I'll Be Seeing You (19 page)

June 6, 1944, D-Day

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

The Allies have liberated Rome!

I’m as proud as if Sal had opened the city gates himself. (In my imagination he did.)

I’ve spent the day glued to the radio. Is it wrong to feel relief even though the future is still not certain? I do, though. Immense relief. I slept soundly for the first time in ages last night.

And now I’m curled up in Sal’s chair with paper and pen, writing to you while I wait for the president’s speech. Roylene and Little Sal are here, keeping me company. The baby lies on a blanket examining his toes. Roylene is stretched out on the floor next to him, slowly writing her own letter—to Toby. She shields her words with one bony hand. I wonder what she’s hiding.

What she doesn’t realize is I don’t mind if she’s writing words of love. It’s her job to remind Toby that he is alive. If she slips in a photograph of herself wearing a polka-dot bathing suit—or less—well, I’m all for it. My boy could use something illicit to think about, even if it is flat-chested, ninety-pound Roylene. Look at me! All this talk of liberation is turning my mind salty!

Charlie and Irene are coming for dinner (together, but not together), and afterward we’re going to listen to the radio and pray. I’m sure you’re doing the same in Rockport, as is everyone else in this great nation. It’s got to have some power, right? Enough to give our boys the wind at their backs and solid ground beneath their feet?

Later...

Oh, Glory, he sounds worried. Still, the strength and intensity of his words made me want to crawl into the radio and grab hold of his magnificent voice. It could carry me to a better place. It could carry the world.

Our boys will hear it as they push forward. They’ll hear the sounds of our prayers and feel the strength of our love and gratitude. They have to.

Fred Waring’s group played “Onward Christian Soldiers” after the speech. Did you hear it? Usually that song makes me want to roll my eyes, but not this time. Charlie started crying, in the convulsive, soundless way that men do. “Don’t you understand,” he said after composing himself, “that’s a funeral dirge for the first wave.” We all thought about that, the many lives lost before we even opened our eyes this morning. I squeezed Charlie’s hand, but he left the room shortly thereafter. Irene stood up and sat down and stood up again, unsure of what to do. Then Charlie came back, eyes red, looking miserable.

We all sat, frozen in place, as the radio droned on.

After a bit Roylene walked over to Charlie, the baby on her hip. Without waiting for permission, she plopped Little Sal down on his lap.

Charlie held him gingerly, using only his fingertips, as though the baby might break if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t give him back, though, and after a few minutes, Charlie’s smile returned, and he drew Little Sal closer to his chest.

Seeing that baby in a man’s arms did me in. I bolted for the kitchen sink, splashing cool water on my face so I wouldn’t vomit. Before I could lift myself, I felt a consoling hand at my back, soft and warm against the thin cotton of my dress.

It was Roylene.

She wrapped her skinny arms around my midsection and squeezed. “This is from Toby,” she mumbled against my bosom. She held on while I cried, this wispy little sapling supporting a rubber-limbed, fully grown weeping willow.

It’s dark and quiet now here in Iowa, bedtime for most, though something tells me I won’t sleep quite as well tonight.

Love,

Rita

June 7, 1944

V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Sgt. Robert Whitehall

Darling Man,

I’ve listened to our president and heard the news of D-Day. There is a fire in my heart that I can’t smother. A worry...a knowledge I carry with me. I’ve kept my worry, my fear, my love for you, all locked up. And I’ve hidden behind so many things. And as I sit here, with the dark falling all around, I realize the rabbit holes I’ve dallied in. I’m sorry for evading you and all you do. I’m back on the topside of the earth now...and you have my whole heart.

I hope it’s not too late.

Come home to me, Robert.

Love,

Ladygirl

[Letter never sent.]

June 11, 1944

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

I went to town today to do my shopping at the open-air market and there were these
men sitting around playing chess. They were having a wonderful discussion and I lingered
over the cabbages and strawberries to listen. The gist of their conversations was
this: “This is everybody’s war, now.” And I agree with them—it’s never been so true.

I got your letter and was thrilled to see that in actuality we were listening to the
radio at the same time! It’s the little things that thrill me, that’s what Levi always
says. A certain slant of light, a delicate white trim on a previously red rose, a
dear (as of yet unmet) friend listening to the same words at the same time.

I feel less alone. But really, I’ve felt less alone since all those moons ago when
we began this lovely correspondence.

Day by day news drips in...too quickly. It must have been bad during those invasions,
because the secretary of war has been efficient with those telegrams. So far, so good,
here at our house. And the only issue is that we haven’t had a letter from Robert.
I’d feel better if we had a letter.

Truth is, we weren’t even due for one, he writes so infrequently, so I wouldn’t even
be worried if those damn church bells weren’t tolling every hour on the hour.

I’ve been thinking about all of you so much. With each ringing of that damn bell.
I think of Sal and Toby. Roylene and Irene. Charlie and Mrs. K.... Of course, Robert
is the first on my mind, but the rest of our collective brood wriggle their way in.
How I wish I could meet everyone in your world. What do you think about a possible
reunion of sorts? Can you use the term
reunion
when we have yet to meet? Well...that’s what I want to do, that’s what I want to
look forward to at the end of this damn war. A meeting. All members of both our clans.
Here, by the sea. Can we plan that? Let me know. Sal will be with us in spirit—I just
know it.

All is wonderful here, Rita...as good as it can be. The garden is thriving. Robbie
is better. He laughed. And there was no coughing afterward. I am so blessed.

Claire (my mother-in-law), came by the house the other day and I decided to practice
a little of what I like to call “Rita’s Good Sense.”

I smoked my contraband cigarette and leaned against my porch while I quietly listened
to her huff about all those “Artists” who didn’t have any “Moral Compass.”

You would have been so proud. I yessed her to death and, before I knew it, she was
gone. Silence is a powerful tool. I need to practice it more. Much more. The funny
part was that I (for the first time, God help me) watched her play with the children.
She does love them, Rita. That’s all that really matters, right?

How are you? Any word from Toby?

All my love,

Glory

June 13, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Our letters must be synchronized now. I got yours probably about the same time you
got mine. There’s something very comforting about that.

I’ve been thinking about Robert all day. Have you heard any news yet? The bravery
of those men continues to astonish me. I don’t think I really understood the word
hero before now. And they are, each and every one.

I feel in my bones that Robert is alive. Don’t ask me how I know—I just do.

I was so glad to read about the medicine for Robbie. It will make you all breathe
a little easier. I would put my faith in a mad scientist without question—they certainly
keep the world moving forward!

So...news on the Iowa front: Dr. Aloysius Martin promoted me to executive secretary.
I’m not exactly sure what the new title means, though I have my suspicions he wants
me to learn shorthand. Still, his wife used precious sugar to make a cake, and the
Martin children came in to sing “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” which made me laugh
and laugh. It felt good to laugh, Glory. I don’t do much of it.

In bigger news, Roylene and Toby are getting married.

Next month.

I’m not pulling your leg. Here’s the story:

Last Thursday, Roylene snuck away from the tavern long enough to stop by for lunch.
She looks even thinner, if that’s possible. It seems Roy expects more from her now,
maybe as a punishment, maybe out of general meanness. But being a mother changes a
woman, and Roylene is no exception. She’s sick and tired of Roy working her to death,
but she’s not going to hide out in that dingy kitchen waiting for her circumstance
to change for one more minute—Miss Roylene is going to take action.

Over tuna fish sandwiches (extra mayo—I make mine with corn oil), I told her about
the children’s center at the USO—volunteers provide care while war wives help out
in the factories. Plenty of gals around here make use of it, all in the spirit of
helping out. Well, I used my pull to get Myra Mezick on the phone—she heads up our
local program.

Roylene got to talking with Myra, asking questions and feeling her out, and everything
seemed fine until our girl went silent. “No, ma’am? I mean, yes, I understand,” Roylene
finally whispered. “Thank you much.” She returned the receiver to its cradle and turned
to me, eyes brimming. “They only take married women. I can’t lie about something like
that.”

What could I say? The world is not a fair place when you don’t follow its rules.

We sat down for fruit pudding (recipe to follow). Roylene bowed her head and got to
work putting away the dessert, but I think she didn’t want to look me in the eye.
I was too far inside my own head to console her, running through all the ways I could
talk Myra into bending the rules.

Roylene was scooping seconds on her plate when we heard a sharp rap on the front door.
It was Mrs. K., her mouth jammed into an expression I refer to as “early Mussolini.”

She pushed past me without a how-do-you-do and made a beeline for a shocked Roylene.
“You can get married,” Mrs. K. announced. “You call that woman back and tell her to
make a place for Toby’s baby.”

We’re still on a party line, Glory. Mrs. K. must spend half the day with her ear glued
to the phone, listening in on other people’s dramas. She breathes so heavily I’m amazed
anyone can hear themselves talk. Once, I interrupted my conversation to ask her if
she needed medical assistance.

So Mrs. K. heard Roylene’s entire conversation with Myra, and it got her goat. She
remembered a human interest story she read a few weeks back in one of her magazines.
Down in Kansas City is a lawyer who will marry young, war-separated couples by proxy.
It’s not legal in Iowa, but our fair-minded state will recognize the marriage nonetheless.
It’s on the up-and-up, according to Mrs. K., and only costs fifteen dollars.

“But that’s not a reason to marry someone,” Roylene said after Mrs. K. finished her
explanation. “I don’t mean no disrespect.”

I spoke before really thinking. “It’s not a reason, but it’s a good excuse to bring
it up. Did you want to marry Toby before this afternoon?”

Roylene smiled broadly. “Yes, ma’am. More than anything.”

“Well, then, you might as well ask him.”

You should have seen Roylene’s face. She ran for paper and pen, and started writing
out her V-mail proposal to my son.

I guess if you’re going to break society’s rules, why not keep breaking them?

I still haven’t quite sorted out my feelings on this. On one hand, I did mean to encourage
her. The marriage will be good for the baby and good for my boy—he’ll have something
to keep his spirits up. On the other hand...well, this isn’t the way it’s supposed
to happen. I hope that’s enough of an explanation.

Love,

Rita

Chilled Fruit Pudding

2 cups berries or cherries

1/2 cup sugar

2 1/4 cups water

1/2 teaspoon grated lemon rind

1/8 teaspoon salt

3 tablespoons cornstarch

Put fruit, sugar, 2 cups water, lemon rind and salt in a saucepan. Bring to a boil,
simmer 10 minutes. Mix cornstarch with remaining 1/4 cup of cold water and slowly
stir into hot mixture. Simmer 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Cool. Pour into individual
dishes or baking dish. Chill and serve with freshly whipped cream.

June 27, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Loneliness is built into the fabric of this war, isn’t it? When it gets bad I say
a little prayer before I stick my hand in the mailbox, hoping against hope for something
glorious. The “Rockport, Massachusetts” stamp on the front of an envelope means the
clouds will part, revealing a brilliant sun.

The funny thing is, I don’t really need the letters anymore to talk to you—we have
whole conversations in my head. Do you hear me over there by the sea? Someday after
this crazy war is over, we will meet. I look forward to that day, but to be honest
the thought fills me with anxiety. What if you hate the way I pluck my brows? What
if my voice blasts your ear like a foghorn, or I screech like chalk against a board?
What if I have a horrible habit of interrupting or absentmindedly picking my nose?
I’d be the last to know, right? What if...what if you just don’t like the looks of
me?

It’s strange, isn’t it? I’m familiar with the contents of every chamber in your aching
heart, but I have no idea what your hair looks like in the sun.

We will meet someday. I know it, too.

But in the meantime...news from the Iowa front. We haven’t heard anything from Toby
yet. As far as I know, he’s contemplating Roylene’s proposal when he isn’t scrubbing
latrines and avoiding enemy fire. Roylene’s been dodging her own bullets lately, so
she hasn’t had much time to pine.

Last Saturday morning, she showed up on my front porch with Little Sal and a shiner
the color of dried prunes. It seems Roy overheard her discussing possible job opportunities
with one of the waitresses and lost what’s left of his mind. He gave the poor girl
a good thwomping in the alley behind the tavern when she stepped out for a breath
of fresh air.

Sal always said it takes a true coward to hit a woman, but I think it just takes a
regular old son of a bitch. “That’s enough,” I said when I saw her face. I picked
up my pocketbook and my sweet, rosy-cheeked grandson and walked over to Mrs. K.’s
door.

She opened it wearing a housedress and pins in her hair. “Can you watch him for a
while?” I asked. Mrs. K. began mumbling excuses in German, but I kissed that baby’s
soft head and handed him over to her awkward embrace. “He’s no trouble. Roylene’s
got a bottle made and he takes lukewarm oatmeal.”

We hit the pavement before the old warhorse could say “nein.”

On the way to the tavern we stopped at Charlie’s boardinghouse and Irene’s apartment
and asked them to back us up. Ted, the boy with the eye patch, ran into us near the
co-op and asked what’s what. When we told him he joined in, and I’m sure we were a
sight marching down the sidewalk, kind of like Our Gang all grown up.

We had so much energy, Glory. It filled my lungs and reached every corner of my body,
all the way down to my toes. I thought there was a distinct possibility that I could
take on Roy myself, if that’s what it came to.

Only he was nowhere to be found. We pounded on the locked door and called him out,
but the bar stayed dark. Roylene hadn’t brought her key, so we kept at it, shouting
his name and demanding he come out and apologize. He didn’t care one bit about marking
that girl for the world to see, so we didn’t give a hoot about airing his dirty laundry
for all of Iowa City to inspect.

It was the middle of the day, so we didn’t notice the flashing lights until the squad
cars nearly swerved into our legs. Well, most of us didn’t notice. Irene went white
and tugged Charlie into the alley. That left Ted, me and Roylene.

The officers outnumbered us by two. It was only then that Roy came out of the tavern,
his ruddy face crumpled up like a spent pack of cigs. “These people are trespassing
on private property,” he growled, his hair blindingly white in the sun. “I want them
arrested.”

Roylene squared her shoulders and stepped in front of him. “Pop, you’re gonna need
to change the way you treat me,” she demanded. Her voice had a steel beam running
through the middle. I didn’t know she had it in her.

Roy stuck his hand out, like he needed to protect himself from an onslaught. “Arrest
these vagrants,” he said, spitting each word into the hot, humid air. The young cops
gazed uneasily at each other. Roy pulled out his wallet and extracted a worn card
with some signatures on it. “I hand over an envelope full of cash to the Officers’
Fund every year, you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” The boys nodded. They talked to Ted for a few minutes, then sent him on
his way because they wouldn’t arrest someone who’d “already paid a great debt overseas.”
That left Roylene and me.

Well, we spent the next few hours locked up in the city jail, until an officer came
to tell us we could leave with a fine and slap on the wrist. His sergeant didn’t like
the idea of two ladies sleeping on smelly, urine-stained cots like hardened criminals.
Once I gained assurance Roylene would not have a spot on her permanent record, we
accepted a ride to my house in the back of a squad car.

Of course, Mrs. Kleinschmidt stood watering her front yard as we pulled up. She held
Little Sal tight against her bosom with one thick hand, the hose in the other. Her
hard blue eyes stared at us as if she were etching the scene onto a photo negative
for later developing.

I thanked the officer—who was really quite nice and old enough to be my father—and
Roylene and I headed up my walk.

“Thank you much, Mrs. Kleinschmidt,” Roylene said. She smiled weakly, her features
etched with exhaustion. Mrs. K. reluctantly handed over the baby. Roylene thanked
her again and headed into the house, Little Sal watching over her shoulder with round
gray-blue eyes.

“You are not a good influence on that boy,” Mrs. K. scolded over the fence. “Causing
trouble. Working with a married man. Spending time with war profiteers.” She clucked
her tongue. “You don’t act like a widow. Where is your black dress? Why are you wearing
lipstick?”

I didn’t have any fight left in me. “Thanks for watching our boy,” I said tonelessly,
and went into the house without a look back. Roylene put the baby down for a nap and
I fixed the girl some cold chicken salad with sliced beets. I left her to eat in the
kitchen and pounded the stairs to my bedroom. I found my gold lamé dancing dress and
put it on, holes and all. I did my hair up in an elaborate twist, and put on a full
face of makeup. Then I sat barefoot on my front porch and drank strawberry wine with
Roylene until the sun fell all the way down. Mrs. K. was watching through the blinds.
At least, I hope she was.

Roylene and Little Sal spent the night. This morning I asked if she wanted to move
into my guest room. She said yes. I told myself it was for her and the baby’s benefit,
but who am I kidding? I’ve been cultivating solitude, as carefully as I do my garden
and the sunflowers growing past my gutters.

I don’t want to live alone, Glory. I’m afraid I’m getting used to it.

Rita

P.S. I haven’t heard from you, and I hope everything is all right. I also hope this
letter acts as a distraction if that’s what you need at the moment. It’s the least
I can do for you.