I'll Be Seeing You (18 page)

May 15, 1944

V-mail from Seaman Tobias Vincenzo to Marguerite Vincenzo

I see the moon

and the moon sees me

and the moon sees someone

that I want to see

God bless the moon

and God bless me

and God bless the somebody I want to see.

I miss you, Ma.

—
Toby

May 15, 1944

V-mail from Seaman Tobias Vincenzo to Roylene Dawson

Dear Roylene,

Thank you for your letters.

I’m sorry for what I said in mine. You’re right—a boy should know his father. It’s just, I can’t stand the thought of being introduced to him through a photograph, or a letter, or one of my ma’s crazy stories. I want him to touch flesh and blood. I want glorious recognition when I look into his eyes. I know what it’s like to reach out for my father’s solid hand and only get a fistful of memories. And Little Sal would get secondhand ones, at that.

Oh, baby, grief has made mush of my brain.

I can’t help my mother. Writing words on a piece of paper isn’t enough. I tried, but my hands shake, and everything I put down seems weak and lacking. I did send something, but I want you to do me a favor. Go over to the house and squeeze her, hard. Say it’s from me. I know this might embarrass you, but the thought of you doing it will help me sleep at night.

Please send my regards to Miss Wachowski and tell that Charlie fella I appreciate his helping out. And thanks for the story about my dad. Do you still have the socks? I’d like to think you’d kept them.

I think about you day and night.

Toby

May 15, 1944

V-mail from Seaman Tobias Vincenzo to Gloria Whitehall

Dear Mrs. Whitehall,

Thank you for writing.

Your name was not new to me when I got your letter. My mother has been writing about you for a year now. The first time she did, she called you “Mrs. Gloria Whitehall of Rockport, Massachusetts.” I must admit I disliked you immediately because 1. You had obviously captured the attention of my ma, and 2. You had a definite place in the world. I do not. I am on a ship. I’m no longer Toby Vincenzo of Iowa City, Iowa. I’m not allowed to tell you where I am. I probably couldn’t do that anyway.

And now my father has no place on the map. The only one of us who does is my ma. I need her letters to remind me. I need her.

It’s my understanding that you helped keep her standing on solid ground when she found out about my dad. That you somehow held her in place.

I can’t thank you enough.

Sincerely,

Toby Vincenzo

May 16, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

I’m so glad you emerged from your house and turned your face toward the sun. I was worried, to say the least. But then, I worry all the time. It’s some sort of low hum in the back of my mind. Do we all have it? A nation—a world—of constant worry?

I worry all the time about receiving my own telegram. Thank you for extending me the courtesy that I so rashly did not extend to you last year. I feel even more foolish now, if that’s possible.

I worry about the boy who delivered your telegram. All those boys delivering all that bad news. What memories will they bring with them into their lives? Too much worry all around.

So...I suppose the best thing for both of us to do is to just try and move ahead. We can’t move on...that’s impossible. But we can go onward.

And so it’s the middle of a beautiful spring here in Rockport. I don’t know how to explain the beauty of my garden. The amazing growth. How things can be so healthy when the world is so in trouble I will never understand. Things have slowed down quite a bit here. Fewer people show up for the Women to Work meetings. Everyone is so busy with their own housework and end of the school year preparations. Also, after that hard winter, I think people are busy being outside. It makes me wonder if I should start to hold outdoor rallies. Maybe even move some of them to Boston as I believe people are becoming tired of me here. What do you think? Should I spend more time there? It’s about three-quarters of an hour by train. An hour if I drive.

Did I ever tell you that I drive? I love to drive. My father taught me how when I was thirteen. He was drunk and annoyed with some people during one of mother’s “Grand Rose” events. He took me out to the back fields and let me tear up the turf in his Model T. He called me a “Speed Demon.”

Mother wasn’t even mad when he told her. He said, “Mother, our girl is a mighty Speed Demon!” And I remember my mother looked at him—not at me—and said, “It’s good of you to teach the child. A woman needs to be as independent as she can be or else the world will use her skirts as handkerchiefs and then toss her in the garbage.”

I was mesmerized by the story of your mother and the suffragettes. I know my mother was part of movements like that, probably because she was so unorthodox. But your mother was just a proud citizen who wanted her own daughter to know her own worth. This is important for me to understand.

I’m learning balance.

The days are long now, so long. Robbie is well recovered from his latest recurrence of the fever, and Levi found a specialist in New Haven (Connecticut) at the medical school. There is a trial of a sort of medicine that will hopefully stop the progression of the disease. We leave next week. Say a prayer.

The other day I was watching the two of them eat lunch on a red-and-white checkered tablecloth out in the yard by the garden. The sunflowers are as tall as Robbie now (he calls them Rita 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7...too!) and Levi held Robbie’s hand to his heart and put his own strong hand on Robbie’s wispy chest. “My heart doesn’t want to work sometimes, either. But see? I’m strong. I can do a lot of things,” I heard him say.

But the truth is, they are very different conditions. Levi has a murmur. It doesn’t even really affect him. And that is why he’s so ashamed not to be able to fight.

Oh, well. Life does go on. And as the weather turns warm, my taste buds ache for the flavors of summer! I can barely wait for a plump tomato. I look every day hoping for an early yellow blossom that will promise a big, ripe fruit!

But until then...more beans.

All of my love,

Glory

Baked Beans

Ingredients:

2 cups navy beans (or your favorite dried bean—not lentils or peas, though, they cook too fast)

2 teaspoons salt

3 tablespoons brown sugar

1/4 cup molasses

1 bay leaf

1/2 teaspoon dry mustard

1/4 cup chopped white onion

1 cup boiling water

1/2 pound salt pork

How to make it:

Wash beans, then cover with water and soak overnight and drain well.

Cover with large amount of boiling salted water.

Boil slowly for 1 hour, then drain well.

Combine salt, sugar, molasses, bay leaf, mustard, onion and water, then add to beans.

Pour into bean pot.

Score rind of pork and press into beans leaving rind exposed.

Cover beans with more boiling water and bake at 300°F for 4 hours.

Remove cover for last hour of baking.

May 23, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I’m sleeping, breathing, washing my face, putting on clothes. I’m also back at work for Dr. Aloysius Martin. Is this living? I don’t know. It’s an approximation, and I guess that’s good enough for now.

When I read about the medicine for Robbie, I immediately thought,
Sal, honey, investigate it when you get home.
I’m talking to him all the time, Glory. Don’t call the white jackets yet, though. I know he’s gone, but like I said, I drew his soul to me to rest, and he came. I haven’t been leaving him alone much, but then Sal was always big on talking. And anyway, that’s what I would be doing if I was going to church, right? Speaking with spirits?

I must say it’s helping. So is Dr. Aloysius Martin. When I first returned he treated me like a porcelain vase with a small crack—one false move and I would shatter to pieces. He also took the map down. First thing I did was put it back up. I want to watch us win this war on the wall in front of me. It’s heating up, but the result will be in our favor. I just know it. My Sal contributed to that. Dr. Aloysius Martin was enthusiastic, to say the least, and even bought be a new set of pushpins. He’s also stopped being so nervous around me.

I like occupying my brain with talk of longitude and latitude, and I like the way a flat map allows one to take in the entire world at a glance. I haven’t been outside this country. When we had a little time and money, we usually visited Sal’s family in Chicago, or my cousin in Atlanta. Once, we took Toby to the Black Hills and watched workers carve away at Mount Rushmore. But that’s pretty much it.

It shames me to admit this, but one of the reasons I was furious with Sal for enlisting was that he would see the world without me. When he’d write about North Africa or Italy I would grow jealous. I’m not proud of my pettiness. I’ve reread those letters over the past few weeks, and now I see he was trying to help me see those places, really see them, through his words, like a picture postcard. I’ve apologized to him for not appreciating his efforts. It’s not enough, though. I’m going to have to find an olive tree that will grow in Iowa. Charlie might be able to help me—he seems to have a knack for obtaining items no one else can get.

For some reason, I’m now comfortable with Charlie’s possible criminality. Maybe it seems such a small offense in the grand scheme of things. Irene doesn’t agree. She’s downgraded her relationship with Charlie to “friendly acquaintance” status. They do seem to be genuine friends, and the only change I’ve noticed is they’ve stopped holding hands at lunch. Still, it bothered me that I hadn’t been in my right mind when Irene made her decision. I showed up unannounced in the library yesterday afternoon, and convinced her to take a coffee break. It took a while to get her talking—it always does with Irene—but after a little prodding it all came tumbling out.

“I fell in love with the idea of having a man,” she explained. “I realized a war was going on, and I was still sitting at the same desk, surrounded by the same books, living the same life I’ll probably be living in twenty years. At first I was just excited. Then I thought he could save me from boring myself to death.”

“I don’t think you’re the first to think it, hon,” I said, patting her arm.

“It wasn’t fair to make someone else responsible for my life. Especially someone I don’t love. As much as I’ve tried to force it, he’s not right for me. I couldn’t keep on pretending he was.” She paused, took a sip of her coffee. “I know you’ll tell me the truth, Margie. Do you think I’m stupid? I’m thirty-nine this year—how many more chances am I going to get?”

I couldn’t answer that question. How much do any of us know the future? I did say this: “You’re very brave, and I don’t want anyone to save you from yourself. I like who you are.”

She smiled and went back to work. I hope she knows I meant every word.

Well, please write and tell me what the doctors said they could do for Robbie. I just adored the dove he drew. That boy is sure talented. I’ve stopped posting his work on my fridge and place it in a real frame instead. He’s turned me into a real art aficionado!

Love,

Rita

P.S. The beans went over really well at the USO. I’ve got one for you. Mrs. Hansen from down the block brought it over a couple of weeks ago when I came up for air.

Mock Veal Cutlets

1 pound ground veal

6 tablespoons fat (or something oily)

2 cups cooked rice

1 cup thick white sauce (Some milk with butter and flour to thicken it—don’t forget to season with salt and pepper. Can’t anything be made better with a dash of S and P?)

6 stuffed olives, minced

1 teaspoon salt

1 egg, beaten

1 cup fine bread crumbs

Cook veal in 2 tablespoons fat until well-browned; mix with rice, white sauce, olives, salt and egg; cool. Form into cutlet shapes; roll in crumbs. Fry in remaining fat until lightly browned. Cover; cook slowly ten minutes. Serve with tomato sauce.

May 30, 1944

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo

Dear Toby,

I’m looking at the moon. The one you just sent my way.

Love,

Ma

June 6, 1944, D-Day

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Rita,

Are you listening to the radio today? I am. Everyone is. I can fairly hear the echo of the voices from one home to another. And the church bells, they woke me this morning. Can you believe I felt annoyed at being woken? Just for a moment, before I realized what was going on.

And did you hear him, our president? “Our sons,” he called them. Hairs lifted all over my body as he spoke. It’s as if I understand all of it for the very first time.

I’ve had a pen in my hand all day. Snatching up scribbles of profundities. How will this be remembered? I want to take it all in. Absorb every moment.

I know Robert’s there, Rita. But then again I suppose all of us feel like all our boys are on those beaches. But I feel like it’s just so close to the part of Europe where he was stationed. It’d make logical sense.

And I’m so PROUD! I’m proud of them. So proud of Robert. And worried. More than I’ve been. I’m proud and worried about all of them. That being said...

I can feel this war turning. We’ll win this thing. Can’t you feel it?

And I just can’t shake the feeling that Sal is part of it. Some great swirling force changing the tide. He’d do that, your Sal. He’d win this war for everyone.

I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait. The whole world is silent. We are all sitting here, listening. Listening and taking moments to run into town for a cup of coffee and some rehashing of news.

Speaking of news... I have wonderful news about Robbie! There is a medicine called penicillin that we can give him the next time he gets the fever. It should kill the bacteria that is hurting his heart. And though he won’t ever be one hundred percent well, his chance of dying is greatly lessened. Those doctors at Yale are brilliant. Mad scientists, yes. But brilliant all the same!

I feel... Today I FEEL...some of that worry I was talking about rolling off my shoulders.

Oh, I can’t stand this letter writing anymore. My nerves tie themselves into knots while I wait. Please write soon.

Love,

Glory