Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

30 John's mouth twisted wryly. "That's part of what I don't remember. I mean — I never did find out, • exactly. The whole crowd of us went on a picnic that day, up the river. Mary Lou seemed rather quiet, but I didn't pay any attention until later in the afternoon, after we'd had lunch, when she asked if I'd walk upstream with her a little way, said she wanted to talk to me. We walked up to the Cove above Grumman's Point. I don't remember Mary Lou's saying much along the way, but then it was quite a walk and the weather was warm — hot for that time of year — and I began to get the funny, pressed-in feeling I'd had when I'd had attacks before. I kept wondering if I ought to go back, but I thought perhaps it would pass. But the last thing I remember is sitting on the sand, and Mary Lou's talking, saying something about how long we'd known each other. And that's all I do remember, except — " he reddened and finished doggedly, " — except that she started to cry, and I put my arm around her. The next thing I knew it was morning of the next day, and Philip was getting me up to catch the train." " FORCED myself to look directly at * him. "Then you think — ■" I couldn't finish. He buried his face in his hands. "I don't know," he groaned. "I tell you I can't remember. It would have been a crime . . . Mary Lou. . . ." I went cold with fear and resentment. Mary Lou, I thought. Mary Lou. What about me, John? But John might have been a thousand miles away. Or, rather, it was I who was far #way, and John who was here, in his old home, in Maple Falls. It was as if all his past — his family and Mary Lou and everything familiar — had reached out to claim him, had shut me away from him. Perhaps Mary Lou already had claimed him irrevocably. . . . But my mind shied away from that thought; it was too monstrous. I said stubbornly, almost childishly, "I don't believe it." He raised his head, and the look he gave me washed away all the hard cold feeling, all the resentment. There was so much of gratitude in it, so' much appeal. "I don't believe it, either. I can't. It seems impossible. But — I can't disbelieve Mary Lou, either. She was with me." "But you said that Philip brought you home — '* "Philip told me the next day that he'd found me walking around on the beach, and that he and Mary Lou had taken me home. That's all he said about it, and I didn't ask any questions. I didn't think there was any reason to, and then the doctors had told me -that the less I thought about the condition, the less I worried about it, the sooner it was likely to disappear. That's why I didn't tell you, or my family. They weren't here when Philip brought me in, and they didn't know anything at all had happened to me." "But they know now?" He tried to smile. "Oh, yes. I told them . . . tonight, downstairs. It made them feel a little better about it, but it doesn't alter my responsibility." I struggled to think, to' get the fantastic facts straight in my mind. "But your visit home — that was months ago, in March. This is almost June." I hesitated, fearing that he might misunderstand the question I was about to ask, think that I was accusing him of a clandestine correspondence. "You haven't heard from Mary Lou since then?" He didn't misunderstand. "Not a word. But then — she knew how I felt about you, and I suppose after I'd gone back to camp she decided to just — step out of the picture . . . until she found that she couldn't. She went to Doc Evans, and he told her she'd better tell her parents about it . . . and they told Mother and Dad. That's why Dad wired me. Only he didn't want to say why, in a telegram, so Ithought it was something about the business. I never dreamed that it was anything like this. . . ."' I was staring at the jars on the dresser again, staring until my eyes hurt. There was another question that I had to ask. I didn't want to ask it, but I had to know. "Is — do you think that Mary Lou's in love with you?" John spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know. I never did know, and I certainly didn't think so after I left here last time. But she's— well, intense. And she keeps things pretty much to herself, the things that matter. And she's proud. That's one of the ugly things about the whole ugly mess — the whole town knows about it. Her mother was so upset that she called my mother instead of coming to see her and blurted everything out over the party line. But as to her being in love with me — I don't know. I was sure she wasn't until the day of the picnic, and I'm not sure of anything about that day—" T FLINCHED. I didn't want to be re■*■ minded of the day of the picnic. John reached over and caught my hand in both of hi?. "I'm sorry, Beth, for everything. Sorry, sorry, sorry. That isn't enough, I know. It's so little, that it's — it's. silly. But it's all I can say." I was sorry, too, bitterly sorry — for John. I ached to comfort him, to hold him as if he were a child, to smooth the tortured lines from his face. Now that the first shock had passed, all I could think of was that John was in trouble, serious trouble; I didn't fully realize how it affected me. With a quick movement I knelt beside him, put my arm around his shoulder. "It's not your fault," I whispered fiercely. "Whatever happened, -it wasn't your fault. And maybe it isn't true, John. Mary Lou could be wrong, and the doctor, too. Doctors have been wrong before. If we just keep hoping and trusting that things will come out all right, maybe they will." John turned his face away, pressed my hand so hard against his cheek that my fingers hurt. For a long moment he didn't move. Then he drew a deep shaky breath. "Thanks, Beth," he said huskily. "That's what I hoped you'd say. I — there's no one else like you, no one in the world. Thank God for you, darling — " My eyes stung, and my heart swelled as it had the night that John had called me to tell me that Philip was missing, the night he had said, "I'm so glad of you — " as if just to know .that I was there made anything bearable. I forgot Mary Lou then, forgot everything but that John needed me, turned to me in trouble, needed my love, and I felt privileged and humbly grateful that I could help. Then John rose, drew me up with him. "We'd better go downstairs," he said. "Mother has sandwiches and hot tea for us." He grinned crookedly. "That's Mother's remedy for everything — hot tea. She'll be upset if we refuse. I hope you don't mind coming down." I did mind, a little. I wasn't in the least hungry, and I shrank from the very thought of seeing anyone. But I was willing to do whatever John wanted, and I felt equal to facing his family now. John loved me and needed me; so long as that was true, I could face anything. And somehow, in trying to reassure John, I'd succeeded in reassuring myself. Surely, things could not be as bad as they had seemed at first. The news that had been waiting for us in Maple Falls was like a bomb out of nowhere, thrown by circumstance; I could almost believe now that circumstance would somehow make things right. We were a strained little foursome, gathered around the diningroom table for sandwiches and tea. Caroline was missing; she had been sent to stay with a school friend. "Her very best friend," Mrs. Dorn explained carefully. "They've gone all through school together, and Caroline's been begging to be allowed to stay with her. I thought that this was as good a time as any — " she caught herself — "I mean, they're both graduating from grammar school this June, and they've so much to talk about. Parties and clothes — " T SMILED and nodded and said someA thing about my own graduation from junior high. It was obvious that Caroline had been sent to stay with her friend because of my presence in the house, but I didn't mind. I was sorry for the Dorns. Neither of them looked very much like John — both of them small, Mr. Dorn small and plump, Mrs. Dorn small and thin. But Mr. Dorn's mouth, relaxed, had the same humorous quirk at the corners that John's had, and they both looked as if they were used to smiling a great deal, to getting a great deal of enjoyment out of life. I didn't mind the sympathy in Mrs. Dorn's eyes whenever she thought I wasn't noticing, didn't mind that both she and Mr. Dorn, no matter how sympathetic they felt, took care to treat me as a guest and not as a member of the family, took care to talk only about impersonal things, like Caroline's graduation, and the new wing that had been added to the high school, and the postwar highway that was planned to run between Maple Falls and Marshall, a larger town up the river. I didn't mind anything, so long as I could meet John's eyes across the table in a glance that was like a secret signal saying that the two of us were (Continued on page 54)