The Violets of March (10 page)

Plenty of people got letters from GIs. Amy Wilson received at least three a week from her fiancé. Betty at the salon bragged about the long, flowery letters from a soldier named Allan stationed in France. I didn’t get a single one—not that I really expected to—yet I made sure I was home at precisely two fifteen each day, which was exactly when the postman made his way to our door. Maybe, I thought. Maybe he’d write.

But nobody had heard from Elliot. Not his mother. Or Lila. Or any of the other women he’d dated—and there were many—after me. So I was shocked the day the letter came. It was a dark, early March afternoon, colder and grayer than usual, even though the crocuses and the tulips were pushing their way through the frozen ground, eager to usher in spring. Yet Old Man Winter refused to relinquish his grasp.

The postman came to my door and delivered a certified letter, addressed to me. I stood there in my light blue housedress on the front porch lined with flowerpots—pansies, Bobby’s favorite—and gulped, hard. The envelope was wrinkled and battered, as though it had endured a harrowing journey to reach my doorstep. When I saw “First Lieutenant Elliot Hartley” on the return address, I prayed the postman wouldn’t notice my trembling hands as I signed for it.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Littleton?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m just a little jittery today. Too much coffee. I was up with the baby last night.” I would have said anything to get him to go away.

He grinned in a way that told me he saw through my story. Everyone in town knew about Elliot and me, even the postman. “Good day,” he said.

I closed the door behind me, and I ran to the table. The baby was fussing in the nursery, but I didn’t go to her. I was capable of doing only one thing at that moment, and that was tearing the letter open.

Dear Esther,

It’s dusk here in the South Pacific. The sun is setting, and as I sit here under a palm tree I have a confession to make: I can’t stop thinking about you.

I’ve thought a lot about whether to write you, and my conclusion is this: Life is too short to worry about the consequences when you love someone as I love you. So I write you this letter as a soldier would, without fear, without question, and without knowing if it might be my last.

It’s been close to a year, hasn’t it? Do you remember? That day on the ferry coming back from Seattle, I knew I could see hesitation in your eyes when Bobby announced your engagement. Tell me that was what it was, because I have racked my brain for months about why we didn’t end up together—why it wasn’t you and me, instead of you and Bobby. Esther, since the day we chiseled our names into Heart Rock when we were seventeen, I knew we belonged together—forever.

I sat up in bed and set the pages down. Heart Rock? Wasn’t that the same rock Greg had taken me to just tonight? I felt an eerie sense of connectedness to the pages as I picked them up and continued.

I should have told you all of this long ago. Before everything happened. Before you doubted me. Before Bobby. Before that awful day in Seattle. And I will forever be haunted by that.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. That is the reality of war, and I suppose the reality of love, too. No matter the outcome, I want you to know that my love endures. My heart is, and forever will be, yours.

Elliot

I don’t know how long I sat there at the table, just staring at the letter, reading it over and over again, studying it for clues, anything. Then I noticed the postmark: September 4, 1942. It had been sent almost six months ago. Either the military mail system moved at a snail’s pace, or—dear Lord—Elliot could be . . . I swallowed hard, and didn’t let my mind go a step further.

I don’t know how long I let the baby cry—it could have been minutes or hours—but when the phone rang, I sat up, straightened my dress, and answered it.

“Hello?” I said, wiping away tears.

“Dear?” It was Bobby. “Are you all right? You sound upset.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m working late again tonight. I’ll be on the eight o’clock ferry.”

“OK,” I said, without emotion.

“Kiss our sweet angel for me.”

I hung up the phone and turned on the radio. Music would help. Music could ease my pain. I sat there at the table, staring at the wall, when “Body and Soul” came on. It was the song Bobby and I had danced to at our wedding. I had thought of Elliot with each step, because it had been our song, and now, as I stood in my living room, I danced alone, and let the music soothe me, since Elliot couldn’t:

My heart is sad and lonely
For you I pine, for you dear only . . .

By the second verse, the song felt haunting, cruel, even. So I switched off the radio, tucked the letter into the pocket of my dress, and went to get the baby. I rocked her until she fell asleep again, and while I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about what a tragedy it is to be married to the wrong man.

I wanted to read more. I wanted to know what had happened, early on, between Esther and Elliot that had led to this. And I wanted to know, as Esther did, if the love of her life was still alive. I worried about Bobby, too, good and decent Bobby, and the baby. Would Esther leave them if Elliot came home from war?
Would
Elliot come home from war? But it had been a long day and my eyes were closing.

Chapter 6

March 4

“
Y
our mother called last night,” Bee said at the breakfast table, her head buried behind the
Seattle Times
. Her face was expressionless, as it always was when she spoke of my mother.

“Mom called . . .
here
?” I asked, applying a generous slather of butter to my toast. “That’s strange. How did she know where I was?”

My mom and I weren’t close, not in the traditional sense. Sure, we talked on the phone, and I’d visit her and my dad in Portland often enough, but there was always a part of her that seemed distant and closed off. Our relationship was tinged with an unspoken disapproval, one I could never understand. She’d been nearly heartbroken when I chose creative writing as an emphasis in college. “Writing is such an unhappy path,” she said. “Do you really want to do that to yourself?” At the time, I shrugged it off. What did my mother know about the literary life? Yet, the words followed me through the years, and haunted me quietly until I began to wonder if she was right.

And as I wrestled with my mother’s censure, her natural relationship with Danielle, who was two years younger than me, did not go unnoticed. When I got engaged to Joel, I asked her if I could wear Grandma Jane’s veil for my wedding, the one I’d clipped to my hair during dress-up sessions a hundred times as a girl. Instead of giving me her blessing, however, Mom shook her head. “No, I don’t think that veil is right for your face,” she said in protest. “Besides, it has a tear.” I was hurt, but even more so three years later when Danielle walked down the aisle wearing the lace veil, perfectly pressed and mended.

“She called your apartment, and your friend Annabelle told her you were here,” Bee said. I could hear that tone in her voice, the one that said she took pleasure in the fact that my mother was out of the loop on my life.

“Did she say whether it was important?”

“No,” she said, turning a page of the newspaper. “She just wants you to call her back when you can.”

“OK,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. I paused and then looked up again. “Bee, what is it with you and my mom?”

Her eyes widened. I knew I’d caught her off guard. After all, I’d never before asked her about family matters. This was new territory for both of us, but there was something about where I was and what I’d gone through that made me feel bolder.

She set the paper down. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve sensed some tension over the years,” I said. “I’ve always wondered why the two of you don’t like each other.”

“I love your mother dearly, always have.”

I scrunched my nose. “It just doesn’t add up,” I said. “Then why do you barely speak?”

She sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ll take the short version, then,” I said, leaning in closer, clasping my hands around my knees.

She nodded. “Your mother used to come stay with me as a girl,” she told me. “And I loved having her. So did your Uncle Bill. But one year things changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “your mother started asking questions about her family.”

“What about her family?”

“She wanted to know about her mother.”

“Grandma Jane?”

Bee looked out the window at the water. Grandma Jane had passed away about ten years ago. Grandpa was devastated, and so was my mom, though she’d had a complicated relationship with her mother. I’d felt a little indifferent about Grandma’s passing, as awful as that sounds. It wasn’t that she was unkind to me. Every year on my birthday, even after I graduated from college, she sent a birthday card, with well wishes written in the most beautiful cursive handwriting—so elegant that I needed my dad’s help to decipher it. She displayed photos of my sister and me on her mantel. Still, there was something missing about Grandma Jane. Something I could never quite put my finger on.

She and my grandfather left the island when my mom was young and moved to Richland, a city in Eastern Washington that’s about as exciting as boiled broccoli. I once overheard Bee talking to Uncle Bill about how they’d been “hiding” there for too many years, that Grandma Jane wouldn’t let Grandpa move back to his home, the island.

Every year we’d visit Richland for Christmas, but I never wanted to go. I loved my grandpa, but with my grandma, well, there was just something forced about it that even a child could detect—the sideways glances she’d send my way at the dinner table or the way she’d stare at me when I spoke. Once, when I was eleven, my parents left my sister and me in Richland for the weekend while they went on a trip. Grandma offered us a box of her old clothes from the 1940s, and of course, Danielle and I relished the opportunity to play dress-up. But when I put on a red gown with lace around the bodice, Grandma looked at me, horrified. I can still picture her standing in the doorway of the living room, shaking her head. “Red is not your color, dear,” she said. I felt embarrassed and awkward. I pulled the white gloves off my hands and unclasped the costume jewelry from my neck, trying my best to choke back the tears.