I'll Be Seeing You (10 page)

October 31, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo

Toby,

Happy birthday. Do you know what your present is? A child. Roylene is carrying it. How’s that for a surprise?

Here I am, worrying myself to death that this war is going to take you away, when the assassin was right here in Iowa City, biting her fingernails and peeling potatoes. Is this the life you had planned? Is she what you want? I can’t see it. And I thought I knew you better than anyone.

I should have known enough to save you from your mistakes. I should have banged that motel door down. I should have kicked it in.

But...what’s done is done. That baby is on its way into the world without you here to greet it. Do you trust me to do your job until you get home? I’m not sure I would, given my track record.

Your birthday gift is a promise to try. That’s all I’m capable of at this point.

I love you.

Your ma

[Letter never sent—slipped into the lining of Rita’s sewing kit.]

November 1, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dearest Glory,

I skipped All Souls mass. I just could not go, not with Roylene’s news, not with this war escalating. It made me crazy to think about the thousands of new souls crushed together, huddled in a universe too small to contain them. And those kneeling women, begging for their time to come? So selfish. I couldn’t stand it. Not today.

Instead, I hung our family’s Blue Star flag in our front window. Please don’t think me morbid for my decision, or unpatriotic for waiting so long. I know it should have gone up the minute Sal reported for duty, or when Toby went off to Maryland. I always found an excuse not to. It wasn’t denial, so much as superstition, I think. Am I growing into a silly old hag?

I cut the stars myself from one of my navy blue winter blouses, one for Sal and one for Toby. Identical. If it comes time to replace them with gold, I won’t do it. Tragedy should not shine like a Christmas ornament. Neither should sacrifice. If the worst does happen I will cut new stars from my black mourning dress, and I will wear it, holes and all.

About an hour ago I caught Mrs. Kleinschmidt standing at my gate, staring hard at the flag. She had the strangest look on her face. I walked out onto our porch and she didn’t say a word. But then, she of all people should understand how little it sometimes takes to knock someone into the abyss.

She’s a sliver in my big toe, that woman. At the YMCA on Friday there was talk of a German POW camp being planned for Algona, a small town to the north of us. Mrs. K. went white, and I feared she was going to keel over right into the pile of scrap metal the children had collected. You’d have thought she spotted an M.P. coming her way, ready to haul her off. Glory, Algona is over two hundred miles away!

That evening we had a blackout drill. I turned off all the lights but didn’t close the side curtains, figuring that even though they’re fading, my sunflowers would do a fine enough job shielding my windows. After the siren stopped I heard a sharp rap on my door. It was Mrs. K. with a black armband snug on her fleshy arm, and a flashlight at her hip. Our new air-raid warden.

She threatened to place me under a citizen’s arrest for defying the government’s order. I told her where she could stick those orders. Her face turned purple and she started shouting “Dummkopf! Dummkopf!” so loudly I’ll bet the Führer heard her in the Bavarian hills.

I leaned over and said, very clearly,
“Nazi-liebhaber!”

She unsheathed her flashlight and hit me smack across the thigh. It hurt! I ran out the front door with her chasing me, brandishing that heavy stick, and I kept yelling, “Nazi-lover! Nazi-lover!” like an overgrown schoolyard bully. Oh, Glory, I couldn’t help myself.

There is a welt on my leg the length of an ear of corn. I guess I deserve it. I suppose the strain of the past week made me lose control. Maybe I need to keep busier to take my mind off my worries? A bunch of the ladies from our USO club work at the canning plants on a temporary basis. I think it’s time I considered taking a job. Soon enough there’ll be another mouth to feed.

Speaking of which, I left a note at the tavern for Roylene to stop by so I could take her measurements. She came yesterday. That girl is about ready to bust out of her clothes, but Roy hasn’t noticed. I don’t think he’d look up from the till if she was giving birth right on the bar.

She chose some red wool from my fabric stash for a nice shirtwaist. (I can put in a drawstring instead of elastic.) I can’t have her fainting dead away in that ugly overcoat, can I?

I’m trying, Glory. Really I am.

Hope all is well with the Whitehalls.

Love,

Rita

P.S. Is Robbie getting bored during his convalescence? Can he hold a pencil yet? I would like him to draw something for me. I’ll post his work in my
other
front window.

P.P.S. Roylene still has not written to Toby. I have a letter ready to go that’ll get the job done. She’s got until Thanksgiving.

November 5, 1943

V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Sgt. Robert Whitehall

Darling Robert,

Oh, I have such news. Corrine is walking! I’m watching her right now, taking tentative steps, finding her footing. Her laughter nearly drowns out the bell tolling for the dead in this town. So full of life.

In other news—and don’t call me a gossip hound, this is important—my friend Rita is going to be a grandmother! You know...my pen pal? Well, get this. Her son, Toby, must have fallen in love with the town misfit, this young skinny thing by the name of Roylene. Toby’s back overseas, and Roylene is four months gone! A baby! Rita’s having a hard time with this news, as can be expected. But I can’t help but be excited for her. I’m looking at Corrine play and all I can see is the happiness she brings our family. Make sure you stay safe, my Robert. Don’t be a hero. Be good to yourself, and don’t worry about us. We are fine. I promise.

All my love,

Ladygirl

November 6, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

I am so glad you are making clothes for Roylene. Really. It might be because I have this chubby, perfect baby on my knee...or maybe because I realize how precious every little moment is because of Robbie’s illness. Nevertheless, I am excited about your new addition. Babies are babies. And they are darn cute. You are coping with this whole thing with a gracefulness that I admire. And I’m sure Toby and Sal will be over the moon. There’s nothing like a baby to keep our boys alive out there. I was hoping I might be pregnant again after Robert’s visit, but I was so sick. Your grandchild is a blessing in disguise. I promise you.

And you will make a wonderful (YOUNG) grandmother! Just look at what your gift did for my boy. Robbie made you a picture! He doesn’t hold a pencil well but I went out and bought some nice watercolor paints at the artist colony here on Rocky Neck. He made you a rainbow. It’s in my little care package. I’ve also sent more stockings, a book of holiday recipes I found at Toad Hall bookstore (I bought two, one for each of us) and a jar of my famous (first) rosehip jam. Can you tell I’m trying to keep busy?

Rita, would you consider coming for a visit? Maybe for the holidays? Is it too strange for me to ask? I have plenty of room here. Too much room.

Oh, Rita, I had a hearty laugh when I read your letter. I know that’s serious business, but my goodness. I adore your stories about Mrs. K. I know she’s a thorn in your side, but she amuses me to no end.

On another note, I’ve been going back to services with Anna. And meetings, too. We are doing all sorts of things to help the war effort. Tinfoil collection, newspaper, book drives, helping connect women who need money with jobs left empty by servicemen. I’m thrilled! I really like working next to her. I can see so much hope in the faces of the people who come down to that little meeting house.

And I believe in Hope, Rita. I hope so hard all day long. Hope for the war to end. Hope for Sal, Toby and my dear, dear Robert to come home safe and sound. Hope for Hitler to be strung up by his you-know-whats. I hope for Robbie to be Robbie again. And I hope you’ll come to visit me someday.

I’ve your room picked out already. Upstairs, it faces the sea. I’ve taken one wall and commissioned one of those artists to come and paint sunflowers. It’s where I’ll go to read your letters.

What will you do for Thanksgiving? I invited Robert’s mother and for once she’s accepted. So I’ll be having Claire, Anna and Marie and Levi. I’m going to do all the cooking and decorating myself. Who needs hired help? Not me!

With love,

Glory

P.S. Robbie asked who he was painting the picture for and, I hope it’s all right, I told him, “Auntie Rita.”

November 12, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Your last letter sounded so cheerful. I’m glad. Does this mean Robbie is getting some color back in his cheeks? I certainly hope so. Please tell him Auntie Rita posted his gorgeous watercolor in her front window because she wanted the entire neighborhood to appreciate its artistry. Irene said it’s better than some of the abstract pieces in the university collection. I completely agree.

Well, you’ve piqued my imagination, my dear. I can see the sunflower room vividly in my mind’s eye. Someday I will come for a visit, but right now I’m stuck in Iowa City because—get this—I have a job! It’s temporary and part-time, but it is an official job and I do have a number of responsibilities. I’ll be acting as secretary to the dean of the English department. Irene put in a good word, and when I proved I could type he hired me. (Pray he doesn’t ask me to take shorthand—I don’t know anything about all those squiggly lines.) The current secretary, a sweet-faced girl by the name of Florence, will leave for California directly after the Thanksgiving holiday. She’s going to San Diego for welder’s training, and will likely work in the shipbuilder’s yard until the war is over. So until then I am an employee of the esteemed University of Iowa, just like my Sal. Happy for me?

Speaking of Thanksgiving—I went a little off my rocker and invited Mrs. K. She knocked on my door again, this time holding a snow shovel. I asked her if she meant to bump me off this time, and she cracked the tiniest of smiles, like when a baby passes gas, I kid you not.

Then she asked me to clear her walkway, though we only got a dusting. I think she was trying to apologize, in her way. I agreed, which was me apologizing in mine. After I finished I returned the shovel and invited her. She promised to come by after she hands out turkey dinners at the USO. I bet she’s stingy with the gravy, don’t you?

Thank heavens there are plenty of birds this year, but it seems everything else is rationed. I used eight points to buy a can of cranberries at the grocery. I wasn’t going to make it, but Sal loves my sauce, so it felt wrong to leave it off the table. Maybe I’m superstitious, but changing my menu seems like an invitation to the gods of chance to start up some trouble. With that in mind, I’m making Toby’s favorite cornbread stuffing as well, with extra raisins and celery.

While I was picking up items at the grocery, I ran into Irene and Charlie shopping for their dinner. They didn’t notice me at first, so I spied on them from behind a towering RC Cola display. I’m not proud of myself, but there’s a lot to learn when people don’t know you’re looking, and there’s a lot about those two I want to know. Charlie’s behavior didn’t set off any alarm bells, quite the opposite, in fact. He orbits Irene, walking close but not too close, holding his hand under her elbow but not quite cradling it—it’s almost as if he fears she’s made of fine blown glass, and one false move could end in disaster. Irene does nothing to dispel this notion. It puts a barrier between them, thin and transparent like a photographer’s scrim, but there all the same. Was it made of fear? If yes, then my duty as Irene’s friend was to help push it aside. I stepped around the cola display, all smiles, feigning surprise. I invited them over for Thanksgiving dinner, as a couple. They accepted graciously. I told Charlie to bring some wine, which I intend to pour generously into both their glasses. Hopefully it’ll loosen them up some.

On my way home, I stopped over at the tavern and left a note on the alley door inviting Roylene. I asked her to come a few hours early. It’s about time I teach her to make a Vincenzo Thanksgiving feast. Maybe the two of us can figure out a way to get a container of stuffing to the South Pacific.

I also—drumroll—invited Roy. I know I should have extended the olive branch in person, but I have no idea if Roylene finally took off that overcoat.

Well, I need to head over to St. Mary’s to help with the linens for the memorial mass honoring the five Sullivan brothers of Waterloo. I can’t believe it’s been a year since they were killed. I think of their mother, traveling around speaking for the war effort with the weight of all that grief on her shoulders. She’s a better woman than I.

Difficult as it is, I am trying to believe hope has a place in this war, just like you suggested. Thanks for the reminder, hon. I should be thankful for what I do have at this time of year, and my blessings are many.

Have a lovely Thanksgiving dinner,

Rita

November 25, 1943, Thanksgiving Day

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

It’s late here. The children are asleep. The dishes are washed, the floor is swept. The leftovers covered and tucked topsy-turvy on top of themselves in the icebox. I’m afraid to open the thing! I made way too much. Seeing as I used most of my rations, I suppose leftovers are a good thing.

Oh, darling Rita. A job? I’m so, so happy for you. And so proud. How wonderful it will be to work at a university. You’ll be great. You’ll pick it up in no time. Shorthand is nothing after you’ve battled and won over the terrifying Mrs. K.

Robbie is doing well. But he’s still a different boy. Lately I’ve become absolutely obsessed with the ease at which we humans adapt to things. Three years ago I was a young bride in a Free World. Now I’m the mother of two children and an army wife. And the world is on the verge of chaos and tyranny. (I sound just like Anna giving one of her talks. I’m happy to even hold those words in my mouth, to let them come out of my pen is divine. I want to write speeches, too. What do you think? Would it be too horrible for Robert to come home to an activist wife?)

Here’s what I’ve adapted to in terms of my son. He will never be a soldier. He will never be an athlete. He will be at risk of death every time he gets ill...and he will be prone to such illness. To put it bluntly, he could die. Any moment. But so could Robert and Sal and Toby. At least I am here with him. He’s not alone. Our other boys? They are alone out there without us.

Levi kissed me again tonight. There was wine with dinner. Anna and Marie had gone. My mother-in-law never made it here. There was a little snow on the ground and it scared her away. He put the children to sleep. He’s been here more and more lately, so I’m sure I should have expected this. We’ve been exchanging glances, and every once in a while his hand brushes mine. I’ve been writing to Robert almost every night to assuage my guilt. And I miss him, Rita. I don’t want you to think I don’t. I miss him so much. But he’s not here. And the attention and friendship I get from Levi...the little everyday things like putting the children to bed. That sort of normalcy has lulled me into a false sense of what is real and what is not.

I washed the dishes and listened to the radio. I was missing Robert. Missing the way he used to dance with me in the kitchen.

I felt Levi behind me before he even touched me. When I turned around, his face was right in front of mine. “Gloria,” he said. I closed my eyes and it was as if my name echoed across a thousand million years. His mouth. I still feel the burn where his stubble scraped my skin. God help me, Rita, I wasn’t the one to pull away. He was. I was leaning, almost in a backbend over the sink. I could feel him pressing against me and I wanted him to just do it already. To make me the woman my mother must have been.

Then a dish hit a glass and he ran out of the kitchen, out the back door and into the night. I followed him as far as the porch. He was standing in the dark yard staring at the sky. He didn’t turn around.

“I can’t do this, Glory. I can’t pretend to live this life with you.” He ran his fingers through his hair but never turned around. He just walked into the night. Thank God Marie left a package of cigs. I’m smoking right now. Sitting here in your sunflower room and smoking. Thinking about writing activist speeches and becoming an adulteress. See? Look what we can adapt to. All sorts of things.

On November 11 (Armistice Day), I received my first “romantic” letter from Robert. Mostly he fills his letters with domestic things. But not this one. He misses me, Rita. He aches for me and this is how I treat him? Is it possible to be in love with two men at the same time? Or is this feeling I have for Levi a memory? The memory of love.

Living inside of all this anxiety is difficult. I don’t know if I should grab at life or wait for it to grab me.

Please don’t be angry. I’m young and reckless.

Love,

Glory

P.S. Robbie sent another picture. This one is of a turkey. See his handprint?

P.P.S. It’s morning now and I am posting this letter. I thought about ripping it up and giving you a rundown of my menu instead, but I want you to know everything. Levi was sitting on the front porch this morning drinking coffee. He’d come in and made a pot. “Never again,” he said. “Whatever you say,” I told him. So I guess that is THAT.