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but he looked at John, spoke to John. "Well . . ." he said. "Married. . . ."
Mrs. Dorn moved into the livingroom, not as if she wanted to come but as if an unseen hand forced her. "Oh, John — " and then she stopped.
I stood there, fighting panic, telling myself that they were only shocked. But it was more than that. Everything was all wrong and I knew it.
Her words broke up the dreadful tableau. -Mr. Dorn cleared his throat and said, "Well — sit down, sit down — " and Mrs. Dorn took my hand briefly, tried to smile. "You'll want to rest," she said. "You must rest after your trip. I'll take you upstairs — "
I followed her upstairs to a large airy room, a guest room, by the neat, unused look of it. "I hope you'll be comfortable," she said, and then she turned and went out.
I stood, stunned, where she had left me. I felt sick, and my legs were as weak as water,, but I couldn't sit down — not on the Doras' chairs; I couldn't lie down — not on the Doras' bed. They didn't want me; I knew it, knew that their feeling was even stronger than that. They wanted me out of the house . . . and the next best thing was shutting me away up here while they talked to John. I didn't understand. It wasn't like them — not like the warm-hearted, open-hearted family John had told me about.
It seemed hours that I waited, conscious of the murmur of voices on the lower floor, hours until I heard John's step on the stairs — heavy, dogged steps. I opened the door, and he let himself in, shut it after him. And his face — his face was paper-white, his eyes stricken. "Sit down, Bethie — "
I took a step toward him. "Your family," I said thinly. "They don't like me — "
He shook his head heavily. His voice sounded dragged out of him. "It — isn't that. It's — Mary Lou. They expected me to marry her. She's going to have a baby. She says it's mine."
In the face of this tragedy, has Beth the moral right to fight for her husband, for her happiness? Be sure to read the second installment of this story of a real-life problem, in December Radio Mirror, on sale Friday, November 16.
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THIS IS A UNIFORM!
It doesn't look like the uniforms you've been seeing on our fighting men, because this small bronze insigne is the uniform of the honorably discharged veteran.
The man who wears it in the lapel of his civilian suit may bear a visible wound, or a wound you cannot see, but in every case it speaks of suffering and sacrifice endured on your behalf. Learn to recognize the Honorable Service Emblem as instantly as you do a uniform, so that to every veteran you meet you can give the respect and consideration he deserves.
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