Home Front Girls

by Suzanne Hayes

  Her name is Roylene.

  “My daddy owns Roy’s Tavern? On Clinton Street? By the co-op grocery?”

  Everything is a question with this girl, like she doesn’t trust herself enough for the declarative. I took her coat and snuck a sly glance at her tummy (flat as a pancake, thank God), and poured a cup for her. She slurped at it.

  Apparently when my Toby turned eighteen he headed straight for the enlistment office, and then took a detour through Roy’s Tavern on his way home. Instead of going to class last November he sat on a bar stool writing in his notebooks and spouting poetry to Roylene. “My daddy says I’m no good behind the bar? So I work in the kitchen? Toby sits between the sacks of flour and potatoes and keeps me company?”

  At that last question she started crying again. I swear, Glory, I did not know what to do. I patted her hand, which was all bone. That girl might work in a kitchen but she sure isn’t doing any eating.

  “Have you tried writing to him, hon?” She cried harder at this, her small frame racking over my kitchen table.

  “I’m no good at it? I thought I’d just wait until he came back? But I can’t wait anymore?”

  “Do you want me to include a message from you when I write to him?”

  Her face lit up, and for a few short seconds I could see what kept Toby interested.

  “Please?”

  So she’s coming back next Monday, her day off. I have no idea what Toby really thinks of her. I’m tempted to write him a letter first, to ask, but now that just seems mean.

  I have been giving some thought to your garden. I’m spoiled—Iowa’s soil is rich and loamy. I was stumped, so I asked Irene. She said to think about the rocky places we’re reading about in the newspapers—the shores of Italy, the mountains of Greece. What do they grow there? Oregano? Lemon balm?

  Or, you could simply throw down a few inches of compost and fake it. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Do the best with what we have? It’s not lying, dear. Don’t look at it that way. It’s hopeful pretending. Consider it your patriotic duty.

  Sincerely,

  Rita

  February 20, 1943

  V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

  Sal,

  I can fit exactly fifteen lines on these damn things. Sixteen if I don’t sign my name. You’ll know who it’s from, wontcha? Maybe I’ll seal it with a kiss and the censor can get lipstick all over his fingers.

  I miss you. The nights are quiet, but the mornings are worse—this town seems cleared out, like everyone snuck off without saying goodbye. I know what you’re thinking and I am trying to keep myself busy. Promise. I have a war wife pen pal (surprise, surprise) and Mrs. Kleinschmidt has me down at the American Legion rolling bandages. I hate the look of them. Bandages have only one use, you know?

  I guess you do know. But I’m not supposed to write about things like that so I won’t. The thought of you getting a letter with the words blacked out is just too depressing.

  Anyway, Toby wrote last week. He said the air in Maryland smells like fish soup and his bunkmate’s name is Howard. He neglected to mention anything about the girl who came looking for him a few days ago, some scrawny thing named Roylene. Ring a bell for you? Didn’t for me. I suppose she’s harmless enough.

  Now I’ve done it. Only one line to say I love you. And I do. Be safe. XO Rita

  March 1, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  I’m so glad you are good at telling stories. I haven’t curled up with a good book in a long time, since before Robbie was born. When I was a girl, I’d spend the day at the beach with only a blanket and the latest Nancy Drew mystery. I loved her outspokenness. She was never afraid. I admired that so.

  And what a mysterious situation you find yourself in. I wonder what your boy is up to. Do you like her, this girl? I couldn’t tell from your letter. I guess it doesn’t matter. At least you have something to take your mind off Sal.

  My Robert’s mother, Claire Whitehall, doesn’t like me. Never did. She thinks I’m “new money” because my mother wasn’t technically part of the New England aristocracy. Imagine. I was brought up summering right here on these rocks in this town. I’d barely even kissed a boy until Robert. And even though I’ve known her my whole life, I can’t seem to get her to accept me. I’ve almost stopped trying. Almost.

  An herb garden sounds lovely. I’ve ordered seeds from the Sears Roebuck catalog and my dear friend Levi Miller is going to fix up a big square like you said with all that good soil. Then I’ll put in all kinds of things. And some big sunflowers just for you.

  Levi can’t fight. He’s got a bad heart or something. You’d never know it from looking at him. As children, we played on the beaches together every summer right here in Rockport. He never seemed to have any difficulty keeping up with Robert when we were small. Or me, for that matter—have I told you I was considered a tomboy? Still am, in some ways, though you’d never suspect it if you saw me. It’s Levi who plays with Robbie now that I can’t run around anymore. I’m almost due. Any day now, actually. I’m not even a bit scared of the pain. Does that convince you? It doesn’t convince me.

  As I write this letter I’m watching Robbie, my little love, play in the snow. My heart aches for Robert. Rita, will it ever stop? The missing? I just don’t know. Everything is the same, and then new, and then the same again (only not really the same). The best thing for me is to keep on going about my day as if my sweet husband were to walk in the door any moment, picking up Robbie with one strong arm, and folding me close to him with the other.

  I still cook for him. I know it sounds crazy. I’ve been making this recipe every week. It’s so easy, and doesn’t touch the sugar ration. Enjoy.

  Beer Bread! (So simple and good.)

  Mix one bottle of beer, three cups of self-rising flour and 1/2 cup corn syrup. Bake at 375°F for 45 minutes.

  Let me know if you like it.

  Warm wishes,

  Glory

  March 9, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dear Glory,

  You would think Iowa would be oozing with corn syrup—corn grows everywhere here. Would you believe I once saw a stalk shooting up through a crack in the sidewalk? Our grocery was all out, though, so I borrowed some from Mrs. Kleinschmidt. She’ll probably lord it over me, but the bread was worth it. Completely delicious.

  My heart goes out to Levi. The men left here walk around town like they forgot where they parked their cars. Do you know that look? Something’s missing, and probably will be for their entire lives. Are they the lucky ones? I don’t know. I am glad you’re giving Levi something to do. Have him get that soil in fast so you can let it set a bit before you plant. Treat new soil like a newborn babe—lots of rest, lots of food, lots of love.

  Roylene came back, scratching at the door again like a stray. She wanted to add something to the note I was writing to Toby. “Well?” I said as we sat down at the kitchen table. She jammed one dirty fingernail in her mouth and bit down. Her eyes looked everywhere but at me.

  Patience is indeed a virtue, but I had dishes to wash and wasn’t feeling particularly virtuous. “Spit it out,” I said.

  She flinched. “Tell him I finally got the potato soup right?”

  So I used one of my precious lines of V-mail for an update on Roylene’s cooking skills. I didn’t ask her to stay for dinner. Heck, I didn’t even pour her some tea. Maybe this war is making me mean. I haven’t heard from Sal. Not a word, Glory, and it’s driving me nuts. To answer your question, the missing never stops. For me, the wondering is even worse. We’ve been married for twenty-one years. I’d like to think I’d know if he died. I’d feel it, right?

  When I stepped onto the porch to see Roylene out, Mrs. Kleinschmidt stood on her front lawn, staring hard at both of us. I watched her look down her ski slope nose at the
girl’s tatty coat and men’s galoshes. My conscience started poking at me.

  “Roylene,” I called out as she latched my front gate.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’ll come to the tavern and read you Toby’s letter when it comes.”

  She smiled, the little bit of brightness in that girl coming out. I waved and Roylene shuffled down the road, head hanging low between her bony shoulders. She was barely out of earshot when Mrs. Kleinschmidt started in about Okies and vagabonds and the progeny of Mr. Roosevelt’s handouts. I stuck my tongue out at her haughty face and she put a cork in it, stomping up her porch steps without another word. I felt guilty later so I wrapped up half the loaf of beer bread and brought it over as a peace offering. She knew right off it was a day old, and her complaints followed me all the way home. It was good the second day, and the third, too. Irene even said so when I brought her some for lunch. We ate it with stew made from every leftover vegetable I had in my icebox, along with some Spam I chopped up and added to the mix. Cook that stuff with an onion and you might as well be eating filet mignon!

  Take care of yourself, hon, and let me know when that baby comes.

  Sincerely,

  Rita

  March 16, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  This baby will NEVER come. The doctor predicted I’d have it two weeks ago. I know these things can’t be rushed or even speculated about. But with each passing day I get heavier and more sluggish. Like a big fat slug in the garden.

  Also, my temper is short. This adorable little girl ran up to me in the market yesterday and said, “Is that a baby in your tummy?” and I snapped back, “What do you think it is? Do you suppose I’ve swallowed a watermelon?”

  Her sweet little eyes filled up with tears and I thought her mother might yell at me or glare, even. But no...she looked at me with soft forgiving eyes that told me she understood. She’d been there, too. Women know one another, don’t we? We can peer into our deepest, hidden places.

  Well, maybe not all women.

  I grew up around fancy things, Rita. Nurseries and nannies. My mother? Well, let’s put it this way—she was a side dish more than a main course in the banquet of my youth.

  Father and Mother traveled a lot. It’s funny, I don’t remember missing them. Mostly I was excited to see what presents they brought me from wherever they went. Swiss chocolate, Spanish flamenco dancer dolls, music boxes.

  Gosh, sitting here doing nothing but growing large is making me remember strange, forgotten things. And I’m noticing things, too.

  Like the way I sway back and forth even if I’m not holding Robbie. I see other mothers do this, as well. You swing, lulling them to sleep even if they’re not in your arms.

  My mother never swayed. She stood up so tall it was as if a string held her up from heaven. “Don’t slouch, Gloria. If you slouch like that the world will treat you like a pack mule. Good posture is the key to independence.”

  I have to admit I still slouch sometimes.

  And also, her hands. My mother’s hands were always perfect. She wore gloves when she went out, but when at home she kept a pot of hand cream (rosewater and glycerin) near her at all times. Rubbing it in methodically. Cuticles first, then nails. The backs of her hands and then up each finger. I believe her hands were soft like rose petals. But I hardly ever felt them.

  She died three years ago, my mother. From the cancer. I miss her every day.

  I’ve been thinking of her hands a lot. I can’t imagine having such perfect hands. Mine are rough, but strong. And my son knows them well.

  I suppose this is all nonsense. Nonsense written by a woman very tired of carrying this weight. (And who might be at the end of her rope!)

  I suppose my childhood was lonesome, too. I’ve promised that my own children will never feel alone.

  But there’s a funny thing about promises. It’s easier to keep them before you make them.

  Love,

  Glory

  P.S. I’ll write as SOON as this baby makes his or her appearance. I promise!

  April 1, 1943

  V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

  (Got your letter yesterday. How’s that for a turnaround?)

  Husband of mine,

  Happy April Fool’s Day! (Though I don’t feel much like foolin’.) Remember the time I hid all of your underwear in the freezer? You sure got me back. I’m fairly certain Mrs. K. is still not recovered from the sight of my brassieres hanging from the fence posts.

  I did give her that boy’s name from your squad. I can’t imagine being so far away with no one to write to. Mrs. K. grumbled a bit, but snatched the address up so quickly I will now pay even less attention to her rheumatism complaints. When it comes to the war effort, it seems that woman has nothing but time. She’s got at least a dozen soldiers on her V-mail list, and manages to post her letters twice a week. God knows what she tells them. Still, something is better than nothing, even if that something concerns the fine points of making wienerschnitzel or crocheting a dickey.

  And...about that other stuff. I’d be a fool to expect hearts and flowers all the time. Please continue to write about what you are really seeing, without worrying about what might be upsetting to me. If I’m in this war, too, then I should be upset. You know I’m not the type to think collecting bacon grease and scrap metal will keep anyone from dying. How about you give me the words so you don’t have to hold them in? It’s the least I can do.

  If I sound like a broken record, so be it—take care of yourself. Irene says you should keep your feet dry. She came across some articles about trench foot, but given her filing skills they could have been from the last war. And, no, I won’t set her up with Roland. He’s half her height and twice her width. Come up with someone better.

  Love you,

  Rita

  P.S. You’ll probably need a magnifying glass to read this letter, but I can get twenty-two lines on these things if I shrink my handwriting to Lilliputian proportions. I believe I’ve developed a permanent squint.

  April 4, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  As I write this letter I sneak glances at my sleeping baby in her Moses basket. The sun is pouring in through the window. Spring’s come early in many ways.

  Robert came to the hospital after she was born. He was granted a leave and he came. I swear, Rita, I thought I was dreaming when I woke up and saw his face.

  Labor was harder this time around. I thought it was supposed to get easier? This one was plain stubborn and turned all upside down. They had to pull her out by her feet. I don’t remember it because they put me out. Thank God.

  But when I woke up there he was. My shining man. Holding our baby in his arms.

  And for a moment I thought we were all dead. And it was heaven. Heaven through a field of yellow tulips. How Robert managed to get those tulips with such short notice is nothing less than a miracle. This whole thing feels miraculous. She’s here, my sweet baby. And she got to meet her father. That’s more than many, many women can say these days.

  As I woke, Robert leaned over me, his mouth against my ear. “You fought for this one. You’re a tough gal. I’d go to battle with you at my side any day,” he murmured.

  We named her Corrine. After my mother. I was so glad he didn’t want to name her Claire, after his mother. But I think my dear old mother-in-law was angry about it. She left the hospital in a huff when we told her.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll get over it,” he said as he smiled down at Corrine.

  “Oh, I’m not worried,”

  “No, you wouldn’t be.” He laughed. “You don’t worry about things even when you should.”

  I smiled at him and reached up to take off his hat so I could run my fingers through his thick, golden hair. Only, Rita,
he doesn’t have any! His hair is cut so short. He’s a true soldier now.

  “Do you like it, Glory?” he asked.

  “Well, it reminds me of when we were little, in the summer. When your mother made you crop your hair.”

  “I can’t tell if that means you like it or not. You play unfair, Mrs. Whitehall!”

  “Ah, it is my job to remain enigmatic so you will remain forever in love with me,” I said.

  I meant it as a joke, Rita. But then he looked deep into my eyes and pulled my face toward him with his free hand.

  “I will never love anyone else. You’re my girl. You always have been,” he said.

  When Robert left the hospital I promised him I’d be brave. That I wouldn’t cry. And I didn’t...until he left. Then I cried a river.

  For my mother.

  For my husband.

  For my little boy who now has the big-boy responsibility of being a big brother.

  Things are slowly getting back to normal. Levi, my childhood friend who helped with the garden, has also turned out to be a help with Robbie. You should see how he’s transforming my yard. I told him what you said on how to treat the soil. He said you were wise and a good friend to have. He’s right.

  And Mrs. Moldenhauer, that woman who dragged me to the 4-H what seems like ages ago, has been a great comfort as well (even though I make fun of her). I’ve employed her “roommate,” Marie, to nanny for me. Robert insisted. She’s much younger than Mrs. Moldenhauer. Nicer, too. She cares for me and fusses over us. She’s been cooking meals and bringing them over still piping hot from her own stove.