Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

was* LIKE A LOT of other fellows, I used to take what I thought was a "he-man's" laxative. And, boy, what awful punishment I'd take with it. The stuff tasted terrible — and acted worse. It was just loo strong! THEN I SWITCHED to another brand. It tasted pretty bad, too. But I wouldn't have minded thai so much if it had done me any good. Trouble was I didn't get the proper relief. It was just too mildt FINALLY, A FRIEND suggested Ex-Lax !.. ."It's so easy to take," he said. "Ex-Lax tastes like chocolate and it works like a charm!" . . . Well, I tried it and I knew right away that I'd found MY laxative. Ex-Lax is not too strong, not too mild— it's just right! Ex-Lax is effective, all right — but effective in a gentle way! It won't upset you; won't make you feel bad afterwards. No wonder people call it: , Naturally, like any effective medicine, Ex-Lax should be taken only as directed on the label. EXLAX 10c and 25c at all drug stores more tT) absorbent SJTKOUX SIT-TRUE" I I b b U t J) AT 5 & 10^ -DRUG & DEPT. STORES voice within me was whispering that it might so easily be true, that Bill might be in love with her. "I don't believe a word of it," I told him. "I'm going with you, not because I'm afraid but because I want you to see how wrong you are." I had hired a high school girl to watch Lucky that evening, thinking that Bill and I would be going out. I gave her a few words of instruction and then we started. Outside, we hailed a taxi and Mr. Sears gave an address on the far side of town. It was a district of theaters and gaiety, and we stopped before a small cabaret where there were bright lights and the sound of rumba music. At the door, Mr. Sears gave the check girl his hat and we stood a moment looking around at the crowded tables and then I saw them and a horrible sickening sensation swept through me. They were at a table together, the two of them — Olga looking so sophisticated and charming, Bill sitting close beside her. His face was flushed and he was whispering something to her. "A curious way," Mr. Sears remarked acidly, "to conduct a business conference." This was it. This was the moment I had been dreading, the moment I had never allowed to creep into my thoughts because I was afraid of it. Our anniversary night. The night I had counted on. It seemed as if everything in my life had suddenly stopped, lost meaning, reality. Bill looked up, as though he had felt our eyes on him. There was a grin on his lips and it faded — faded to anger as he saw me. I'd seen enough. I wanted no more of it. No breaking my heart in public. I was terrified of what I might say or do. I turned — ran out of the restaurant. I found a taxi on the corner. "Take me home," I said. "Quickly." The driver turned. "Home, lady?" I gave him the address. I leaned back in the shadows of the taxi. Tears were welling in my eyes and suddenly I was sobbing. BILL arrived home shortly after I did. He seemed flustered as he came into the apartment, but there was a hard light in his dark eyes. He stood looking down at me a second. Then he said, "Anne, why didn't you wait? What was the idea of running away like that?" I didn't look at him. "It was a business appointment, wasn't it?" "Yes!" He shot the word at me, so defiantly that some of my misery was changed to anger. "It didn't look like it," I said. "Are you trying to prove I've been lying to you?" I said, more pleadingly, "This was our anniversary, Bill. This was one night I'd counted on. And you—" "You don't understand, that's the trouble." His words ran on hurriedly, frighteningly. "You can't understand that I've found someone who believes in my music, someone who thinks I can be more — more than a mere bookkeeper." It was as if he had struck me. Someone who believed in his music. Someone who thought he was more than a mere bookkeeper. I was remembering Olga, the things she had told me — about how he was being held back by financial worries and all that. I looked at him now, his brown hair mussed, his wide, sweet mouth sweet no longer. Not the Bill I'd known. "What you mean," I said, "what you mean is that — we've held you back. Your home here — " He turned away, his back to me. I went on, "She gives you what I can't — belief in yourself and your music. It's so, isn't it?" "Of course it isn't so." But his tone was cold, remote, striking the death knell of our love, our life together. I knew that it, and not the words he spoke, told what was in his heart. "That's why you've been running around with her," I said. Bill whirled, color rising to his face. "I haven't been running around with her — as you call it. If you had any trust — but you haven't. That's the real trouble — you never understood. Never knew what my dreams were. Holding me back, like an anchor. How could I rise out of it — " It was all untrue. I knew he was speaking in fury. But I knew too that thoughts buried deep come out in moments like this. "If that's the way you feel, Bill," I said. "If it — " "That is the way I feel." Bitterness grew in our words. Bill was at the door. "I don't want any more of it tonight. No more of it. I've had enough." Before I could answer, he had opened the door, hurried out into the night. I stood there, dazed. Hardly realizing what had happened. Oh, he'd be back, I knew. After the rage cooled. OnlyOnly, it was over. It had to be over. There are moments that stand out — moments when one part of your life ends and something new begins. One thought was running in my mind: You can't stay any more, Anne. When Bill comes back, you'll be gone. It wasn't the quarrel, you see. It was more than that. It was Bill himself, what he wanted, what he believed. We were holding him back, Lucky and I. We were burdens on his dreams. Olga had been right. And because that was so, because Bill felt that way, there could be no happiness, no matter how much he loved us. It was better to break clean, to let the wounds heal quickly. The high school girl who was watching Lucky was still there. I paid her, sent her home. Tonight, Anne. VICTORY LIMERICKS 64 A painter named Samuel Brush Said "Here is our job, and it's RUSH . . . Buy War Bonds so fast That Hitler can't last, And the Japs will collapse in the crush!" RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR