Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

THE STORY: WHEN I married Woodie, I knew »* very little about him — only that he was a handsome, intense young man, and that I was in love with him. I knew, too, that he had held a large number of jobs — too many — but I also knew that he did well at them, and I felt that marriage would settle him down. And it seemed to, for a while. He sold automobiles for Acme Agency, and did very well. We had a pleasant apartment, pleasant friends, a pleasant life — in short, we were happy. And then there came a time when Woodie was too happy — too excited, too elated over sales he had made, excited out of all proportion. It was then that I learned something I had not known before — that Woodie had been mentally ill, had spent some time in a sanatorium before we were married. Neither he, nor his mother, who didn't like me, who said I didn't "understand" her boy, .had , told me. And now Dr. Blythe said that Woodie would have to go back to the sanatorium for a while, but assured me that there was every hope for a complete recovery, that Woodie's love for me, and his complete need of me, would help him to make that recovery. I went to work as a bookkeeper for Acme, and there I met a new salesman, Don Colman, who was very pleasant and friendly. Several times he took me to dinner at that moment when my spirits were lowest — when I had come back from my weekly visit with Woodie at the sanatorium. When at last Woodie was released, I stopped seeing Don, however— Woodie took a job at another aeency I quit mine at Acme. For a whTall wis well, but it soon became apparent that something was wrong. Once again the great elat on seized Woodie and this time he himself admitted that he had better go back o the sanatorium. Once again I went to work for Acme, once again I began to see Don. Only this time it was different —this time, we knew that we were in love, Don and I— a hopeless, this-cannever-be love that seemed to be au the stronger because it was'so hopeless. THEY say that love transfigures a woman, that when she is well beloved, she is beautiful. That night after Bon left, I went into the bedroom and looked in the mirror and I knew that that was true. To myself at least, I had always seemed just an ordinary girl with medium features, a clear skin and a slim figure. I had never had any illusions about being really pretty. But tonight my hair was touched with a new brightness, there was radiance in my skin and in my eyes, and my lips somehow seemed softer, fullen. Even my body moved with a new grace, as if to music that only I could hear. I could look at myself without vanity and be glad at what I saw. This was the way Don had seen me, this was the inner glow that he had stirred to life,' that made me prettier than I had ever been before. He had created it and I was glad that it belonged to him. Then suddenly the glow and the gladness faded. It was as if I had seen Woodie's face beside mine in the mirror. What right had I to be transformed by Don's love when Woodie was mv husband? How could I, bound by mar_ riage and all its vows, to one man, lon„ for another? Yet it was true. And what I had told Don was true, too. What I felt for him was real and for forever. I knew now I should never have married Woodie When I met him, my parents had jusj Real walls closed around Woodie; but there were other walls, that were unbreachable and solid although they could not be seen — walls that closed Don and Nancy off from one another died, I was "* a strange town and a strange life. No one needed me. I belonged nowhere. Then he had needed me, he had been impulsive and attractive, and maybe even the opposition from his mother had played its part. I had mistaken all that for love. Even from the first day of our marriage, I had been more mother to him than eWqiuealitvThoefrehhad neVer bee" the ha": been ^^ that there sh°*« have^o.°ddiehhad.lbeen wel1' I 'would nave told him the truth— hard and as'keH Hh°Ugh U Was' l W°»W >^e asked him to let me renounce those vows, and it would have been for his sake as well as Don's and nune Th was no temporary infatuation, no unstable leaving of one man for another. This was everything. This encompassed all the kinds of love there were. This was a thing that comes seldom to anyone, and it clamored to be acknowledged. But how could we acknowledge it? If Woodie were well . . . The thought drew me, held me. When he was able to leave the hospital again and had had time to get readjusted, surely . . . surely. ... It was on that note of wild and desperate hope that at last I fell asleep. The days that came after held a new kind of pain for me and a new kind of glory. Each one meant that I would see Don — even if it were only on the sales floor, across the office, at the water cooler. Even though it meant impersonal greeting, studiedly casual. I had only to see him — those dark steady eyes, that sweet, slow smile — to know again the transfiguring love that was in our hearts. Each evening he came to my house. We were careful that no one should know. Whenever we went out to dinner together, we picked a place where wo were least likely to run into anyone we knew. We could not bear the smear of gossip from those who would not, could not, understand. On the surface, the facts were ugly: I, the wife of a patient in a mental sanatorium, playing around with another man. We were not guilty within ourselves, we knew the truth. But who else would believe it or us? AND so it was as if we made a place ** of our own and barricaded it against all outsiders. There, we could pretend for a little while that no one else mattered, we could be ourselves, enjoying each other and this newfound wonder. But always and inevitably, there came the intruding, unwanted presence. It came when we kissed each other — and drew back, afraid of the intoxication of thosekisses. It came when we talked of what 'we felt for one another, whenever the word "future" was mentioned. It came when we read the unspoken question in each other's eyes; What are we to do? It came because no matter how hard we tried, Woodie was there — stronger than we were. "We can't go on like this," Don said one night, and his voice was quick, and almost harsh. "It isn't fair to Woodie — or to us. How can I see you, be with you, and not want to take you in my arms for always? We've got to tell him!" "I know, darling," I said miserably. "But how? When?" "We have to find a way. But it's got to be soon, Nancy! It's got to be soon." The first Sunday I went to the hospital, I went with mingled dread and hope. If he were better, then my day of liberation would be drawing near. And if he were a great deal better, if he were well — that possibility trembled in my heart and made me tremble too. But I found him depressed. It was the depression that always, in the cycle of his (Continued on page 67)