Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

The place was empty except for themselves and a doorman, who sat snoozing on a chair near the entranceway. "Hey/' Sammy said, "what time is it, anyway?" Joan looked down at her watch. "A quarter after six," she said. "What do you say we go grab some breakfast?" Sammy asked. "Oh no," Joan said. "You open in a show tonight, remember? You're tired, Sammy, and you need some sleep." "Awwwww," he started. "Don't be a little boy now," Joan said, gently. "Tonight's a big night for you. An opening. Tonight's important." "Tonight's important," Sammy said, quickly, "only if I know I'm gonna be seeing you again." "I'd like to see you again, Sammy," Joan said. "This was fun, such fun." "Better than your books, your walks, your parks?" Sammy asked, winking. "A little," said Joan, winking back. They got up, and held hands, and left the place. And as they did the doorman, still sitting in his chair, opened one eye, watched them, and shook his head. . . . How can one man be so lucky? They met that night. And the day and night after. And the day and night after that. They had a great time together, a fabulous time. They drove out to the country. They saw the famous sights of the city. They went searching for outof-the-way restaurants in the Old French Town. They took a river boat-ride down the St. Lawrence. They climbed to the top of the Hill, and looked down at the city, the river, the fields beyond. And all the time they talked and were together, and got to know each other more and more. . . The fifth night was different somehow, right from the beginning. Joan, walking with Sammy down Victoria Street, away from her club, noticed that he was quiet, unusually quiet, that he seemed to be worried about something. "How'd your show go, Sammy?" she asked, after a while. "Not too hot," he said. "Are you feeling a little sick?" Joan asked. "No," Sammy said. "Then what was wrong?" Joan asked. "I had something on my mind," Sammy said. "What?" she asked. "Never mind," he said. "Please, Sammy, won't you tell me what?" Joan asked. "I said never mind!" The words came like a slap. Joan stopped walking and faced him. "If you'd rather not go anywhere, I can take a cab and go home," she said. Sammy took a deep breath. "Look, Joan," he said, his voice softer, "what I was thinking during the show, all during the show — it was funny." "Funny?" she asked. "I mean you'd laugh at me if you knew what I was thinking," Sammy said. "See?" "No," Joan said, "I don't see." "I mean," Sammy said, "you'd laugh if you knew I was thinking about you and me, about us being married, about you being my wife." "Why would I laugh?" Joan asked. Sammy took her hand. He held it hard. "Hey," he said, "hey . . . hey . . . this is all backwards, all cockeyed backwards." Again, he breathed in deeply. "Let me start from the beginning," he said. He shrugged. "I love you, Joan, and I want to marry you," he said. "I want to marry you, Sammy," she said. She brought her free hand up to his cheek, and held it there. "I love you more than (Advertisement) Let's talk frankly about internal cleanliness Day before yesterday, many women hesitated to talk about the douche even to their best friends, let alone to a doctor or druggist. Today, thank goodness, women are beginning to discuss these things freely and openly. But — even now— many women don't realize what is involved in treating "the delicate zone." They don't ask. Nobody tells them. So they use homemade solutions which may not be completely effective, or kitchen-type antiseptics which may be harsh or inflammatory. It's time to talk frankly about internal cleanliness. Using anything that comes to hand . . ."working in the dark". . . is practically a crime against yourself, in this modern day and age. Here are the facts: tissues in "the delicate zone" are very tender. Odors are very persistent. Your comfort and well-being demand a special preparation for the douche. 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That the night would go quickly and that morning would come, so I could see you again . . . Oh Sammy, I love you so much. So much." "My God," he said, throwing back his head, looking up, "how can one man on this here earth be as lucky as I am?" He laughed now and grabbed Joan and kissed her And then, after the kiss, he took her hand and they began to walk again. Problems bigger than most "We must have walked a couple of hours," he remembers. "There were so many things to talk about. Real things. Problems. I told Joan it wasn't going to be any bed of roses for us, a colored man married to a white girl. She said she knew that. I told her there were going to be lots of uncomfortable moments in her life from now on, that she was going to get a lot of criticism and ridicule and dirty looks, lose a lot of her friends. She said she knew that, too, and didn't care. "Besides the color problem, there was the difference in our religions: Joan is Catholic, I'm a Jew. I became a convert several years ago. We talked about that, about how strongly I felt about being Jewish, and Joan said that while she would not change her faith she would have our children raised as Jews. "I remember Joan saying, 'These problems, Sammy — they're bigger than most people's, yes. But we can lick them, Sammy. Love can lick anything. And that's what we've got, to start with, to last us through the rest of our lives . . . Love.' " They walked on, holding hands, talking. Till, at one point, they came to an allnight drugstore and Sammy said, "You know what I'm going to do, honey? I'm going to phone my Mom, in Hollywood, and tell her the news." They went into the drugstore, and Joan waited outside the phone booth while Sammy called. He was all smiles when he came out. "What did she say?" Joan asked. "She said: 'She must be very nice, Sammy, for you to want to marry her in spite of what the consequences might be,' " Sammy told Joan. "Then she said: 'I'm glad for you, son. You're thirty-four years old. You've worked hard all your life, since you were five years old. It's about time you started getting some personal happiness out of this life.' " Joan smiled, too, now. "She sounds like a beautiful woman," she said. "Mom?" Sammy asked. "You'll be crazy about her. Just wait till you meet her." He paused. "Joannie," he said then, "about your parents — are you going to call them, tell them?" He watched the smile begin to disappear, slowly, from her face. "Of course," she said. "Now?" Sammy asked. Joan shook her head. "No, not right now," she said. "It's . . . It's after one already. They're probably fast asleep. I'd hate to get them up. My father, especially, he's such a sound sleeper and — " Sammy laughed and interrupted her. "So you'll call them tomorrow," he said, "same thing." He pointed to a counter, on the other side of the drugstore. "Come on, > let's have a cup of hot coffee for now, huh?" he asked. Joan followed him, but didn't answer this 61