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Your words gave me a much needed respite from worry. Thank you for that. I laughed and laughed about the sunflowers. I want to learn to do something with this rocky patch of land I have here behind the house. It’s falling down due to a lack of upkeep, but lovely just the same. Robert wants me to move in with his mother who lives in Beverly, but I can’t leave this place. It was my family’s summerhouse (though since I married Robert, we’ve called it our permanent home). It’s so soothing, with the sea on one side and the woods on the other. I’m only ten minutes from town and the bus stops right at the end of our road. I wish he wouldn’t worry so much. I’ve been independent all my life.
So, your Sal is in Tunisia? How exciting! My Robert is in Sparta, Wisconsin, training. I guess it’s going to be cold over in Europe. Funny, I always remember it being warm there. I find myself thinking more and more about the past the bigger my belly gets with this baby. Isn’t that strange? But I suppose this war makes thinking about the future too difficult.
Tell me more about you, Rita. Tell me what else you grow in your garden and how you grow it. Should I be doing anything now in my yard? Tell me what it’s like to have a grown-up boy. Robbie might just kill me. He already hates the baby. I’m trying to tell him everything will be all right, but how can I say it with a straight face? My son’s no idiot. He knows when I’m lying.
The medicine won’t taste bad.
The bath is not hot.
Daddy will be safe.
Lies.
I’m so big now I can’t do much. And the snow...it falls and there isn’t any relief. I go to the market once a week and then come home.
So thank you, Rita. Thank you for writing back. Because life is so closed up...and now it feels more open, like a wide, wide field in Iowa.
I’m enclosing a sketch of my square bit of earth here on the cliffs that I call a backyard. It’s sunny. Tell me what I should plant in my victory garden, Garden Witch.
And tell me a better lie to tell my son so he grows up as good and open and pure as yours seems to be.
With great newfound affection,
Glory
February 19, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
I wish I had red hair! Once my hair was as vibrant as Toby’s, but now it’s faded and pale. I wear bright coral lipstick all the time so people have something else to look at. Thank heavens for Mr. Max Factor.
Anyway, your letter came just before lunch yesterday. I read it while picking at a hamburger plate in a dark leather booth at the Capitol Café. Irene is in Omaha visiting family, so I’d planned on staying inside with some egg salad and a cup of tea. Then the postman arrived and I got ants in my pants so I grabbed what he brought and hoofed it into town.
The emptiness is hard to get used to. It’s the middle of the academic term, yet I could roll a bowling ball down Washington Street and not hit a soul. I’m sure the weather has something to do with it (a whopping eight degrees at noontime), but more likely it’s this war. With so many boys gone overseas the university might as well rename itself Sister Josephine’s School for Educating Ladies. And those gals have no time for meandering—they are busy bees indeed.
It sounds like you have your hands full as well. Robbie will come around, but he is at a tough age. Now that I think about it, all the ages are difficult, even after they leave the house. Take my Toby, for instance. Turns out you were slightly mistaken in your assessment of him—he isn’t quite on the shortlist for sainthood.
I had just returned from the café yesterday when someone knocked on the front door. My heart nearly stopped beating—the unannounced visitor is about as welcome as the devil these days—and I ran to the window to see if a government vehicle sat in our driveway. I wanted to start dancing when I saw it was a girl standing on the porch. She was a colorless, skinny thing, mewling like a cat, and when I ushered her inside she started crying, tears so big and fat I worried she’d drown.
Her name is Roylene.
“My daddy owns Roy’s Tavern? On Clinton Street? By the co-op grocery?”
Everything is a question with this girl, like she doesn’t trust herself enough for the declarative. I took her coat and snuck a sly glance at her tummy (flat as a pancake, thank God), and poured a cup for her. She slurped at it like a Chinaman.
Apparently when my Toby turned eighteen he headed straight for the enlistment office, and then took a detour through Roy’s Tavern on his way home. Instead of going to class last November he sat on a bar stool writing in his notebooks and spouting poetry to Roylene. “My daddy says I’m no good behind the bar? So I work in the kitchen? Toby sits between the sacks of flour and potatoes and keeps me company?”
At that last question she started crying again. I swear, Glory, I did not know what to do. I patted her hand, which was all bone. That girl might work in a kitchen but she sure isn’t doing any eating.
“Have you tried writing to him, hon?” She cried harder at this, her small frame racking over my kitchen table.
“I’m no good at it? I thought I’d just wait until he came back? But I can’t wait anymore?”
“Do you want me to include a message from you when I write to him?”
Her face lit up, and for a few short seconds I could see what kept Toby interested.
“Please?”
So she’s coming back next Monday, her day off. I have no idea what Toby really thinks of her. I’m tempted to write him a letter first, to ask, but now that just seems mean.
I have been giving some thought to your garden. I’m spoiled—Iowa’s soil is rich and loamy. I was stumped, so I asked Irene. She said to think about the rocky places we’re reading about in the newspapers—the shores of Italy, the mountains of Greece. What do they grow there? Oregano? Lemon balm?
Or, you could simply throw down a few inches of compost and fake it. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Do the best with what we have? It’s not lying, dear. Don’t look at it that way. It’s hopeful pretending. Consider it your patriotic duty.
Sincerely,
Rita
February 20, 1943
V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo
Sal,
I can fit exactly fifteen lines on these damn things. Sixteen if I don’t sign my name. You’ll know who it’s from, wontcha? Maybe I’ll seal it with a kiss and the censor can get lipstick all over his fingers.
I miss you. The nights are quiet, but the mornings are worse—this town seems cleared out, like everyone snuck off without saying goodbye. I know what you’re thinking and I am trying to keep myself busy. Promise. I have a war wife pen pal (surprise, surprise) and Mrs. Kleinschmidt has me down at the American Legion rolling bandages. I hate the look of them. Bandages have only one use, you know?
I guess you do know. But I’m not supposed to write about things like that so I won’t. The thought of you getting a letter with the words blacked out is just too depressing.
Anyway, Toby wrote last week. He said the air in Maryland smells like fish soup and his bunkmate’s name is Howard. He neglected to mention anything about the girl who came looking for him a few days ago, some scrawny thing named Roylene. Ring a bell for you? Didn’t for me. I suppose she’s harmless enough.
Now I’ve done it. Only one line to say I love you. And I do. Be safe. XO Rita
March 1, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
I’m so glad you are good at telling stories. I haven’t curled up with a good book in a long time, since before Robbie was born. When I was a girl, I’d spend the day at the beach with only a blanket and the latest Nancy Drew mystery. I loved her outspokenness. She was never afraid. I admired that so.
And what a mysterious situation you find yourself in. I wonder what your boy is up to. Do you like her, this girl? I couldn’t tell from your letter. I guess it doesn’t matter. At least you have something to take your mind off Sal.
My Robert’s mother, Claire Whitehall, doesn’t like me. Never did. She thinks I’m “new money” because my mother wasn’t technically part of the New England aristocracy. Imagine. I was brought up summering right here on these rocks in this town. I’d barely even kissed a boy until Robert. And even though I’ve known her my whole life, I can’t seem to get her to accept me. I’ve almost stopped trying. Almost.
An herb garden sounds lovely. I’ve ordered seeds from the Sears Roebuck catalog and my dear friend Levi Miller is going to fix up a big square like you said with all that good soil. Then I’ll put in all kinds of things. And some big sunflowers just for you.
Levi can’t fight. He’s got a bad heart or something. You’d never know it from looking at him. As children, we played on the beaches together every summer right here in Rockport. He never seemed to have any difficulty keeping up with Robert when we were small. Or me, for that matter—have I told you I was considered a tomboy? Still am, in some ways, though you’d never suspect it if you saw me. It’s Levi who plays with Robbie now that I can’t run around anymore. I’m almost due. Any day now, actually. I’m not even a bit scared of the pain. Does that convince you? It doesn’t convince me.
As I write this letter I’m watching Robbie, my little love, play in the snow. My heart aches for Robert. Rita, will it ever stop? The missing? I just don’t know. Everything is the same, and then new, and then the same again (only not really the same). The best thing for me is to keep on going about my day as if my sweet husband were to walk in the door any moment, picking up Robbie with one strong arm, and folding me close to him with the other.
I still cook for him. I know it sounds crazy. I’ve been making this recipe every week. It’s so easy, and doesn’t touch the sugar ration. Enjoy.
Beer Bread! (So simple and good.)
Mix one bottle of beer, three cups of self-rising flour and 1/2 cup corn syrup. Bake at 375°F for 45 minutes.
Let me know if you like it.
Warm wishes,
Glory
March 9, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
You would think Iowa would be oozing with corn syrup—corn grows everywhere here. Would you believe I once saw a stalk shooting up through a crack in the sidewalk? Our grocery was all out, though, so I borrowed some from Mrs. Kleinschmidt. She’ll probably lord it over me, but the bread was worth it. Completely delicious.
My heart goes out to Levi. The men left here walk around town like they forgot where they parked their cars. Do you know that look? Something’s missing, and probably will be for their entire lives. Are they the lucky ones? I don’t know. I am glad you’re giving Levi something to do. Have him get that soil in fast so you can let it set a bit before you plant. Treat new soil like a newborn babe—lots of rest, lots of food, lots of love.
Roylene came back, scratching at the door again like a stray. She wanted to add something to the note I was writing to Toby. “Well?” I said as we sat down at the kitchen table. She jammed one dirty fingernail in her mouth and bit down. Her eyes looked everywhere but at me.
Patience is indeed a virtue, but I had dishes to wash and wasn’t feeling particularly virtuous. “Spit it out,” I said.
She flinched. “Tell him I finally got the potato soup right?”
So I used one of my precious lines of V-mail for an update on Roylene’s cooking skills. I didn’t ask her to stay for dinner. Heck, I didn’t even pour her some tea. Maybe this war is making me mean. I haven’t heard from Sal. Not a word, Glory, and it’s driving me nuts. To answer your question, the missing never stops. For me, the wondering is even worse. We’ve been married for twenty-one years. I’d like to think I’d know if he died. I’d feel it, right?
When I stepped onto the porch to see Roylene out, Mrs. Kleinschmidt stood on her front lawn, staring hard at both of us. I watched her look down her ski slope nose at the girl’s tatty coat and men’s galoshes. My conscience started poking at me.
“Roylene,” I called out as she latched my front gate.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’ll come to the tavern and read you Toby’s letter when it comes.”
She smiled, the little bit of brightness in that girl coming out. I waved and Roylene shuffled down the road, head hanging low between her bony shoulders. She was barely out of earshot when Mrs. Kleinschmidt started in about Okies and vagabonds and the progeny of Mr. Roosevelt’s handouts. I stuck my tongue out at her haughty face and she put a cork in it, stomping up her porch steps without another word. I felt guilty later so I wrapped up half the loaf of beer bread and brought it over as a peace offering. She knew right off it was a day old, and her complaints followed me all the way home. It was good the second day, and the third, too. Irene even said so when I brought her some for lunch. We ate it with stew made from every leftover vegetable I had in my icebox, along with some Spam I chopped up and added to the mix. Cook that stuff with an onion and you might as well be eating filet mignon!
Take care of yourself, hon, and let me know when that baby comes.
Sincerely,
Rita
March 16, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
This baby will NEVER come. The doctor predicted I’d have it two weeks ago. I know these things can’t be rushed or even speculated about. But with each passing day I get heavier and more sluggish. Like a big fat slug in the garden.
Also, my temper is short. This adorable little girl ran up to me in the market yesterday and said, “Is that a baby in your tummy?” and I snapped back, “What do you think it is? Do you suppose I’ve swallowed a watermelon?”
Her sweet little eyes filled up with tears and I thought her mother might yell at me or glare, even. But no...she looked at me with soft forgiving eyes that told me she understood. She’d been there, too. Women know one another, don’t we? We can peer into our deepest, hidden places.
Well, maybe not all women.
I grew up around fancy things, Rita. Nurseries and nannies. My mother? Well, let’s put it this way—she was a side dish more than a main course in the banquet of my youth.
Father and Mother traveled a lot. It’s funny, I don’t remember missing them. Mostly I was excited to see what presents they brought me from wherever they went. Swiss chocolate, Spanish flamenco dancer dolls, music boxes.
Gosh, sitting here doing nothing but growing large is making me remember strange, forgotten things. And I’m noticing things, too.
Like the way I sway back and forth even if I’m not holding Robbie. I see other mothers do this, as well. You swing, lulling them to sleep even if they’re not in your arms.
My mother never swayed. She stood up so tall it was as if a string held her up from heaven. “Don’t slouch, Gloria. If you slouch like that the world will treat you like a pack mule. Good posture is the key to independence.”
I have to admit I still slouch sometimes.
And also, her hands. My mother’s hands were always perfect. She wore gloves when she went out, but when at home she kept a pot of hand cream (rosewater and glycerin) near her at all times. Rubbing it in methodically. Cuticles first, then nails. The backs of her hands and then up each finger. I believe her hands were soft like rose petals. But I hardly ever felt them.
She died three years ago, my mother. From the cancer. I miss her every day.
I’ve been thinking of her hands a lot. I can’t imagine having such perfect hands. Mine are rough, but strong. And my son knows them well.
I suppose this is all nonsense. Nonsense written by a woman very tired of carrying this weight. (And who might be at the end of her rope!)
I suppose my childhood was lonesome, too. I’ve promised that my own children will never feel alone.
But there’s a funny thing about promises. It’s easier to keep them before you make them.
Love,
Glory
P.S. I’ll write as SOON as this baby makes his or her appearance. I promise!
April 1, 1943
V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo
