Evening star., 1934-12-30


previous efforts lay on the
table on which he worked, in the waste
basket, around the basket and at his
feet on the floor.
"I am always writing myself into
EtorieS," he thought to himself, land I
cannot understand it. It should make
me a good writer because the material
is, necessarily, familiar to me, but am
not good writer. I am worthless, ac-
cording to Joan. am not good writer,
she says, because 7 write myself into
stories and there is nothing about me
that any one would want to know. That's
why she left me. And am a fool to
have let her CO."
He looked at the white page In the
machine, blankly accusing him. OF
what? OF being worthless. OF preferring
to sit around and talk about writing in
stead of doing it. OF being such fool
that he drank all the time and made
love to Joan instead of working to sup
port her, and thereby giving her a more
concrete expression of affection than the
words which he used very easily and
glibly.
THAT is probably the real reason why
she left me" he continued thinking, still
ignoring the paper. women say all
kinds of noble things about salvation
through work, development of character
through work, creation Of balance
through work. Very pretty words. Very
fine words. But they all mean the same
thing, i. e., viz. and to wit: If you work
hard will know that it is to take care
1f hot 70 nf
I will love you great deal and be loyal
to you forever"
LIE GOT up suddenly from the table
with his eyes clouded and his ra-
tional thinking of Joan's departure, that
morning, knocked out of him. Out of the
corner of his eye he had seen the
crumpled pieces of tissue paper lying in
front of the closet door-a reminder Of
the haste with which she had thrown
shoes into her bag. Her dressing table
was still torn apart in the struggle to
grab lingerie from stubborn drawers, and
through the open bath room door he could
see the gaping holes in the array of toilet
articles which meant: Her cold cream is
gone, her tooth brush, with the amber
handle, is gone. Joan is gone.
Standing in the center of the room he
let the tears come and did not even stop
to think that this was the first time he
had cried in years and years. At Is he
considered himself a man, and as
writer he knew it was all right for men
to cry. Married year to the only girl
he had ever wanted and she had left him
that morning-he could cry, damn it,
without thinking about it. He wanted
her to come back or else he wanted to
90 to her.
The scene that morning was the last
of several which had occurred in the
last months with astonishing frequency,
and it was not pretty scene. 1t was
emotional and exhausting, and had made
him miserable because she had been
right and he had not only been mean, he
had been stubborn. What led to it did
not matter. The last part of it was
what stayed in his mind.
Joan had stood there in her pajamas,
looking so strained and miserable and
cute that he could hardly bear looking
at her, and had finally reached the con-
clusion, crying all the time she was
talking:
"It's no use, Geoff love you and you
know it, but that isn't enough. We've
been married a year and you haven't
done anything at all to make things
easier for me. I still have to work and
what happens? You spend the day in
bar, drink beer with longshoremen, or
taxi drivers, to get local color, you say.