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Mi (i Jiy This
of Mine . . .
Doris smiled fondly at
herself in the mirror,
then the smile froie.
by Betty Francis
bruptly, the april sun withdrew its
warming glaze from Doris Healy s
thin-bloused back. She shivered in
voluntarily and raised her head from the
narrow herb border to which she had de
voted an afternoon of loving care.
Enough for now, she decided regretfully.
She stood up, slipping carefully manicured
hands out of heavy canvas gardening
gloves. She stretched tall, reaching toward
the sky, sulkily darkening now as night
fall came on.
As Doris slipped through the utility
room, pausing only to put her tools away,
she heard the giddy singsong of young
feminine voices in the kitchen. Her ap
pearance put no damper on the bubbling
spirits of her daughter, Cathy, and her
two friends.
Cathy's friend Robin was casually dis
secting a luckless week-end date. Her
voice dispensed acid as she described their
dance-floor excursion.
"Oh, Robby, you're awful. Hi, Mom!
Where you been?"
Doris stepped out of her loafers, padded
over to the refrigerator on bare feet. She
said, "Out in the yard. Feels wonderful to
get started on the garden again. Good
exercise, too. Wouldn't do you any harm,
Cathy Healy! Look at you stuffing your
self again."
"Oh, Mom!" Cathy groaned, looking
guiltily down at the wedge of cake in her
hand. She turned to Robin and the other
girl, a soft, rosy girl named Donna Meers,
to explain despairingly:
"Honest, Mom is the world's worst when
it comes to eating and exercise and stuff
like that. You'd think food was the devil's
own invention! Just look at that." She
pointed an accusing finger at the carrot in
Doris' hand as she turned back to them
from the refrigerator.
Robin said, "Oh, I think that's terrif!
My mother thinks I'm sick if I don't fight
for seconds. Everything rich and gooey
and fattening. Besides," her dark eyes
raked relentlessly over Cathy, "your,
mother has a better figure than you do!"
"Oh, come now, Robby!" Doris stepped
lightly away from the compliment. How
many times, she mused, nibbling daintily
at the cold, crisp carrot, had people ex
claimed to her as they looked at Cathy:
"That big girl can't be your daughter,
Mrs. Healy! Why, you're too young!"
Of late, Doris had heard this oftener;
especially now that Cathy was 16 and
stood almost head to head with her. Thank
goodness, thought Doris gratefully, she is
going to be a pretty girl! There had been
times during the listless early teen years
when she had held her breath in fear that
Cathy might turn into one of these pud-ding-figuredj
plain-faced girls.
But now she knew Cathy would be
lovely and blooming, after all. Such a
comfort. It reinforced Doris' belief that,
for a female at least, the race is not to the.
swift but to the svelte.
Where would she be today, she re
minded herself, if she had not made good
use of her looks while she was young?
She had grown up in a grimy gray neigh
borhood of Chicago, but through sheer
determination, a row of gleaming teeth,
and an air of moody elegance, she had
managed to carve out a moderately suc
cessful career as a photographer's -model.
Her career as Martin Healy's wife had
been more than moderately successful; it
had been an unqualified triumph from its
beginning 17 years ago. Even today, he
often would look admiringly down at her
silky blonde hair, her clear, soft skin, her
hyacinth eyes, and breathe almost prayer
fully: "You are the prettiest thing."
Aith a start, Doris jolted back to the
" present as Cathy snapped im
patient . fingers at her and asked,
"Well, are we, Mom? Say something!"
"Hmmm? What, honey? Gee, girls, I'm
sorry. Day dreaming, I'm afraid. Tell me
again, Cathy."
Cathy smiled a tolerant smile and ex
plained gently: "It's the Mother-Daughter
dinner dance y6u know, for the juniors
and seniors. It's really going to be a super
affair this year."
Family Weekly, April 20, 195S