Next to Love (11 page)

And while we’re on the subject of what we’re fighting for, did I ever thank you for following me to those godforsaken bases all over the country? I know how hard it was on you. The awful rooming houses. The boredom. Those landladies. Remember Mrs. Lacey, who said all army wives were good-for-nothings who just wanted to smoke cigarettes and sleep with their husbands? And you told her in your best Katharine Hepburn voice that you didn’t smoke. What I’m trying to tell you, sweetheart, is how grateful I am. Those months were hell, but they were also the best time of my life, despite what happened to the baby. I always knew I loved you, but until that time with you, I didn’t have an inkling what love was. Now, thanks to you, I do. So whatever happens, sweetheart, just remember for the rest of your life how grateful I am
.

All my love
,
Claude

APRIL 19, 1944

Dear Gracie
,

From everything I read, the invasion is the big topic of interest at home. I know you worry about it, but don’t, please. I’m all right, really. And I intend to continue that way. For one thing, I’m not after heroism, and I don’t plan on courting disaster. For another, I have a secret weapon, twin-barreled. You and Amy. The two of you are on my mind and in my heart every moment, both waking and sleeping. I carry the picture of the two of you all the time, of course, but I don’t need it. I see you everywhere I look. The funny thing is, most of the guys keep showing pictures of their wives and kids around. I did a few times in the beginning, but not anymore. Now I hoard you. I never knew what a miser I was until I started missing you and Amy
.

I don’t know what to tell you to do about the car. You can take my father’s advice or you don’t have to. I’m glad he’s looking after you, but don’t let him steamroll over you
.

Something occurred to me the other day during mail call, when I was the envy of all the guys again. Remember how you used to complain that I never wrote you love letters? You can’t beef now, darling. Maybe that’s the only good thing about this war. I get to tell you the things I never did face-to-face. But I’m
a changed man. Expect to hear how much you are loved at least once a day for the rest of your life
.

With more love than
I ever knew
,
Charlie

MAY 2, 1944

Dear Millie o’ mine
,

Forgive me for starting out on a sour note, but please remind my mother that Peter John Swallow is known as Jack—that was the deal—not little Pete. I’d write her myself, but I’m too steamed. Besides, I’d rather spend the time writing to you
.

The pictures of the little guy are swell. I’m glad you took them in front of that big old sugar maple in my folks’ yard. I know exactly how it looks as I write this, and it makes me even more homesick. Is bouncing baby boy’s hair as blond as it looks? As for his being a good baby, what did you expect from our son? He’s going to be sharp as a tack, a four-letter man in sports, and from the way he’s gripping that rattle in the picture, a demon with a paintbrush
.

Which reminds me. I’ve been sketching every free minute I get. It keeps me from going nuts, or as far from nuts as anyone can be over here. I’ve tried doing some of the town and even a couple of landscapes, but what I like doing most are the other guys and the local kids. Their arms and legs are like twigs, and their faces pinched—the war and the shortages have been going on here for a long time—but, boy, do they have moxie. That’s what I want to get down on paper
.

Wouldn’t it be something if I turned out to have just a little talent? One thing I know for sure. When I get home, I’m going back to school to learn how to do this stuff right. Don’t worry. I don’t have delusions of becoming a great artist. But lots of guys make perfectly good livings as illustrators. I’m sorry if that disappoints my dad, but I’ve seen more of the world now than he has. I know what I want, and it isn’t taking over the pharmacy. Besides, he still has one respectable son. Dr. MacKinley Swallow will carry on the family medicinal tradition
.

I’ll send the two sketch pads I’ve already filled home to you first chance I get
,
but one of them will be missing a page. I did a sketch of you in the altogether from memory, and I’ll be damned if I let the censor get a gander at that. Just looking at it makes me break out in a sweat. How did I ever get so lucky?

And on that subject, toots, I have to tell you something. You don’t have to worry about me. I know I pulled some crazy stunts in my callow youth, but I’m a different man now, thanks to you and Jack. I plan to keep my head down and never volunteer for anything except that ship headed home. But if anything does happen to me, and let’s face it, it could happen while I was driving to church, if I went to church—no one knows that better than you, you poor kid—I want you to remember how much I love you. No matter what happens, I will always have had you and Jack, which is more than any guy deserves and more than this particular guy ever thought he’d get. One more thing, honey, in the unlikely event anything does happen, I don’t want you sitting around pining. What I’m trying to say, and it feels funny as heck to write, is if anything should happen to me, I want you to marry again. You’re too wonderful a wife, you’re too swell a girl, to go to waste
.

Okay, enough of this gloom ’n’ doom. A year from now you’ll be nagging me to take out the garbage, I’ll be grousing about the bills, and Jack will be shouting Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, every time I walk in the door. And, oh, yes, one more thing, we’ll be making love round the clock. We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for
.

With more love than is
probably legal
,
Pete

MAY 18, 1944

Dearest Babe
,

It can’t be long now. Nobody knows when it’s coming or where we’re going, but everyone knows the invasion is on. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we get over there, the sooner I get home. In the meantime, sweetheart, I have to warn you that you may not hear from me for a while. There’s talk about mail not getting out of here for some time. But just remember, even if you can’t read it in writing, you know it’s in my head and heart and soul. I love you, Babe. No
matter what happens, I want you to remember that. Thank you so much, my darling, for so much
.

All my love
,
Claude

JUNE 9, 1944

Dear Claude
,

The town has not stopped talking about the invasion. For the first twenty-four hours, everyone was glued to the radio. All the regular programs were canceled, and only news bulletins were broadcast. When the programs came back on, even Bob Hope skipped the gags and turned serious. And all I could think of was whether you were in it
.

I dreaded coming in to work the next day, but the good news is that we did not have a single cable from the war department. When I told your father that, he said he guessed you and the others who went over in the local Guard probably weren’t in the invasion after all. I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I’m also glad you warned me that mail might not be getting out for a while, or I’d be worried sick, because I haven’t heard from you in ten days. Grace had two letters from Charlie postmarked after the invasion, but I guess some mail getting through and some not is what you call a SNAFU
.

Who am I kidding? I’m still worried sick. I wish I could believe your father, but from everything you wrote about training, I can’t help thinking you were in it. I’m so scared I even tried going to church the other day, but it didn’t help. I haven’t been much good at that sort of thing since I was seven years old and had visions of becoming a nun. Okay, stop laughing. But I couldn’t pray. No, that’s not true. I prayed you. I don’t mean I prayed for you or to you (blasphemy). I just got down on my knees, and bowed my head, and thought about how much I love you. Maybe that’s not as good as the prayers I grew up with, but at least it’s honest
.

Please take care of yourself, darling. There’s a failed nun counting the days until you come home
.

All my love
,
Babe

JUNE 16, 1944

Dear Pete
,

I haven’t had a letter from you since the one dated May 2, but I refuse to worry. I just keep reading the old ones over and over and waiting for the next. The way I figure it, all I can do is try to be one-one-hundredth as brave as you are and get on with things until I hear from you again
.

Now for the good news. Are you ready? Yesterday, Master Peter John Swallow drew a circle. I wrote you that he’s been scribbling for a couple of months now—he’s a chip off the old block, all right—but yesterday he was on the floor doing what we call sketching, which I’ve told him is what Daddy does, and he drew a circle. I didn’t tell him to. I didn’t show him. He just did it! Move over, Picasso. Here comes Swallow, Jr
.

I hope this cheers you up, darling, and that you’re not too wet and muddy and miserable wherever you are. In case you don’t remember from my last letter, I love you more than is legal in the state of Massachusetts or anywhere else on this planet
.

Love and hugs and
kisses from Jack and
his mommy

JUNE 24, 1944

My darling Charlie
,

I haven’t heard from you for almost two weeks, and the letters I did get were postmarked after the invasion but written before. I’m trying not to worry, but I can’t tell you how hard it is. I’m not asking for a love letter. Just to see your handwriting on an envelope would be enough. More than enough. It would be heaven
.

I try not to show how terrified I am around Amy, but our daughter takes after her daddy. She’s a smart cookie. What’s wrong, Mommy? she keeps asking. What’s wrong? Of course, I don’t tell her
.

Oh, darling, if only I had a word from you. I keep thinking this is some kind
of divine retribution for that one night I didn’t write last month. I know that’s crazy, but being away from you makes me crazy
.

I’ll stop now, darling, because I’m ashamed of myself for all this whining, especially when I think of what you’re going through. The next letter will be more cheerful, I promise
.

All my love
,
Your Gracie

SIX

JULY
17, 1944

A
T FIRST GRACE DOES NOT SEE SAM SHAKER SITTING IN HIS TRUCK
at the side of the road. The sun is in her eyes, and she is standing waist high in the water, supporting Amy, who is splashing to beat the band. For the space of a heartbeat she has pushed the aching worry from the front of her consciousness. Then she looks past Claude Huggins’s mother, who is sitting at the edge of the water, knitting, and sees Mr. Shaker push open the door, unfold his long body, and step down from the truck. She wonders what he’s doing at the pond in the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn’t he be minding the store?