Free Friday by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

her husband, but wait until someone else brought it up. After all, I was in no position to have opinions until I knew all about it. I was not going to drop it — Ellen is my daughter, too. But don’t rush it. Wait for Anita to calm down.
    But the subject did not come up. There followed lazy, golden days that I shan’t describe as I don’t think you are interested in birthday parties or family picnics—precious to me, dull to an outsider.
    Vickie and I went to Auckland on an overnight shopping trip. After we checked into the Tasman Palace, Vickie said to me, “Marj, would you keep a secret for me?”
    “Certainly,” I agreed. “Something juicy, I hope. A boyfriend? Two boyfriends?”
    “If I had even one boyfriend I would simply split him with you. This is touchier. I want to talk to Ellen and I don’t want to have an argument with Anita about it. This is the first chance I’ve had. Can you forget I did it?”
    “Not quite, because I want to talk to her myself. But I won’t tell Anita that you talked to Ellen if you don’t wish me to. What is this, Vick? That Anita was annoyed about Ellen’s marriage I knew—but does she expect the rest of us not even to talk to Ellen? Our own daughter?”
    “I’m afraid it’s ‘her own daughter’ right now. She’s not being very rational about it.”
    “It sounds that way. Well, I will not let Anita cut me off from Ellen. I would have called her before this but I did not know how to reach her.”
    “I’ll show you. I’ll call now and you can write it down. It’s—”
    “Hold it!” I interrupted. “Don’t touch that terminal. You don’t want Anita to know.”
    “I said so. That’s why I’m calling from here.”
    “And the call will be included in our hotel bill and you’ll pay the bill with your Davidson credit card and—Does Anita still check every bill that comes into the house?”
    “She does. Oh, Marj, I’m stupid.”
    “No, you’re honest. Anita won’t object to the cost but she’s certain to notice a code or a printout that means an overseas call. We’ll slide over to the G.P.O. and make the call there. Pay cash. Or, easier yet, we’ll use my credit card, which does not bill to Anita.”
    “Of course! Marj, you would make a good spy.”
    “Not me; that’s dangerous. I got my practice dodging my mother. Let’s pin our ears back and slide over to the post office. Vickie, what is this about Ellen’s husband? Does he have two heads or what?”
    “Uh, he’s a Tongan. Or did you know?”
    “Certainly I knew. But ‘Tongan’ is not a disease. And it’s Ellen’s business. Her problem, if it is one. I can’t see that it is.”
    “Uh, Anita has handled it badly. Once it’s done, the only thing to do is to put the best face on it possible. But a mixed marriage is always unfortunate, I think—especially if the girl is the one marrying below herself, as in Ellen’s case.”
    “‘Below herself!’ All I’ve been told is that he’s a Tongan. Tongans are tall, handsome, hospitable, and about as brown as I am. In appearance they can’t be distinguished from Maori. What if this young man had been Maori…of good family, from an early canoe…and lots of land?”
    “Truly, I don’t think Anita would have liked it, Marj—but she would have gone to the wedding and given the reception. Intermarriage with Maori has long precedent behind it; one must accept it. But one need not like it. Mixing the races is always a bad idea.”
    (Vickie, Vickie, do you know of a better idea for getting the world out of the mess it is in?) “So? Vickie, this built-in suntan of mine—you know where I got it?”
    “Certainly, you told us. Amerindian. Uh, Cherokee, you said. Marj! Did I hurt your feelings? Oh, dear! It’s not like that at all! Everybody knows that Amerindians are—Well, just like white people. Every bit as good.”
    (Oh, sure, sure! And “some of my best friends are Jews.” But I’m not Cherokee, so far as I know. Dear little Vickie,