Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1941)

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"Everything will be all right," he said. "We'll find that we can wait, and be ourselves again." To be ourselves again! Not to live in silence or doubt or fear any more! It seemed more happiness than I could bear. I was hysterically happy, driving home. I even made him so. We laughed at anything and nothing. But we did not park. We did not kiss. We both had keyed ourselves to wait. Only at my door, we held each other tight, a long moment, and even then I didn't lift my face to be kissed. It was buried against his shoulder. I think his lips touched my hair. That was all. I woke early the next morning and went to the window to watch the dawn pass from gray to gold. People across the way were getting up. A sunlamp shone through their white windowshades. A milkman's wagon was stopping next door. A messenger on a bicycle was peddling up the street. He stopped next door, too. No, he had only stopped to peer at the house number. He was starting on again. And — he was stopping again — at our house, coming in at the gate. A CHILL of dread and fear crept *» from my heart through all my body. Wrapping my dressing-gown around me, I flew downstairs to the door. But maybe it only was a message from Clay, instead of the telephone call I had expected. My shivering abruptly overcome, I felt life spring into all the happy little laughter muscles in my face. Breathless, I took the letter the boy handed me. And it was — it was for me. It was — from him. Dancing back to the stairs, to the melody I'd brought home the night before, I dropped down on a step and tore open the letter. And the gladness that had started singing through all my being, was silenced and frozen. The letter, in Clay's writing, said: "Dear Miss Carrington: I'm writing so that you'll know I'll be back at work in three or four days. I got a little scratched-up in a car smash, last night, and thought you might be alarmed if you read of it in the papers of didn't know till you were at the studio. I wasn't driving. It wasn't my car. I won't be jailed or anything. But I'll be here at the hospital until the doctors know just how badly Delia is hurt, and what must be done for her. She was unconscious a long time. Now — " THE letter fell from my hand. I ' thought I never would be able to take it up again and read the rest of it. I think I knew then what this was to mean to him and me. I knew by the very fact of his writing — by the formality of his letter — as though we already were parted — and by the care he took to reassure me first and make me understand little by little. Delia. His wife. Hurt. Unconscious. I crept upstairs and automatically dressed to go and face what that day was to hold. Somehow I got through rehearsal and broadcast. His letter had asked me not to go to the hospital to see him, not to call him on the telephone there, but to wait to hear from him. All day he sent bulletins, and all the next day and the next. At the end of the third day I knew. Delia's 68 life was safe. She only — he said only — would be — unable to walk. Only! She only would be helpless, completely dependent on him. Only! The world stopped. It was the end of everything. Clay did not come to see me. Our author wrote him out of the script for three days. On the fourth day we met at the studio. He would not look at me until the broadcast ended. I whispered love words into the microphone, stifling in my heart the real love that rebelled there. I riveted my eyes upon the script until they burned and ached in protest, for fear of what they would say if I let them be seen. But our ordeal did at last come to an end, and we went — so quietly now — out through that same room where audiences waited, and were in the street before either of us spoke. We drove in silence to the coffee shop, and there he told me. He told me everything was changed. The arrival of Delia's sister couldn't help us now. No divorce could be asked. If I wished, he would get himself released from his radio contract, and we need not go on meeting. Because nothing could ever be done now that could bring me happiness, he said, and we must make ourselves forget. We must never talk of love or think of it, again. If I wished, he would stay on the program, if he could help more by staying. But he thought it would be better for me if he left. I'd been crying silently all the time he talked. I couldn't stop. I couldn't talk, except to say: "Stay. And I'll stay." | DIDN'T care. If it killed me, to ■ stand at that microphone, listening to words of love that had become hollow mockery, I'd die. But until I did, we would be together, even if only to suffer together. That was what I thought that day. It's easy to talk of dying, and say, "I don't care." But, when you say that, you think of being dead, not of being slowly tortured, killed a little every day, by your own words, and words spoken by the one voice that can wake in every fiber of you, in every thought, every motion, a heartbreaking wish for life. It was not until early summer that Clay again asked me to drive with him. I didn't see how talk could be of any use, but if he thought it could be, to him, perhaps it could. I thought he meant we would drive to our little shop, but he drove aimlessly awhile, then stopped. "Delia listens to us every day," he said abruptly, like a person determined to get something over with quickly. "She thinks you're wonderful. She wants to see you. Could you bear to come home with me, to see her? I know what I'm asking. It will do as much to me as it will to you." His look, his tone, were so utterly without hope of anything, that I reached over to lay my hand on his hand on the wheel. It was the first caress that had passed between us since the night of the car wreck. "Poor darling!" I said. "But we can't be through with it by my not going to her. She'll persist. We can't explain. It would always be before our minds. We'd live it through a hundred times instead of once." He nodded, and started the car. But I had never known anything could RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR