Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 4, 1925 — page 94: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

884 tion. “It come to me—a long time ago when I was like you. So beautiful it was, SO sweet.” Her eyes swum in their tears like gold- fishes in a bowl. ‘It was so complete and perfect,” she breathed, “ the kind that sort of makes you feel—there isn’t nothing more to wish for.”’ “That’s it!’”? I cried eager. “ Nothing more. Oh, Miss Mendel, ain’t it awful tc be always feeling, no matter how nice things is, they ought to be better. That some- thing is missing—like a carburetor in a Ford truck?” Miss Mendel nodded. ‘But nothing was missing,” she said fervent, “in that one perfect year of our betrothal. And then—he was taken away.”’ “Not to Bloomingdale or Blackwells or anvthing?” I asked, horrifted. She smiled sad. “* He—died.”’ I was silent in her sorrow. ‘And you never had nobody else all these years?” I marveled, after a period of proper waiting. ‘‘ Wasn't you ever lonely?” “ This rose,” she told me_ gentle, “wouldn't let me forget him.” IT gulped. “Well, I'm glad, Miss Mendel,” I said, hushed, “that you've told me there was love like that in the world. So when you amble down to dinner, Miss Mendel, pass Dave the merry word I ain’t hungry. Tell kim to go ahead—without me.” Miss Mendel’s shoulder heaved near for a haven, but I scorned it and stood erect, silent and calm. Then I went back to my room. I looked in the glass. Down inside me, something pained ter- rible, but it was only the death throes of the thing that had hurt so and wouldn't never hurt no more. So I looked in the glass at them wide, calm eyes o’ mine, them eyes that would never be narrow. Then I opened my bureau drawer to dig out a clean hanky. In the corner laid a heap of crumpled rose leaves—the rose that my erstwhile Romeo had brung me while I trembled expectant on my balcony—that day in May. THE ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Why did its being a day in May make me feel so bad? If it had been November I would of only laughed and let the skies do the weeping. ‘* Ni-ice r-red ro-ses! Buy da ni-tfce r-red rose for da sweetheart!” Shut up! I don’t want no rose—only a forget-me-quick. Yep, I would wait—wait for the real Romeo that would bring me the love of the ages, The pain in my chest swelled up into my throat like the coming of the Bronx ex- press. But I would wait. Let it go by my station. It wasn’t the train I wanted. I didn’t want nothing on this earth. Only to be alone. Only to stand forever, first on one foot, then on the other, in the basement of Saltz's store. That’s all I wanted. Only— Of a sudden I swept that little drv heap of rose dust into my hand and cured the awful aching of my lips. Yep, Miss Mendel, you’re right-—vou’re right—vou're right! “The rose wouldn't let me forget him.” Bhithesome I powdered my nose, fluffed my bob, and trotted downstairs to meet Dave at the dining room door. “Oh, Dave!” I whispered soft, but I knew he could hear me, even above the concert of AIom Gilman’s soup course. ‘““Oh, Dave, let’s eat—I’ve been so ter- rible hunerv!” V. It’s a year. Dave may not be no Ro- meo, but he’s my husband. And I’m in- forming you right now I’d rather be Mrs. David k. O'Donnel in a Brooklyn flat with Mr. David K. O’Donnel, than cold Juliet in a marble mausoleum with her Romeo. As for them narrow eves, I got ’em, too. But whether it’s from watching Dave wink at waitresses or seeing that Dave Junior don’t mistake the safety razor for a teeth- ing ring, I ain’t been vet able to ascertain. And if sometimes I sigh a little, like all women, for the grand lover that might of been, I reason—well, a bird in the home is worth two in the imagination. Ain’t it? END GIOok