I'll Be Seeing You (17 page)

April 26, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Mrs. Whitehall,

I’ve delivered two of the letters. Margie still won’t come out of the house, but she is taking what the milkman brings, which is a good sign. The curtains haven’t moved an inch, so Charlie and I talk very loudly when we are working in the garden. (Charlie speaks rather loudly already—his hearing is damaged.) Mrs. Kleinschmidt told us to stop making a racket, but I’ll bring a brass band down the street if it’ll get Margie to step onto the front porch. Roylene brings the baby daily, and watching her press his little hands against the front window would thaw even Stalin’s wintry heart.

This is so unlike Margie. She is not prone to dramatics, which makes this worse to see. Charlie thinks we should just break in and drag her out into the sun, but I said no. She needs time. However, there are limits. After I finish your deliveries, if Margie still has not come out I will take Charlie up on his offer. It’s not healthy to stay inside like that. Also, her canned food must be running out. I will stop by the USO to pick some up for her, to leave on the steps. I don’t feel bad about taking it. She’s just as much part of this war as the next person.

Thank you for being such a good friend. I know you would come to Iowa if you were able. I’m very sorry about your boy’s illness, and pray he makes a complete recovery.

Best regards,

Irene Wachowski

P.S. I’ve enclosed Toby’s V-mail address. Hopefully it won’t take too long to get to his ship, though I’ve heard it could take weeks. I don’t know if Margie has gotten anything besides Toby’s telegram acknowledging his father’s passing. It came early in the morning and Charlie intercepted it before the delivery boy could ring the bell. He wrote “not bad news” across the front before sliding it under her door. I suppose that was not necessarily true, but it was what he thought to do at the time.

Letter 3 Dear Rita,

Boy! Do I have a story for you! Guess what I did? Well, remember when I went to the farmer to buy the seeds for my garden? He offered to sell me chickens. I said no that day. But thought on it...and realized that collecting eggs is one thing I could let Robbie do. Also, feeding them won’t take much effort. So Levi and me...we built a coop and then went to pick up some chickens. A rooster, too! But I have to keep them separate. You know all about this stuff, I’m sure.

When you are feeling a bit better, will you give me some advice on chickens? I trust you so, so much about these things. Well...everything, really.

Robbie is getting better with pencils and he wanted to add something to my letter so he drew a rendition of the chicken coop. I’ve tucked it inside. Do me a favor? Just smell that paper! Don’t you remember the way that pencil lead smells on paper? I bet Toby brought you home all sorts of essays and poems when he was small. This smells just like the inside of my desk when I was a schoolgirl.

Okay, so the chickens were here and then I SWEAR I put them in the coop and locked the gate. But a few minutes later Corrine began laughing and pointing from the porch. Low and behold there were chickens EVERYWHERE.

So there I was, running all over my yard like a loon, trying to get those damn chickens back into that coop. I wish you’d been there. It must have been quite a sight. And it reminded me, quite abruptly, of a moment with Claire Whitehall, mother-in-law extraordinaire.

When Robert and I were first married I fired my entire household staff. And when I found out I was pregnant I refused to hire a nanny.

One night when we were visiting with my mother-in-law in Beverly, she had a little talk with Robert. I was tired and lying down on her sofa. I suppose they thought I was asleep, but I heard every single hushed word from the kitchen.

“You must have her reconsider, Robert! What does that girl know about housekeeping? About mothering? That woman, Corrine Astor? She was a reformed harlot who barely knew she even had a child!”

“I don’t order Glory around, Mother,” said my sweet Robert.

“But you will have to do the work, too, son. And you married well. I may not approve of the girl herself, but I DO approve of her finances. I’m sorry to sound crass, but that’s how I feel. If you are going to marry money, why not spend it?”

Robert was silent for a moment, but his next words came out fierce and between his teeth.

“My Glory is not her money. There’s never been a girl less aware of what she is worth. She’s wild and free. THAT is why I married her. THAT is why I love her. I will never, ever try to pen her in. I will never cage her capacity for greatness. AND we will NEVER speak about this again.”

I’ve tried so hard to live up to those words he said. Because at that moment I didn’t see that girl he was describing. It wasn’t until I met you that I began to feel like he might have seen something besides a honeymoon kind of love.

So, returning to the question of “JUST WHO DO I THINK I AM?” I am Gloria Astor Whitehall. That’s who I am. And I chase chickens and grow my own food. And I am a philanthropist. And I can be very odd. My son is sick all the time. I’m deeply in love with my husband as well as my good friend Levi.

My best friend in the whole world is Marguerite Vincenzo. And she recently lost her husband in this great and horrible war. She’s mourning now. But soon, very soon, she will realize that her world is too big to ignore. There are sunrises that bring days of gardens and pins on maps. There are friends who are being harassed by Mrs. K. because it’s Marguerite’s job to annoy Mrs. K.—no one else can do that.

Mostly though, I miss her.

Love,

Glory

Letter 4 Dear Rita,

Have you peeked out your window yet? I wonder what kind of mess Irene is making out there. I don’t know a lot about your day-to-day life in Iowa, but I do know that YOU are the Garden Witch. So you must have the nicest garden. Without you...I bet the rows aren’t straight.

Have I ever told you about my mother’s hair? It wasn’t curly like mine. It was long and straight and thick. Black silk.

She used to let me brush it for her. Before she went to parties. She had this beautiful, enormous dressing table full of perfumes and pots and jars of powders and rouge. I’d stand behind her and want to linger in those moments forever.

At the end of her life, when she was nothing but skin and bones (the cancer made her so sick; her pain was so bad that no pain reliever could touch it) she still had magnificent hair. I was brushing it when she died. I knew the moment the air left her chest. But you know what? I kept brushing her hair. I didn’t stop for I don’t know how long. Someone came...and then a doctor gave me some medicine that made me sleep for a long time. The next thing I remember clearly is waking up and seeing Robert. There was this mist in my eyes. Made everything foggy. Surreal. And then...I looked at his shining face (it was literally shining, in the sunlight from a high window) and the mist sort of...evaporated.

Is there mist stuck in the corners of your eyes, Rita? It will go away. You can let it go. The mist doesn’t hold Sal there. It keeps him locked up. And it’s time for him to fly into the heavens so you can see him as he is supposed to be seen.

Have you ever seen the autumn leaves up close? They are pretty...but spotted and imperfect. And you can’t ever find ALL the colors together. Only the bright red, or yellow, or orange.

But if you look from far away at a hillside or mountain...there it is! In all its majesty. The full impact of autumn flora.

Let him go and you will see him clearly. I promise.

On another note...my chickens are not laying eggs. I need you.

Love,

Glory

May 1, 1944

V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo

Dear Toby,

Please let me introduce myself. My name is Gloria Whitehall. I am a friend of your mother’s. We met writing letters to each other.

This is a bit awkward as I feel I know so much about you, and I’m sure you know next to nothing about me. Suffice it to say that my husband is fighting this war, as well. And your mother and I have developed a strong bond because of the absence of our beloved heroes.

I’m sure by now you know about your father. I am so sorry for this tremendous loss. Please accept my deepest sympathy.

But this is not the reason I’m writing to you.

Your mother needs you, Toby. She’s taken this news in an unexpected way. We all expect Rita (she likes me to call her Rita) to be tall and wise and strong. Stoic, even...but she’s fairly crumpled under the weight of this enormous sadness. I’ve tried, through flimsy pen and paper, to draw her back into life. But she still struggles with your father’s ghost.

I think (and I am by no means right about most things...) but I DO think that a note from you...something from your childhood? This might just do the trick.

Well, that’s it, I guess.

Be safe, Toby. She needs you to come home safe. Don’t look for more trouble than necessary. Okay?

With love and prayers for peace,

Glory

Letter 5 Dear Rita,

The first thing I wanted to do when Irene contacted me was to come to you. Run to you. But I can’t do that no matter how much I ached for you. And it makes me feel awful.

But I know that YOU of all people can understand my reason. It’s Robbie. I can’t leave him, Rita. He needs me. He is my son and he needs me.

I probably shouldn’t share this with you...but Roylene sent me a poem that Toby wrote to her. She didn’t understand the words...what he was trying to say. So she asked me to “translate” it for her.

I wish I had the right to share his poem in its entirety, but I don’t. I can, however, share with a clear conscience my own interpretation.

Toby is homesick. And he remembers his boyhood with a fondness you might not be able to fully grasp. What a life you made for him! And he’s afraid that he’s changed. Something must have happened to change him. His fear is that everything will be different, that there won’t be a home to come home to.

How will your boy find his way home without a talisman? And who better to be that talisman than his mother?

Rita. If you are still locked up in that house...throw open those windows and dust your boy’s bedroom. Wash his sheets and let them dry in the spring breeze. Do it all the time so when he comes home they are fresh. Make his favorite meals. Prepare for his homecoming.

Because Toby will come home. God won’t take them both. And when he comes home you damn well better be ready for him.

Get OUT of there, Rita Vincenzo! You are not dishonoring Sal by going on with life. You honor him by taking care of Toby.

Sal needs you to be prepared to take care of your son. His mind, his body. His soul. And you can’t take care of someone’s soul if yours is lost.

Write to me, Rita.

Write to me while you wash his things. Tell me how to care for my chickens. Yell at me about Robbie. Ask me for one of my speeches. Scold me about my wild hair. Tell me about the night you gave birth to Toby. Or day?

All of my love,

Glory

P.S. Robbie painted you a dove. Irene has it. If you want it, you better ask her for it.

May 5, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Irene,

Please call me Glory. I suppose there’s a whole lot of differences between Massachusetts and Iowa, but I feel so close to you. Don’t ask me why. I don’t really know why....

So by now my plan has hatched. I hope it worked. And if it didn’t...yes. Have Charlie bust down that door. She has a son to take care of. And a grandson, too.

And I know a thing or two about taking care of sons. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your update. I am so grateful.

And thank you. Thank you for taking the time to work Rita’s garden. It would be such a shame if it went sour. It’s as alive as she is.

Well, I guess that’s that.

Let me know what happens.

Yours in peace,

Glory

P.S. I’ve been aching to tell you this. It’s my fault. All of her hysterics about the telegram. When Robbie was sick in the hospital I sent her a telegram without thinking. I won’t ever forgive myself. Especially now.

May 6, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Glory,

Thank you.

The sun feels good.

Sing to your hens. Talk to them softly. Chickens scare easy, but they’ll lay eggs if you don’t give up.

And you don’t give up, do you? Those birds are lucky.

This bird is lucky.

Love,

Rita

May 9, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

The boy who delivered the telegram was beautiful. I watched him come up the road, my eyes following his path as he passed each house and rejected the address with a quick flick of his head before moving to the next, like a hummingbird in search of the flower which holds enough nectar.

His skin shone with health and the hair peeking out from under his cap was dark gold, a shade deeper than Toby’s. I spent a moment worrying Toby’s hair had darkened in the year since I’d seen him last. I decided it would still suit him, took a sip of my tea and studied my nails, disappointed in what typing had done to them. My mind visited the two colors of nail varnish in my bathroom cabinet, and I tried to decide which I liked better.

The boy approached the gate and I smiled and gave a little wave. His response was a twitch of the shoulder. His hand would not come up and his eyes would not meet mine.

And I knew.

The first part of my brain to respond chanted a quick prayer:
Not Toby, not Toby, not Toby.
It didn’t occur to me that if God listened to my plea, then Sal’s name would be on that telegram.

I felt the slip of paper in my hand. I must have signed the book. I don’t remember. I read, mouthing the words like a young child.

Then I screamed. I know I kept screaming because the boy backed into the closed gate, wincing with fear. I yelled for him to go, shrieked, but he wouldn’t budge. Later, I remembered they aren’t supposed to leave a recipient alone after bad news. He was simply following guidelines. But I couldn’t reason, Glory. I thought he might have another in his bag for me, the final one that said no one would come back, that the war had taken them both.

I threw my cup down and ran. With the door closed behind me I could breathe again. This was Sal’s house. Our first house together. He would come back if I willed it. If I shut everything else out and filled the room with memories, the past could become the present, and I could live there, with him. I would never leave.

What I was really doing was building a tomb. I have no body to bury. Sal could be anywhere. I needed him to rest. I had to draw his soul to me.

When I got your first letter I knew I was doing the right thing. And I did dance with him.

When I got the second, I thought about the things I did not like about myself. They were the very things that made Sal trust me enough to marry me. I had to do right by my husband.

When I got the third, I thought about a sweet, pale little boy drawing a chicken. I thought about a baby’s palm pressed against my window, a boy named for his grandfather.

When I got the fourth, I did take a peek through the curtains to watch Charlie and Irene. They were digging holes for two tomato plants much too close together. The roots would intertwine. If one died and I had to tear it from the ground, the other would only survive if it could burrow into the soil with the roots that remained.

When I got the fifth, I found my mourning dress and buried it under a heap of junk in the front closet. Then I found my gold lamé dancing dress and cut a star from it. I sewed it over the blue one. Tragedy might not shine, but my husband did. More than anyone else. I rehung the flag in the window.

And then I walked out into the sunlight.

Thank you for bringing me there.

Love,

Rita