our monologues. But Beth insisted that she had to get the books now, or she’d forget.

      Back downstairs to the den. Beth exclaimed over the two shelves of my mother’s books.

      “But what’s this?” She pulled out one titled The Last Trail. “Why is this in here? Who’s Luke Mantee?”

      “My mother,” I sighed.

      “Your mother? You mean she wrote this too?”

      “And this one, and that one, and this one—” I yanked them off the shelves and practically hurled them at her. Showdown at Coyote Pass, The Longest Ride, Laramie’s Way . . .

      “Can I borrow these too?”

      “Do you like that stuff?”

      “I don’t know; I never read any of it. But just knowing your mother wrote them—you must really be proud of her.”

      “I guess so.”

      Beth looked curiously at me. It was probably the first time she’d looked at me at all since we’d gotten home.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “No, nothing’s wrong.”

      “Are you mad at me?” Beth asked. “Did I say something—”

      “No, I’m not mad at you.” But I sounded as if I was. “Really,” I added gently, “really, I’m not.”

      Beth carried an immense pile of my mother’s books upstairs and put them on top of her looseleaf. I assured her that we had plenty of copies and it was all right to take that many home with her.

      Finally we settled down to our monologues.

      Beth read hers very well, even though Mr. Kane had just given them out that afternoon. It was a funny one and Beth has a natural flair for comedy. I sipped my Coke and listened and when she was finished I applauded.

      “That was terrific,” I said. “You were as good as Jean Freeman.” Jean had read the same monologue in front of the club.

      “Oh, I was not.”

      “You were. You’re every bit as good as she is. I just hope Mr. Kane isn’t so blinded by her past successes that he automatically makes her the star of everything.”

      “Oh, come on.” She refused to believe me. But it was true. She was good.

      I had a dramatic monologue. Maybe I would have done better with comedy, but on the other hand, my mind wasn’t on acting at all, so perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference. I kept thinking, wait till she meets Jill. After all she’s heard about her from Mr. Kane—and wait till she hears Douglas play the piano. Beth was in the school orchestra; she played the flute, and she was sure to think Douglas’s original compositions for piano were brilliant, not to mention his playing . . .

      She’d end up feeling sorry for me. She’d wonder how a family like mine could have produced such a talentless, un-outstanding member. Why, compared to my mother or father, compared to Jill and Douglas—even compared to Dennis, I was boring. There was absolutely nothing special about me in any way. It wouldn’t take long for Beth to realize that, and then—

      Well, of course the more I thought about this the less I could concentrate on acting and the worse my reading became. Just as I was nearing the end, the sound of a piano shattered the unaccustomed calm.

      “Ohh!” I growled and tossed the mimeographed sheet aside. “What’s the use?”

      “You were doing fine,” Beth said loyally. “You just got distracted by the piano. Who’s that playing?”

      “Douglas. I told you about him.”

      “Oh yeah. Is that one of his own pieces he’s playing?”

      “I think so. I can’t really tell.”

      “Open the door, okay? I’d like to hear him.”

      I could hear him just fine with the door closed. A grand piano has the kind of sound that can fill a whole house. And as far as I know, Douglas has never composed anything soft. But then, I’m not a musician, so perhaps that makes a difference. I opened the door.

      “Hey, that’s pretty tricky,” Beth commented. “Could we go and listen to him for a while? Do you think he’d mind?”

      “Oh, no,” I sighed. “He wouldn’t mind at all.” As a matter of fact he didn’t even hear us clatter down the stairs and into the living room.

      He didn’t know we were around at all until he finished playing the piece, when Beth jumped up from the sofa and ran over to the piano.

      “Oh, that was super!” she cried. “Did you really compose that?”

      Douglas didn’t seem to be surprised either at the praise, or the stranger standing next to the piano.

      “Yeah. You like it?”

      “I love it. Would you play it again? From the beginning? We were upstairs and I didn’t hear the whole thing.”

      Drowned out by my monologue, no doubt. I sighed and sat back on the couch, resigned to hearing the whole thing again.

      “What’s it called?” Beth asked. “It sounds sort of ragtimish.”