O

nce upon a time, Artie had enjoyed this work.

Up and down, up and down, the mechanical motions of painting the hotel’s exterior kept his eyes and arms busy, freeing up his mind to wander. He could ponder the workings of the universe, celebrate his freedom from classrooms, or figure out the best way to fix the blinking light bulb in Mrs. Weiner’s bedroom. Best of all, he could compose tunes and work out the lyrics for a new little ditty to share with the kids.

But now, these past few days, whenever his mind wandered through the byways of life, it somehow always landed in a place of loneliness. There was no one around that he could really relate to… with one exception.

Miss Marjorie Burton.

But this was crazy, crazy. She was a college grad; he was a dropout. She was completely secular — for heaven’s sake, she’d grown up on bacon and eggs! — and he was a good, frum boy.

And yet… their conversations had been stimulating. He’d occasionally listened in to her exchanges with Uncle Moe or Mrs. Schwartz when they tried to explain some Torah concept to her. There was often doubt in her voice, and laughter, but also real interest. And with all the differences in their backgrounds, he felt she could understand him more than anyone he’d ever met, even more than his own family.

Anyway, she was gone.

He put the paintbrush down and glumly flung himself down onto a chair on the porch.

Where — just his luck — minutes later, Uncle Moe found him.

“Everything okay, Artie?”

“Yeah. Sure. Just taking a break.”

His uncle gave him a keen look. “C’mon, Art. You know something’s bothering you. Spill it.”

Artie stretched his large frame on the rickety wooden chair. “It’s been really quiet around here, and I guess that’s getting me down.” He added, “You know, with Mutty away and all.”

“Yeah, Mutty. And….” The pause was loaded, expectant, heavy with words unsaid.

Working so closely with his uncle, Artie had gained a deep respect for his perception and wisdom. And stubbornness: If Uncle Moe wanted to find something out, nothing would stop him.

“Okay, okay. And Miss Burton. She’s a little nuts, but she’s fun, and lively and….” He looked straight into Moe’s dark eyes. “I miss her.”

“So why don’t you call her?”

“She made it clear she didn’t want to be bothered by anyone. Including me.”

Moe stood up. “Tell you what, Artie. I’ve been putting off calling her father to talk about deadlines. I’ll give him a ring and ask if Marjorie is around. We’ll take it from there.”

Artie’s face lit up, and Moe picked up the phone.

F

red Burton had a booming voice, and Artie, standing impatiently next to Moe, could even make out the occasional word through the telephone receiver. The conversation seemed cordial but technical: deadlines, book reviews and advertising campaigns, editorial changes. Publishing stuff.

Finally, Moe’s tone of voice changed, becoming less businesslike, more personal. “While we’re talking, Fred, what’s doing with that daughter of yours? Everyone in the hotel misses her. Is Miss Burton around? Can I speak with her?”

For a short moment the voice on the other end of the line grew silent; then it burst out in what sounded like a barrage of words from Mr. Burton, with Moe answering in monosyllables: yes, no, don’t know.

He hung up the phone and turned somberly to Artie. “She’s gone.”

“What?”

“The Burtons had some kind of fight with her the night of her graduation party. The next day, when they came home, she wasn’t there. They figured she’d come here to us. They didn’t try to contact her. They decided she needed a little time to cool off.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “She’s got something of a hot temper, does Marjorie.”

“So she’s not at home….” Artie said slowly. “And she’s not here.”

“Obviously.”

“So what’s Burton going to do?”

“He’s getting his wife and he’s coming here. Right now. He’s hopping mad. At Marjorie, at us, at the world.”

A

bout 20 miles from Albuquerque, when they reached what her map told her was the Tijeras Canyon, Marjorie pulled over to a rocky clearing on the side of the road. Avoiding the brush and the prickly pear cacti that dotted the area, Mama Mumu stretched a blanket out on the ground, laid herself down, placed another colorful blanket on top of her, and was almost instantly asleep.

Marjorie was not so lucky. With visions of crawling creatures lurking in the brush, waiting to join her under the blanket, she tried instead to get comfortable in the back seat of the Mustang, but the luxurious upholstered seats seemed to mock her. Sleep eluded her as she wrestled with the events of the past few hours: fragmented images of cowboys, singing and stealing; the uncaring face of the gas jockey; Mama Mumu’s strange ideas about past, present, and future; neon motel signs and spectacular sunsets and greasy French fries all sucked into the maelstrom of her conflicting feelings.

Restless, she decided to escape the confines of the car. She threw a thin blanket onto the ground and sat down, resting her back against a boulder. Mama Mumu, snoring lightly, nestled beside her, a silent source of comfort in the desolate landscape. Finally, when her eyelids seemed as heavy as the rocks surrounding her, Marjorie lay down and pulled another blanket over her. The distant sounds of nocturnal creatures echoing through the stillness faded, and Marjorie slept.

W

ith the first light of dawn, Marjorie stirred from her fitful slumber. The world around her began to emerge from the darkness, revealing the majesty of the Sandia Mountains surrounding the canyon. The rising sun bathed the rocky terrain in soft and gentle colors. The craggy peaks were still dozing under a cozy blanket of mist, and in the distance, the waters of the Rio Grande quietly reflected the glory of the sun as it began its daily climb into the sky.

The world was silent and still.

And, for a few moments, so were Marjorie’s emotions.

The fury and the feelings of betrayal and the sadness and the doubts and even the overwhelming rush of joy as she sensed vistas of freedom opening before her; all were quiet. Instead, there were feelings hushed, and tranquil, and sweet: feelings of trust in something bigger, so much bigger, than dishonest cowboys, critical parents, unforgiving teachers, unyielding rules. Something big enough to have created these mountains, that river, those massive boulders, the sunrise unfolding in front of her — even the tiny, hardy thornbushes. Big enough to have created Marjorie Burton, and Mama Mumu, and Marjorie’s parents, and the Levine family and… well, and everybody.

Could this be the Hashem that the people in the Freed Hotel talked about so often?

The moment passed. Mama Mumu hauled herself up from the ground, stretched, and smiled. “So, babe, let’s get started. Today’s the day we catch those rays and hit the Haight.”

A

nnie stepped out of the car service’s shabby Impala sedan and raced up the hotel stairs. In his hasty phone call to his daughter, asking — no, telling her — to get to the hotel as soon as possible, Papa hadn’t given any details. He’d just said that Marjorie had disappeared and they needed Annie’s help.

She found Papa, Moe, Artie, and Perele Schwartz gathered together in the parlor.

“What do you mean, no one knows where Marjorie is?” she demanded of the group.

The words spilled out of Artie’s mouth, a deluge of anxiety. “We’ve got to find her!”

“Maybe we should call the police,” Perele said quietly.

Moe’s contribution: “That’s for the Burtons to decide.”

Annie’s usually mild voice took on a decided edge. “Would someone PLEASE tell me what’s going on.”

Everyone answered at once, but Papa’s voice overpowered the others. “Chanaleh, we’ve just found out that no one knows where Miss Burton is. They thought she was staying here with us, and of course we assumed she was home with them.”

Artie jumped up and began to pace the floor. “She’s run away! Who knows where she is, and if she’s okay or not. You know how her parents are….”

“Artchik.” It was a word both of warning and comfort. Annie turned to her father. “Papa, you said you needed me here. What can I do?”

“Moishe Baruch told me that the Burtons are coming. They’re understandably very upset. And they seem to think we had something to do with her disappearance.”

“Crazy people!” Artie burst out. “If she’s run away, it’s because of them!”

Moe put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Simmer down, Artie, we need you to be calm. Miss Burton is not a child, she’s over twenty-one.”

Papa continued, his voice low and strained. “I called you because you and Mrs. Burton seemed to have gotten along when they were here. You can help us deal with them. Moishe Baruch is right, we all need to be calm, so we can make a plan to find her.”

Annie stared at the pale and anxious faces of both her father and her foster son. Though Papa had kept quietly in the background while Marjorie was living with them, she knew he’d been watching intently, trying to atone for what he felt was his terrible mistake in not reaching out to the girl’s grandfather, his former best friend.

And Artie? This was more than the natural compassion for any Jewish girl who’d gone missing. Much more.

I think… he really cares for the girl.

Maybe it’s for the best that she’s….

No! Annie Levine, this is a Jewish girl you’re talking about. It’s not her fault she knows nothing about Yiddishkeit. And she needs help — which you are going to give her.

“You’re right, Papa. We have to think very calmly and clearly. Maybe….”

The words remained unsaid, because just then the door burst open and Marjorie’s parents stomped into the room.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 879)