Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

expectedly, as wonderfully, as prosily as John's meeting me outside the supermarket when we'd first known each other. I got off the streetcar one morning and crossed the street to go to work, and there was John on the sidewalk, waiting for me. "I thought I'd catch you," he said. "I called the house, and your mother told me you'd left for the office — " And then I think he kissed me. I was so excited that I still don't remember. I know that I stood staring at him endlessly, clinging to his hand, while people streamed by us on their way to work. Then . we turned into the nearest drugstore where we took a booth and ordered coffee and went on holding hands and looking at each other. Then John said, "Can we get married today?" "Today?'-' I repeated stupidly. It was impossible, but I knew that we could, and would. "Yes — if we get married this morning, we can make the noon train, and be in Maple Falls by tonight. You see, my folks don't know yet that I'm a civilian. And I had a wire from Dad saying it was urgent I got home as soon as possible — something about the business, I suppose. I didn't stop for anything. I just climbed on the bus for town, and found there was a train leaving right away for Corona, and took it. I'd like to get married and get home — sort of get the fireworks over with all at once, so we can begin just plain living." Perhaps it wasn't a very flattering way to speak of our wedding, but I knew what he meant. I was as anxious as he to begin just plain living — the ordinary, day-to-day living in which war and separation and uncertainty had no part. We were married that morning. There was a waiting period in our state, but it was waived because of John's uniform and because Mother and Dad caught some of our excitement and were as insistent about an immediate ceremony as John and I were. Mother and I packed my bags while Dad called the clerk's office and our church, and we caught the noon train with seconds to spare. We didn't talk much on the journey. There weren't any words for the way we felt. Once John said, "You haven't stopped smiling all day." "Neither have you." Then I added, "You must be tired after riding all last night. Why don't you try to sleep?" "Change over and sit beside me, and maybe I can." So I left my seat opposite him for the one beside him, and he fell asleep holding my hand, his head on my shoulder. I sat and watched the sunlit fields go by without really seeing them, and for no reason at all felt like crying every time my cheek brushed John's hair, and said to myself over and over again, "It's happened. It's really happened. We're married, and we belong to each other forever and ever. . . ." Maple Falls was even smaller than I had expected — a patch of dark green trees against the lighter green of the fields, pierced by the white of a church steeple. The station at which we descended was hardly more than a shed built over a platform. A thin, bent figure in a faded blue uniform, trundling a baggage truck, came around the corner; he beamed and started forward at the sight of John, halted when he saw me. "Hi, Larry!" John called. "You're the first to meet Mrs. John Dorn, Junior. Is Mac around to drive us up?" The old man stared, and swallowed, and finally stuttered, "M-Mac's sick today, Johnnie — " "Never mind," said John cheerfully. "We'll walk. I'll come by later for the bags." But after we were out of earshot of the station he said, "Now what do you suppose is the matter with him — he looked as if he'd seen a ghost." "Surprise," I ventured. He shook his head. "I've never known old Larry to be so surprised that he couldn't talk." We crossed the town's one main street, deserted now at the dinner hour, walked up a hill to a residential section of comfortable-looking white houses, sheltered by tall old trees. I hung back a little as we turned in at one of them, and John tightened his grip on my arm. "Come on, honey. There's nothing to be afraid of." If I'd known then how wrong he was, I think I would have run straight back to the railroad station. Never, as long as I live, will I forget the scene that greeted us at John's home. He knocked on the door, then pushed it open, gently pushed me in ahead of him, calling, "Mother! Dad! Caroline — " They had just finished dinner. John's father sat in the livingroom, reading a newspaper. Beyond, in the diningroom, his mother and sister, Caroline, were clearing the table. The three of them froze at the sight of us. "This is Beth, my wife," said John. "And this is John Dorn, civilian, honorably discharged. Shall I get the smelling salts?" The flippant remark hung in the air, echoing horribly, through an eternity of silence. Then John's father rose, slowly. He held out his hand to me, No «uro»W. powr «•**"* Z pmuPMQums..-"": AN OUNCE OF PREVENTION cX IS WORTH A POUND OF CURE Philip Morris are scientifically proved far less irritating to the nose and throat When smokers changed to Philip Morris/ substantially every case of irritation of the nose or throat— due to smoking— either cleared up completely, or definitely improved. — findings reported in a leading medical journal. ""Nf S3 Hi /*/? FWER FLAVOX-PM/S MR /HOX£ PXOrECT/O/V a R 75