Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

seemed washed out, too. He would have to learn to find his weapons. Her heart ached for Eve, who loved him too possessively, and for him who demanded too much and gave too little. He looked at Harry, his eyes full of apology. "I'm sorry for getting you two involved. I won't bother you any more. Eve and I will have to work it out in our own way." "I know you can," Harry said. And Joan repeated it as she took him to the door. He looked down at her, smiling a little. "Sweet little Joanie," he said softly. "Always straightening me out." When she came back into the living room, Harry was wearily taking off his coat and tie. "Let's get to bed," he said. "Can't we talk a while? Can't we sort of get ourselves calmed down?" "I'm dog-tired, Joan. And the sooner we forget this evening, the better." "But you seem so unhappy. So worried." And so far away from me. "Who wouldn't be unhappy? First the needling of the Kings at dinner — and now this mess. I wish to heaven we'd never laid eyes on any of them!" "But, Harry, the Kings didn't mean to be rude. And poor Phil was so upset he got us involved without thinking." Harry was already walking toward the bedroom. "I don't want us to be involved! We were getting along all right, without people. We were happy. And then — " He disappeared into the closet, leaving the sentence hanging. "You mean 'and then I wanted to see old friends and now it's a mess.' That's not fair!" "I didn't say that." "You implied it. I'm not to blame for what happened at dinner or that Phil and Eve don't get along." "No, but if you hadn't wanted to see them again this would never have happened." "I think," she said stiffly, "it's perfectly natural to want to see people you've known all your life. Just because — " "Oh, don't let's argue. That Ashbey case is coming up in a few days, and I've got to get some sleep." And so it ended. Without the special goodnight kiss. Without the ritual of seeing who would open the window and who would wind the clock. It ended with each in his This was the only day they could be together — and here she was unhappily playing solitaire while Harry was buried in a law book. separate bed, lying sleepless and hurt and alone, looking forward to a bleak tomorrow. Life had lost its sweetness. The next day Joan felt listless and out of sorts. Housework, for the first time, seemed unexciting. She broke one of the crockery plates that were her special pride, and when she went to do her Saturday marketing the store was so crowded the clerk made two mistakes. Then her heart lightened at the thought that tomorrow would be Sunday — the most precious day of the week because she and Harry could spend all of it together. And this particular Sunday was more precious than most. They needed it desperately — sleeping late, the long, leisurely breakfast, a drive into the country. The intimacy of the shared, familiar pattern would eage the strain between them, bring them back to the oneness that had been so harshly interrupted. Tonight Harry would be too tired to talk. But tomorrow . . . But tomorrow, Harry rushed through breakfast. Instead of drying dishes in gay camaraderie, he apologetically cleared off the table in the living room and spread out books and papers. "I've got to work a while, honey. It won't take me long." Three hours later when she looked in on him, he was buried in a law tome, his face creased in such concentration he didn't even hear her. Joan re-read the paper. She manicured her nails and tried a new hair-do, not very successfully. She made out a list of things to do tomorrow and hemmed a dress. Finally she played solitaire. When Harry pushed back his papers and rose with a sigh, it was nearly dark. Joan looked at him reproachfully. "Our one day together, and you haven't even addressed a word to me." "Gee, honey, I'm sorry. But this case is so important — " "More important than anything?" She looked up at him, her face puckered like a child fighting back the tears. He took her in his arms, contrite and explanatory, but somehow it didn't work. The mood she'd looked forward to wasn't there. They weren't indivisible any more. They were two individuals, with different desires and feelings, and that was a new frightening knowledge. They fought against it. They tried to recapture what had been. But the very struggle seemed to separate them further. "Something's wrong," Joan thought miserably. "Something's terribly Continued on page 63 RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRBOH