Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1941)

Mary Martin, star of NBC's Thursday night Good News program, is all set for the holidays with a Christmas tree that she trimmed all by herself. store to which I applied. Three weeks went by. Three dreary weeks, when I longed to feel Howard's arms about me, hear his voice, touch him — even if it meant that he never became the man he had been once and I was sure could be again. Three weeks with nothing but Calypso's sprawled, badly spelled notes, telling me that he was looking for me, was "awful upset," didn't have a job. Then, one afternoon, Mr. Keen found me. At first I noticed him only as an elderly, pleasant-faced man who was browsing over a pile of books while I was busy with another customer. When the customer went away he came over to me. I was conscious of a quizzically smiling mouth, a pair of bright blue eyes, as I said, "Yes, sir?" "Mrs. Forbes?" he asked. "Yes — " I answered mechanically, before I remembered that I was going by my maiden name here. "How did you know who I was?" I asked. "I'm Mr. Keen," he said. His voice was gentle and caressing. It made you forget, for a moment, the feeling that he was able to read your innermost thoughts. "They call me the Tracer of Lost Persons. Your husband asked me to find you." "Has he a job?" I asked eagerly. "No— not yet." "Oh! Then . . . then I think you've had all your work for nothing. I won't go back to him." HE didn't seem particularly upset, or surprised. He only smiled and said in a matter-of-fact sort of way, "Not even if I tell you he needs you —badly?" "But he doesn't need me!" I exclaimed. "I'm bad for him. As long as I'm there, supporting him, he won't force himself to go out and get a job. He's got to learn to do without my help!" "My dear," he said, with just a hint of reproof, "he can do without your help, perhaps — but I don't think he can do without your love. Your husband tried to shoot himself." I clutched the edge of the counter behind me to steady myself. "Shoot himself!" I whispered, and then, in rising terror: "Is he hurt?" "Not physically, no. It happened 48 in my office — somebody had mistakenly told him I couldn't see him — and we were able to stop him in time. Mrs. Forbes, he'd been trying for two weeks to find you, and he was at the end of his rope." "But Howard wouldn't do anything like that!" "I don't think you understand." He leaned forward, looking at me intently and speaking with infinite compassion — a compassion that I felt vaguely was as much for me . as for Howard. "Just one thing has' kept him alive in the last few years, when he had no work, when he couldn't respect himself or be respected by others. One thing kept him going — that was your love. When you took it away from him, and made conditions he felt he couldn't meet, he had nothing. His whole world was you!" I KNOW," I said. "And I still love ' him — terribly. These three weeks have been the unhappiest I've ever spent. But I thought it was wrongbad for him — to be so dependent on me." I fought back the tears, thinking of Howard being driven to attempt suicide because he thought I'd stopped loving him. "I didn't run away because I was tired of working for him. I'd have gone on working — willingly, gladly, forever and ever — if he'd been ill. But he was ill mentally, Mr. Keen. He wouldn't look for work any more. And leaving him was the only way I could think of to cure him. It was for his sake, more than mine. . . . Oh," I pleaded, as if it were Howard himself before me, "you do believe me, don't you?" Mr. Keen nodded. "Yes, I do. But now — well, what you didn't think of was that he'd be so heartbroken and shocked over losing you he simply couldn't put his mind to looking for work. I tried to help him. When I was in the store where you worked, inquiring about you, I heard the toy buyer complaining because there were no low-priced play houses that really looked like houses; and when I saw Howard again I tried to get him interested, as an architect, in the idea of designing some himself. But he wouldn't listen — he couldn't think of anything but you." I felt guilty and despairing, all at once. Of course I would go back to him. I had been wrong, perhaps, to think that by going away I could help him. But now. . . . Now it would be the same thing over again. I'd go back, to watching Howard's weakness, to the old life of unhappiness. Mr. Keen's kind voice broke into my thoughts, and he spoke as if he had read them: "Don't you think the real point is — do you love him enough to return to him, even though he hasn't found a job yet, and may not afterwards?" "Yes," I said after a moment. "Yes — of course. I'll come back." Mr. Keen smiled and patted me on the shoulder. It was strange how, although I'd known him only a few minutes, I felt he was an old friend. "Good. Now, when can you leave here?" That raised a difficult point. They had been good to me in the book shop, and I didn't want to leave them without notice. We -finally agreed that I should leave at the end of the week, and Mr. Keen would tell Howard he'd found me. "Incidentally, how did you find me?" I asked curiously, and his eyes twinkled. IT was simple. Through Calypso, ' your maid. She came to the apartment one day while I was talking to your husband, and was so insistent about knowing whether or not he'd found a job that I guessed she was the link you'd kept between him and yourself. I followed her home and got a glimpse at a letter she mailed to you, and that gave me your address here." It did sound simple, as he explained it, but I could divine the patience and cleverness that lay behind it. "Well, good bye, my dear," he said. "I'll see you in my office on Saturday." "Mr. Keen," I stopped him, "just give Howard one more chance. Don't tell him you've found me — and maybe, before I come back, he'll wake up and do what I wanted him to do. Then my leaving won't have been for nothing!" He nodded and agreed, and then he was gone. All afternoon I waited on customers, feeling numb and cold. It was with a heavy heart, the following Saturday, that I opened the door of Mr. Keen's plain little office. His efficient-looking secretary showed me into a reception room and asked me to wait, and a short time later Mr. Keen himself entered, looking a little upset. The way my heart sank at sight of his troubled face proved how much I had already grown to depend on him. "I'm afraid," he said, "that we'll have to change our plans a little, Mrs. Forbes. I've just seen Howard and — " He broke off, and began again. "At any rate, you'll be glad to know he has a job." I felt a great surge of joy. "A job! Oh, Mr. 'Keen! Doing what?" "Designing low-cost play houses that look like real houses," he said with a chuckle. "Remember, that was the idea I gave him — -that is, I let him think it was his own inspiration. I didn't think he even heard me, but after I left him it seems he began thinking it over, and pretty soon he was sitting down, making sketches. The first day he took the sketches to show toy manufacturers, one of them took not only the sketches but Howard himself." RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR