Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

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"Yes, sir," I said. TTHAT night Paul and I had the worst ' battle of our lives, and of course the one thing I couldn't explain to him was my talk with Mr. Wade. He mustn't know that he was being "managed" like a problem child. He refused to believe at first that I was serious about taking a road job, and when he finally realized that I meant what I said, he was furious. "So you've decided to run out on me!" he raged. "No, I'm not, Paul," I tried to placate him. "It won't be for long. Just a few weeks on the road and then I'll be back in New York. It's the only way to get started in the theater. I should have done it long ago." "You're just rationalizing," he said. "You're tired of me. You can't take it any more. I couldn't buy you fur coats and diamond rings, so now you want to leave me." "Paul," I pleaded, "that's not true at all." "Yes it is. I'm not good enough for you. You think I'm a failure. You aren't willing to stick it out with me until I get my break. The first chance you get to leave me, you take it without a second thought." I wanted desperately to tell him the truth. But that would have shattered him completely, would have destroyed in advance all the strength I was trying to give him. "Some day you'll understand, Paul. But now, all I can say is that I'm going to take this job, and you just have to accept that fact." His face was very pale. "Olivia, if you take that job, our marriage is over. I'm not so stupid that I can't see a simple fact when it's shoved right under my nose." My heart turned over at his words, but I held my ground. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Paul, and I'm sure you'll change your mind about it after you've thought it over a while." "That's what you think," he said and, jamming his hat on his head, slammed out of the apartment. I called Joe, then, belatedly, and told him I was in the market for a road job. "Gee, sugar," he told me, "there's not much stirring right now — unless you want to go along with a little second-rate Shakespearean revival that's leaving next week for a bunch of one-night stands. They're having some trouble getting girls for walkons and understudies." "Anything, Joe, just anything." "Something the matter, Olivia?" he asked anxiously. "No . . . yes, there is, Joe, but I can't tell you about it now." "Just as you say," Joe was understanding as usual. "Think you want to take that job?" "Yes, I'd like to. When can I leave?" "They go next Wednesday, and it's by bus— not by train. Think you can stand that?" "I can stand anything at this point. Joe," I said, trying to keep the tears out of my voice, and hurriedly put up the receiver. Paul and I lived through a frightful week of monosyllabic conversations and elaborate politeness. I couldn't pierce his armor, try as I might. The day before I was to leave, Mr. Wade called him about an editing job in the Wade offices. Paul pretended an overpowering lack of interest, but 1 knew the minute I left he would be over there with his face shining and his hair neatly combed. I STOPPED being glad in the weeks 1 that followed as, trouping wearily from small town to small town I waited in vain to hear from Paul. Our first stop was Scranton, Pennsylvania, and, filled with the good feeling of actually doing the work I liked best, I scribbled him a happy note giving him our itinerary for the next three weeks. But when we got to Lewiston, Pennsylvania, and there was no letter from Paul, and when we got to Zanesville, Ohio, and there was no letter, and when we got to Dayton and there was still no letter, I began to be frightened. I had written to him from every town we played, and surely I should be hearing from him by now. It was in Muncie that one of my letters to Paul was returned to me marked, "Not found at this address." Other letters were similarly returned in the next few towns we hit. I had tried writing him at the Wade office, but that letter, too, was returned with an office-boy's scribbled notation, "No longer here." There was nothing for me to do then but wait and carry on with the show until the tour was over. We were on the road for five months — five months without hearing from my husband — five months without knowing where or how he was. It was endless. But I was determined to stick it out. This, I knew, was a case of kill or cure and if, during the process, my heart had to be amputated — well, that was the chance I had to take in the very beginning. We got back to New York in November and I hurried to the old apartment house. The landlady told me Paul had moved out four months ago, leaving no forwarding address. Then, my whole body getting numb with dread, I went to John Wade. I knew Paul wasn't there any longer, either, but perhaps if Mr. Wade told me ex i actly what had happened there would be some clue in the story — something that I could follow up and discover j Paul's whereabouts. But there was nothing. Mr. Wade | was apologetic, feeling that somehow ! all that had happened had been his [ fault for advising me in the first place to leave Paul. I reassured him that I ! still thought it had been a good idea. ' "But what I really wanted to know," j I added, "was why Paul left here?" "I really don't know," he said. "He ] was doing very well — I was pleased j with the way he handled his job. I And then, after he'd been here about ' two weeks, he told me he'd been of i fered another job somewhere and he thought he ought to take it. He left the next day." I can't remember thanking him, ; RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR