Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

ists said when they talked to Stanley Breen after looking down his throat and punching and poking him and using stethoscopes. Perhaps they didn't talk the matter over with Stan at all — perhaps they told Carol, instead, and let her break the news to her husband. It must have taken some doing to tell a man whose voice is his living that the voice is gone forever. It must have taken extreme courage to tell an announcer that his career — the most promising career in radio — is at an end. Nobody who knew Carol well — though who except Ken Williams and Maude Sanborn knew her well? — doubted that her courage was up to any test, but Carol — watching Stan's cold, hard eyes, hearing his voice rail at her huskily— knew that she had come up against more than a crisis. The hurdle she took was much more than a hurdle for she had to take it alone — Stan didn't give her any help. When he finished blaming Continued from page 52 scarf, the latter twisted around his throat — greeted them with a small crooked smile that spoke volumes. "Well, here I am," he grated. "Take a good look at me and laugh. I used to be an announcer and now I'm in the ash can." Everybody was enormously embarrassed; there wasn't a hint of laughter. Stan's big shining voice had been so much a part of him — his bravado had been so much a part of him — his conceit had been as typical as his white teeth and his blue eyes. Stan — with a crooked smile and air of apology and a voice that got into the mass spinal column of the listeners and made them ache with the agony and effort of it — Stan, like that, was out of character! One of the men hastily suggested going into the bar for a Scotch and soda — anything to take the tension out of an uncomfortable moment— but Stan told them in his husky whisper that there wasn't any Scotch. This year Tommy Dorsey gave the members of his band their bonuses in U. S. Defense Bonds. He's handing them to his drummer, Buddy Rich and his vocalist Connie Haines. Tommy's been twice featured on Mutual's Spotlight Bands. her for everything, beginning with their meeting in the Mulberry Room, he rasped — "For God's sake, don't keep the crowd away this weekend. I've seen only you, unadulterated you, for the past fifty years — or so it seems." and Carol said, "We'll have a big party over the weekend, darling. You need cheering up — I realize that." SO the crowd came, the usual crowd, summoned by phone calls, letters, even telegrams. But when they arrived on the front porch and Carol — instead of a yellow man in a white coat — opened the door, they began to realize that something was different. Carol explained that she was doing the work herself, that she and Stan were retrenching but that she was a pretty good cook and they needn't worry. She asked them to be tactful and sympathetic with her husband. "He's been through such a strain," she said. And then she took them into the living room and Stan — very pale and decorative in an invalid chair and lounging pajamas and a rabbit's wool 54 "We have some gin," he said. "Maybe we have enough to last the weekend— after that it will be a water diet. . . . Has Carol given you the business?" Carol said, "I told them we were retrenching." Stan's husky whisper had a hint of bravery about it. "Retrenching is the least of it," he said. "Call a spade a spade. We're fresh out of money — oh, I know I've always made a pile but I never saved anything, and what with specialists and the rest of it — but I don't have to go any further. . . . We've sold the convertible and the station wagon and we'll probably have to sell the house or let it go for taxes. We're flat." It was the blonde Russian girl who spoke up. She had moved away from Stan when he said that they didn't have any Scotch — though she wasn't passionate about Scotch, it was a symbol. "Carol used to be an actress," said the Russian. "Can't she keep things going?" Stan's whisper was no longer brave. For that matter it was no longer a whisper— it was a loud voice that ran like a file across the assorted nervous systems of the crowd. "Carol," he said, "was always a punk actress. She could never make enough to run this place." The blonde sneered openly at Carol, and something naked and ugly raised its head between them. "Here's another idea," she said. "Why don't you take a boarder — a boarder with a regular salary? Somebody like — well, like Ken Williams? He's on his own, being a bachelor. And he's fond of you, Stan — and he's devoted to Carol. Everybody knows that." Ken spoke quickly, as if the words were forced from him. "Carol," he said, "isn't up to running a boarding house — she's not strong. It would take too much out of her. She'd fall by — by the wayside." Maude Sanborn started to back Ken up but Stan's voice — throbbing like a rusty outboard motor — was barging in and she couldn't make herself heard. "I might have known, Ken," said Stan, "that you're the kind of a guy to raise objections. We're on our uppers — but what's it to you? — ^you've always taken everything for nothing. ... At that — speaking of everything — " his voice lowered reflectively — "I don't get your slant on this thing. You and Carol are such old friends that I should imagine — " he left the sentence hanging. Ken's face was flushing — the flush started at the chin and worked up to the line of his hair. A stranger might have thought that the reproof had found its mark, but Maude knew and Carol knew — yes, and Stan knew — that Ken Williams was angry enough to do murder. He swallowed hard — not once, twice. And then at last he replied. But not to Stan. "Carol," he said, "do you want me to move in?" Carol answered — "Yes, Ken. As far as I can see, it's the only way. I — I am a punk actress. I — I couldn't hope to — to support us on a couple of jobs a month. . . . Yes, Ken. Yes — I do want you." T^HE weekend was not a howling ■* success, especially after the gin ran out, but it bore immediate fruit. Ken Williams, giving up his comfortable apartment in town, moved to Connecticut, bag and baggage, and took possession of the two least attractive rooms on the third floor. One he used as a bedroom — one as a study. He didn't pay a regular sum per week — Carol wouldn't bring herself to put a price on hospitality — but he went over accounts with her and sent his own check to the butcher and the baker and the candlestick maker. He also helped her with the dishes of an evening, and was downstairs early in the morning, before she was up, to put on the coffee pot and start the eggs. Stan took to the role of invalid as a duck takes to water. He enjoyed lolling in an easy chair with a copy of Esquire and a snifter of brandy. Brandy, he said, was good for his throat. The only cigarettes that he could stand were imported onesEnglish tobacco was more soothing than the domestic kind — so Carol sneaked enough from the budget to buy about a carton a week, and Ken didn't make any objection. He only paid the next installment on the car that was left and tried to make Carol hire a laundress. RADIO AND TELEVISION IVIIRROR