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iwiftly toward the other end of the wilding, through a dark studio, and nto the control room. I could watch lim from there.
He sat at a desk, the microphone in ront of him, his strong, brown hands lolding the script, and through the ;peaker over my head I could hear his /oice. No laughter, no flippancy in he voice, now — all quiet seriousness ind kindliness, so that everyone who istened all over the city must know hat he meant what he said.
The program was almost over now. le was beginning to read the last leter — that letter from the girl who vanted to know if she should give the nan she loved another chance.
I leaned forward, resting my hands m the sill of the big window that ;eparated the control room and the ;tudio, watching Jeff's face, hearing his /oice reading pathos and heartbreak nto the simple little letter.
EJE paused a moment at the end of the *•■* letter before beginning the answer, md in that moment he raised his eyes md saw me standing there. I could lear — and everyone in the city must lave heard, and wondered about — the ittle catch in his breath. He raised his land to me for just a second, and then urned his eyes back to the paper be:'ore him.
"Well, Mary K., I think your mother is—"
He paused for that fraction of a sec)nd that seems like years on the air, and then he went on.
" — wrong. A man can change. His nature can change, and his habits can change — but his heart hasn't changed if he really loves you."
Why — that wasn't the answer I had written this morning at all! Of course it wasn't — Jeff had put down the script now, and his eyes caught mine and held them, and his voice held me, too, as if those hands of his had clamped tightly on my shoulders, forcing me to listen to him, to look at him — forcing me to understand.
"It may very well be that the Army has changed this young man of yours. It's a serious matter, getting ready to fight a war, preparing yourself to give up your life, if you have to. No wonder he seems changed. He is changed. No man can look into the future now and not be changed. There is still laughter left in the world — of course there is; there must always be laughter. But there are tears, too. Men will fight, and laugh because they do not dare to cry, but women will weep, and we will discover that laughter and tears are the most real things in the world. Give your young man another chance, Mary. Give him something to live for. Give him something to dream about while he's away. Give him something to come home to. Give him another chance."
I realized that I was crying, not the petty little tears of anger — real tears, the most real thing in the world. And I didn't care that Jeff saw me crying. I put my hand on the knob of the studio door, and as the red light above it nicked off, showing that the microphone in the studio was dead now, I snatched the door open.
I didn't have to cross the studio to him. He had come to me, and his arms were waiting for me. I crept into them, humble and proud at once, laughing and crying at once — knowing, knowing that I was alive, and that being alive, in the same world with Jeff, was all I could ever ask of life, now and forever.
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