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

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One afternoon one of the gasoline tanks ran dry, and when I telephoned the oil company for some more they told me politely they couldn't deliver it unless I had the cash to pay. When Gene came home and I told him, he said angrily that they'd made a mistake. I knew they hadn't, but I was too sick at heart to contradict him, or even to make an effort to find out how much we really owed. I felt as if I were caught in a web of weariness, under some kind of spell which made it impossible for me to exert myself. I should have told Gene I couldn't take care of the station any more, I should have insisted on talking over our financial affairs, I should have seen a doctor . . . but I did nothing. "Tomorrow," I said, and the next day — "Tomorrow." '"PHAT tomorrow came at last, but it x held tragedy for me. It was an afternoon like any other. Gene was gone and I was downstairs. I hadn't been sleeping well at night, and I must have been dozing in my chair, because a car had driven in before I heard it. When the driver blew his horn impatiently I started to my feet, twisting my ankle, not painfully but just enough to make me clutch the back of the chair to save myself from falling. I hardly thought of the incident as I went quickly outside. But five minutes later, after the customer had driven away, I knew with sudden, horrible certainty that something was wrong. Terror-stricken, I started up the stairs to the apartment. If I could only lie down for a minute, perhaps I'd be all right. . . . The stairs towered endlessly above me. I took the rail in both hands, but I couldn't pull myself up. Circular waves of darkness flowed in upon me and burst into deeper darkness. I couldn't move, couldn't open my mouth to call out, and I felt myself falling. It was old Mrs. Chandler who found me there some time later. The memory of those hours is dim and twisted, made up of voices that one minute were far away and then terrifyingly close, of movement and lights and hurrying footsteps and a strange sensation of floating. Through it all, one fact stood out in starkest clarity — I had lost my baby. No one had told me. I simply knew. At last I fell asleep — they must have given me a sedative — and when I woke up sunlight was streaming into the window beside my hospital bed. I was weak, but I felt comfortable and relaxed . . . for a moment, until I remembered. Then I just lay there, looking up at the smooth white plaster of the ceiling. I didn't move when a nurse came in and bent over me, smiling and taking my pulse. I think she spoke and I answered her, but I didn't really hear her until she said: "Mr. Gorman's waiting outside. You can see him for a few minutes." I turned my head away from her. "I don't want to see him," I said. "I don't ever want to see him again." 7s it only sorrow and disappointment speaking, or does Arda really mean that she never wants to see Gene again? Have these two still a chance for happiness? Be sure to read the exciting third installment of "If Love Were All" in the June Radio Mirror, on sale at all newsstands April 7. RADIO MIRROR