Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

(B ec<xtt6^ CJ Jin>€xL T <.^.e you Hunins someone eUe?" her conscier^e prompt, but ElM kneu, only L ker^reates. ne^ .as to be near BUI, to have the shelter of h^s arms As I got off the bus the rain which had been pouring steadily all day suddenly ceased. Dark clouds scudded overhead, then vanished into thin smoky wisps and in their place the sky was filled with the gold of the setting sun. I raised my head, moved by the beauty of the flashing colors, and involuntarily my spirits lifted. Per haps the sunset, driving the storm away, was a good omen for me. Perhaps it meant that my own storm of worry was to end. I walked on again, faster than before. Surely, my heart sang, this would be my lucky day, the day when I would find waiting for me a letter offering me one of the innumerable jobs for which I had been inter // woj «;// S/uof/, j/ondIng by the microphone, who had all my attention, 36 viewed during the past few weeks. I hurried through the lobby of the Hotel Woolford, "the homelike hotel for young women of refinement" which, though not quite so homelike as its advertisements promised, had been the only home I'd known since I'd said goodbye to mom and dad and left to come to the capital city of our state. At the desk I could hardly restrain my excitement for there was mail for me. I could see a number of letters in my mailbox at the back of the desk. The gray-haired clerk smiled when he reached back for my key and the letters. Then he paused, holding the letters just out of reach. "You know," he said chattily, "you're the second Elizabeth Adams we've had as our guest." He paused and said, "Yes sir, the first one moved out just a little while before you came." I smiled in answer, hoping that if I just nodded and didn't speak he would give up his attempt to be sociable and give me the letters he still held. Finally, when he saw I wasn't going to join him in his gossiping, he put the mail in my hand and I turned toward the elevator, scarcely hearing his final words. As soon as I reached my room I tore the envelopes open feverishly, only to toss them aside one by one. The letters to which I had looked forward so hopefully consisted of circulars from neighborhood beauty and dress shops, a price list from the laundry on the corner and a printed announcement of current films at the movie theater in the next block — the usual collection of uninteresting and meaningless advertisements which are stuffed indiscriminately into hotel mail boxes. It had started to rain again and the drumming of the storm against the window brought back my earlier dejection. For the first time I began to wonder if coming to this city had been a mistake. I had been so confident that morning nearly a month ago when I had left the small town in which I had always lived, so positive that here I would find the opportunity for a successful business career which I BADIO AND TELEVISION MBWO" y(y\Ay uod not found at home. I had Zmei of the t"P for a long time fnOad planned for it. I had felt fhat to be on the safe side I should have money enough for at least three months in the city, for I had known ihat once I left home I couldn't count on Dad and Mother for financial help— Dad is a doctor and a 5„e one, but he's also one of the kindest hearted men in the world, which means that he goes on taking care of his patients whether they can pay him or not. But even the knowledge that I would be completely on my own hadn't worried me. I'd saved every penny I could spare out of my allowance and when my savings had reached the goal I'd decided on, I had set out, certain that before the three months were up I would be self-supporting. I wasn't so certain of that now. I had interviewed so many prospective employers, filled out so many application cards that I could not remember all of them, and still I hadn't had a sign of encouragement. And almost worse than worrying about a job was the appalling loneliness. At home I had known everyone and I had taken for granted that it would be just as easy to make friends elsewhere, but instead of the gaiety and companionship I had dreamed of there had been solitary evenings in this small hotel room. Here I was forced to admit on this dreary, rainy night, I was just another unknown. In all the thousands of people in the city there wasn't a single person who luiew or cared what was happening to me. It was strange, then, since I had no friends, that my phone should ring out in the silence. When I answered it, somewhat puzzled, a pleasant masculine voice asked, "Is tUs Miss Adams?" "Yes." "I'm Bill Stuart," the voice went ™-. "I roomed with Tom at the ^iiiversity." From the pause that lollowed I realized the unknown speaker was waiting for a reply, but couldn't remember knowing anyone named Tom. "Tom?" I repeated at last. ^""ra. 1942 He was tall, and he had dark hair which, beneath the lights, showed more than a trace of red. "Yes." The unseen Mr. Stuart laughed. "Tom Richards — your cousin." This was even more bewildering, for I haven't any cousin. "I think there must be some mistake," I began. "Aren't you Elizabeth Adams? "Yes, I am, but—" abruptly the explanation flashed into my mind. Only this evening the hotel clerk had mentioned a former guest whose name was the same as mine. "There was another girl named Elizabeth Adams who used to live here," I said slowly. "She must be the one you want." "Oh-h." The long-drawn syllable held disappointment but there was more assurance in the next words. "I was calling to ask Miss Adams if she would have dinner with me. Since she isn't there would you ^I mean. Continued on poge 59 37