The Screen Guilds’ Magazine (1934-10)

4 The Screen Guilds' Magazine Escape . . •. H E HAD always feared heights; even a downward glance from a forty- story window, near his desk, brought a breath of panic. Once, when venturing a visit to the top of the Woolworth Build¬ ing, he dared not look at the city be¬ neath, yet some irresistible force drew him to the parapet and magnetized his unwilling gaze until he glimpsed the aw¬ ful depth. The sight of it sent him shuddering backward, weak and tremb¬ ling, a horrible sickness at the pit of his stomach. That same feeling was with him now and he seemed poised on the edge of a sheer precipice as he watched a grim- jawed, ferret-eyed accountant at work on some books nearby. Those were his books, cleverly camouflaged, but bound, by all the rules of mathematics, to eventually disclose a shortage of seven thousand dollars. It was the luncheon hour, but he had not dared to leave the office, for fear of what would confront him on his return. Most of the office force, with hundreds of other workers from the building, were crowded on the roof-top three stories above, watching for the Zeppelin due to fly over the city at that hour. He guardedly glanced toward the accountant and found the latter’s eyes fixed on him. The steel-trap mouth sud¬ denly opened and seemed about to call his name. Just then the city burst into blaring, ear-splitting sound, a turmoil that imme¬ diately held the attention of the few people left in the room. He blindly fol¬ lowed them as they deserted their desks and ran toward the stairways that led to the roof; anything to escape the sinister accusation he had read in those eyes! He wormed his way through the crowd on the roof, putting space between him¬ self and the discovery of what he had done. He yearned for wings that he might leave it all behind and find some far escape from those days and weeks of mental torture. It wasn’t the punish¬ ment he feared so much—a cell would seem like sanctuary to his present state of mind—but it was that fear of mo¬ mentary discovery, that constant teeter¬ ing on the very brink of disaster. Pres¬ ently he found himself at the edge of a low parapet and he gasped as he invol¬ untarily glanced down that sickening depth of forty-three stories. At that instant the Zeppelin appeared through the mist of a low-hanging cloud. There was an eager shout from the office workers packed on the roof. They crowded to its edge with the vicious thrust of mob-enthusiasm. He heard a cry of warning, felt the heavy impact of a burly shoulder. The parapet’s edge caught him just below the knees, and he was flung outward and over into space, grasping, whirling, plunging—one hor¬ ror-born cry of despair, one awful in¬ stant of sickening terror, and then, ever faster than he fell, thought-pictures came tearing through his mind like night- scenes disclosed by lightning. “Our Father, who are in heaven” . . . Margaret, wondering why he was so late! The little blue clock in the kitchen! Almost as blue as her eyes! But of course they would tell her on the telephone! Tear-faded blue eyes, but how they glowed with love! A cold-water flat, three flights up, in the rear. Margaret, faithful, believing. The grave of their first baby, under a leaning tree. Margaret’s hair, the color of ripe wheat in the sun. The night their second baby was born! ‘ ‘ Hallowed be Thy Name ”... Her cry of agony ringing in his heart! Grocers, butchers, milkmen, light, heat, landlords, doctors—life cost so much! Her eyes yearning for that mink coat in the store window! Nose to the grindstone, back bent to the load. Life cracking the whip! When I Am Gone By EDNA SILVERTON You will not glimpse the moon when I am gone, All golden-blurred, and dripping with the rain, And guarded by a lonely, brilliant star, But you will ache to have me there again. You will not stretch in ease before the fire, In that delicious drowse of banished care, Because the flaming, crimson blaze will throw My shadow near you, lazing with you there. Nor will you find a place where we have been, That has no mocking memories of me. And in your heart I’ll live forever, dear— (Until your next beloved sets me free!) By CRANE WILBUR Their boy brought home to them, crip¬ pled by the wheel of a truck! Job upon job, failure upon failure, enough to eat but never enough to live. The doctor, fat, smug, callous: “Your boy will never walk again.” “Forgive us our sins” . . . If only he could make enough to buy her a fur coat! Another doctor, from abroad; peering eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, a gut¬ tural accent—he could cure the boy— five thousand. Life’s whip on the raw back, money, money, money! Faded blue eyes, never complaining, never accusing, always praying—to an indifferent God. “Thy will be done” . . . Five thousand! Days of torture, over a ledger, think¬ ing, hoping, scheming—what use of prayers? The boy must walk! Five thousand! As easy to steal seven as five. “Lead us not into temptation” . . . How she loved him, an old-fashioned love, giving, giving, giving! Life owes us a break—a thief’s phil¬ osophy. Sleepless nights stalked by fear. Seven thousand! Enough left for a rainy day, and that fur coat! If only he had been able to give her more than just life! But one doesn’t wear fur coats on rainy days! The operation successful—paid for— the boy would walk! The accountant called to go over his books. But youth lived again in Margaret’s eyes. An operation is a good investment for stolen money. They’d take that fur coat away from her! But they couldn’t take back the boy’s life and strength—his father’s one be¬ quest. It is better to be the son of a thief than to be a cripple all one’s life! Margaret would understand—she al¬ ways understood. How she had loved him! Can life give a man more than that? Her eyes were so blue—so wide. How pretty she looked with that fur collar close about her throat! His mind raced even faster than he fell, even faster than that which hurtled up to meet him—oblivion, escape!