rying and at the same time hated her for not knowing her own daughter and for being afraid to hear the truth. And then she said calmly, "Mother, I'm going to San Francisco next week with Bruce." Beth held up her hand to stop her mother's protest and continued evenly. "We're taking my car and I don't know when we'll be back." Shaking her head, her eyes filled with angry tears, and Beth said still looking at her astonished mother, "I don't want to talk about it because I'm going anyway." Her eyes fell at the end of this declaration and the tears splashed out onto her red cheeks as she stood there waiting for her mother's reply. The blue and white bathroom closed in on them in silence. "Beth! Oh, Elizabeth!" She sensed that Beth really meant what she had said. "Bethie, you're making such a foolish mistake. Can you turn your back on everything we've tried to teach you?" Beth turned away from her mother and stared into the blue sink. "What will people think, Your travelling around the country with that hippie boy. Beth, he is a hippie," she insisted, "that long hair, drawing those wierd pictures. Why why, he's hardly the sort of boy I'd expect you to take up with. You're an educated girl come from a good family." Her mother gestured wildly with her hands, pleading with the back of Beth's head. "It's indecent. Downright indecent." She folded and unfolded her arms. "What if you see someone we know? Beth," she said stepping toward her, "what would you do if you saw someone we know when you're with that character? You're a smart girl Beth. You know what people would say. What would you do?" Beth smiled ruefully into the sink, shaking her head a little, and talked dully into the chrome-ringed drain. "I wouldn't do anything. Don't you see? I don't care what anyone thinks." She shook her head, "It doesn't change anything the way they think. It doesn't change a thing." Beth turned around with outstretched hands, "To be happy, Mother, that's all I want. That's all that matters." Her arms fell limply back to her sides. "Don't you see that's all that matters?" "But it's wrong, Elizabeth and you won't be happy." "Why is it wrong, Mother? You tell me why it's wrong." She thought for a few minutes, turned and took a step and then turned back with the answer. "It's always been wrong. It can't be anything but wrong. Carrying on with a boy you hardly know. Well it's just disgraceful and that's all." All she could think of was her daughter gallavanting around with that degenerate looking boy, defying her. "Would it make any difference if I'd known him for years?" Beth laughed. "Like that doctor's son, Mother? Would it make any difference if I were going to California with him?" She stuck her chin out a little triumphantly. "Jeff's a nice boy, a fine boy, Elizabeth and." "He's a bastard," Beth interrupted and then laughed. "He's been after my body since I was in the seventh grade and you may as well know it." Her mother gasped. "Don't say things like that in this house!" "But it's true. It doesn't make it any less true because you don't like it," she shook her head. Her mother stepped back a few feet, but Beth didn't stop. "You can't say things are wrong because they've always been wrong. That's not a reason. What proves they are wrong? You can only say what you believe." She threw her arm out, "And then it is just what you believe." Her voice softened as she went on, "I only know how I feel about things, Mother and that's all I've got to go on." "No, no, Elizabeth," her mother shook her head. "You're wrong. What do you think parents are for? We're only here to guide you to keep you from making foolish mistakes; the same ones we made. We haven't been alive all these years for nothing." Her voice shook, "Don't you think we know anything?" "But what's a 'foolish mistake,' Mother? All you can tell me is what would be foolish for you." She picked up the hairbrush and then turned back to her mother, waving it. "Do you know how long it took me to discover that the way I feel about something is what counts?" Beth narrowed her eyes and spoke quietly. "Twenty years, Mother. Twenty years. For all these years I've been living someone else's idea of my life. I did what I was supposed to and said what I was expected." She stopped and thought for a minute. "I was just a molded girl and if I stuck to the pattern I always knew the answers." Beth paused and smiled kindly at her mother whose face was pulled down at the mouth and very old. "I'm through with all that, Mother." She shook her head. "And I don't know any answers anymore and I'm sad and confused a lot but I'm free. At least I'm honest with myself and I'm . . . I'm my own person. I'm free, Mother" 40 Beth stopped and finding her arms high in the air, let them down lamely. She looked at her silent mother closely and saw that she was crying. "I'm sorry," she said moving toward her. "It's not supposed to be sad. I'm sorry." Her mother closed her eyes and shook her head. She tried to speak but only made a little choking noise. She put her hand over her tightly stretched lips for a minute and then took a deep breath. Then she spoke in a slow, distant voice, looking at the tassel hanging from the blue blind. "It's hard to believe when your children grow up." She took another deep breath. "They're not really yours at all," she said. And a sob pulled on her tired-looking face. Downstairs the screen door banged and Mr. Mockley stomped into the house, whistling another tuneless song. "Corliss?" he called up the stairs. Beth looked at her mother and saw that she couldn't answer. "She's up here," she called back. "What do you want?" "Ask her if she wants to go for a drive." Beth looked at her mother as she wiped at her red eyes and blew her nose. Then her mother walked out into the hall and down the stairs. She heard her tell her father that she wouldn't go anywhere with him until he changed those raggedy pants. She heard her father demand to know what was wrong with them. Waiting, a few minutes later, she heard them pull out of the driveway. Beth waited until the silence of the alone house settled around her. And then she went downstairs and dialed Bruce's number. She asked him if he wanted to go to San Francisco next week. GYPSY GYPSY By KERRY CRITTENDEN Like the mad theatre of the Step-penwolfe, this story is not for everyone. But then perhaps the unique form of madness that I find in the story is a common thing to each person having those experiences of equal impact. I shall tell the tale as it happened, or all that I can remember, and we shall see how we are affected. The story concerns a time, a day when I was changed, was altered, never to be the same. However, I want you to know that I consider these changes beneficial, and my introduction to such an experience as fortunate circumstance. I'm afraid that there are those who disagree with me. My parents, who avoid talking about anything except how the family "used to be." My old friends, who are polite but distant when we meet at this place or that. In fact I must confess that I am still occasionally puzzled about myself, as though I turn my face from the rushing winds of time, wondering what has hapened and why. But answers are seldom there. When they are, they generate only more questions. So I generally turn, get a grip, and dive again into the fury and solemn serenity of living. Though I may be confusing you, I am trying gamely to tell the story with clarity and simplicity. The nature of the story is evasive and understanding of it escapes even me. So be it. The story is real, as am I, and therefore can never be truly ignored. Also, the story repeats itself each day. Each day new people enter this valley of thought. Each day new eyes glitter with awe and questioning fear. Don't let me sound like a demon or something. These same eyes also fill with understanding and distant knowledge. Now that I think I have interested those of you whose interest I seek, I shall go on. I was to meet Richard in town. I drove through the morning-gray streets. The day promised heat as it already began seeking and driving out each shadow belonging to the night. The day promised pleasure and freedom, rather than one of dogged hours at work. Also, the day promised mystery. Richard was to take me on a journey. Not one, he had said, measured in miles. Instead, I was to travel to a new "place," a new "mind." I was confused by Richard's promise but my attraction to him and his people was too great to deny. Would my journey offer to me the life and sparkling freedom that I had observed in these people. Would I too become a gypsy of sorts, laughing with mad freedom, smiling with self-confidence and wisdom. This was my goal. For those reasons the day promised many things. I met Richard at a park in town. He was sitting in his car, parked in the shade, in silence. He was lost in thought and did not see me ar- 41