Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1941)

laughed at that. But 1 thought there was a wry note in Howard's laughter. At first Howard used to tell me all about where he'd been every day, whom he'd seen, what they'd said. That was while he still had hopes of finding a job. Slowly, though, he stopped talking about what he'd done, shrugging it off, instead, with a muttered "Nothing doing, anywhere." And at last, after twelve months of idleness, he just stopped making the rounds. That was when J had my first intimation of disaster. I couldn't blame him, exactly. I knew the terrible humiliation of going to office after office, having secretaries tell him that Mr. So-andrso was out, or in conference, knowing very well that was a lie and Mr. Soand-so just didn't want to see him again. It was enough to make the soul of a man shrivel up inside him. But— But, back of the excuses I made for him, I became aware of something else. Howard had stopped trying. Something had happened to him, something had gone out of him. Call it spirit, ambition, hope. ... I don't know what it was, exactly. | DID everything I could to bolster ■ up his confidence. I deferred to his wishes and his opinions. When I spoke of my own job, it was always as something temporary. When he was depressed — as he was so often! — I was tender and sympathetic. I didn't care whether or not Howard had a job and was earning money. What I minded was the thing not having a job did to him. He was beaten, licked, and he didn't seem to care. Worst of all, it was killing our love for each other. It's terribly hard to express, but it was almost as if Howard were less of a man and I less of a woman — as if he felt he had no right to love me as a husband loves a wife. Before my eyes I could see him destroying both himself and our marriage. A mocking, cynical expression had come into the blue eyes that once looked out on the world so gaily and hopefully. The tall, broad-shouldered figure that he'd been so proud to keep strong and vital was becoming lax and graceless. Many days he didn't even bother to leave the apartment, but would stay there, smoking and reading, until I came home. I had to keep my fears to myself; once I tentatively suggested that he should keep fighting for a job instead of staying home and waiting for one to come to him, and he lashed out at me bitterly, pouring out all his resentment at a world that "had no place for him." After that I realized my efforts to rouse him from his lethargy must be more subtle. Even then, I suppose I knew what it all must eventually lead to unless a miracle happened. But I turned my thoughts away from that. A miracle would happen! It must! It was one of my pitiful little efforts to arouse Howard that finally brought about the catastrophe. I thought that perhaps he was living too much with himself, and so I began to invite people we both knew to our apartment for evening parties, hoping that the stimulation of their presence and conversation would help JANUARY, 1941 The Wife Who Ran Away (Continued jrom page 7) him to forget his own troubles, and also that the company of people who were working would awaken a spirit of competition in him that seemed to be completely dead. He accepted the parties as he accepted everything these days — without any particular interest. Or seemed to. Inwardly, as I was to learn, he resented them bitterly. Vainly I tried to strike some spark of festive spirit in him, planning new games to play, inviting different people, preparing clever and amusing things to eat. He let me go on, smiling crookedly at my enthusiasm — and then, one evening after everyone had left, he said: "Why do you insist on giving these parties all the time, Rosemary?" I glanced up from the ashtray I was emptying into the wastebasket. There was an odd, tense look about his lips. "Why — 1 don't know," I said, trying to be off-hand. "It's nice to have people in, I think." "Nice to have people in so they can get a good look at your failure of a husband?" he said savagely. "So they can go away and talk about me, and laugh at me?" "Howard, that's ridiculous!" I said. "You're imagining things." "Oh no, I'm not." He began to pace the floor restlessly, his brow knotted, his nervous hands making aimless movements along the backs of chairs and the tops of tables. "I know why you give these parties — and that's not imagination, either! You give them because I'm not enough for you any more. You want to have other society besides that of a failure. It doesn't seem to occur to you that I don't enjoy being put on display as a horrible example." "Nobody thinks of you as a horrible example, or as a failure, or anything else," I said, my own anger beginning to rise. "Nobody except you. You're the one that thinks all those things about yourself. And I wish you'd stop it — stop pitying yourself and complaining that the world's against you!" HOWARD halted and faced me, his eyes blazing from a white face. "Perhaps not. It's a matter of opinion. But the point is, I'd rather you didn't try to humiliate me by inviting outsiders to this apartment." I took a deep breath. Almost without thinking, I said, "I'll have to remind you, Howard, that this is my apartment, paid for with the money I earn, and I have a right to invite anyone I like into it." I felt as if I had struck him. And almost hoped that he would strike me back, match my cruelty with some of his own. Anything to show that he had shaken off his horrible blight of indolence and self-pity. I felt sick and weak inside, but still, as I saw the fury in his face, there was a sensation of exultation because I thought, at last, I'd found the way to help him. But his gaze faltered. His shoulders drooped. "You're right, of course," he said listlessly. "I'm sorry. Forget it." That was the end of the argument. But for hours we lay in our beds, separated by only a foot of space, miles apart in sympathy. Both of us were awake, but neither of us spoke. In those hours of darkness I faced the tragedy that was upon us. I knew now that it was worse than I had thought. I had done everything I could for Howard, and everything had failed. Everything. . . . No, not quite everything. There was still that last desperate chance — so desperate, so filled with danger for us both, that up until now I had even refused to consider it. I could leave him. Surely other women had met this dilemma, and solved it, I thought. Other women had been brave enough to realize that, for one reason or another, they were bad for their husbands. I was bad for mine. As long as I was with him, working and paying the bills, he had no incentive, or at least not enough of an incentive, to fight for the job and the self-respect that were his right. He might be unhappy, but he was fed, clothed, warmed. With me, he was free to ruin himself. Life without Howard would be empty for me. I knew that. But if I loved him, didn't I owe him this last chance? ALL night I struggled with the 1 problem, trying to find some other way out, but in vain. At last I made my decision. In the week that followed, I made my preparations. I resigned my job at the store and persuaded them to let me go at the end of the week. I drew out what little money there was in the bank, and I arranged secretly with Calypso, the Negro woman who came in once a week to clean the apartment, to write to me regularly, as soon as I was settled, and let me know how Howard was, whether or not he had a job. I didn't want to let any of our friends know where I was going, because Howard must not be able to trace me; but I knew he wouldn't think of questioning Calypso. Early one morning, while Howard was sleeping, I crept out of bed and dressed quickly. I'd already packed a small suitcase and left it in the hall closet, and had written him a note to leave on the dresser. "Howard — I'm giving up my job and going away. I'm not coming back until you have a job. I'm too tired of things as they are, and I can't go on." One last look at him, sleeping — his fair, tousled hair, his defenceless face, the long body that I loved sprawled out under the covers — and then I hurried out of the room, out of the apartment. I stumbled down the hall toward the elevator, blinded by tears, but upheld by the conviction that what I was doing was the right thing, the only thing that could save him. Just one fact I failed to take into consideration — that Howard loved me. I forgot what that love might do to him when he woke and found me gone. I went to New Haven, guided mostly by the thought that in the store I had worked in the book department, and New Haven was a college town where there were many book shops where I might find work. Luck, and the magic name of my old employers, helped me to get a job at the second 47