I'll Be Seeing You (11 page)

November 30, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Tell Robbie this Garden Witch can read palms. I look at his adorable handprint and see only the brightest of futures. He has a long lifeline, with lots of finely etched paths all leading to a heartline of equally impressive length. He will be special, that one.

As for his mother...

Oh, Glory. I want to lecture you, but I’m sure your confusion is punishment enough. Maybe Levi should go away for a while? It seems your closeness only breeds temptation. Will Robbie miss him too much? Maybe. Will your focus shift entirely to Robert without Levi skulking about? I’d bet on it. Give it a shot.

And, yes, I do think it is possible to be in love with two people at the same time. The funny thing is, it can never be the same kind of love. People are different, so the way you love them has to be. Doesn’t that sound logical?

I’m sorry your mother-in-law didn’t make it to Thanksgiving dinner. If it makes you feel better, Mrs. K. got stuck working, and Irene had to take a bus to Omaha to take care of her mother, who’d fallen ill. Roylene never showed—more on that later.

I had no one at my table, so I boxed everything up and brought it to the USO. There were some boys there about to leave for training, and it gave me a thrill to know they’d get such a meal before they left. Something to remember America by, you know?

Anyway, when I got back, Charlie stood on my doorstep, holding a bottle of Chianti. Turns out he didn’t know what to do with himself after waiting with Irene at the bus terminal. I wondered why Irene hadn’t just brought him with her.

I felt odd about the two of us being alone in the house, so I suggested we sit outside to take in the brisk evening air. I ran in for some glasses and when I returned Charlie had stretched out on the porch swing, his long legs nearly tripping me up. I poured us each a healthy glass and we sat quietly for a while, letting the pleasant warmth of the alcohol play against the wind biting at our fingertips and noses.

When I finished my drink, I asked, “Why didn’t you go with Irene to Omaha?”

Charlie refilled my glass, then his own. “I wasn’t asked.”

“Do you love her?” A little wine always makes me impolite, Glory. You should know this about me.

“I like being around her,” he answered. “She’s better than me. Better than I deserve.”

Probably,
I thought. But I said, “Nobody’s better than anyone else.”

He looked at me, and I saw a hardness in his eyes, and a weariness in the faint lines surrounding them. “Now, darlin’, you know that’s not true.”

I had nothing to say to that.

Desperate to change the topic, I blabbered on about Mrs. K.’s oddities, Sal’s latest letter and Toby and Roylene’s situation.

Charlie polished off the last of the wine as I talked. When I finally shut my trap, he said, “You haven’t heard from Toby?”

“I don’t even know if that crazy girl has written to tell him. I’m going to do it if she doesn’t.”

“You’ve got to give her every chance.” Charlie stood and grasped my hands, pulling me to standing. “Come on. There ain’t too many places she could be.”

We found ourselves downtown, and next thing you know I was walking a little unsteadily through the door to Roy’s Tavern. The place was empty—even the rummies were down at the American Legion enjoying a free meal. Roy wasn’t behind the bar, but Roylene was, pushing an old rag over and over the dull wood. She wore the red shirtwaist—no men’s overcoat. A splotch of crimson marred her cheek. On closer inspection it took the shape of a man’s hand. My arm twitched. I didn’t know if I wanted to hug her frail body or slap the nonsense out of Roy. She noticed the look in my eye and backed up a step, skittish.

Charlie and I planted ourselves on some stools and I ordered two straight whiskeys before he could open his mouth. Roylene’s hands shook as she placed the short glasses on the bar.

“Your old man likes an open hand, huh?” Charlie drawled. He casually dropped a ten spot next to the bottle. “Pour one for yourself while you’re at it.”

She did, and sipped the liquor like an aristocrat, pinky up.

“Is your daddy around?” I asked after she finished her whiskey.

“No, ma’am,” she said. Her face was as red and mottled as my cranberry sauce. “He ran off to Des Moines for the night. Said he didn’t want to look at me.”

I smiled at her. “You took the coat off.”

“It was starting to smell like wet dog,” she said, laughing. It was contagious, and the three of us were roaring like mountain lions. It felt good to laugh with her, Glory.

When it was time to leave, I asked if she’d like to bunk with me for a few days, until Roy simmered down. She declined. “And Toby,” I said, slipping into my coat. “You’ve written to him?”

She hadn’t. “I can’t get the words right, Mrs. Vincenzo.”

Well, I wiggled out of my coat again and found pen and paper by the till. I curled Roylene’s small hand over the pen and guided her to a stool. “It’s not a math test,” I said. “Whatever you write will do just fine.” She sat there, mouthing the words as she etched them into the paper, pausing occasionally, as if transcribing a conversation only she could hear.

Charlie poured us another drink. We waited, silently sipping, the whiskey keeping me sedated enough to stay in place, to not poke my head over that poor girl’s shoulder.

When she was done, Roylene placed the unfolded paper on the bar in front of me, for approval. She has a girlish scrawl, all loops and fat letters. I folded it into thirds and slipped it in my purse. It took everything I had not to read it, and more than that to stop myself from adding a postscript. I sent it off the next morning, unread. Promise.

In a few days I’ll write my own letter to Toby. It’s a fragile method of communication, isn’t it? The South Pacific is such an impossibly long journey for those light slips of paper. I hope he gets it.

Love,

Rita

P.S. I started my job yesterday. It’s going well so far. I typed three letters, filed some grade forms and went grocery shopping for the dean’s wife. Easy peasy!

P.P.S. Watch the smoking, hon. It’ll give you wrinkles.

December 2, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Glory,

I’m writing to you because if I do not put pen to paper I will use my hands to pull my hair out. I’ve been so damn distracted. I haven’t been listening to the radio, and this morning, when I picked up the newspapers for the first time in days, the headlines are screaming about Tarawa. Heavy casualties, the general said. The American people must prepare themselves, he said.

I don’t know if anyone can prepare me. Tarawa, Tarawa, Tarawa. I keep repeating it in my head, a prayer to the gods of chance. Over a thousand dead. They said marines in the paper. Toby is USN. So it can’t be him lying dead on that beach. It can’t. Right? Oh, I want to crawl out of my skin.

I should imagine my relief when I find out it’s not him. I should picture my smile, feel the heaviness rise from my chest. It isn’t Toby. He is not among the dead.

Is it unforgivable to do this when Western Union is already busy readying telegrams? What universal force has deemed my family worthy of dispensation?

I’m disgusted with myself. But I want my Toby. It can’t be him. It can’t.

Pray for him, please, please,

Rita

December 4, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Two days later and no telegram. When I’m not working I sit in the cold on the front porch, watching for that smooth-cheeked, towheaded delivery boy, the angel of death.

Mrs. Hansen down the road says by Christmas I should be in the clear. Or, maybe the V-mail will come and I’ll get a letter from Toby. Or maybe Roylene will. She stopped by yesterday, cheerfully anticipatory, so I didn’t say a word. That girl has more worries than most, and a baby inside her who should live in peace until it’s forced into this troubled world. At the end of our visit my mouth started to hurt, I was smiling so hard.

After she left, I tried to hold on to that optimism—pretend as it was—but my thoughts wouldn’t let me. Something I haven’t told you, hon, is that Sal’s letters often contain stories from the front. I didn’t want to upset you, or give you nightmares, so I haven’t passed along any. I guess I’m in a selfish state, but I want to share one so you understand where my mind’s at.

North Africa was gruesome. Sal is trained, but some of the other medics are no more than boys with strong stomachs and first aid kits. One such boy clung to Sal, who was happy to have him along. They’d nearly run out of litters, and he’d needed the extra set of hands to carry a wounded soldier back to the medical unit. Once in the field, the screams came from all directions. Sal decided just to stop, pick one spot and try to help as best he could. He motioned for the younger boy to head off to the right and he took the left.

Time stopped. Sal didn’t know if he was coming or going when he went to search for the boy. When he found him, the medic stood next to a G.I. who’d obviously passed. Still, the boy pressed himself against where the soldier’s arm once was, using his body as a large bandage. There had been no place for a tourniquet, no hope, but still the boy tried, sweat rolling down his face, blood seeping onto his uniform.

The young medic stared at the red stain blooming over his chest and started to mumble the Lord’s Prayer. You see, in his confused state, he thought it was his own blood, that it was him about to die.

Sal gently pulled the young medic away from the dead man. He brought him back to the unit, gave him a shot of whatever rocket fuel they could scrounge and took his own turn at praying.

He prayed for God to turn back time, so he could send that poor boy in the other direction. He asked our Lord to promise that the rivers of blood spilled that day meant less would be shed the next day, and less the day after.

Then he realized he wasn’t sure if he believed in God at all. What he did know was that the blood on that young medic’s shirt could have been his own. Sal felt certain that even through his horror this boy would have given his very lifeblood to save that poor G.I. And if there was a God, that’s where He resided, in the determination of one soul desperate to save another.

I was thinking about Sal’s story while standing over the sink this morning. I’d left the dinner dishes sitting last night and while I scrubbed at the frying pan I wondered what I would give. I picked up the paring knife and ran it over my thumb, then I held my hand in the murky water until the blood tinged it the color of rust. I would let it all flow out, an offering to the gods, if it guaranteed Toby would return.

I’m not going crazy. I wish I was, then it would excuse my self-indulgence. I just can’t handle the waiting. Three weeks. An eternity, really.

Rita

December 10, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Darling Garden Witch,

It isn’t Toby. I am praying and praying and praying. Robbie is, too. We kneel at bedtime and we pray. For Toby and for Sal and Robert. Robbie asked who Toby and Sal were—he’s so smart. Just turned three and speaking in full sentences. I guess the universe makes up for lost things, right? He’s lost his ability for making mischief with his body so he makes it with his mind. Anyway, he asks me, “Who are Sal and Toby?” and I say, “Auntie Rita’s husband and son.” And he says, “Don’t worry, Mama. Daddy will protect them.” It’s so odd. Sometimes I clean forget that Robert doesn’t know much more than your name. It’s strange how certain parts of lives intertwine while others stay so solitary.

Don’t worry, Rita. (As if just saying the words makes it true.) You can’t lose your boy because I didn’t lose mine. That’s the way it goes, right? Two strangers connect and there has to be a reason for it. I’ve often felt that perhaps we are creating some sort of shield around each other. A magic cloak to protect us. I believe it. I really do. So try—try not to worry too much.

My heart aches for you as I know how you must feel. When Robbie was sick in the hospital I’d watch over him and think,
Where did he go? Where is he now?
But mostly the thing I thought and still want to scream is, “I want my boy back!” You want your boy back. You’re his mother. It’s what we do.

My mother, when she was sick, told me she thought I’d take to mothering more than she ever could. She didn’t apologize for being distant or for sending me away. I didn’t expect her to. But she did say that I was different and she thought I’d make a good mama. And when Robert was there, next to me at her funeral, I saw my children in his eyes.

Then, when I found out I was pregnant I was thrilled. And I do love being a mother, but I can almost understand my own mother’s reservations. When you put your whole heart in something you risk just that. Your whole heart. It’s a high roller’s type of gamble. I can tell by your letters that you love with your whole heart. As I love with mine. Too much lately, but I’ll save that for another letter.

It’s coming on Christmastime and my Christmas wish for you is a letter from Toby telling you he’s just fine and that he’d like nothing more than to curl his grown body up in your lap in front of your tree. I’ve already put mine up. Levi cut it down from the back of some property we own up the road. I’m full of Christmas this year, I don’t know why—but the whole town is. Festive, festive, festive. I’ve bought an ornament, a ceramic sunflower and I had the jeweler etch
Rita
across the base. It hangs at the front and dangles in the firelight. I do wish you were here.

Do something for me if no word has come from him by the time you get this letter. Try to think of Toby as a ball of light. A ball of shimmering light bounding across the ocean and running through forests, over mountains and into the fields next to your sweet home. Anna calls this “Creative Visualization.” I use it. It works.

Love,

Glory

P.S. OH! I almost forgot. I made my first speech at the Women to Work forum. I was so scared, Rita. I could HEAR my heartbeat in my ears. I thought I might pass out or even toss my lunch. But Anne told me something that helped. She said, “Just picture thirty Robert Whitehalls out there. Tell him your speech as you would have practiced it in your own living room in your own sweet, white house. Oh. And speak slowly, Glory. You talk much too fast.”

And you know what? Those words just came right out of me. And before I knew it there was applause. APPLAUSE! (Can you believe it?)

But Anna said I talked too fast anyway.