I'll Be Seeing You (7 page)

August 2, 1943

V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Sgt. Robert Whitehall

Darling Robert,

How are you? I hope you are keeping yourself safe and warm. Everything is good here, so I don’t want you to worry about one little thing. The kids and I are fighting a little summer cold. Sweet Corrine looks so cute with her red nose! The garden is beautiful. I’m so happy I struck up this friendship with Rita. You remember, the woman from Iowa? She’s giving me such good advice about all sorts of things. Mostly it’s nice to have another woman who’s waiting and worrying to talk to. I know there are plenty of women in town, but there’s something about Rita. I trust her. I’m enclosing a current picture of Corrine and Robbie. See how fat she is! She’s such a delightful baby. We look at your picture every night. I’m trying to teach her to say, “Da Da.”

Love and kisses,

Glory

August 8, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

My sunflowers have grown taller than me. They guard the house, like good soldiers, blocking me from the assault of Mrs. K.’s disapproving glances, but also from the sun, the sound of street traffic, the children playing hopscotch down the block. I’m cowering behind them, Glory, but you are not. Obviously your sunflowers have not reached the same heights. Or maybe you took hedge clippers to them? Or made Levi do it?

I was surprised by the contents of your last letter, but not shocked. I tried to muster a fair amount of outrage, but it seems I already know you too well for that. Did it feel like jumping off a cliff when he kissed you? I imagine it did.

I’m not one for cliff-jumping. You were right about the fear. It’s getting into everything—my thoughts as I make the bed, the fibers of my dress, the dust settling on our dining room table, the lettuce on my sandwich. It whispers in my ear as I tend the garden, calling “Sal” or “Toby” or, sometimes, my own name. I’m afraid, Glory. Afraid of what I read in the papers. Of not knowing if Western Union will deliver a telegram from someone I’ve never met, telling me my husband or son died on soil my feet have never touched.

I’m also afraid of what I might do, that without my family I am unmoored and untethered, about to float into the horizon, never to be seen again.

Is this weakness? I don’t know. The first time I read your letter I blamed Levi for catching
you
in a moment of weakness, the skips in the phonograph record where we forget who we are, no longer mothers or wives or citizens, but simply beings without a thought to the past or future, just the present. It sounds crazy, but I wanted to yell at him, to force him to give the moment back to you, so you could decide what to do with it. But then, you took it, didn’t you? You didn’t push him away.

Which makes me want to yell at you. Why aren’t you hiding? Why aren’t you sitting in your front parlor, the windows darkened by the flowers planted with your own hands? Why are you kissing men on sunny days, your hair wild, your conscience untroubled?

I’m sorry, Glory. My mind and heart are skipping beats. I’m looking at the photograph of your mother right now, holding her baby, and I can’t help but wonder that if she knew—if any of us really understood the nature of things at the start—she’d have scooped you up and run like hell.

Rita

August 9, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

Sal,

Big news on the Iowa front: Irene has a beau. His name is Charlie Clark. He’s younger than our gal, but not by much, and probably 4-F, though he looks healthy as a horse. Flat feet, maybe?

Irene and I still meet for lunch every day, but our movie nights at the Englert have been replaced with romantic rendezvous about which she is curiously tight-lipped. I don’t bug her for details. Instead, I’ve been spending my expanding free time at the American Legion helping Mrs. K. and her minions prepare for the massive canning campaign this fall. I hope some of it gets to you, hon. Should I slip a fiver in with the sweet corn? Maybe then you could get your hands on some cigs.

Well, take care. Please write soon if you can.

Miss you,

Rita

P.S. Now that you and Toby are ganging up on me, I’ll go back to the tavern to see how she’s doing. I did try once, but it was closed for inventory. Ha! I bet that Roy fellow can’t even count.

August 28, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

After I sent that last letter to you I almost ran down to the post office to steal it back. But when I thought about digging through all those V-mails, burying myself under a mountain of hopes and fears and flop-sweat, well, I just couldn’t. I let my words go.

And now I’ve offended you, haven’t I?

I treasure Sal’s and Toby’s letters. When they come I breathe a little easier, and let myself think of the future.

But when I receive a letter from you I make a pot of tea, and sit down with it like an old, dear friend. My life would be darker without them, Glory.

Please write back.

Sincerely,

Rita

Sept. 1, 1943

Telegram from Mrs. Anna Moldenhauer to Mrs. Marguerite Vincenzo

MESSAGE FROM GLORY. ALL FELL ILL WITH FLU. IN HOSPITAL. CORRINE AND GLORY RECOVERING WELL. ROBBIE CRITICAL. PRAYERS.

A. MOLDENHAUER

Sept. 2, 1943

Telegram from Mrs. Marguerite Vincenzo to Mrs. Anna Moldenhauer

HEARTBROKEN. SENDING PRAYERS. HOW CAN I HELP?

M. VINCENZO

September 5, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

I have no adequate way to begin this letter. I must have started six times. Thank God we’re timber-rich here in America and our paper isn’t rationed. Not yet, anyway.

I suppose I must begin the way my heart wants me to begin. With an apology. I’m so sorry, Rita. I’m so sorry I asked Anna to send you that telegram. It was a selfish thing to do. In my defense, I was so sick. And Anna was kind enough to bring me my mail. When I read your letter I realized I was still too weak to pen a whole one back. But I was frantic to let you know that I was not, in any way, offended by the stern words in your previous correspondence. As a matter of fact, they were just the words I needed to hear. So my only thought was to send word as fast as I could and explain my tardy response.

It was only when I sent Anna off with my message that I realized what a telegram delivery would do to you. How your heart must have stopped. I can be a selfish, silly twit. I hope you will forgive me. I’m sending this letter off with extra postage for priority mail. I hope it gets to you quicker than the others.

How kind you were with your telegram back to me. And I didn’t have to shoulder the same moment of horror you must have felt, because my Robert was right next to me when it was delivered. We’d only just returned home from the hospital with Corinne and we met the delivery boy on the road. Robert’s gotten an emergency leave. He can stay with us up to thirty days. Can you imagine?

And I’m so sorry about my last letter and all that it held. I can’t even recognize the woman who wrote it. I am almost convinced that my wantonness lured that horrible fever straight to us. I sound like Robert’s mother...but with Robbie still so ill, I can’t help but think it was all my fault, somehow. We were all diagnosed with scarlet fever, Rita. Evidently there was an outbreak in Boston that came here on some unlucky wind. Corrine was the least sick. Anna tells me it is one of the best reasons to nurse our children. They stay healthier that way. I believe her, and knowing I could do something for one of my children helps me stay sane. Robbie’s fever was worse. And then he contracted rheumatic fever. The fact that he’s alive is a blessing...but he’s so pale. I can’t really speak of it any more right now. He’s had to stay at the hospital. I can’t stand the thought of him there without me.

Corrine is almost completely recovered and we’ve been assured by the doctors that with her, at least, there will be no lasting damage. I’m still weak, but each day I grow stronger. It’s better now that we’ve been at home. This house is connected to my soul, I swear it. It’s breathed new life into me.

Right now I’m sitting on my side porch, Rita. Robert has tucked me (using too many blankets) into a wide wicker love seat and I’m watching him in the garden with the baby. She’s bundled up, too, but he’s carrying her like he’s done it all along. He has an easy way with her already. I’m watching them through a curtain of grape leaves trimmed into a circle. A natural window onto the world. Their leaves are so broad and strong. I can see their veins pulsing with the autumn already. Having him home makes me whole, Rita. And it makes my skin itch to think of that day by the shed. I can’t even look at it. I’d like to paint it red.

Levi came over, but was sullen. When he left, Robert turned to me. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked

I wanted to tell him. To confess. And I opened my mouth fully prepared to tell the truth, but instead I used your words.

“Rita tells me that the boys left behind are broken, somehow. I suppose he feels like he’s not doing his patriotic duty.”

Robert scratched his head, and Corrine gave him kisses on his cheek. One kiss, laughter, another kiss, more laughter. How she loves her daddy.

“He IS doing an honorable thing, though. Don’t you think, Glory?”

“What’s that?”

“He’s helping me fight with the peace of knowing you and the kids are in good hands.”

Oh, Rita. What have I done? And why, when Levi left without a word to me, did I want to cry?

Soon Robert will ship out overseas. Soon the garden will be covered in frost. And soon I’ll be strong enough to leave Corrine with Marie and spend my days at the hospital with Robbie. He’s frightened of the dark and those nurses are always switching off the lights. It makes me want to clobber them. Knock their crisp white hats off their tidy pinned hair.

I’ve missed your stories. Write soon.

Love, and many thanks for sharing some sorely needed sense,

Glory

P.S. You know the best thing about Robert being home? The little things... Coffee in the morning, hearing him sing in the shower, the way his skin always smells like soap. I know this sounds treasonous, but I wish we could all run away to Switzerland.

September 12, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dearest Glory,

Please stop thinking your actions had anything to do with Robbie’s illness.

There is nothing more unavoidable or more damaging as a mother’s guilt. This I know perhaps better than most, though I was never meant to be a mother.

Back in grammar school, I fell from a tire swing and landed hard, fracturing some necessary bones in my small pelvis. I can barely remember the pain, but I can clearly recall the doctor telling my father, in hushed tones over my sickbed, that I was ruined.

I’d never heard my father cry before, but he did, either for me or the grandsons he surely thought would someday come. My mother soothed him, saying, “Wait and see. Wait and see,” over and over until even I was able to sleep, to dream, to heal.

For months I walked with crutches and drank half a cup of wine before bed to thin my blood. I rested when I could and ate so much cheese I got a little plump. Eventually the bones fused back together and I tossed my crutches into the fire.

We never talked about it. When I first saw spots of blood on my underthings Mother hugged me tight and said it was God’s sign I could have a baby. Even at thirteen I knew she was simply wishing for it to be true. Still, I decided I would take her word.

I never told Sal. It shames me to write this. We married, moved into his parents’ building on Chicago’s west side and tried for a baby. Nothing happened. After a year Sal cupped my chin and said, “Maybe it’ll be just you and me, kiddo. And that’s fine in my book.” I cried through the night with Sal holding my face, kissing away each tear.

When I skipped my time, I figured I was coming down with something. A few weeks later Mama Vincenzo caught my eye at Sunday dinner, smiling her cryptic Mona Lisa smile. She pulled me aside after dessert and asked when the bambino was coming.

The realization sent a tremor through my body, head to toe. Mama V held my hand and told me not to worry, assuming my distress came from fear. But it was joy, Glory. Pure delight.

I couldn’t wait for the baby to come. Toward the end I showed up at the hospital where Sal worked every time I got a twinge. The nurses started teasing Sal about it, calling him “Mr. False Alarm,” which is why I waited so long when I finally did go into labor.

Mrs. Vincenzo delivered Toby on our kitchen table. “It will be quick,” she said. “Ten minutes.” And it was. By most standards I had an easy birth. But my pelvic bones—the ones my mother lovingly guided to health so many years before—cracked along those old fault lines.

The pain...it was like a couple of wild dogs tearing at each hip. Mrs. Vincenzo put the baby to my bosom, but I could only stare at a crack in the wall, a fixed point to hypnotize myself into oblivion. Sal whispered loving words in my ear, telling me how beautiful I was and how perfect the baby looked, but I could barely breathe, let alone talk.

Mrs. Vincenzo said I just needed rest, and Sal agreed with her until three days passed and I still could not get out of bed.

He sent word to a doctor friend at Cook County, who showed up after his shift. I blacked out during the exam. When I came to, Sal knelt at my bed, saying over and over, “What’s wrong with us that we didn’t notice?” He never once said, “What’s wrong with you that you didn’t say anything?”

I withdrew from everyone, even Toby. Mrs. Vincenzo said all women had “the darkness” after childbirth, to varying degrees, and since I’d broken my bones I needed extra time. But my darkness came from guilt—I felt like all the things I’d kept from Sal had weakened my insides, each lie causing a small fracture. All my goodness came out with the baby, and my body, with nothing to stabilize it, shattered.

Sal brought Toby to me for feedings, carefully drawing my breast to the baby’s small mouth. He changed him and cleaned his pink body. He sang operettas and patted his tushy with powder. Sal mothered.

Eventually Sal had to return to the hospital, and Toby failed to thrive. His skin took on a yellow hue and he lost interest in nursing.

On the day he refused my breast entirely, Mrs. Vincenzo came into my room with a bottle of sugar water and a pair of crutches. She pushed me to sitting, grabbed one foot and planted it on the floor, then the other, and shoved the bottle in my hand.

“I can’t,” I said.

“He’s dying,” she said.

Then she brought her round face right up to mine, looked me in the eye and whispered, “Whatever it is, he’ll understand. Don’t you know that?”

I did. Sal would understand. Why didn’t I trust his love for me? I was punishing my child for my own stubbornness, my despicable insecurity.

I stared into Mrs. Vincenzo’s deep brown eyes for a few seconds. And then I shoved those crutches under my arms and started mothering my son.

But I continued to let fear guide my actions. I never told Sal.

One day, while he was eating breakfast, I blurted, “I’m sorry I failed you and Toby.”

He left his oatmeal on the table and came to my side. “You’ve never failed us,” he assured me. “And you never will.”

He was wrong.

When Toby was seven he ran around with a pack of boys from the block. They were a little mean and a lot rough, and Toby was neither. I always watched from the back porch, pretending to knit while I kept an eye on their shenanigans.

One evening the
Mirro Cooking Class
came on the radio, and I got caught up listening to a recipe for roast duck. I didn’t hear Toby scream. I didn’t hear anything until little Giuseppe from across the hall came running into the kitchen shouting, “Signora! Vieni! Vieni!”

They’d been playing cowboys and Indians. Chief Toby was tied to a tree, the rope snaking around his neck pulled over a high branch. His feet swung a few inches above the ground and the blood had already drained from his lips. My negligence had brought him to death’s door again.

I lifted him and yanked on the rope until the knot loosened. I gave him my breath and rubbed his limbs. He came to.

After church the following Sunday, Mrs. Vincenzo said she wanted to take Toby and me out. I assumed for lunch, but instead she walked us over to her sister’s apartment.

Zia Gialina was the neighborhood medium, or quack, depending on how you looked at life. Zia led me and a wide-eyed Toby into her back bedroom, where a bloodred velvet coverlet lay across the largest bed I’d ever seen. She sat on a mountain of embroidered pillows and motioned for us to join her.

“My sister says there’s been trouble,” she said.

I nodded.

“Give me your hand.”

I held it out to her, palm up.

She studied my lines, seemed unimpressed with what she saw and gave me back my hand. “Now the boy,” she demanded.

I didn’t want her to scrutinize Toby’s palm. But he straightened his skinny back and stretched out his arm.

She ran her sausage-thick fingers over his smooth palm for a very long time. “I see what it is,” she finally said. “His soul is crowded.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

Zia must have been used to resistance. Instead of addressing my lack of respect she called Mrs. Vincenzo in for a conference in Italian. When they finished, Mrs. Vincenzo said, “He needs open spaces or the black cloud will come back. You need to move.”

I was forming a smart retort when I saw the tears in her eyes. Toby was one of her greatest loves. She must have really believed Zia if she was considering sending us away.

And since she believed it so strongly, I believed it.

“We need to convince Sal to take that job,” she said.

Sal had been offered a position at the University of Iowa by an old college friend. It was a standard research/teaching position, nothing special, so Sal planned on keeping his lab job at Cook County.

I told Sal what his aunt said, and about my worries. He didn’t laugh at Zia Gialina’s reading. “Do you want to move?” he asked. I nodded. He went to bed to sleep on it.

The next day Sal called his friend and accepted the position. We took a house on a quiet street in Iowa City, not far from the Pharmacy Building.

Sal flourished. His lab work satisfied him and his classes were popular, filling up before the terms began.

Mostly I was happy, but a small part of me—the mothering part—failed to thrive properly. I grew so worried for Toby’s safety I kept him too close. He did the normal childhood things, but always with the veil of my protectiveness thrown over his head. Zia Gialina worried our crowded Chicago block was impinging on Toby’s soul, but it was me. My fears kept him fenced in.

But push hard and your kid will push back harder. At first Toby ran toward the open spaces in his head, gobbling up books about the solar system, New York skyscrapers, the mountains of Africa.

Later he ran toward the wide-open Pacific Ocean.

But I fear Toby’s made a mistake. He’s on a ship, packed close as a sardine. I worry his soul is being smothered....

Oh, Glory, I’m sorry. Here I am rambling like a drunk. I’ve turned this into a letter about me. It’s not right to attach my shame and regret to you. It’s horrid to assume that my response will be your response, that Robbie’s illness will cause you to—

[Letter never sent—stuffed in a drawer.]