Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

DICK GARDNER Continued from page 54 suddenly they were feeling embarrassed. Finally, as though he could control his feelings no longer Dick turned to his wife and said, “Joan. Look at me!” She turned her head slightly in his direction. “I . . . I . . . Oh . . . your folks look well,” he stuttered. But that wasn’t what he’d intended to say. He’d wanted to talk about the plans he’d made for finding a way so that they would stay together. He’d wanted to tell her how he’d m.ssed her since she left him in Hollywood and had come back home with their children here to Iowa. He’d wanted to tell her, too, about his stay in New York and how he thought he’d found the answer to her fears . . . the fears of being a Hollywood wife, alone, and with a husband frequently away and almost always surrounded by glamorous stars. He’d wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but somehow he could not form the words. Gradually the houses grew further apart and they came to open land where railroad tracks crossed the valley. They clambered over one of the well-worn rails and started walking down the center of the line. Few trains ever came by nowadays, and if they did, they never came on a Sunday. Today was a Sunday and ever since they’d first fallen in love Sunday had always been a day when they took this walk. So in a way that was why they’d come. And also, ever since Dick had arrived early that morning, relatives and friends had been coming to call and they’d had no chance of being alone together. So, just after dinner, when Dick had said to Joan, “Let’s take that walk down by the tracks and over the park to our little bridge,” Joan had laughed, smiled rather wistfully, and said, “Yes, let’s.” Dick kicked a stone. “The kids are looking well. Ruth Ann gets prettier every day and Mike . . . Mike insisted on showing me how many times he could twirl that hula hoop this morning. It was so funny.” “Yes, they are looking well. They miss you,” she said abruptly. Dick looked at her. She’s so different now, he thought. We used to laugh and be so happy when we came here as kids. I used to jump on the tracks . . . And suddenly a mischievous look came into his eyes. He darted over to one side and hopped up onto a track and wobbled along. Joan looked at him, startled. “Come on, Joan, for old times sake. That game we used to play . . . see who could stay on the longest. Hop up on that other track.” “Oh . . . Dick . . . you’re . . .” she tried to say no but then she laughed. “Well, all right then.” And he felt good. She put her right foot up onto the parallel track, carefully placed the left one in front of it, and with her arms outstretched to keep balance began to move slowly forward. “Oh . . . Dick ... I can’t,” she giggled. “Who used to win most of the times?” “Well . . . that was a long time ago.” “Oh . . . I’m falling!” Dick grabbed her arm as she came tumbling off. And they were laughing. Dick held her hand tight and suddenly he, could feel the pressure of hers holding his, not trying to pull away. P They walked on again, but this time hand in hand. They crossed the tracks and walked over the crusty fields, then clambered through some high grass and followed the winding bank of a narrow stream. It was very quiet. Then the lonely screeching cry of a wild bird broke the stillness. “Remember that cry, Joan? Remember, we used to say that that was winter . . . just that one cry representing it all.” “Yes, Dick, I do.” “Oh . . . Joan . . . we had so much.” “There’s the bridge,” she whispered. “It looks lonely,” Dick laughed, somewhat self-consciously. “Do you think it missed us? I mean, it’s been so long since we’ve been up here.” There was no answer. Looking now at the bridge Dick began thinking back to the first time they had come up there . . . both sixteen years old and both in love. And they would throw pebbles into the water. And laugh. Then there was that wonderful summer’s day two years later when they had decided, there and then, right on that bridge, to elope. Their parents had been against their getting married, especially Joan’s parents who said they were far too young to be thinking of marriage and that they should be thinking about going to college instead. But once married the parents soon became accustomed to the idea and they all settled quietly down to live in Waterloo — the young couple with hardly a penny to their names but only a wealth of ambition and love. But that was all before Dick had started seriously to act. Dick helped Joan up the gentle slope which led to the bridge — an old wooden plank bridge with a rise in the center. And their footsteps began to make deep resounding echoes as they reached the wood. . He guided her towards one side and they leaned over on the hand rail looking down at the water as it ran in and out past the stones and pebbles. He put an arm around her waist. She did not move. “We had happy times here, didn’t we Joan?” “Mmmm.” “Remember that day we decided to elope?” He laughed. “It seems such a long, long time ago.” “And how we didn’t have a penny in the world and yet we used to laugh about it?” “ . . . say, Dick? Remember how we borrowed three hundred dollars just to go on a vacation?” Dick smiled. At last Joan was beginning to talk like her old self. He looked up the stream and began to chuckle. “. . . Joan, you’il never know how many laughs I used to get from watching you as an usherette in that movie theater we used to work nights in. You took the job so seriously.” “Well, you were a very serious young assistant manager.” Then Dick put on an expression of mock indignation. “And whose bright idea,” he laughed, “was it, to go out and spend eighteen hundred dollars on furniture for our new home when we could hardly afford to pay a one-cent down payment on it all.” “I guess they were mad days . . . weren’t they, Dick?” She cupped her chin thoughtfully in her hands, which were resting on the rail. And looked down. “Hey! There’s a fish!” she screamed suddenly. “Where?” “Right below . . . just going under the bridge.” “But where, Joan. I can’t see it.” “Ooh . . . you’ve missed it now. And it was so pretty.” They were silent for a while. Then Joan said slowly, “Dick ... do you really like acting so much more than being here . . . and being in business and being able to live a more normal life?” Dick sighed. “Acting’s become a part of me now, Joan. I want you so much to understand that. And it doesn’t mean at all that I don’t still love you . . . and the kids . . . very very much. I need you, Joan. Perhaps now more than ever.” He paused. “And I think, Joan, I think maybe I’ve found the solution. I think I’ve found a way so that I can act and yet we can still be together . . . and . . . it’ll mean you won’t have to go back to the life you hated in Hollywood.” “It sounds impossible . . . but what is it?” Joan looked curious. “It’s this, Joan. Remember the past few weeks I’ve been in New York? Well, during that time I wasn’t only thinking about my career ... I was thinking a lot about us. And one day, when a fellow I know asked me to go visit his friends in Westchester, an idea hit me. Joan,” he said triumphantly, “Westchester’s the place. Westchester or Connecticut. It’s so much like here. We could live there . . . and I could still act. I’ve always been interested in Broadway — remember I told you — and while I was in New York they offered me a part. “Oh . . Joan. It’s so much like Waterloo in Westchester. You’ve no idea. I even saw a house that looked exactly like ours here. And some of the streets made me feel I was right here, too. I know you’d love it. Please say yes?” There was a low, pleading tone in his voice. “I want to . . . very much.” She paused for a moment. “Those letters, remember those letters, Dick. The ones we got from the Photoplay article. I only read a few of them before sending them to you . . . because every single one of them told me I was wrong to run home and begged me to stay by you. And they made me think, Dick . . . made me wonder if there just could be a way of our staying together.” She looked up at him. “There was one woman. She must have been an old woman, maybe seventy-five or eighty. She said that for a man to be contented and successful, he must be happy in his work. She’s seen a lot of life, Dick. And I don’t know why . . . but her words seemed to stick.” “Acting means everything to me now, Joan. I just can’t give it up. And so many people have begun to show an interest in me. It’s not a wild dream anymore. It’s my life.” She stared back into the water. “It’s been lonely here, Dick . . . you don’t know how lonely.” “I’ve missed you, too . . . I’ve missed you so much,” he said softly. “And I understand, darling. I understand your fears ... all of them. And I know you’ll be happier in Westchester than Hollywood . . . everyone there’s got more time for each other. They’re not so big-town like in Hollywood. They’re people . . . people like us. Small-town people.” “But the money, Dick. We’ve got two children to think of now.” “I’m sure I’ll make out . . . but take the gamble with me, Joan. We took it once . . . we made it before. Stay with me, Joan . . . please.” “Oh . . . Dick. I want to. Maybe it could be all right again.” “I know it will be. We’ll move in June, so the children won’t be interrupted in school . . . and it’s near enough so that you’ll be able to come home here whenever you want.” “It sounds . . . good.” Suddenly they found themselves looking into each other’s eyes the way they used to in the old days — smiling, happy. A tear began trickling down Joan’s cheek. Dick pulled her gently towards him and they kissed. The End