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

for Contented Calves! AFTER APPLYING UQUIO STOCKINGS, I USE KLEENEX* TISSUES TO GIVE MY LEGS A SMOOTH, EVEN TONE! (from a letter by J. W., Olympia, Wash.) US. BARE FEET IN SHOES NEED SOFT, MSORBENT KLEENEX A5 AN INNER SOLE FOR. COMFORT.' {from a letter by R. S. P., San Jose, Calif.) WIN ^25 WAR SAVINGS BOND WRITE HOW THE USE OF KLEENEX TISSUES SAVES YOU MONEY AND HELPS WIN THE WAR. for tatter £& or lA/urs*1 yJ3»p|CN|CS ANO WIENER-ROASTS NEED A SUPPLY OF KLEENEX TO WIPE GREASY CHINS ANO FINGERS. SAVES CLOTHES AND HANKIES! (from a letter by G. J. E., Great Falls, Mont.) Oh Say Con YouSee^j OH A SUB IT'S VITAL TO SPOT The ENEiW FIRST/ OUR LOOKOUT SAYS YOU CANT BEAT KLEENEX TO KEEP BINOCULARS CLEAN ANO DRY/ (from a letter by M. B. F., U. S. Navy) °* BJ2er D*^ Hope there'll be more DELSEy* Toilet Paper offer the war (*Trode Mork» Reg. U. S, Pol. Off.) 52 "Martha, Martha, open your eyes. Martha, it's Edward — your husband. Martha — Oh, my God! Martha, why did you do it — " "Edward!" I called sharply, trying to penetrate his grief, "Dr. Brennon's coming. We'll have help soon." THEN Donald appeared, and a few seconds later the ambulance arrived with a wail of sirens. Donald, kneeling beside the woman, gave brief orders to the stretcher-bearers, and then looked at Edward, artd at me. "You were with him?" It was a question, but I heard it as an accusation. "Yes." "Come along, we might need you." I rode to the hospital in the ambulance with them, while one of the orderlies followed us in Donald's car. Edward had stopped groaning — he seemed dazed. "Came looking for me in the joint," he mumbled. "Didn't like me to step out on her, but I kept on doing it. Always seemed fun before, thought it would keep on being fun. I didn't know she'd — " he stopped, and pain twisted his face. "Maybe she went through that fence on purpose," he whispered. "Oh, God, she tried to kill herself — on account of me!" I felt Donald looking at me, and I did not try to meet his eyes, as I did not try to hide my shame and my remorse. I could not summon my old anger against him. Indeed, I had no wish to; letting him see how ashamed, how bitterly sorry I was was almost as relieving as a confession. At the hospital it took all of Donald's persuasion and mine to prevent Edward from following his wife and Donald into the receiving ward. After what seemed hours Donald came out again, drew Edward aside for a short conversation, and then disappeared with one brief word for me — "Wait." "What — what is happening?" I asked Edward through stiff lips. He barely glanced at me. "He's operating on her." Edward was changed again. He no longer seemed half-crazy from shock, but clear-headed and tense, and I knew that he did not want to see me nor to be reminded of my presence. But Donald had told me to wait. I huddled as unobtrusively as I could in the corner of the leather sofa, and I prayed — for Martha Lyons' life, for forgiveness for myself, for mercy for Edward, for sureness for Donald's hands. My prayers were not only an appeal. They clarified things for me, and I saw the four of us — Donald and Edward and his wife and I — and our relationship to each other in what had just happened. I thought of Martha Lyons, of the husband who loved her and still made her unhappy. I thought of what had driven her to try to smash herself by smashing her car. Martha Lyons had needed something to lean upon, and because she had not had it, she had nothing to see her through when things went wrong. It was a long time before Donald came back. My body was stiff and cramped and cold when I heard him come in and cross the room to where Edward stood. "You can go in now." Edward left the room, and Donald came over to me. his face tired and as white as the surgeon's apron he wore. "Will — will she be all right?" I whispered. He did not answer, but stood looking down at me, and this time I could meet his eyes. "Wait until I change, Priscilla, and I'll take you home." Later, when he came back dressed and led me out to the car, I asked again, "Will she be all right?" Again he did not answer. After one glance at his stern profile, his taut mouth, I did not repeat the question. As he stopped the car before our house, I hesitated a moment, then opened the door to let myself out. "Wait, Priscilla." He turned his face to me, a strange look in his dark eyes. "You asked if Mrs. Lyons would be all right. She will — in time, and with care. Her husband is with her now, and I don't think he'll leave her again — ever. She'll be all right— but will you?" RELIEF flooded over me, breaking the tension my nerves had held against uncertainty, breaking my self-control. I put my head in my hands and cried as I hadn't cried since I was a little girl, letting the tears wash out all of the bitterness of the past weeks, all of the strain of that night. I couldn't stop crying — not even when Donald's arms closed around me, when he rested his cheek tenderly, protectingly, on the top of my head. "Priscilla — " his voice was hoarse, as if he had been crying silently with me. "Priscilla, would it help to know that I realize I'm to blame, too?" My tears stopped; I jerked away from him to look at him. "You, Donald!" "I." He opened his arms to me. "I need you, Priscilla. Will you come?" Then I was close against him, and he held me tightly, stroking my hair, rocking me ever so gently. At length he said, "I need you, dearest, and I need your forgiveness for being blind and stupid and selfish — " I pressed my face against his coat, and he went on, "You see, that night I took you out, and we parked, I couldn't think of anything but my own disappointment in you. I was hurt and I felt cheated, and I took it out on you. I didn't stop to realize that you were completely right in what you said — that a man who didn't know the real thing was a fool. I didn't realize that all I'd heard about you added up only to mean that you were very young and too full of life and without a definite direction. I couldn't believe, either, that you really cared about me. It was after I saw the change in you, after — " he stooped and then continued determinedly— "after I'd been so rotten to you, that I knew you'd been sincere and that I'd spoiled something which might have been good and fine." "Donald, don't!" I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth to forestall further tears. "Please don't! Don't you think I've learned, finally — " He caught me to him, quickly, contritely. "Pris, dearest, I'm sorry. I should talk, when I'm as much to blame and more. Can you forgive me, Priscilla?" "If you can forgive me — " He didn't let me finish. "No more of that. Pris, do you still need someone to cling to?" It was my turn to draw away, to look gravely at him. "No. I don't, not any more. You must believe that. Donald. I'm a person now. But — it would help." He understood. I would tell him some dav, but I knew that I did not have to tell him then, exactly what had happened to me while I waited in the hospital operating room. He felt it. This time I could not hold him away, and I didn't want to. Our lips met in a comoleteness of understanding that had no need of words.