The Tacoma times. [volume] (Tacoma, Wash.) 1903-1949, 1942-01-30

even walt until she reached ner
own office with its cream carpet
and furniture, its rose chintz drap-
cries and crystal bowls Of roses.
Instead she darted into a cigar
store, found an empty booth, and
dialed Skyways Incorporated. She
talked for a long time. Several
times she put in nickels. She knew
that she was insisting that wider
search be made for Sandy. She
knew, too, that the company was
promising to do its best.
who are you ?" the courteous
voice, 10 miles away, asked. "A
sister = young zimmerman wasn't
married, was he ?"
mo, no, he wasn't married" But
he had wanted to be. He had asked
her half a dozen times. And she
wouldn't be engaged. Now he was
gone and she would forget her job,
anyone, anything if he would come
back and smile at her.
To the person at Skyways In
corporated, she said, I'm Sandy
Ammerman's fiancee."
She hung up and walked swiftly
out of the shop, lost herself in the
crowd that hurried up Fifth ave.
Sandy Ammerman's fiancee. He
didn't know 1t. Probably he never
would. But she felt an invisible,
curious bond had slipped out Of the
telephone booth and found him
somewhere. Ten minutes later,
seated at her desk, she was going
over the list Of probable interviews
for that morning.
Life was odd, she unused as she
checked names. 1t changed its
tempo SO quickly. One moment a
marching song, the next, q death
watch. Life was a ball of worsted,
tangled too madly for further use
"a painted mask you mustn't take
off-a song you couldn't sing any
more
Outside the rain began, and
great drops were flung against the
window pane. The yellow lamps
were pools of brightness that cast
lambert shadows on the low
shelves of books the shiny covers
of which attested to their newness.
The chairs, grouped informally
around her long desk, were deep
and inviting.
Only three days ago Sandy had
sat in the nearest one, long legs
stretched carelessly, one hand tum-
bling the rough, bright hair, gray
eyes trying to see mountains and
rivers so he might bring them to
her.
Maybe you're near-sighted and
I'm far-sighted." he had said, a
little YEARLY, at last. You want
to see your name on your maya
zine cover down in the streets, and
I want to set my chart for some
place that isn't in the least impor-
tant to me except that I've never
been there! Perhaps I shouldn't
try to change you. It's just that
I love you. Judy. But come on, !
really came by to take you to din
ner."
She had gone and they had been
gay. Almost too gay. They had
dined at little French place on
West 57th st. where the food was
excellent. They had taken a cab
to a rendezvous in the Village
where a blind musician similingly
played anyone's requests, and boys.
with voices deep and laundering.
sang for their supper while they
studied for grand opera. Now and
again one Of them found a spot
in musical comedy and kept climb
ing higher.
From there Sandy and judy had
walked awhile. remembered the
world was serious and spent a
quiet hour in newsreel near
Times Square, and ended the eve
ming on the terrace outside the
Rainbow room. because an or
chestra was playing a waltz. and
the music was sweeter as heard
from the April night, with stars
and lights and flowers everywhere.
than II ever was from the revolv-
ing floor.
But Sandy was gone. She began
checking proofs. She must forget
him Make q calendar Of days and
never leave an hour, not even half
an hour. for remembering.
She could pretend that nothing
had happened, that he had flown
away-whst was il he had said
something about going 10 a place
that wasn't the least important 10
him except that he never had bee