Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

30 "Susan Welch, 28 Sunset Drive." A letter from a soldier. My heart and my head began a race, and it looked as though my head was outstripped; I couldn't get my mind off that letter, and that girl. And when I came down Sunset she was waiting by the gate. "I locked Tiny in the cellar," she said. "I won't let him out any mpre in the mornings until you've passed here." SHE was being sweet to me, and it wasn't hard for her to be sweet. I laughed about the nip her dog gave me the day before and I stalled with my mail bag so I could be with her for a few minutes. Her blue-green eyes were watching the .bag anxiously, and when I drew out her letter they were aglow with anticipation. I didn't like that. "Nice day, Miss Welch," I said, awkwardly. "If I didn't have to work I'd be out in my boat." "Boat? You sail?" She was still eyeing the letter. "Oh sure. That's my first love." (I regretted that.) "I mean it's my hobby. The boat's only a 10-footer, little bigger than a catboat; but I can get places — when the wind blows." She was looking at me, and yet she wasn't. And the natural shyness was tantalizing. I wanted her to talk to me, but she just half -smiled and ran into her house. The steamroller was running over me again. I didn't want her to leave me so quickly; and I almost wished her dog would get loose so I could stay around a wbile, even if I got into another scrap with him. Funny how a girl in your life makes all the difference, how she adds to the general picture of your existence; how you think about her when you're shaving in the morning, and again when you're reading a newspaper in the night. The image of her keeps slipping into your consciousness until it gets a permanent niche in your mental apparatus. You see her for a couple of minutes in the morning, and it is like food for the day. But of course you have to be mentally adjusted for the image to come in clearly. It's like tuning into a radio program; if you're on the beam the experience is delightful, and the song you hear keeps running through your head. I don't know how good I am at explaining the first symptoms of love, but maybe you get what I mean. I kept telling myself that I had met Susan Welch somewhere, sometime; and even though I knew that was improbable, I wanted to believe in somethink like reincarnation. Of course I was the kind of a guy who always kidded myself, told myself off in private conversation. And a postman has a lot of time to think things out because when you walk you think; and, believe me, I didn't get those blisters on my feet from riding a bike. "Hang on there, feller," I'd say. "Don't let yourself go. If you were a sailor you'd hang on to the boat hook when you'd come "alongside; if you didn't hang on, you'd find yourself adrift. Watch out, Bob. You can get killed that way, or anyway badly hurt." I don't suppose anybody but myself would understand that kind of talk. When I said I could get killed that way I meant I was running up against a situation that might turn out badly, and my reactions to Susan Welch had all the significance of deep water to a sailor. And yet I plunged right into the whirlpool, determined to see the other side of the river at any cost. But I don't think I would have taken the plunge if certain elements had not figured in the case. It happened this way. One morning I was coming along Sunset Drive with my mail and I saw Susan picking pansies in her front garden. I felt pretty chipper that day because the weather was so* beautiful, the world was so green with grass and the breeze from the nearby harbor had just a suggestion of saltiness. The combination of things, plus the sight of Susan in her garden, made my heart sing — and I whistled something appropriate to my feelings. I tried to appear casual in my approach but you have to try it some time under similar circumstances to understand how hard it is to make your feet walk slowly, and to make your breath come easily. When I came up to Susan she looked at me, smilingly, and said: "Penny for your thoughts, Bob Jones." "You can have them for nothing," I replied, then realized I couldn't really tell her what was on my mind. "Right now I am thinking of orange ice," I said. "That needs further translation, Bob." "The dress! The socks! Sue, you look like a dish of orange ice." TIER lovely complexion became decorated by a delightful coloring, and the sight of it went right to my head. "Sue," I went on, plunging into the unknown, "wouldn't you like to go sailing with me one of these Sundays?" She was looking down at the letter in her hand, a letter from her soldier; and the realization of the circumstance — the arrival of the letter and my invitation for a date — stopped me cold. I didn't know what thoughts were in her mind, but I' had an idea she was confused; and when she looked at me, silently for a moment, I regretted having asked her. "Here comes a turn-down, Bob. Get set, feller." "Well," she said finally, "I do appreciate your invitation, Bob, but I never leave Dad very much. You know he's an invalid." "I didn't know that, Sue. I've never seen your Dad." "He doesn't get out much. The doctor makes him take things easy, and I'm. the only one he has." In a few minutes I left Susan, left her in her garden picking flowers and it was as though I left part of my heart with her. Of course I put on a good front, told her I'd be seeing her; and she smiled and said she hoped so. I noticed she didn't go into the house with her letter, noticed she kept it in the little pocket of the orange ice dress; and noticing those things made me all the more confused. What right had I to feel unhappy? You have to earn unhappiness, just like happiness. That's what I told myself as I trudged along my route. The soldier had a priority, he should come first; and Susan's story of her invalid father should have satisfied me fully. Yet I was miserable and I could sense the lights going out in my thoughts of the future. And with those lights going out came the dissipation of my interest in my job. All at once it became a bore for me to deliver mail, it became a ridiculous job, and' the uniform I wore became a mockery. "Civil War Soldier," I called myself. I faced a miserable week-end. I had, in my subconscious, planned to take Susan out in my boat; and with that disappointment of a turn-down for the date came a lifeless, futile feeling which told me in capital letters that I was in love with the girl and should have known better than to take such a chance with my feelings. Now I was paying for the foolishness of expecting she might care anything about me. I went down to the boat that Sunday morning and watched the folks of our town take their little craft out into the Bay. They were happy people, and I was jealous of their laughter and conversation. I got my little boat ashore and started to paint it, a job I had been putting off all spring. I thought it would be better if I kept my hands busy so I wouldn't have time to think about Susan; but it was like trying to black-out the sun. All day long her face and her lovely figure kept appearing before my eyes; and her voice was there to haunt me in a tantalizing way. "That needs further translation, Bob. I appreciate your invitation, Bob. The doctor, makes Dad take things easy, Bob." It was the soothingest, softest voice you ever heard; and with it came the scent of something lovely she used for perfume. It was all there, all day long; a visionary package of loveliness. And I couldn't touch it; it was for someone else, not for me. The following Monday morning, however, was really the red-letter day for me. I started on my route half-heartedly, telling myself to be sensible; telling myself I had an important job, important for the world. There was Mr. Miller, the retired engineer. He looked forward to getting his mail as though it were the only thing of interest left in life for him. "Hello, Mr. Miller. Here's one from your boy, Jim. San Francisco APO number." The old man's eyes light up and he pats me on the shoulder. "Do you play golf, Bob? You know you have a golfer's name — Bobby Jones." He's having a little fun with me. "No, Mr. Miller. I like sailing ..." And when I say that the sharp pang of sailing without Susan comes back to bother me. Little things. (Continued on page 85) I