I'll Be Seeing You (13 page)

January 20, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dearest Rita,

Please forgive me if you hear a bit of nervous laughter in my letter today. I mean no disrespect, at ALL. But I have to say I could fairly feel the spit of your rage and worry in that last letter. I imagined you in my own kitchen banging around pots and pans, only stopping to point at me, throw your hands up in disgust and bang around some more.

I tend to laugh when I’m in trouble. It isn’t one of my best qualities. One night when Robbie was in the hospital a nurse found me laughing on the bench outside of his room. I mean, laughing with tears streaming out of my eyes. There was a horror in her gaze that I won’t forget, ever. Please don’t be horrified with me. I’d be lost without you.

Know that I hear you. And I
am
doing my best to keep things under control. Once again Levi and I talked in the early-morning hours on the porch, only this time our breath came out like smoke, as the days are like ice here now. I know we both agree that it can’t happen again, but no matter how I try, I can’t ignore him. He’s been a part of my life forever, and the days drag on endlessly without him. Little by little he creeps back into my mind, heart and house. I’m praying for the strength to keep away from him. Yes, me. Praying. Because even though I’m strong—and even though my love for Robert is the realest thing I know...the other day Levi did the darnedest thing. I was on a chair trying to trim the grape arbor and couldn’t reach the top. Just then Levi walked up the path and I almost fell over. He grabbed me about the waist and helped me down, but his hands stayed put on my hips.

“You okay?” he asked

“Yes. Fine. Please let go,” I said, but I whispered...so he didn’t let go right away.

“Make me,” he said, and leaned his head in like he would kiss me again.

I turned my head.

“Never again, Levi. Never again,” I said.

It was only then that he let go and walked away. How my heart ached for him.

So to say I’m confused would be an understatement. I’ll leave it at that and say thank you for your advice. Your caring means more to me than you will ever know. And you made some valid points that I had not thought on. Food for thought is always a wonderful thing.

Speaking of which, did you see the article in
Reader’s Digest
by Ayn Rand? About active vs passive people? Here’s what it says in a nutshell. That we are American because we are individuals, but we can only be productive in society if we
act
as individuals. If we are passive, the world goes by, and those that act can act in terrible ways without any of us interceding. So, we must all act! Fascinating.

I’m using her analogies in my mind almost every day. It is the best thing to do in terms of helping Robert. I will actively support him here at home by helping to make his community, his country, a better place through my speaking engagements. And I need to keep my heart open to Levi. Not open the way it wants to be. Not romantically. But friends, like it should be. Like it always was. It would do no good to stay here and turn my heart and my body to stone. You have to try and trust me. The only thing I’m risking here is a broken heart. And to be quite honest, it’s already broken. It broke those days in the hospital while I watched my boy go from alive, to half-dead, to half-alive. I am steeled against sorrow now. At least I think I am.

I’m planning a letter to Roylene.

I love that you care.

With deepest respect,

Glory

P.S. As a peace offering, and in hopes that my madness hasn’t changed our friendship (and a bit of me eating a “Humble” portion of it myself...) here is a wonderful pie recipe I found. I hope you enjoy it, Rita.

Mock Apple Pie (This one feels like a magic trick!)

Prepare a 2-layer pie crust

14 saltine (soda) crackers broken into pieces

Cook and cool the following:

1 1/2 cups water

1/2 cup sugar (or corn syrup)

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 1/2 teaspoons cream of tartar

3 tablespoons lemon juice

1/8 teaspoon nutmeg

Place crackers into the unbaked pie shell. Pour the cooled mixture over the crackers. Cover with the second layer of the pie crust. Bake at 325 degrees until crust is light brown.

(One would never know there were no apples in it!)

January 29, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

There’s this boy, Ted, who comes down to the USO club to pass the time until he figures out what to do with himself. He lost an eye in Salerno, and wears a patch just like a pirate. His family owned a farm but sold it in the ’30s, and now his father manages our local hardware store. I’m sure Ted will work there once his mind recovers, but for now he’s content to count cans of sweet corn and roll bandages with us housewives.

At first we avoided all war talk around him, figuring it was impolite, but then it became clear he wanted to discuss his experiences. I can’t say it’s enjoyable to speak with this young man, but it is an education.

One particular comment he made sticks with me, and I want to share it with you. Mrs. Hansen’s youngest, Vaughn, asked Ted how many Germans he killed. Ted’s remaining eye watered up, and Mrs. Hansen moved to console him, saying that fascism must be stopped, and he had every right to kill the enemy—it was his duty as a U.S. soldier.

I’ll never forget what he said to her: “It might be my duty to my government, my brothers and my God, but it still don’t make it right.”

Now you may think I’m being purposefully obtuse, but you know I like telling stories, and it might be worth your while to pay attention to that boy’s sentiments. What he’d done offended his personal morality, the one deep within his heart. When you feel weak in spirit, think about the agreements you made with yourself about how to live an honorable life. We all have them, but unfortunately the contracts are often written in invisible ink when they should be signed in blood.

Okeydokey. Enough said about your situation. I will return to it, though, so I’m giving you fair warning. (Toby says when I’ve got a discussion I feel is unsettled, I bury it like a squirrel does a nut in autumn. It will certainly see the light of day again.)

Now go kiss those sweet babies for me. And tell Robbie to send another drawing—I need something sweetheart-y for Valentine’s Day!

Love, your bossy friend,

Rita

February 10, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

It’s been a year plus, dear friend, since we began our letters. Did you notice? What a year. What a crazy mixed-up year. God knows what He’s doing. He knew I would need someone...and there you were, at the bottom of a hat.

Thank you for your honest opinion of my situation. In all fairness I do know that what I feel for Levi isn’t right. But somehow, and I don’t know why this is, my love for Robert grows as my love for Levi grows.

But, if it makes you rest easy...there’s been nothing more between Levi and me since New Year’s Eve. And we’ve had plenty of moments that tried both our constitutions, let me tell you.

Every night Corrine and Robbie pray for their dear daddy, clutching his photograph to their hearts. It’s a beautiful if not odd sight. Levi, big and strong...his arms encircling two small tots. Praying to a picture of my soldier husband. All of them honest with their love. I wish you could see it. I wish Robert could see it, or maybe I don’t. It’s all so confusing.

Sometimes it just takes my breath away and I turn the corner and lean against the wall, the sobs catching silently in my throat. How I long for the way it used to be. How I miss those days before the war when Robert and I were newlyweds. I can still remember bringing him to this house and sheepishly asking if we could make our home here. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. Everything from those days seems bathed in golden summer sun. Even the winters.

Damn. It makes the sorrow take off on winged horses.

So enough of it. You will be my moral compass, but I can’t promise you I’ll fly a steady course.

And don’t stop reminding me of all the things I need to be reminded of.... I don’t have anyone else. Anna tells me to embrace my feelings for Levi so that I can let them go. But what does
she
know of men? Really.

If you see that boy again (Ted, from the USO), you kiss him smack on the lips for me. You kiss him and tell him that our bodies do things that our minds don’t need to take notice of. No notice at all.

Now...I’ve enclosed a letter to Roylene. Please give it to her. Thank you for suggesting it.

Love,

Glory

P.S. Have you purchased your seeds yet? I found this magazine article that boasts it can sell all the seeds you need in one shipment. Should I trust it?

February 10, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Roylene,

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. Rita (Mrs. Vincenzo) has apprised me of your situation. May I take a moment to commend you? It takes a brave woman to face this kind of thing head-on.

I suppose I just want you to know you are not alone. I, too, have found myself in a preposterously difficult situation. But unlike me, you get to face your fear, walk into it. Be active inside the new life that waits for you. It’s like a storm, isn’t it? A storm with sun shining on the other side. And there you are, braving it like a hero.

Well, I’m here. If you need anything. And I don’t judge. And I don’t cast stones. I’m just a Ladygirl who likes to listen.

Gloria Whitehall

February 14, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

I forgot to enclose Robbie’s sweetheart in the last letter. He padded into the kitchen this morning and found it tucked into a stack of papers on the kitchen table (my new desk).

“You didn’t send Auntie Rita my valentine?” he said, his innocent eyes brimming with tears.

“Oh, love! Mama forgot!”

And do you know what Robbie said to me? Out of the mouths of babes, that’s what they say, isn’t it, Rita? I almost dropped the teacup I was holding. And that would have been a shame, because it has a sunflower on it. I bought it last week in honor of you. So here’s what he says to me, that little smarty-pants: “Like you forgot about Daddy?”

Oh, Rita. When you are right, you are right. Three and a half years old and he’s a font of truth. What have I done?

This war. It’s stolen our peace. It’s stolen our tomorrows as well as our yesterdays.

Here is your valentine, Rita. A red heart on a paper doily. My Robbie loves you and he doesn’t even know you. Maybe he can just feel how much
I
love you.

Children are wise.

Love,

Glory

February 19, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Thanks for whatever you said to Roylene in that letter. It didn’t feel right to read it (it wasn’t addressed to me) so I folded the paper in half and slipped it to her in the alley behind the bar. When I explained who it was from she held it like I’d just handed her the Shroud of Turin.

She wanted me to include some lines from her in this letter, but I refused. If she wants to say something to you, then she needs to write a letter herself, even if she’ll soon be cradling a newborn with one arm. I’m going to hold firm on that for messages to Toby, as well. I know there’s a possibility writing is difficult for her, but isn’t now as good a time as any to tackle that problem? Is that the active me talking? If she gives me something before I mail this, I’ll include it. If not, don’t take offense, as she is about ready to burst.

And, please write to her again if you have the time and inclination. A baby’s birth does usher in a busy time in a woman’s life, but it is a lonely time, too. The more people filling in those dark spaces, the better.

So...news on the Iowa front: I got a letter from Sal. In it, he drew a caricature of himself smoking a cigar, the proud grandpapa. Sal thinks Roylene, Toby and the baby should move in with us permanently when this war is over and done with. That man wants a full house, like the crowded apartment on Western Avenue. I haven’t decided if I like this idea. Don’t young people value privacy these days? Would you want me breathing down your neck?

Sal filled the rest of his V-mail with passionate declarations of his love for...the olive. Yessiree. Over the past few weeks my husband has gotten a tutorial on harvesting olives. This must mean he’s still in Italy. I’m surprised the army didn’t black out the entire message. Maybe the censors were too embarrassed for him to read the whole thing. You would have thought the olives looked like Betty Grable from the way he was going on.

In all seriousness, the letter cheered me. If Sal has time to pluck olives from a tree, then there must be a lull in his corner of the war.

I wrote back and told him I would plant an olive tree in our backyard if it would always put him in such an excited state!

I also told him about my new job. It’s going remarkably well, given the deeply neurotic personality of my boss, Dr. Aloysius Martin. I think he applied for an academic deferment when the war started and regrets it every day since. He’s obsessed with the war, and probably knows more about it than General MacArthur himself. “You can always volunteer,” I told him. He didn’t say a word to that.

He’s posted a map of the world next to my file cabinet and one of my duties is to mark battles and what troop movements we do know about with pushpins. No wonder Florence blew out for California when she had the chance! I told Dr. Martin we had to be sure to lock the inner door because, with all the POWs coming into Iowa, what if one escaped and broke into his office? That map would be pure gold to a German spy.

Of course I was kidding, but the next day Dr. Martin handed me a black cloth to cover the map with before I left for the evening. It knocks out all the pushpins and I have to follow all the holes in the map with squinty eyes to put them back. So I guess the joke’s on me!

So...about the one the subject I promised to avoid...

I’ve been hard on you, kiddo, but I think both you and Levi are making the right choice. Your family will be whole again soon enough, and these experiences will retreat to the place where we keep all those things that make up who we are...but we don’t want to think about all that much.

Love,

Rita

P.S. When it comes to procuring garden seeds, I believe in sticking close to home. Try a local farmer—I’m certain he’s got more than enough.

P.P.S. Has it only been a year since we started writing? I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer than that! I’m grateful you chose me, hon. I really am.

P.P.P.S. I’ll let you know as soon as my grandchild makes its way into this crazy world.