Evening star. [volume], August 03, 1941, Page 3, Image 76

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
A Short Story Complete in This Ijsue
* * *
Night touched the windows; only an un
easy murmur rose from the street far
below. The cocktail room where they
sat. with its handsome people well-bred over
their drinks, was muted as the dusk. Ellen
lifted the olive from her glass and regarded
her husband. She was a small, pretty girl,
dressed in a beige suit. Perhaps she was pret
tier now than usual, for her wide gray eyes,
wet with tears, eoftened the chiseled lines
of her face.
"I'm sorry, John," she said. "It's happened
again."
"But why should it?" he demanded. "Why
do we take on hke this? Here we come, glad
the day's over, rarin' for a drink. We sit
down, and start to fight."
"I know."
"Did you have a hard day? Has Schiapa
relli done something again? Wouldn't your
copy come?"
She smiled, unsuccessfully. "No more than
usual. I know it's my fault."
"Now wait a minute. I didn't say it was
your fault. Probably it's mine. Only we ought
to figure it out. We can't let this sort of thing
go on, or — " He looked at her inquiringly.
He was out of place among the fragile tables
and sophisticated decorations; he
was too big, too tanned and too
serious.
"Look, honey, maybe these are
growing pains. They say the first
five years are the hardest."
"We've only had one."
"It's this damn town. If we
could just be alone together, by
ourselves for a while, Ellen — Why
won't you give up the magazine?"
"It's not that, John, and you know it.
Let's not go over that again."
"You're tired and overwrought. I'm tired
and overwrought. Maybe if just one of us
was — "
"Tired and overwrought. No; we fight now.
What would happen if one of us had nothing
else to do?"
"Then let's drop it. Are we going home,
as per schedule, or shall we go to the Pierces'?"
Ellen always saw Dolly Pierce when she
needed help; Dolly's gift was the right word
"Neither. We're going to face this. Why
do you care if I go to that gallery alone? I
always look at pictures alone," she said.
"Oh, gosh, Ellen, let's not start again. I
was just trying to be nice. Go, stare all you
like, and think you're too far above me."
"C
Dee! I knew you were thinking that."
"Well, who wouldn't?"
"Oh, the hell with it," she said. There was
a silence; they studied their drinks. There
was, suddenly, the shadow of a third person
at the table — one "who wouldn't."
Well, she thought, here it is — if I'd been
honest I'd have admitted this would come.
Why couldn't you have something that hap
pened to you burned off, like a wart?
"You're thinking of Norman?" he said.
"Yes, John. I am. What can either of us
do about it?"
That was how John and Ellen Forrest
parted. John moved out. and left Ellen the
newly-quiet apartment for thinking it over;
she promised to take no action before six
months. Neither was to see or telephone the
other.
She did not think it over, consciously, for
days. Instead, she worked harder. American
clothes. American designers required a build
up. She found herself building them up night
an/1 rlni
Then, late one afternoon. Norman called
her at the office. His voice — cool, polished
and arrogant — reached through the steel of
the city and spoke her name.
She didn't pretend that she was not glad
to hear it.
"I'm told you're on the town again?" he
said.
"That's not the way I'd put it."
"Of course you wouldn't. Available for
private parties?"
"That depends on the party."
"Dinner tonight?"
It came back to her, the giddy world she
left when she married. "Where?"
"Anywhere. "
"None of your show places."
"Something intimate, then. About seven?"
"All right."
"Ill come for you."
"Here I go again. I hear those trumpets
blow again," she sang, dressing. The ditty
Signals of anger loomed in
John'* (ace. "By golly, Tyrell,
if you were only bigger — "
ÈÊÊr-*$ltÊÊÊBÊSRÊKmm*m,
JOLT FOB A LADY
it
■ ·_- ·*/
The story of a girl who was surprised by two men
.. .. one o! whom happened to be her husband
by Rudolf Shook
llltntratmd by O, F, Schmidt
jf'S *Amtf (
pleased her. She was being a fool, she sup
posed. But she was curious, and now she
might discover whether her failure to adapt
herself to John was caused by Norman. For
she had made a discovery: she had married
John out of spite. Norman had been in one
of his frosty moods the night he introduced
them. It had been a small party; certainly
everyone in the room heard Norman say:
"Come on, Forrest, can't you take her off
my hands for a while? She sticks." The party
laughed; Norman enjoyed himself so much
that others did not want to be left out.
"Perhaps I'll stick to you," she had warned
John.
He was an engineer, just come to town.
Big, blond, powerfully built; all rooms seemed
too small for him. He took Ellen home — and
a month later she married him. Her friends,
astonished, declared they thought she was
waiting for Norman to ask her — if he ever
got around to it.
They had something there, she thought,
painting her lips. Norman made love to her,
but never once did he say he loved her.
Now he arrived. She smiled; they shook
hands. "Like old times," he said, and ad
mired her dress. He always noticed her
clothes. John never did.
They went to a small French restaurant.
"I expected to find you harassed by grief,"
he told her. "You look fine."
"I am."
"Are you going to tell me about it?"
"No."
"Why not? It would be in such delightfully
bad taste."
"It's none of your business."
"That's right, isn't it?"
In his dinner clothes (John thought it silly
to dress every night) Norman was handsome.
While he was not tall — actually only a few
inches taller than she was — he was so finely
made that he seemed of average height. His
dark, sculptured look gave him a quality
which touched the imagination. It was that,
as much as his erratic brilliance, which made
people stare at him. He had written one
satirical novel, and acted in several plays;
tailors called him beet-dressed. He demol
ished these things as casually as he insulted
everyone he knew. It only added to his luster,
and to theirs, for to be affronted by Norman
Tyrell was not for the ordinary.
"What are you doing now?" she asked.
"Nothing: I always do."
"Don't you get tired of it?"
"Of course; I get tired of everything. I've
got tickets for 'Rococo' tonight. Shall we go?"
"I'd like to. You've seen it, naturally."
"Yes. It's terrible. But there's one scene—"
He described it, illuminating it, she was sure,
as neither the author nor the actors had done.
Listening to him, his biting intelligence ab
sorbed in so idle a task, Ellen remembered
what John had said of him the only time,
shortly after their marriage, that they had
discussed Norman. John had said that the
one thing wrong with Norman was that he
had not been spanked often enough, or hard
enough, as a boy .. .
At the theater, between acts, Norman's
appearance had its customary magnetic
effect. The handsome, the brilliant detached
themselves from other groups in the lobby,
and surrounded them; Norman, at his best
in a glittering throng, changed. He was
charming. By his eagerness, he became almost
boyish.
Watching him, Ellen thought: It's his won
derful sense of life, of movement. Now he was
imitating the star's attempts to seem aristo
cratic: it was cruel, and witty. The lights
winked for curtain; no one moved. Abruptly
he said: "Come on, the only decent scene is
coming up." Everyone scampered.
As they took their seats Ellen said: "Still
giving your nightly entr'acte, I see."
Norman grinned. "Next year* I tour the
provinces."
Afterward, before her door, he asked:
"What about the opening of 'Music Takes
Me' Thursday?"
"I think not."
"Why?"
"Too many people."
"Don't be absurd. We're old friends, they
say."
"Well — "
"Fine. Dinner first; seven." He tried to kiss
her.
"Get out of here." she told him... .
The orchestra was playing the overture
(Continued on pag· 12)