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J .A
100
s
by Mary R. Gardner
Art by Joe Haramy
It happened suddenly to Julianne, while she
was in the kitchen one Winter morning
getting John's breakfast. For the first
time in their six months of marriage she looked
at him without any flipflop in her stomach, no
bursting in her chest, no tingling up her back.
It was a perfectly usual morning. John, in
his business suit, was reading the newspaper
at the table, ready to eat and run for the 8: 13.
Julianne was neat in a ruffled housecoat, no
curlers in her smooth yellow hair, just a sugges
tion of lipstick.
She had given a last scrape to the scrambled
eggs, divided them onto two- plates, set them on
the table. Then she looked at John and nothing
happened to her! It wasn't because John looked
down at the eggs instead of looking at her. He'd
been doing that for two weeks now and she
wasn't disappointed any more, though she did
have her honeymoon smile ready every morning
just in case.
Numbly she slumped into her chair, staring
at him, knowing every feature by heart. The
straight dark hair that wanted to droop on his
forehead, the big honest ears. He hadn't changed
at all. But now, suddenly, he looked ordinary,
like anybody's husband. It must be that she
didn't love him any more!
Experimentally Julianne took three quick
breaths hoping to find a quickening in her heart.
Nothing happened, except that John looked up.
"Whatsa matter?" he asked, his mouth full
of scrambled eggs.
Her honeymoon smile felt stiff on her face.
The flutter in her stomach was panic, not love
at all. His voice even sounded plain, like any
body's voice!
"Not a thing, darling," she said, a little too
brightly. "Why?"
John gulped his coffee. "Thought you sighed,
tSMi
that's all." He pushed back his chair, "Have
to run, Honey."
In the hall she kissed him with pretended
fervor and patted him out the door. She stood
in the window and watched him, just a run-of-the-mill
suburban husband hurrying down the
street. He looked cold and a little ridiculous
trying to run through the snow with his hands
in his pockets and his neck pulled into his collar.
A lternately depressed and frightened,
Julianne went through her housekeep
ing routine. It wasn't a beautiful ritual
any more. Making the bed was just making a
bed. There was no tender mingling of humility
and pride as she wiped up the mess John's
shower had left in the bathroom. She cried a
little in the living room, scared and hating her
self, as she snatched up last evening's newspaper
from the floor where he'd dropped it, and
slapped at the pipe ashes on the coffee table.
By 1 o'clock she had finished the sordid
business of making up the laundry. Her mind
was made up, too. She would have to tell John
that her love for him was dead. She would tell
him tonight as soon as he came home. It was the
only honest thing to do. Poor John!
Dismally, with the laundry and her half
written grocery list, she went to get their old
car out of the garage. Shivering, she turned the
key in the ignition, stepped on the starter. Then,
for the second time that day, nothing happened.
The battery was dead.
Without thinking, she hurried back to the
apartment to phone John. He was never cross
when she called him at the office. That was one
of the nice things about him. She didn't mind
that he wasn't the type to shower her with
presents and flowers the way some husbands
did, because he was always glad to hear her
voice on the phone and always helpful with
her little crises.
She was in the apartment, her hand on the
f "
V
phone, when she remembered. Today's crisis wasn't a little one
It wasn't just the car. She couldn't call John, because she didn't
love him any more.
Walking the six blocks through the cold to do her errands
Julianne wouldn't let herself cry. She had to be calm and brave'
It wouldn't be easy for John, to learn suddenly that she had
changed, that maybe he wouldn't be hearing her voice on the
phone after this or ever again helping her with her little crises.
She'd have to explain it to him gently.
She stopped first at the laundromat, then went on to the service
station. Mr. Simmons was obliging as usual. "Sure," he said, "I'll
send up a rental battery. But you tell the mister he better get a
new battery for that old car."
Julianne nodded and hurried out. She couldn't explain to Mr.
Simmons that she had something much more important to "tell
the mister." Vaguely, bitterly, she wondered about Mrs. Simmons.
Did she love her husband, even with his hands so dirty and grease
on his face?
At the butcher shop, still thinking about the Simmonses and
fighting tears again, Julianne suddenly went all soft and spent
three days' budget on a steak. A small porterhouse cut thick, to be
cooked rare the way John liked it. This might be the last time
she'd ever cook a steak for him. Maybe she wouldn't even be
living with him any more. Maybe he wouldn't want her.
How would she live without John? But she mustn't think about
that now. She had to think about him, about telling him as kindly
as she could. Perhaps the steak would soften the blow and show
him that she really, well, that she wasn't just . . . Anyway, it was
a nice thing to do.
J OHN always put his key in the door promptly at 5:49. At 5:30 the
dinner was progressing by careful plan and Julianne was
dressed in her best. She had spent two hours on her hair, her
nails, and countless indecisive tryings-on. She had finally chosen
the New Year's Eve dress, low-cut and shimmering, because it was
John's favorite and they had been so gay that night. Maybe the
dress, too, would soften the blow and show him that she didn't
just care nothing about him at all.
She sat on the sofa to wait. Her fingers picked little balls of fuzz
from the gray upholstery, and there was an odd ieeling in her
stomach. With two minutes to go, she went to put the steak in the
broiler. Her hands shook, and there was definitely something
wrong with her chest.
Then she was at the door, hearing his footsteps in the hall, his
key in the lock. J ust for a second she thought she was going to be
sick with the flipflop in her stomach. The door opened and there
he was, grinning, his big ears red with cold.
The tingling started in her back and crept up to her neck. It was
just starting down her arms when she threw herself on him,
hugging him, crying, kissing a big red ear.
"Oh John, I love you so," she said.
He held her close and kissed her yellow hair. "I love you, too,
Honey," he said in a husky voice that started the tingling all over
again. "And I needn't have bothered with these silly flowers."
She hadn't even seen the green package until, with his arms
still holding her, he threw it from behind her back. It hardly
bounced on the sofa before she was tearing off the paper, burying
her face in the blossoms. "Sweetheart roses," she breathed, awed
and wondering.
He looked embarrassed. "I don't know, why I bought them," he
said. "It was just, well, just that lately I thought . . . Well, I
wondered . . . Oh nuts!" He pulled her to him, rough and tender.
"Everything's wonderful now."
She clung to him, stroking his straight brown hair. Everything
was wonderful now, especially John. She wished the kiss he gave
her could last forever.
But John's head came up. His nose wrinkled, sniffing. "What's
burning?" he asked.
Julianne gave a little wail. Then she broke out laughing as she
headed for the kitchen.
"It's just a silly steak I bought for you," she said. "And I needn't
have bothered, either."
10
Family Weekly. January 12, 1958
Family Weekly, January 12, 1958
11