I'll Be Seeing You (14 page)

February 19, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Master Robbie Whitehall,

Thank you for the sweetheart, sweetheart. At first I posted it on the cabinet but it is so sweet it ate up all my sugar! Now it’s on the icebox.

Be sure to send me more, Michelangelo (ask your mother). Spring is coming soon, will you draw me some flowers?

Love,

Auntie Rita

February 21, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA (MORE SPECIFICALLY—THE MATERNITY WARD!)

Glory,

It’s a boy! Salvatore Whitman Vincenzo. Quite a mouthful, huh? Toby came up with the poetic middle name, but Roylene insisted on naming the baby after Sal. Funny, isn’t it? I don’t believe she’s ever set eyes on him. I do appreciate the gesture and I told her so. The baby looks like his grandpa—thick dark hair and azure eyes as deep and fathomless as the celestial heavens. Grandpa Sal is going to be over the moon.

The poor girl had a rough time. We were sipping tea on the front porch when her pains started. That baby was in such a hurry, tearing at Roylene in its haste, until he realized the chaotic world he was dropping into. Then smart Little Sal dug his feet in, refusing to come. Of course, all I saw were the nurses scurrying in and out of her room, features strained with worry. I paced the ward like a nervous father-to-be, alone, until Roy showed up looking for trouble. “You’re gonna wear a hole in that rug,” he said, and I reluctantly settled next to him on a hard-backed bench. We sat, fidgety and silent, until he said, “I guess I lost my best worker for a few weeks. War or not, your boy is responsible for that.”

I felt every muscle in my body tighten. “This is hardly the time.”

“Soon enough,” he muttered, extracting a pack of cigs from his cuffed sleeve. He didn’t offer me one, and left to smoke without another glance my way. Which was fine by me. I spent the next ten minutes devising methods to strangle him without getting caught.

It’s getting dark now, but Roy hasn’t come back. Roylene is spread across the bed like a wet dishrag, but there’s a lovesick smile on her face, even in sleep. My grandson dozes next to her, his tiny chest rising and falling, the bit of peace he brought with him casting the room in a silver glow, the color of hope.

It’s beautiful, Glory. It really is.

Rita

February 23, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Mrs. Whitehall,

Thank you for sending me a letter. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you did. I keep reading it over and over while I’m sitting here in the hospital. They say I have to lie in this bed a week. I don’t see why, but I don’t have it in me to walk out.

Mrs. Vincenzo visits when she’s not working. Roy, my daddy, only came once, but it was enough. He did say I could stay in the house with my baby, only he called Little Sal another B word. I’m telling myself he will learn to love him, but he’s still learning to love me, so it might take a while.

I don’t like owing anybody anything, especially someone I don’t know, but you said you like to listen, so I figure maybe you got some time you’d like to fill. Would you mind listening to me? I got some things I want to get off my chest, and no one to tell them to. I’ve been talking to Little Sal, but I shouldn’t place such burdens on him, even if he doesn’t know up from down. The morning before Little Sal was born, I got a V-mail from Toby. It made me cry, but I didn’t know why. I waddled over to Mrs. Vincenzo’s to show her, but then the pain started. Maybe that was nature’s way of telling me to keep my mouth shut. I haven’t shown anyone else, but I’m going to write it out so you can read it, and tell me what you think it means. I didn’t shine in school, so I don’t trust my own understanding.

Toby’s Poem

In the days of boyhood, summer came late

and the fan hummed low

and I couldn’t see past the sunflowers

Sometimes, here, in the damp heat

I wake and think I’m there.

But the hum doesn’t drone

it grows

Airplanes, not out of boyhood dreams,

a nightmare sort of use

Clearing rows of passage

by massacring tall flowers

Spreading seeds of hate

for violent gardens

The enemy, my shadow,

Looked at me

loomed in me

and though my gun won

I lost

I will wake soon

in my summer room

And all this blood

Won’t ever have happened.

Something’s not right, Mrs. Whitehall. At first I thought he’d written a poem for the baby, but no one would read this to a child. I’d like to get your take on things. It doesn’t seem right to ask Mrs. Vincenzo.

Thank you kindly.

Regards,

Roylene Dawson

March 6, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

My letter is a bit late because Robbie was ill. He’s fine now, don’t worry. But watching him fight, pale again. Gasping for air again. It tore another piece out of me. Soon I’ll be a Frankenstein of worry. All patches and zigzag stitches of the girl I used to be. Like I said, he’s fine now. But his recovery is slow. I hold my breath when he coughs. I’ll be so, so happy to usher in the spring.

Now, about your news... Congratulations! A boy. I’m so happy for you. Please send my regards to Roylene and let her know I’ve sent a layette separately. I ordered it from the Spiegel Catalog. Did you get yours yet? I sent one in the package just in case you haven’t gotten one. Their spring collection is just lovely. I hope you are getting a lot of time with that new baby. Corrine is a running terror now, just like Robbie used to be. I miss those quiet infant days. I remember being able to stare at my babies for hours on end, never knowing where the time went. Would you mind sending me a picture?

And, thank you for sharing your stories about Sal! An olive tree...oh, I’m getting one, too. Tell Sal that your silly, Able Grable of an East Coast pen pal is going to grow olives for him, as well. What a wonderful letter to get. I wonder about that so, so often. Those other memories the boys are making. Robert fills his with domestic things or life at camp. The food, the care packages, the nights when they all sit out and stare at the moon aching for home, smoking. But he doesn’t tell me about battle, and he doesn’t tell me about the culture. I wish he would. I’ll write to him after I finish this letter and ask him some leading questions. Perhaps he’ll take the bait and talk to me about where he is stationed. I’d love to know.

Things are getting awkward again in my home. How long did I think it would last? This ridiculous arrangement between Levi and I? Did I really think that we could be around each other every minute of every day without something happening?

Here’s what happened. It was the first warm day. About a week ago. I asked Marie if she’d help me wash my hair outside. It’s a habit I cling to from when I was a little girl. My mother used to wash my hair with a mixture of baking soda, rose water and apple cider vinegar out in the sun. I know it sounds smelly, but the vinegar dries free of any odor. And the hair is simply silky afterward. Anyway, I was sitting out in the middle of the yard on a kitchen chair waiting for Marie to come and rinse out the vinegar with warm water. I had the basin next to me and the cider had been sitting in my hair for a little too long. I called to her. I don’t know what happened. Either she is unaware of what’s gone on in this house, or she was simply too busy with the kids...but when the warm water began to run down my hair, rinsing out the acrid smell of the vinegar, it was Levi’s hands, not Marie’s, that began massaging in the rose water.

My first instinct was to jump. Or at least speak. But I couldn’t. His hands felt so good in my hair. From the roots, up to my scalp. His strong hands. Those hands I held and trusted when I was still a little girl. Those hands that rinsed my hair before...before we ever touched each other in inappropriate ways. Only now—now they stirred my soul.

“All I want to do is kiss you, Glory,” he said. “Just one more time.” His voice seemed to move as he poured more water from the basin onto my hair. Some splashed on my face and he ran his hands over my closed eyes, over my nose and lips.

It took everything I had not to answer him. Not to open my eyes. Because I knew that even if my intention was to scold him, my mouth would open to his mouth instead. So I stayed there. Quiet. Mute, even. And when he was done, he wrapped my hair in a towel and walked away.

I cried a river, Rita, but at least I kept my word.

It’s hard. But it feels like a sacrifice that focuses my attention on the war more than any ration book ever could.

God grant me strength.

In other news: my speech went well at the Women to Work rally! I’m not so nervous anymore. Not like that first time near Christmas. I don’t know why or how, but when I stand at that podium a surge of energy goes through me and I feel as if I could talk for hours and hours. I wish you could see me, I really do.

As for the garden, I did follow your advice and purchased my seeds from a local farmer. My entire dining room is covered in little greenhouses and every day the children and I watch for the first green sprouts to push up through the dirt. Mother is rolling in her grave seeing our fancy dining room covered in little buckets and glass slabs. Not to mention the smidgens of dirt always on the floor. But this is a garden house now. A garden house where people are waiting between what was and what is going to be.

All my love,

Glory

P.S. Give that baby a kiss for me. Tell him Auntie Glory sent it.

March 6, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Roylene,

I am so pleased that you feel you can entrust me with such a task. You are being very brave and your actions are commendable. I wish you were closer because I’d have you come and speak to the women in our group. You are quite an inspiration. And I know it isn’t something you feel you have a complete grasp on, but keep on pushing through. For Toby...and for you. Okay?

Now, about Toby’s poem. First: I am so honored that you would share it with me. Really. I cried when I read it. What an amazing young man.

If I were to break it down for you I’d say this: Toby’s longing for home. He wishes he was back in Iowa with you and with his Mom and Dad. And something’s happened to him that makes him worry that even if...when...he does come home he won’t be the same person he was before. Does that make sense? I think he’s telling you he’s changed. That something violent has happened.

If you write back to him, I suppose it might be good to let him know that there isn’t any change that would keep you from caring for him. He’s still Toby no matter what happens over there.

Please don’t hesitate to contact me about anything else you may need. I’m here. Waiting like the rest of us. And these letters make the time go by.

All the best,

Glory

March 11, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Make sure to let those seedlings get accustomed to the outdoors incrementally. Plants resist change just as much as people do. Are your hearty perennials poking their sleepy heads through the soil yet? When your lemon balm comes back, pluck some leaves and make a tea for Robbie. This Garden Witch says it’s good for promoting healthy breathing. Use dried chamomile for yourself. It calms the mind.

Don’t worry about the timing of your letters. (Though your last one nearly had me reaching for the smelling salts. Maybe you should stick to washing your hair in the bath?) Difficult as it is, you obviously have your priorities straight, my dear. Time and devotion will heal Robbie, and it appears you are giving him ample amounts of both.

Roylene has taken to motherhood like a duck to water. She’s back in that kitchen, peeling potatoes with Little Sal watching from a basket on the floor. I’m helping when I can, but you know how much a baby needs his mother at the start.

The gorgeous layette arrived yesterday. Thank you, hon, for your kindness. I walked the package over to the tavern and Roylene nearly passed out in the tomato soup when she touched the fine lace. I expect you’ll hear from her soon.

Overall, Iowa City has been pretty calm. My job for Dr. Aloysius Martin (He’s such a formal man I always feel the need to use his entire name!) has fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm. I know my duties, and I know what’s expected of me, and when I shut the light off and lock the door I know when I return in the morning I will find the office exactly as I left it. I can’t say the same for the other aspects of my life.

Besides a quick telegram responding to Little Sal’s birth, Toby hasn’t written. I also haven’t heard from Sal since the “olive tree” letter. I like to think he’s moved on to tomatoes.

On the homefront, Mrs. K. is causing trouble again. Only this time it’s...complicated.

Last weekend we had a burst of unseasonably warm weather. I invited Irene and Charlie over to meet Little Sal, and for some iced tea and cheese rarebit (recipe to follow). The sun shone so brightly it seemed a shame to stay inside, so the three of us settled onto the front porch, leaving Roylene inside to nap with the baby.

Mrs. K. decided, at just that moment, it was extremely vital that she sweep her already immaculate front steps. I took the hint and called her over. She’d met Irene before, but not Charlie, at least not formally. I made the introduction and she offered him a limp hand. That should have been my first red flag. I quickly settled her in with a glass of iced tea and a heaping plate.

Then the interrogation began.

“How do you earn your living, Mr. Clark?” was her opening shot.

Charlie sells vitamins door-to-door. He was explaining this to Mrs. K. when she interrupted with, “Why aren’t you serving in the armed forces?”

He told her about his perforated eardrum. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she fell into a ponderous silence.

Later, Mrs. K. volunteered to check on Roylene and Little Sal. When she returned she squeezed her generous hips between Irene and Charlie, so she could sit on his left side. She rejoined the conversation, but you would have thought Mrs. K. was a radio with a broken tuner, her voice kept dipping and rising so. But I knew what she was doing. It was my old trick to gauge Charlie’s hearing abilities.

The sun finally set and we stood to say our goodbyes. Charlie stuck out his hand to Mrs. K., who wouldn’t take it. “I’m not sure whether it’s the scent of the past or a whiff of the future, but, sir, you stink of the jailhouse,” she pronounced.

I wanted to die. Charlie still bowed his head to the old hag, but then hightailed it off my property with a confused Irene in tow.

I was furious with the old woman and I told her so.

“His eardrum is perfectly fine,” she insisted.

I couldn’t argue with that. I’d suspected the same.

Mrs. K. sensed her victory and stepped closer. “And did you see his shoes? How shiny they were? Who in this town has new shoes?”

I didn’t have an explanation for that, either. Mrs. K. accused him of profiteering and said I shouldn’t ever ask him back. If he is involved in the black market I
would
never allow him on my property again. I don’t like “ifs,” though. I should talk to Charlie, right? Talk to him without making it feel like a confrontation? But I guess that’s what it will be, regardless of how I frame it.

Well, take care and write when you can, not before.

Love,

Rita

P.S. I heartily enjoy picturing you preach to the masses. In my imagination you have a clear, musical voice, and everyone listens intently, not even daring to cough. Don’t tell me if it’s not true—it’s what I want to believe. So there.

Hearty Cheese Rarebit

1 pound grated American cheddar cheese (or, as Mrs. K. insists, Swiss)

1 tablespoon butter

1 cup beer

2 egg yolks, slightly beaten

Hot buttered toast or crackers

Paprika

Melt cheese and butter over hot water, slowly. When about 1/4 of the cheese has melted, add half the beer slowly. Continue to cook until cheese is all melted, stirring constantly. Stir in remaining beer into egg yolks; add slowly to cheese mixture. Stir constantly until thick and smooth. Serve immediately on toast or crackers, garnished with paprika.