married, Ken, and, oh, instead of it being all peaches and cream and honey, it was hell. Every time it was pain, terrible awful torture. At first I thought maybe that's the usual thing … It'll get better … It'll be what they say it is … heaven and all that.
"But, Ken, it never was. It was always agony. He knew it. But he was selfish. He didn't care about me hurting so. … Oh Ken, I do still care for him but … I'm scared of him."
"And Jean?" asked Ken.
"That's different. Dreamy. Makes me not care. Oh, Ken, when I was a little girl, twelve years old, I had a dream, a dream about a girl just like Jean. Jean's good. She treated me the way Jean does now. Jean's kind. I'm not afraid of her. She can't hurt me …" And Diana began to cry, softly, very softly.
Diana's simplicity, her confidence in Ken and her choice of him as her confessor, touched him. Yet he saw quite clearly that his sympathy for Diana was born of his own distress. For the moment, he regained perspective. What had happened to him? Was he really happy?
"Chicago is a depressing city," he told Diana. "At least, that's the way it hits me. I came here a couple of years ago with not even a clean shirt. Today I got plenty of shirts, but …"
"What have you got to worry about?" she asked. She dried her eyes. "As Jean says, you got the women backed off the map. You can live on your looks for another twenty years. But me … what have I got to look forward to?"
"Plenty, baby," he patted her cheek, "and don't think … drink."
