Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

THE STORY: I MET John Dom at the USO Center in Corona, my home town — met him, and his best friend Philip Hurst, at the same time. I'd always had a lot of fun with the boys at the Center, but I'd determined never to be serious about any of them — "All' soldiers," as I told Philip, "have girls back home." But with John it was different; somehow, I couldn't maintain my gay, aloof attitude with him. He did have a girl back home, he told me — Mary Lou Waiters. But he didn't love her, she didn't love him, and there was no sort of understanding between them. And so, I fell in love with John Dorn, and he with me. John and Philip and I had a wonderful time together those weeks. I learned everything — I thought — that there was to know about John; the reason, for instance, that Philip always stayed so close to him: because John still had spells of temporary amnesia as a result of sunstroke he'd had overseas. These were periods in which he "blacked out" on hot days, or when he was 'out in the strong sun for a long time. While he was stationed at Corona, John got leave for a few days and went home to see his father and mother and sister Caroline, and Philip went with him. Shortly after they returned to Corona; both boys were sent away — John to another relocation center, Philip overseas to the Pacific. It was while John was away that he called me to tell me that Philip was missing in action. Then V-J Day came, and with it, John's discharge from the Army; he came straight to Corona, saying that he'd had a telegram from his father asking him to get home as quickly as possible. Urgent business, John thought it must be — he and his father were partners. Would I marry him, 'John asked — marry him that very day, and go home with him? And so we were married, and went home to meet his family — and were greeted by the family with what seemed to be shock and horror at the news of our marriage. I was shown to the guest room while John talked to his family, and then John came to tell me the tragic news — Mary Lou Walters was going to have a baby. John's baby, she said. TT COULDN'T be true. Surely John had * not just said to me, "They expected me to marry Mary Lou. She's going to have a baby. She says it's mine." It was all a bad dream, and I would awake at any moment to find myself in my own room back in Corona. At any moment this queer blackish mist that covered everything would fade, and the queer swimmy feeling inside me would go away, and everything would be all right again. There was pressure on my arm, on my shoulder; from a long way off a voice — John's voice — was saying, "Beth! Beth, please sit down. I'll get you some brandy—" I moved obediently, sat down, felt the stuff of the chair at my back, beneath my hands— the corded upholstery of the Dorns' chair that I hadn't wanted to sit in while I waited for John, because I'd thought the Dorns didn't like me. ". . . brandy," John was saying, and I shook my head, heard my own voicefaint and far-off, too — saying, "I'm all right. Only — I don't understand." John sat down on the edge of the bed. He was facing me directly, but through the blackish mist I saw him as a shadow, as you see something out of the farthest corner of your eye. "I don't understand, either," he said heavily. "I've been trying to remember, trying to make myself remember, and I can't — " I swallowed, trying ta down the dizzy feeling, trying to clear my head, to see. It was an effort to make my mind follow his words. "Remember?" I repeated. "Remember what?" "The last day I was here when I came down on furlough. I blacked out that afternoon. I didn't tell you about it because I didn't want you to worry — " That snapped me to attention. The mist cleared, and the dizzy feeling went away, and could see the room now, the bed with the tufted cover, the cut-glass jars on the dresser. I could see John, a wretched, dazed-looking John. I turned my eyes past him to the cut-glass jars. It wasn't decent to see him like that, with the look of a tortured, trapped animal. "Blacked out? What happened, John? I mean, from the beginning — " He drew a deep breath. "I guess that's where I'd better start — from the beginning. I went to see Mary Lou the first night Philip and I got here . . . left Philip to take Caroline to the movies. I told Mary Lou about you that night, told her that I was in love with you and wanted to marry you. I've told you before that I never knew how she felt about me. We'd been good friends, and we'd seen a lot of each other until I went to war, but she'd always had a lot of other fellows, too. And even though everyone took for granted that she was my girl, there'd never been anything sentimental between us. And that night I told her about you — well, if I did mean anything special to her, she didn't let me know it. As I said, if it was an act, it was a good one. She asked the usual questions — what you looked like, and how I'd met you, and when we planned to be married — and she wished me happiness, and that was all there was to it. Mother had planned a party for me the next night, and Mary Lou came and seemed to have a wonderful time. I didn't see much of her because Philip was tagging after her, paying her a lot of attention — you know his way — and she seemed to enjoy that, too. Any-, way, she was with him the next few nights when we went out with the crowd, and she seemed perfectly happy. Then, the last day, she changed — " "Changed? How?" Too numbed for misery, Beth waits for John's words, the words that will mean the end— or the joyous beginning— of their love \ I' A CASE HISTORY FROM JOHN J. ANTHONY'S FILES This story tuas adapted from one of the recent problems presented on John J. Anthonys MBb program, heard each weekday at 1:45 EST