Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

C^ut W^ tmwMtmj "T"VOWN, Jigger! Stop it, Gadget! II . . . Muffet ... can't you make your kittens behave?" I think Muffet understood me — the plaintive tone of my voice — as I stood helplessly trying to balance a coffee tray while the two capering furry kittens played tug-of-war with my slack trousers. At any rate, the old mother cat immediately cuffed her two offspring into obedience. When I was at last able, to move I took a backward glance at the house. So did Muffet. It was automatic with both of us . . . a foolish gesture of waiting suspense as if we still expected that beloved masculine form to step out of the French windows — stoop to pet Muffet — take the tray out of my hands — bend his tall head to kiss me lightly — the fragrance of his pipe curling around us — I gave myself a little reproving shake and started off across the lawn, the old cat pattering after me. I must stop thinking of Bill— listening for him — waiting for him. Bill was dead. My husband of a year and a half, really and actually my husband to live with and love with only four months, was dead. Killed in the Pacific. The great, overwhelming grief was gone. It had spent itself in those first weeks of wildness and stupor and unbelief and, finally, of heartbreaking knowledge. Nov/ there was tranquillity of a kind in me, the kind that comes after you have accepted the awful certainty of death and the added certainty that life must go on for you. I had Bill's cat, Muffet, and her kittens. I had the little white clapboard-and-greystone cottage we had planned together and built before we were married. I had my partnership in the Jan-Jay Hat Shop. There was always sorrow, of course. And loneliness. But not the emptiness that usually comes with being lonely. Whenever that threatened I remembered Bill's last words to me as we had said goodbye in this favorite corner of the garden. He had been sitting at this same white-painted barrel that served us as a table; I was on a pillow at his feet, my head in his lap. "Remember, darling — if anything happens to me, it will be all right because our love is stronger than death. Many women, like Jan, have found themselves in love with two men at once. But Jan's problem was different, because one of the men was dead "I'm awfully sorry," I said. "I hope they aren't bothering you. They're a little spoiled." I know you'll always be true to me." I rarely needed to remember those words — consciously — when I was home. Because in the house and in the garden and in every corner of the low hedge there were memories so strong it seemed to me as if the actual presence of Bill walked every step of the way with me. So strong was that feeling, at times, that I would catch myself speaking out loud to him, asking his advice about the perennials,' consulting him as. to the beloved animals' diet, wondering if he would like the new blue curtains in the breakfast room. It was -foolish, perhaps — but it never felt morbid. It felt— right! The coffee in the thermos jug was hot and I poured myself a cup, content to sit for a moment contemplating the play of sunlight and late-afternoon shadow on the lawn, planning my gardening job for the next hour. The chrysanthemums needed tying back. They were getting scraggly. And there were leaves to be raked under the maples. It was so quiet and so peaceful that when the door banged nearby it caught me by surprise and coffee spilled in a hot stream over my sleeve. The burn was a minor one and I paid no attention. I was staring, fascinated, in the direction from where the sound had come, from the house next door. It had been vacant so long that for a second I was frightened . . . frightened at the sight of a tall, slim man walking out of that back door. Walking as if he had a right to. Strolling across the lawn as if he owned the place. And something told me he did. Something told me that I had a new neighbor in this hundred-year-old, rundown house next door. All I could feel, immediately, was resentment. It had been so perfect here with no neighbors on that side and the tree-shaded gully on the other that I hated to think of what this newcomer's presence might mean. He probably had a wife who would want to chat with me over the hedge and run in and out of my house borrowing things. They would be feeling sorry for the "poor little widow" and invite me to parties I didn't like. They would talk to me about the war and pry into details of Bill's death. Something hot and scalding rose in my throat. He was coming nearer and now I could see he was carrying a trowel and a spade. If he meant to do some gardening he would probably be working right across the hedge from me, in their patch of overgrown flowers and shrubs. I dived to the ground and frantically busied myself with the chrysanthemums. Now I couldn't see him. I could only hear the "chunk" and the tearing, dirt-pulling sound of his spade. A whiff of his pipe tobacco drifted across, almost making me dizzy — it was so like Bill's. Once he whistled a little tune, aimlessly. Muffet was acting strangely. She was so entirely a one-man cat, so much Bill's, that ordinarily she was rude and condescending to strangers. But now she sat, listening to that whistle, her 37