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"Yes — I realized that, after a while — a rather long while." He walked across the room. "First I thought I wanted to prove to you I could be a great singer. Olga and her producer put up money for a concert tour. It was a large failure. I wasn't ready for it. After that, I tried to reach you. I haunted your mother, but she wouldn't tell me where you were. I guess by that time she thought you were better off without me."
"But Bill— you were right, you know. Music is your life. And now — well, you're free. There's still a chance for that career you once talked about. If you took on burdens again — "
He stood with his back to me. "Music, yes. I used to believe it was everything, Anne. Only I don't any more."
"You mean— the dream's over?"
"I mean it's changed." He turned and faced me. "Don't you see, Anne? You were my music, you and Lucky. That was my song — but I couldn't hear it. Now I want to find my music here." He came across the room, stood above me. "With you and Lucky."
I saw his fists close, his lips were a taut line. "Anne — Anne."
His voice broke. I stood up quickly. I could feel that strength of him as his arms drew me to him, held me tightly.
"Bill, I—"
But I didn't finish, because his lips were on mine and the world seemed to fall away, the world of problems and troubles, and there was only Bill, Bill, my husband, and I.
Later I asked him if he'd like me to wake up Lucky. And Bill said, "I think we ought to, Anne. He's really responsible for my being here."
I LOOKED at him puzzled. Bill * grinned. "You see — well, read this."
He reached in his pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper, handed it to me. The moment I opened it, I recognized Lucky's childish script.
"Dear Laughing Cowboy (it read) : I listen to you every nite and I like you very much and I want a cowboy belt and gune but we haven't aney tops of boxs right now. Would you plese send me the belt and gune now and I will send you the tops latter. Lucky Tyndale, aged 6."
A mist came over my eyes as I read that and I was fighting with myself because I didn't want to cry. "But how — I don't see — " I said.
Bill, smiling, said, "I'm the Laughing Cowboy, Anne. I'm the one Lucky listens to on the radio. And I got this letter this morning."
"But I listen to you too, and I didn't know — "
"That's no wonder. The microphone does funny things to a person's voice, and of course you weren't expecting to hear me."
I folded the grimy bit of paper, held it carefully, like something very precious. "Lucky did it," I said. "He wrote that letter by himself. I suppose Mrs. Bascom helped him with the address, and gave him the stamp — but it was Lucky who did it." Suddenly I smiled, my heart full of happiness. "He'll be so proud — that his Daddy is the Laughing Cowboy."
Bill laughed. "I guess we'd better wake him up and tell him, Anne."
"And thank him," I whispered.
I took Bill's hand, and we started up the stairs.
OCTOBER, 1942
Maria Montez
Co-starring in Walter Wanger's Technicolor Production
"Arabian Nights"
A Universal Picture
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