Mrs. Howell suddenly found herself released from the long strain. Joel sent money home regularly. Peggy was more than generous. (During all those years of college, Mrs. Howell had cancelled her bank account.) Now she was able to open a new one. She did not tell Pegg nor write Joel. She decided she would surprise them with her thrift when she had saved a thousand dollars. But when her savings reached that figure, she decided it would be better to wait until she had two (thousand). In her letters to Joel, she did not mention Peggy’s money gifts. When a money order came from him, she put it away before reading his letter aloud.
These little subterfuges were unnecessary. Without being told, both Peggy and Joel knew that each was keeping his promise too make their mother’s life easier as soon as they were in position to do so. They would not have been surprised to know that she was banking every cent.
The war ended and Joel returned with his bride, who had been a Red Cross worker in Paris. He opened his office in a factory town, where the ailments most common to the workers were those in which he was most interested. Regularly he wrote his mother, and almost always enclosed a check.
Peggy married a young singer whose promising career was just beginning. Neither wanted to wait until Vic’s success of which they were happily confident, was assured. There were no available apartments. With Mrs. Howell’s willing consent, Peggy and Vic took over the top floor of her house, turning a small back room into a neat kitchen. Peggy continued to give her mother a monthly sum, which more than ample rent for her three rooms.
Vic received his first chance, with steady pay, in a popular nightclub. Then the baby was on the way and Peggy left her job when the long hours at work became too arduous. One winter’s day Vic fell on the icy street and broke his ankle. Neither he nor Peggy had saved tough to carry them more than a few weeks.
But the weeks added up. There was the day when Peggy had to tell her mother that she could not pay her rent. Mrs. Howell found that she had a strange sensation. She felt cheated. She quickly controlled her expression and assured Peggy that she must give the matter no more thought. A week later Peggy asked her for a fair-sized loan, with every expectation of receiving it. And Mrs. Howell felt a sense of panic. If Peggy was starting to borrow already, there was no telling when she would stop.
I’m sorry, Peggy,” she said. “I haven’t a penny in the house. And you know that my bankbook was cancelled a long time ago, and I haven’t saved a cent since. And after I take care of my weekly expenses, the rest of my salary barely covers my carfare. I wish I cold help, but I can’t.”
Peggy gasped and stared at her mother. Both knew that she knew Mrs. Howell was lying.
In his anxiety to return to work, Vic tried to walk and fell again.
The injury meant the prolongation of his confinement to a chair.
Thereafter Mrs. Howell avoided her daughter. One early evening she returned home to find that her rooms had obviously been searched. Peggy, in her complete unsuitability for stealing had done a poor job of covering her traces, though she had reaped a fair harvest.
Mrs. Howell’s first alarmed thought was of an outside burglar. She rushed to the window and stared up the street, hoping to see a passing policeman. Peggy was rounding the corner, walking slowly with the child so soon to be born and stopping every few steps to shift the many parcels in her arms.
Suddenly Mrs. Howell knew where her money had gone., Her legs were too weak to support her. She sank back in a chair. Anguish flooded her heart. Her own loss seemed immaterial now. The only thing that mattered was that Peggy had chipped the edge of her bright honor.
With clarity Mrs. Howell saw that she as responsible for Peggy’s act. For years she had been underhanded with money. There was no wonder that a wide-eyed child had stored up this impression of deceit.
Mrs. Howell heard Peggy’s step in the hall. She opened her door. Peggy paled, and Mrs. Howell pretended not to notice. “Oh, hello Peggy,” she said quickly. “I just came in. Haven’t even had time to take off my hat and coat. And I’m glad I didn’t. For I’ve just remembered I’ve got to run out again.” She opened her purse and pressed several bills into Peggy’s hand. “With my love, darling. And may I have dinner with you when I come back?”
When Mrs. Howell returned from her walk, during which she had prayed harder than she had ever prayed in her life, she found that Peggy had replaced every dollar that she had taken earlier. Mrs. Howell retrieved this money and put it all together in one proper place. She had had an enchanted childhood and a wonderful marriage. But this was the happiest day of her life. She went upstairs and walked down the hall to the kitchen, where the good smells of Peggy’s own paid for feast were emanating.”
“Peggy,” she said, “I’ve a surprise that I’ve been keeping for years. Now it’s grown so big it won’t keep any longer. I’ve several thousand dollars saved up, half of it money that you’ve given me. Tomorrow I’m transferring that half to you.”
“Oh, mother,” said Peggy, her eyes full of tears and gratitude, “there’s something I want to confess.”
“Please don’t dear,” Mrs. Howell said earnestly, “for I have just confessed to you and there’s no need for yours.”
Wives and Women
News Syndicate Company, Inc.
March, 1947
Summary: Some women are mothers. Some are wives. In this story, we learn that few women are both.
After the last wedding guest had gone, Mr. Vincent, who with his wife had been bidding goodbye from the porch, turned back into the house. He felt a vast relief that everything was over. Ever since (her) birth, he had dreamed of a day when she, who had taken his wife away from him with the real demands of a child’s growing, would return Beth back to him
Now that day had come, was (he over it?) Beth had thought Anne at eighteen was too young to marry. He had been on the side of his daughter. He was forty-five. Beth was only forty-two. With their only daughter married and away, there would still be enough years remaining to recapture the blissful life that had been theirs before Anne’s birth.
Mr. Vincent settled himself in a deep chair in the living room. He closed his eyes and smiled. When Beth came in he would offer her a place on his knee. They had not sat like that since the day that year old Anne had run in unexpectedly and burst out laughing because to her it looked funny to see her mother sitting on her father’s lap. He pulled Beth down over her protests anyway. He remembered how she had murmured ‘parents should act like parents.’
The little clock on the mantel chimed. Mr. Vincent stirred impatiently. He knew exactly what Beth was doing. She was staring pensively at the winding road down which young Philip had taken her daughter out of her life to a life of her own. He called with faint (vitality), ‘Beth.’
Her voice floated in; remote, sad, “what Dad?” he stirred impatiently again. She called him “Dad the way Anne did. He had never called her mother. He had not wanted her to lose her identity. But she had aided and abetted Anne in trying to make him lose his. He listened to the echo of the word but would not answer.
“Dad,” she called again. He (unsealed) his lips. Then, in an anxious voice, she said, “Carl, is that you calling?”
That was better. Her small anxiety had pushed her daughter a little way off her mind. “There’s a chill in the air,” he answered. “Better come in.”
The door opened and closed. When she spoke, the subdued note had come back. “I still don’t want to believe that only an hour ago Anne waved goodbye to her parents’ home. She seemed such a child to be going away t a husband and home of her own.”
“Nonsense,” he chided kindly. “You were only nineteen when we eloped, and I distinctly remember that you were glad to leave home.”
“That was because my home life was as happy as Anne’s. I didn’t have a doting mother. She lived for my brother. I was determined that Anne should never feel my love was lacking, I think I can say she never did.
He didn’t want to talk about her motherhood. She looked very lo
vely. She didn’t look the mother of a married daughter. He held out his hand. His voice shook a little. “|Beth.”
She frowned a little. “Don’t you agree?” The little wrinkle in her forehead was enchanting. “To anything,” he said ardently.
Color flooded her face. She looked embarrassed. “Dad, how many toasts did you drink to your daughter?”
His voice and his face stiffened. “I’m sorry if I don’t sound sober. But perhaps that’s better than you’re thinking I sound like a fool in love.”
Her flush deepened. She crossed the room to him. He could see the thin spot on the top of his head. She began to stroke it.
“Don’t do that,” he said irritably. She stepped away and moved to the fireplace. In the mirror above the mantel she could see their faces reflected. She saw his hand pat the concealing hairs over his bald spot.
“We’re tired,” she said. “It’s been a long day. We’re keyed up. The smallest thing can make us cross or make us cry. We’ll have an early supper and go early to bed.”
He jumped to his feet, whirled away from the sight of her searching eyes, and said bitterly, “Did my bald spot remind you that I’m not young Philip’s age? Is every one old whosoever twenty-one?”
She said gently, “Dad, don’t be jealous of Philip. He was never the handsome lad that you were on your wedding day.”
But her words did not comfort him. He turned back to her and said fiercely, “I’m not jealous of Philip. I’m jealous of Anne.”
He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant for her to know. “I’m sorry I said that, Beth.” She turned around slowly. Little lines of tiredness had run into her face. It’s I who ought to apologize,” she said.
He felt a muscle jerking in his own cheek. It seemed a million years since he had waked for Anne’s wedding day. Suddenly he was infinitely weary. He could not try to interpret her cryptic remark.
“Sit down, Dad. You look so white.”
Her command evoked no resentment in him. He sat down gratefully, and the deep chair eased him. He had a fleeting ironic thought that he wouldn’t have wanted to hold (actress) Lana Turner.
Beth did not sit down. She stayed beside the mantel, her fingers twisting her strand of pearls. In the mirror he saw a little surprise that her heavy dark hair was threaded with gray. But he could not quicken his surprise into a stronger emotion. He felt no sorrow, no regret. All that he was capable of feeling was this great weariness, which he knew was the foretaste of resignation.
“I’ve always known you were jealous of Anne,” Beth said.
“It was very decent of you not to let me know that you knew.”
“No,” she said, “I didn’t want to bring it out in the open and face my failure as a wife.”
He wanted to stop her. “We’re both overtired, Beth. Let’s not talk anymore.”
She said passionately, “Hear me out, or I can’t go on living with my conscience.” Her voice was low, hurried, and tragic. “I was never your wife after Anne was born. There was no moment when she was not first on my mind. I let her push you out of my heart.”
“Don’t torture yourself,” he said quietly. And, curiously, her words did not torture him. For he had survived the anguish of the act itself. But she went on inexorably, “Some women are mothers, Some are wives. Few women are both. It was your bad luck to marry a woman whose child was her world.”
He said kindly, even with humor, “I could never convince an impartial jury that a good mother is not a pearl beyond price.”
Her eyes were hopeful, eager. “Then you forgive me, Dad?” He looked at her with pity. He had lost her eighteen years ago. She had lost Anne today. She was more recently bereaved. She was more in need of comfort.
“There is nothing to forgive you (for), Mother.”
The Letters
Copyright News Syndicate
August 1947
They had never been friends. Time had been too short and life too uncertain to waste either of them in exploring their pasts to see if they were suited to each other. In the feverish atmosphere of wartime haste they had plunged into marriage. The war had brought them both to the city, he to be shipped to a destination unknown, she to stay for the duration as secretary to the man whose special abilities had made him essential to the winning of victory, whose appointment had meant her uprooting too.
Her courtship with Tim had not been carried on in privacy. There had been no where for either of them to go to be alone. And even after their marriage there was no where. He lived surrounded by soldiers where a sentry permitted no stranger to pass. She lived surrounded by girls in a rooming house with ironclad rules. There wasn’t even a hotel that could give them a room on their wedding night. And then a few days later, Tim was gone.
The isolation she had felt in this strange city seemed even worse. Her nights were sleepless, her nerves were frayed. Her chief, who ever since their arrival had been too busy to notice her, could no longer, is unaware of her dark circled eyes, her unquiet hands. Then he took notice of her wedding ring. He made gentle inquiries about her marriage. She told him the little there was to tell. Though he did not know it any more than she did, it was more loneliness than grief that was causing her pain. It was more loneliness than love that had prompted her marriage.
DREAMS OF HER WERE TROUBLED
Her chief’s name was Mark Granger. He had an aunt in the city. He’d been having guilty feelings about her. For she had been quite recently widowed. Because of the pressure of work, his contact with her had been mostly by telephone. He was always meaning to do something about her loneliness. He had half thought of moving in with her but he preferred the close proximity of his hotel to his office.
Then Jenny’s lonely little face began to haunt his few brief moments of relaxation and he could not enjoy them. He began to dream about her and his dreams were troubled. After awhile he knew that for his own peace of mind he would have to do something about her happiness.
He enlisted the aid of his aunt who said she would be delighted to have a young girl to fuss over. He enlisted jenny’s aid in his own behalf. He told her his aunt’s need of young companionship to act as a tonic to her sorrow.
Jenny went to live with Mrs. Cutley because each had set out determinedly to be cheerful for the sake of the other; their naturally sunny natures gradually became a real part of them again. In not too long a time, there was no need for pretense.
Mark saw the changes I Jenny and was enormously pleased. Then Jenny began disturbing his dreams again. When he knew why, it was he who wore a haggard look. Jenny had thought of Mark, first as her chief and then as her benefactor. She had never thought beyond that. Now as she saw the strain of what she concluded was over work, her heart was moved by a pity that frightened her with its intensity.
Tim was writing her as often as there was time in between the business of soldering. His letters were beautiful, even extraordinary. In their short time together, she hadn’t dreamed he was capable of such depth, such maturity. Her letters in reply were rather timid, for she did not have his mastery with words, nor, as she was beginning to know with a shamed, self reproach his ardor.
His letters piled up, each one a jewel in itself, each one a poet’s testament. And then quite suddenly Jenny realized she was being unfair to Tim. She did not love him. She had never loved him. Now and bitterly she confessed it to herself. Now and remorsefully she must confess it to Tim. It was a monstrous thing to be the recipient of these outpourings and have no heart to hold them in.
She wrote Tim. He was unbelievably good about it. His reply, in fact, was as extraordinary in its way as his previous letters had been in their way. The very sound of the sentences had a different cadence. And through them all was an unm8istakable undertone of relief, as if he were glad to be offered his freedom, as if he too had found out that she was not the wife for a man with a poet’s emotions.
That was Tim’s last letter except for the businesslike exchanges about their divorce. Then it was over. The
n the war was over. She and Mark returned to their hometown. Mark asked her to marry him. Now it was two years since that exciting wedding day. And out of the blue had come Tim’s telegram. It was important that he see her. He would arrive by plane the next day at noon.
The telegram had been sent to her mother’s address, and Tim had addressed it to Mrs. Tim Holly. She sat at her mother’s waiting in an agony of dread. Tim didn’t know she had married again. He could have no reason for coming except to ask her if there was any hope for him. She supposes she knew why he had given her up so easily. She had been a fool not to guess before. He had been afraid of how he might come back to her and he thought she too, was afraid. She was torn between shame that he could have thought her so light -minded and dismay that she must reopen what had undoubtedly been a deep wound.
A taxi drew up. Tim leaped out, whole, sound, handsome. He was ringing the bell, h e was inside the house, and he was seated in the living room.
He had not tried to kiss her. She was grateful for that. He had shaken hands very easily and naturally. She had led the way to the living room and when they were both seated; she had told him she was married.
A look of acute dismay darkened his eyes. Her heart lurched. He was going to take it hard, and for a foolish moment, she had hoped he would take it gracefully.
“Then those letters,” he said slowly, “I suppose you’re destroyed them.” She wanted to say yes; to tell him she had not might make him feel she had never really stopped loving him. But the real reason was that it had struck her as an act of vandalism to tear up so much lyric beauty. At the back of her mind had been the intention to return them to him if their paths every crossed. He would have to be the one to destroy them.
TELLS HIM HE’LL GET LETTERS BACK
“No,” she said finally. “I couldn’t. They were too beautifully written. I wanted you to have them back.”
He expelled a long breath of relief. “They’re what I came for.’ Embarrassment flooded his face. “You see, I didn’t write them myself. I tried to write you, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. We knew so little about each other. And I’m not much on writing love stuff. So I copied what my buddy wrote for me. He was always writing anyway, poems, stories, and things like that. And now he’s writing a book, and there’s a lot in those letters he thinks he can use, all that stuff about how a soldier thinks and feels. So I told him I’d ask you if you’d give them back.”
The Last Leaf of Harlem Page 22
