Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1950)

named Mrs. Lewis, who had been ordered South for her health. She was a perfect little miniature, with a beautiful profile and a delicate kind of oldworld charm that captivated me completely. I knew when I saw her that I would love her home and I found myself a little sorry she didn't go with it. She went so well with the French blue of her living room, looked so right against the pale brown tiles that faced the big square fireplace. There wasn't a thing wrong with that house. It was ideal. My only regret was that I hadn't told Jim where I was going, and brought him with me. Then we could have settled with Mrs. Lewis on the spot. I could scarcely spare time for politeness when we had seen it all, I was so anxious to rush out and tell him about it. But as we stood in the doorway Mrs. Lewis held me back for an instant, one small hand resting lightly on my arm. She looked very serious. "I like people, so I haven't minded showing them over my home," she said. "I've shown it to at least fifteen couples . . . But it is my home, and I love it dearly. I'd like you to have it, somehow. I'd like to think of you living in it, where my husband and I raised such a wonderful family." I stood poised there, arrested by the sudden sharp conviction that she was trying to tell me something. I didn't know what it was; perhaps she didn't either . . . for a moment we stood frozen, staring into one another's eyes. I almost said it — "What are you trying to tell me? Oh, what is it?" But the moment slid past with Francie's impatient call from the gate, which she was already opening. I squeezed Mrs. Lewis's hand and went down the steps. It was too late to go back to the lab. I phoned Jim from a drug store, making a great mystery out of where I'd been and how I was going to tell him about it at night. Then, since I had a luxurious half hour to spare, Francie and I went over to talk to Mrs. Collins about my wedding dress. Then Francie had the wonderful idea of picking up Tommy, and taking him home to eat at the Brent house with herself and Janie, so I phoned Jim again and asked him to meet me downtown for dinner. I was sorry to see that Jim was preoccupied, when he came — ten minutes late — to the lobby. He didn't even smile when I waved to show where I was; he came toward me, looking grave. I decided to save my surprise, and serve it up with the dessert. Then if it wasn't too late we could phone Mrs. Lewis, and go right out there. It wasn't difficult to keep from talking about it, because Jim was full of shop talk. "That Number Nine count — the one you were taking — simply isn't right," he grumbled as we ate. "You're not supposed to talk about it here, are you?" I reminded him. His voice had been low, as always, but caution had become instinctive with all of us who were working on the project. Besides, I didn't want to talk about the work just now . . . "You're right," Jim said. He reached across and took my hand, somewhat absent-mindedly. "Well, what's your big news that you can't mention on the phone — which was just as well because I was rushed to death." "It's a house! A house for us, for Tommy, for Janie — " A man at the next table looked over at us alertly, and I dropped my voice at once. What Francie had said was true — everybody was looking for a place to live. But nobody else could have this one! At great length, with gestures and extravagant, elaborate details, I told Jim all about it. I talked so long and so fast that I didn't take time to look at Jim's expression until I had to stop for breath. Then the breath caught in my throat. He didn't look the way he was supposed to. He looked — he looked — "I don't get it," he said. "Why a house? What's wrong with mine?" Well, that was quite a question. What was wrong with it? It wasn't too small; it wasn't old or ugly. It was simply as far from being our house as I was far from flying to the moon. Jim had lived there, however briefly and unhappily, with Carol. I tried to phrase some objection that would hold water, and that could be spoken aloud. "It's right on the hospital grounds. It wouldn't be like — like going home at all, at night." "I've got to be on the hospital grounds Maggie. I may be called any hour of the day or night. You know that — " "That's partly it— you shouldn't be. Even an ordinary doctor has the right to some private life. And when one works as hard in the lab as you do — " "That's nonsense," Jim said almost roughly. "It's my work. I don't look on it as drudgery. I can't afford to go off the grounds and neither can you. You'd have that much further to travel twice a day." I sat back then, and waited until I was certain of the meaning of what he had said. I couldn't take any chances on misunderstanding. We'd already spoken more sharply to one another than ever before. But this — this was incredible. Jim hadn't planned on my staying home. 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