Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

Before he comes back to try to make up, to try to pretend nothing has happened. Those thoughts were running over in my mind as I hurriedly threw a few things in a suitcase and woke up my boy. The taxi took us to my parents' home, and we put Lucky to sleep. I tried to explain to them what had happened. They were upset, of course — but whatever happened, they said, they'd stand by me. Bill called in the morning and I wouldn't talk to him. Mother told him I wasn't coming back and asked him to send along my belongings. It was difficult hearing her talk to him, realizing he was so close. But I couldn't weaken in my purpose. It wasn't just for my sake — it was for his sake, too. ¥ T was so hard to realize it was fin* ished. Two people who had been so close, sharing so much, so many memories. The first time we'd gone on a ride together and we'd stopped by the beach and Bill sang and I closed my eyes and listened and then he kissed me and I was so surprised and upset. The way he used to talk about how I was the only one who understood him, the only one he cared about. The way, that day Lucky was born, he sent me a corsage of white orchids — But all right, it was finished and I had to forget him. Of course, I'd never forget him, really. I knew that. I wanted to get away, away from the city, where I'd be likely to see Bill. It wasn't as difficult as I'd expected, because a few days after that, I got a chance for a job. A friend of my mother's ran a dress shop in a town on the other side of the state. If I wanted, I could work there. We could live with her in her home and there'd always be someone to watch over Lucky and we'd be paying our own way. We took the first train. In those months that followed, working and living in that town, I found perhaps not happiness but at least a kind of peace. It was pleasant and quiet. I never spoke of Bill but I suppose the few people we knew had been warned by Mrs. Bascom, the energetic, white-haired little woman who ran the shop, not to ask embarrassing questions. Those months helped to cool the pain. I didn't really forget him, but it was easier, after a time, to think of him objectively. Sometimes I had word of him, through Mother and Dad. He had given up his job, and with the backing of Olga Sears, was planning a concert tour. But after that there was no word about him. The days seemed to go fast. Six months — a year — a year and a half. Lucky was six and going to school. With the light-heartedness of a child he'd accepted my vague explanation that we weren't going to live with Daddy any more. At night he used to listen to the Laughing Cowboy program on the radio. And when the cowboy would sing some western songs, Lucky would try to sing along with him and I thought how much Lucky was like Bill. He didn't ask about his father much. He seemed to understand that was something I didn't want to talk about. They should have been easy, those days, but with the coming of war life became more difficult. We'd been unable to obtain materials we needed to run the dress shop and the business OCTOBER, 1942 / ,„, how »■"■"£££« e~k 5o,SS o5" <""' ,our per«>«. C°"Pf bo<i, t.lc»m> ?°u "j ,ee ho" low!" =ofme»s »«l> " ' co„sei.es» A»« „ ril)g moisture," sensitive, easily thriilingiy AN«^OR^Auet Talcum endo. ILU1* ~ — inland larger ««"" In generous W^nd ^^ ^ drug and toilet g TALC U M POWDER Cashmere Bouquet Talcum Powder A Member of Cashmere Bouquet— the Royal Family of Beauty Preparations 65