Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1960)

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Now new triple-action 20/20, the Professional Eye Medication . . . makes tired irritated eyes sparkle again. Actual clinical tests by practicing physicians proved 20/20 (1) Soothes and relieves eye fatigue, reduces pain and discomfort (2) Clears bloodshot eyes* in less than 90 seconds (3) Relieves minor irritation from strain, smoke, dust, glare, etc. For the best in eye care, insist on 20/20. Squeeze bottle $1.00 at drug counters. •Caused by enlarged blood vessels in the outer eye. many times had she really been in love? Once! Just once — with Eddie! Half-adozen dates with him and she found herself sitting by the phone, willing it to ring; dressing to go out, with her heart doing flip-flops; unable to pass a show-window of a man’s store without thinking, “That would look good on Eddie; Eddie would like that; I wonder if I should buy one of them and send it to Eddie?” Was it love? All the things that used to be important to her — her career, her home, the Girl Scouts — all those things began to shrink in size and importance. All the problems that had always kept her from getting serious about a boy now, miraculously, were easy to solve — or forget. A difference in religion? They’d work it out. Careers on opposite ends of the country? They’d commute. Different sets of friends? Everybody’d get to love everybody. Different goals, different desires, different pleasures? They’d each give a little. “Give a little, take a little.” That’s what Eddie’s mother had said on their wedding day, and on that day, of course, it had sounded so easy to do . . . If everything looked so easy to work out, if you were deeply convinced that a wonderful life, together, was more important than any problem — why, then you knew you were in love. Yes, she had been in love — once. The fine white pebbles trickled through Debbie’s fingers and made a little heap at her feet. Debbie’s hand fell open. Her lips parted slightly. She took a deep breath. Was it possible — was it possible — that, someday, she would believe she had not really loved Eddie either? That she had seen in him a different dream? A dream of a home, children, a deep companionship, a warm world with loneliness shut out? Or had she been in love with the idea » of marriage, more than with the man she planned to marry? Girls do that. Was that love? A step sounded on the gravel at her side. Debbie looked up. Harry was standing there, smiling down at her, his eyes young beneath the greying brows. “We’ll eat in about twenty minutes. May I sit down?” “In your own garden?” Debbie said, laughing. “I think it might be arranged.” She moved over on the stone seat. Harry sat down beside her. He moved so easily, she thought for the hundredth time; she noticed his grace and strength automatically. Not a wasted motion. He didn’t bounce around the way a young man would — and, yet, there was nothing weak about him, nothing slow. Merely the movements of a man who has much to do, and knows exactly how much energy and time and motion is required to do it. She knew he liked steam baths, massages. She liked that. She. too, had always believed that decent self-respect required that you take care of your body, keep it clean and fit, keep it a good sight in the eyes of God and man. And Harry did. His clothes were expensive— not to display wealth, but to fit well and wear well; to let the man inside move easily and forget what he was wearing. They weren’t to admire in front of a mirror or in other people’s eyes. He changed his white shirts as often as three times a day. He took pleasure not in the shirt’s cost, but in its clean, fresh whiteness. Debbie had never yet seen him less than immaculate. Never. “Debbie?” Harry said. “Debbie? You’re a hundred miles away — Debbie looked at him, startled. She was remembering the Desert Rodeo they went to together; she and Harry and the children. “I think I’ll leave you alone with whatever you’re thinking about,” Harry said, standing up. Debbie saw him turn and walk, with long swift strides, toward the pool. She knew she was being rude, but she wanted to be alone to think. She remembers . . . For the first time, she yielded to the temptation to close her eyes and recall more vividly what happened on that Saturday afternoon. They had gone to the Desert Rodeo in the morning, she and Harry and Todd and Carrie. With her eyes closed, she could still see Carrie and Todd in the outfits they had worn that day — the cowboy clothes Harry had given them last Christmas. The children were so excited they could hardly stand still to be dressed. Todd kept jumping up and down, asking, “Mommy, will the real cowboys at the rodeo think that I’m a real cowboy, too?” Laughing, Debbie assured him they would. Then, Harry came to pick them up in his car. All through the rodeo, both children pestered him with questions about everything they saw — Debbie’s answers didn’t interest them in the least. Harry turned from one child to the other, supplying peanuts, hot dogs, information on why some cowboys had saddles and others didn’t, how far a stage coach would go in one day, how many Indians he had personally killed — until Debbie was torn between laughter and chagrin. It really wasn’t right to inflict two small children on a grown man who wasn’t their father, but Harry was a marvel with them. The silk handkerchief . . . After the rodeo, there was a barbecue. Harry led the way, with Todd clinging to his hand. He led them to the corral where the cowboys’ horses could be looked at, past displays of western handicrafts and arts, matching his pace to Todd’s little legs, turning back to Debbie and Carrie with comments and smiles. After a few minutes, Todd stopped and asked for ice cream. “What?” Harry demanded. “Ice cream before the barbecue? Well, now— you’ll have to ask your mother.” Todd turned around and, tugging at Debbie’s sleeve, he asked, "Mommy . . . please?” and pointed over to where they were selling the ice cream. Debbie smiled and shrugged. “They’ve had so much junk already, Harry, I guess an ice cream won’t kill them!” So Harry waved to a vendor and bought two cones for the children. “Say ‘thank you,’ Toddy,” Debbie prompted. Todd grinned up at Harry, his double chocolate cone held firmly in one small, chubby hand. Then, with a howl of perfect bliss, he leaped at Harry and threw both arms around him. “Todd!” Debbie cried. “Todd — oh, look at the mess you’ve made! Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. Todd, how could you? Look what you’ve done!” Todd slipped to the ground and began to wail, half because his mother was cross, half because he had lost most of his ice cream. Harry gazed down at himself and then at the child. “Have you anything like a tissue, Debbie?” Debbie rummaged frantically in her bag. “No. Oh, darn it. Not a thing.” “Never mind,” Harry said. “Here — ” and from his pants pocket he pulled out an immaculate silk handkerchief. “Oh,” Debbie said. “That’s good. Give