Radio Mirror: The Magazine of Radio Romances (Jan-June 1943)

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With a twist of his hand, he pulled me into his arms, and into a witch's spell of madness in which I forgot everything — Jim, Dickie, my own self-respect — and knew only that I would follow this man wherever he led me. And then, while we were still locked in each other's arms, while his lips were still on mine in that first kiss, there was a sound from the hall — no, hardly a sound, no more than a quick, indrawn breath. I tore my lips away, pushed Kane from me with both hands. In the open door stood Dickie, a slight, pajama-clad figure. "I couldn't sleep," he whispered. His face puckered, and he turned and ran, his bare feet making pattering sounds through the silence. But he left behind him something I knew I should never lose — the memory of his face, filled with stark, incredulous horror. ¥ STARTED to run after him, but ■*• stopped before I reached the door. What good would it do? What could I possibly say? I sank down into the nearest chair, covering my face with both trembling hands. In my shame and revulsion, I didn't even want to see Kane. He stood beside me, no doubt trying to think of something to say, but after a moment I whispered, "Please go away," and I could almost feel his relief as he left the room. How long I sat there I'll never know. I was almost physically sick. The exultation of a few moments before was gone completely, and in its place there was only a feeling of sordidness and guilt. To have my son — my little boy — see me so! It was worse than if it had been Jim — Jim. Dickie would tell him. He was certain to tell him. I didn't think I could stand it to have Jim hear the story from Dickie. Perhaps if I talked to him, I could persuade him to be silent . . . But no. I wouldn't even try; I wouldn't debase myself any more in his eyes. The only thing was to make certain that I saw Jim first, so I could tell him everything before Dickie had an opportunity. After that — well, if this was the end of the road for Jim and me, it was no more than I deserved. And Kane must leave. Not because of me. I knew with a deep certainty that he could never mean anything to me now, and I was completely indifferent whether he stayed or not. But his presence in the house would be a constant reminder to Dickie of what he had seen. On my way to bed I stopped outside the door of Dickie's room. But it was closed, and I found I didn't have the courage to push it open. The next morning he came to breakfast looking subdued and unhappy, and very anxious not to look straight at me. He ate in big, hurried gulps, and as soon as he was finished started for the back door. "Dickie ..." I said in desperation, 72 and he stopped, but he didn't turn around. Every line of his little body was tense with discomfort. "What you want?" he said in a guarded voice.' Sick at heart, I gave up. There was nothing I could do or say that would make him understand or forgive. "Nothing, I guess," I sighed. "Go on out and play." I dreaded the long hours before Kane came down. But about ten o'clock I was amazed to see him enter the house by the back door. Instead of being in his room upstairs, as I had supposed, he must have been gone all night. There was a tired look about his blue eyes as he shut the door and stood against it. "Did you ever feel like a heel?" he asked wearily. I tried to smile, but without much success. "That's how I feel now," I told him. He turned his hat around and around in his hands. "Funny," he said, "how you can be all set to do something you know you shouldn't, not caring who you hurt — and then, in a minute, something happens. And you don't see how you could have acted that way, but you know darn well you did." His head snapped up. "I've got to get out of here," he said. "Yes," I said. "I know." "I'll find someplace efse to stay." He hesitated, then added, "Unless it'll be too hard for you to explain to Jim?" "No," I said. "I'd rather you went." "I'm sorry," he said, "for — everything." "That's all right." So Kane moved out. He was gone before Dickie came in for lunch. And I noticed that Dickie did not even mention his name. Saturday passed, and Sunday, and Monday — each day made up of hours that dragged endlessly. I dreaded Jim's return, and yet even facing him would be better than this waiting, with Dickie avoiding me so. AND then, after all, Jim came back -^•■unexpectedly, and Dickie saw him long before I did. On Tuesday afternoon I came home from a shopping trip to find that Jim had been home for an hour. He and Dickie were in the living room, and the sound of their voices was the first intimation I had that Jim was back. I walked along the hall, my heart thudding. Had Dickie told him? I couldn't guess from their expressions. Dickie stopped talking when he saw me, but Jim said awkwardly, "Oh, hello, Anne. We didn't hear you come in." He took a step toward me and stopped. Yes — I was sure of it now — he was ill-at-ease. But was that because he knew what Dickie had seen, or because we had parted so angrily? There was something almost apologetic and pleading about his manner, though. As naturally as I could, I asked him about the trip, admired the matching tie and handkerchief he'd brought Dickie, listened while he told of the crowded trains, the difficulty he'd had trying to find a place to stay, the work he'd done at the factory. Not one of us mentioned Kane Garnett. "Why doesn't he ask where Kane is?" I thought — and answered myself. "Because Dickie has told him Kane's gone — and why." At last supper was over, and Dickie RADIO MIRROR