Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

Bob shouted, "Couldn't you hove handled this better? I told yoo — " She knew what she wanted of love — someone nearer her own age, handsome and gallant. But she forgot to look past lier new husband's shining armor to the selfish human being underneath 6n^e TURQUOISE-BLUE water foamed and danced under the sun by day, and by night the moon, so much larger than I had ever seen it before, threw a milky light everywhere, striking incandescent gleams from the waves. The ship glided over the sea like a huge swan, stopping now and then at a port where raw southern colors almost blinded our eyes. We'd go ashore. Bob and I, to hire a carriage or an automobile and ride through the strange, exciting streets, have luncheon in a shady courtyard where bronzed Indian girls waited on us with foods whose violent seasonings burned our tongues; then we'd return to the ship, with its luxury, its clean white decks and obsequious stewards, its soft music and dancing and big, beautifully-appointed rooms. It was our honeymoon. Sometimes, waking late at night and hearing Bob's quiet, regular breathing by my side, feeling the warmth of his strong body under the covers, I thought of Martie and how wrong his unvoiced objections to our marriage had been. How could I help but be happy? I had the ecstasy of Bob's love. That would have been enough in itself. But also I had the assurance of a luxurious, gracious life— of money, position, security, everything that a girl who had worked, and worked hard, ever since she was sixteen could ask for. Martie knew all this, but even at the wedding I had seen that quizzical look in his eyes which always said as plainly as words, "All right, Judith, have it your own way. You're making a mistake, but it's !/our mistake." Always before, whenever he looked like that, he'd been right and I wrong. But this time, I said exultantly to myself, / was the one who was right — so beautifully, perfectly right. Bob didn't like Martie, but then there were so many things Bob didn't know, couldn't understand. He didn't know how, after Mother died, when it was up to me to support my brother and sister, I'd worked in a five-and-dime store, spending all my noon hours in the Times Square district, trying to persuade bool<ing agents to give me a job — any job, anywhere, so long as it was singing. It was hopeless, of course, a™ would have remained hopeless if one of the agents, friendlier than most, hadn't said: "I can't use you, baby, but I've got a friend that thinks he'd like to manage a girl singer. I don't know why, but he does. I'll ask him up here and let you sing for him, if you want." That was how I met Martin Reynolds. He didnt look like any Broadway agent or manager I'd eve seen — and tliat was natural enough, because he was corporation lawyer who happened to love Broadway, the theater, night clubs, all the glamour and g'"'*!' of that strange thing called "show business." "' was tall and spare, with a quiet way of talking. I nev saw him angry or upset. He seemed to carry a tached, tolerant kind of amusement with him wherev BMIO ANO ULETOION MIW" U THE TRUE DRAMA OF A RADIO SINGER he went, whatever he did. He wasn't handsome, his features were too rugged for that, but he had the sort of face you'd never forget, once you'd seen it, full of character and purpose. When I met him he was thirtyone, which seemed ancient to my seventeen, and he had a dusting of white against the black of his hair. For five years after that first meeting in the shabby office of the agent, we were partners. Really partners. We trusted each other completely. Martie found jobs for me — and it was wonderful how, with his wide acquaintance along Broadway, he opened doors that I had knocked on in vain. He selected a singing coach for me and paid the bills out of his own pocket. He went with me to the hairdresser's and supervised the creation of a coiffeur that would frame my face most becomingly; and to stores where he led me away from the flashy dresses my immature fancy selected to others which were always subtly, flatteringly right. For every one of the dozens of details that go into making a career as a singer he had an answer. And he made a success of me. I went on and on, from a third-rate night club to a second-rate one, from a guest appearance on the radio to a good sponsor and then a better one, from a part in a musical comedy to a one-picture Hollywood contract which Martie did not approve of, because he said I wasn't ready, and which turned out to be just as disastrous as he'd predicted. That set us back for a while, but not for long. Another musical-comedy part, a new radio contract at a higher figure, and we were on top of the wave again. Oh, I knew what Broadway said about us, but I didn't care because it wasn't true, and because all the gossip was the result of simple jealousy. There never was a hint of love between us. Martie never even kissed me, and while I felt a deeper aifection for him than for anyone in the world except Johnny and Norine, my brother and sister, it was as a person, not a nian. I knew what I wanted from love — someone nearer my own age, handsome and gallant, who would dominate and adore me, give me everything and de mand that I give him everything in return. Someone like Bob Trayne. I met him after the broadcast one night, in a group of people the sponsor had brought. He was tall as Martie, but there the resemblance ended. Blond hair above an incredibly clear bronzed face, white, even teeth when he smiled, broad shoulders that told you he'd been a star athlete in college, a manner toward women that was assured, yet full of deference . . . these were what I saw that first evening. And I fell in love with them. In the silence thai followed, my love for him withered and died.