The two men stood in front of the house with the hot-pink facade. If that postcard was any indication, this was where Chrissie and, possibly, Marjorie were staying. They walked up the dim stairway, and Fred Burton gave a sharp and impatient rap on the psychedelic poster hanging on the door.

No answer.

They’d come straight from the car rental in the airport. Now, stymied, Burton suggested they go and check into the hotel. “They must be out working,” he said.

“From what we’ve seen on the streets,” Yeruchum answered, his face grim, “these lost children aren’t doing much work. Why don’t we walk around the neighborhood a little? Perhaps we’ll find her, or at least your car.”

“Good idea.”

They walked slowly through the surging crowds of young people. They moved into the street to avoid a woman sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, next to a large pot and a sign asking for money. They’d gone a few yards past her when Burton came to a sudden stop.

“Wait a minute,” he said, pivoting. He quickly returned to the beggar and stared at her, with her greasy brown hair, paisley shirt, and dirty blue jeans.

“Oh my G-d,” he muttered, half to himself. “Chrissie?”

The girl, who’d been humming a tune and staring at nothing, suddenly noticed the man standing before her. Her eyes, sparkling and yet oddly blank, took in the hat, the suit, the face. A grin, like the delighted smile of a six-year-old staring at a frosted birthday cake, lit up her face.

“Hey, man, cool. It’s Marjorie’s old man. Whaddayou know. Hey there, Mr. Burton.”

Fred Burton was clearly at a loss for words. It was Yeruchum Freed, the man in the black silk beanie, who spoke, his voice deliberately soothing and calm.

“Hello. Is your name Chrissie?”

A pause, to think about it. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“And you have a friend named Marjorie?”

Again, that odd, almost plastic smile. “Yeah, how did you guess?”

Burton seemed to come out of a trance. “Where is she, Chrissie?” he said, his voice urgent.

The plastic melted. “Hey, those are bad vibes, Mr. B.” A tear began to run down her slightly dirty cheek.

Yeruchum put a steadying hand on Burton’s shoulder. “No, Chrissie, no bad vibes. We just want to say hi to Marjorie.”

“Oh. Groovy.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.”

“Has she been living with you?”

“Kind of. But she’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah. But she’ll be back.”

“Do you know when?”

“Maybe when the stars come out. Or when the sun shines. It’s all about love, don’t you see?”

“Yes, Chrissie, we see that. We will come back later. And Chrissie, if you see Marjorie, don’t tell her about Mr. Burton. We want to surprise her.”

“Oooh, like a party. Cool.”

They walked away slowly,

“Oh my G-d,” Burton repeated, his face white. “She was the smartest girl in her class.”

Yeruchum sighed. “My son-in-law Abe warned me about this. It’s drugs, and it’s a terrible plague, especially here.”

“What if—” Burton hesitated, not even wanting to say the words, “what if… Marjorie—”

“We’ll find her, Fred. We’ll pray — and we’ll find her.”

“So you see, Mama, we can expand the kitchen outward and create a bay window. It’s a southern exposure that will flood the space with natural light.”

Annie smiled. How wonderful to see Artie so happy and excited. The legal aspects of selling both a home and a hotel and buying new ones, though complicated, were moving ahead smoothly, and Artie and Moe were spending hours closeted with architects and contractors, poring over blueprints and home design magazines.

“You really love construction, don’t you?” she said, gazing fondly at the little boy she’d raised, and loved like a son.

“I sure do. And, Mama—” He stopped.

“What is it, Artchik?”

“When I’m done helping build your house… Mama, I want to start thinking about building my own.”

There. She’d known it would come. And she’d thought about it, deeply, seriously, drawing upon all the love that builds up in a mother’s heart throughout the years of caring for a child.

“You’re talking about… Marjorie?”

“Yes. Mama, when she comes back—”

Her voice was firm but kind, “If… no, when she comes back, Artchik, we will have to see what she has become. What kind of life she wants to lead. And,” now it was her turn to take that deep, encouraging breath, “if she has chosen a Torah life, well… I will welcome my redheaded daughter-in-law and love her like my own.”

Fred Burton did not look well. His face was still drained of color, and his walk was slow and heavy: a man who’d just sustained a serious blow.

Now it was Yeruchum’s turn to suggest checking into the hotel to rest for a few hours.

“Absolutely not. Rabbi, I won’t have my daughter spending even one more minute in this horror.”

“Well, at least get something to drink. We passed a grocery store a few blocks down. We’ll get you a bottle of Coca-Cola and then we’ll continue looking.”

The Mustang roared into Haight-Ashbury. Home sweet home, Marjorie thought, then snickered. Chrissie’s pad was lots of things, but it was certainly not home. And even the Haight itself. She’d had some fun here, but home?

No way, Jose.

It was too nice a day to crash on the mattress on the floor that served as her bed. Anyway, she was starving. I’ll head to the grocery, open one of those million cans of tuna that I stacked. And maybe Mr. Lefkowitz needs help.

She parked the Mustang and walked inside.

Two men in business suits — a rare sight — were standing near the cash register, counting out change. Mr. Lefkowitz looked up and his face wrinkled up into a broad smile.

“Hey Margie, welcome back!” he cried.

The men whirled around.

Sam Lefkowitz turned to his customers. “That will be twelve cents,” he said.

No one heard him.

Fred Burton and Yeruchum Freed stared at a girl wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a colorful scarf on her blazing red hair.

Marjorie Burton stared at the two men standing before her. And she saw something she’d never, ever seen before: tears pouring down her father’s face.

Fred Burton opened his arms. “Margie?” he said, his voice tentative, almost frightened. “Margie, please… come home.”

And suddenly — crazily, completely unexpectedly — she was in her father’s arms.

Home?

Come home?

She wriggled out of her father’s clasp and stared at him, at this stranger whose cheeks — there were wrinkles there, little lines she’d never noticed before — were moist.

“You… you really want me to come home?”

Fred stepped back, like someone kicked – hard – in the gut. Before he could say anything, Yeruchum broke in, his voice carefully controlled. “Of course, your parents want you to come home, Miss Burton. Your father has hired detectives, made dozens of phone calls, and when we finally discovered your address, he was on the first plane out to come find you.” He paused for a short moment, then added, “And your mother, Marjorie, has hardly stopped crying since you left.”

Marjorie’s emotional landscape seemed to reflect the psychedelic posters she loved to hang on walls: swirling and surreal, an intense, passionate and ever-changing tapestry of surging feelings. Hurt, anger, bitterness, and suspicion became intertwined with longing, compassion and — could it be? — stirrings of love.

But… home?

No, not yet.

Her raging thoughts and emotions slowly began to subside into something different and eternal. Something… good.

“Father,” she said, “I will go back with you. But not home, not yet.” Her glance fell on Rabbi Freed standing nearby, a pillar of calm. “If it’s okay with you, can I come back to the hotel?”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 892)