Home Front Girls

by Suzanne Hayes

  I worry about your boy, too. Both our sons. Both changed from who they were before. One from war, one from illness. Who will they be when it’s all over?

  Looking forward to your next letter.

  Humbled and with love,

  Glory

  October 1, 1943

  V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

  Happy birthday, honey!

  In my mind we’re getting ready to paint the town. Vito’s got our table waiting, and he’s covered it in oysters, chopped salad and a steaming double portion of osso buco. You’ve got tickets to the Englert in the back pocket of your gray suit, the one with the piping. I’m wearing my gold dress in case we want to go dancing after the show. Va-va-voom! We’ll stay out past midnight and not care. We’ll dance so close they’ll need to pry us apart with a crowbar.

  I love you, Sal. More than ever. You keep your handsome self safe.

  Rita

  October 3, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dear Glory,

  Robert reminds me so much of my Sal. Your last letter poked and prodded at my memories of our first years together. (It seems the only things keeping me company lately are your letters and the past.)

  I’m going to tell you a story about my husband. It’s about time you got introduced to him, isn’t it?

  I was working as a waitress at the Mondlicht Café, a German restaurant, when I met Sal. He showed up at the lunch hour one day, and quickly became one of my regulars. After a few weeks, he asked me to go to the movies after my shift and I said yes.

  I liked him. Sal isn’t a big man, but he is big on talking. That first date I don’t think either of us shut up until the movie started. He took my hand in the darkened theater, and it was cool and soft, not like the sweaty, calloused boys I was used to. At the end of the night he didn’t get the least bit fresh, only asked if he could take me on the town again.

  We started seeing each other frequently. Sal took me to the Art Institute and the Oriental Theater, to Maxwell Street for ices and to the tailor shop on Western Avenue where his entire family worked. I was young, but my parents had both passed, and Sal’s mother and father welcomed me like a gift.

  When Mama Vincenzo pulled me into the kitchen and said she wanted to teach me to make Sal’s favorite minestrone, I didn’t exactly need to be a genius to know what my beau had in mind. I begged off, saying I cooked enough in the restaurant. She smiled, a cryptic Mona Lisa smile, and I wondered just how much she understood about me.

  A few nights later, a man sauntered into the restaurant and requested a table in my section. He didn’t have Sal’s thick, shiny hair or kind eyes, but his face had a quality I admired. I could tell he was sharp, not book-smart like Sal, but the kind of knowing that comes from looking at people, really looking at them, and seeing who they are and what they need and how far they’d go to get it. Another waitress mouthed the word gangster as she passed with her pot of coffee, but that didn’t bother me. Everyone was a criminal back then, to different degrees.

  I approached with my order book and he waved it away. “Just a lemonade,” he said, staring at my name tag. “Marguerite, huh? I would have pegged you for a Madeline or Colette.”

  I’m sure I blushed. I know I blushed.

  I brought his drink and he nursed it, watching me as I moved around the room. At first it made me self-conscious, but then a whispery thrill traveled up my arms and legs, giving me goose bumps. I’d catch him looking, and by the end of the night I’d give it right back, staring at him as bold as a streetwalker.

  We ended up behind the restaurant, kissing against the rough brick wall. He moved with the slow assurance of someone who always got what he wanted, but never took it for granted. I was hooked.

  He returned the next night. And the next. I made excuses to Sal, lied to him without batting an eye.

  After a week the man stopped coming in the restaurant. He waited for me in the shadows, smoking in the alley until the last customer paid his bill. My shifts passed so quickly, knowing he was out there, and knowing what we were going to do.

  One night I told the manager I was sick and walked out the front door, away from the dark alley. I kept moving, not stopping until I got to Western Avenue. I went to the tailor shop and made up some story to excuse my disappearance. They welcomed me back. They’d worried about me.

  I quit my waitressing job.

  I learned to make the minestrone.

  It wasn’t until many years later—after Toby was born, after the doctor told me I couldn’t have any more children, after all the many things a married couple suffer together, the things that bind more than a ring or a slip of paper, that Sal told me. He’d watched me leave with the man one night, watched us steal to the recesses of the alley, watched me walk out twenty minutes later with my hair a mess and stockings askew. And he took it as a test. He said he trusted me enough to make the right decision for myself. And he said that it was such a rare thing to find someone he trusted so completely, that he felt, crouching behind a Dumpster watching his girlfriend giving herself to a gangster, that if I chose him he would marry me.

  He had faith, and thought enough of me to expect I’d walk away from this man. He also knew he would never really get close to me if he forced my hand.

  Since that one time, I’ve never been unfaithful to Sal. I worry, though, that he was wrong about me, and my fidelity has more to do with his proximity than some kind of inner moral compass. To this day I don’t know why I walked away from that man, only that I did. Maybe, as I said before, I’m not much of a cliff-jumper.

  It’s funny. Bombs drop from the sky every day, chaos and mayhem spread over the globe, but we’re more afraid of the mines buried deep in our hearts, the ones we hope to never give cause to explode.

  Love,

  Rita

  P.S. Give Robbie a kiss for me, or better yet, I’m sending some extra meat rations. A little iron will get some strong blood flowing through him in no time!

  October 7, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Glory,

  I completely forgot to send this recipe with my last letter. A couple of days ago, I picked up a bottle of Lysol at the co-op grocery and it came with a free rationing cookbook. Aren’t I the lucky duck?

  So I was flipping through and, lo and behold, found this dish called Eggs Marguerite. Irene and Charlie thought it delicious when I had them over last night.

  Those two continue to confound me. I’ve hosted them for dinner a few times, and on the surface they seem quite the young (-ish) couple. Charlie is very solicitous of Irene. He holds her chair when she sits, and outstretches a gentlemanly hand when she rises. He makes her laugh, and teases her in the manner of someone who knows enough of her personality to do so. Irene smiles at him in response, and I caught her staring at his angular face when he was preoccupied with dessert.

  Something is off, though. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Whenever I broach the subject of romance with Irene, she finds a polite way to steer the conversation in another direction. Could it be Charlie has something to hide, therefore Irene does? He did show up at my house with a full box of cherry chocolates. How in the world does a vitamin salesman get his hands on that?

  The more difficult explanation almost pains me to write. Do you think there are some people who are meant to be alone? Or possibly, has Irene, at thirty-eight, kept the door closed on love for far too long and now finds it’s sticking?

  Then again, I suppose people can take a while to find each other, even when the person is standing right in front of them.

  Anyway, enjoy the recipe. I brought some over to Mrs. K. to try after Charlie and Irene left. She chided me for using common cheddar, but gobbled it up before I walked out the door. If you have the rations, it accompanies a meat dish quite nicely. The two together would make a very nutritious meal for your Robbie. H
ere goes:

  Eggs Marguerite

  6 baked Idaho potatoes

  3 cups creamed vegetables (Melt 1½ tablespoons butter, add 1½ tablespoons flour to form almost a paste, then 1½ cups hot milk. Stir over heat until boiling. Turn off the burner and add some nutmeg, salt and pepper. Keep mixing as it thickens. When it does, add a whole mess of lightly cooked vegetables from your garden. De-lish!)

  6 poached eggs

  ½ cup grated American cheddar cheese

  Scoop all pulp from potatoes; mash; season. Fill shells with creamed vegetables. Make a border of mashed potato; place poached egg on top of creamed vegetables. Sprinkle egg with cheese. Place in a moderate oven (350°F) until cheese melts and browns.

  This makes six portions—enough to feed all of you.

  Well, I’ve got to run—we’re rolling bandages today at the American Legion and if I miss it Mrs. Kleinschmidt will force me to join her for lard collection duties.

  Take care, hon,

  Rita

  P.S. I passed the tavern on my way to the co-op. Roylene was standing out front, sweeping the sidewalk in her tattered men’s overcoat and galoshes. Her eyes grew round when she spotted me, and she stepped back to let me by without saying a word. This time I didn’t keep walking. I invited her to tea, Glory. Oh, yes, I did! And after a moment of looking completely panic-stricken, she agreed to come. I know it’s unseemly, but I’m feeling ridiculously proud of myself.

  October 20, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  I love it when I get two letters in one day. It’s like Christmas. Anna brought them. (Our road is private and all the mailboxes are gathered at the front road entrance. Because I have to stay so close to Robbie, Anna’s been taking that long, twisty walk for me. I miss it so. The freedom of it.) The postmaster had them tied together with a blue ribbon! He’s a strange little man, that Sam. Anna tells me he has a strong inclination toward a fondness for other men. I find this information hilarious and fitting. I hope you don’t take offense.

  Truth be told, I think Anna and her friend Marie are more lovers than friends. I see lovers everywhere these days. My mind’s been mooning over all sorts of love lately, no matter the persuasion.

  I miss Robert. I know he’s overseas now. Our goodbye was much worse this time than it was the first. Maybe because I know we’ll be an ocean apart. Maybe because I know what I’m capable of once my heart begins to feel lonesome. Levi carried Robbie down to the small whistle stop station where we all said goodbye, and then later that day we talked about “us.” It was nice to have it out in the open. He told me he’d always loved me. And he loved the children, but that he respected Robert and didn’t want to dishonor him. I knew I was in trouble already because I got a little mad. I still can’t tell if it’s because he’s deemed our “romance” no longer acceptable, or because he beat me to the punch. Either way, the gray smoke that rose out of my head can NOT be a good sign. Sometimes I wish we’d never met. I’d give up our entire childhood together if I could have a moment’s peace to still my heart. We have so much history behind us—Robert, Levi and myself. Too many tragic twists and turns. Levi and I have always been on the edge of something I could never understand. It worries me, Rita. How much can I take?

  Thank you, thank you for sharing your love story with me. Hearing about another love story did my heart good. I sat under a tree with Robbie getting some fresh air while Corrine crawled around trying to eat the leaves that are collecting. (I can use them in my compost, right? There are so many leaves and usually we burn them....) I read the letter that held your story. Then thought on it for a while looking up through the red maple leaves to the blue, blue sky. Then read it again. Smiling each time. What a gift! When I smile, Robbie smiles. They’re weak smiles, but smiles nonetheless.

  So I suppose I owe you a story of my own. And sadly, I have much more time to pen letters these days. What with Corrine not walking yet (soon though...) and Robbie a shadow of himself. Like I said in my last letter, the fever weakened his heart. (Thank you for the delicious recipe and the extra rations, too. So, so appreciated.) He doesn’t run. He doesn’t play. He laughs in a whispery way that frightens me. Sometimes I wake in the night and watch him sleep and the tears, they just come. Where is my beautiful boy? Where is he? It’s like garden fairies came, took my rambunctious child and left this quiet version in his place. I am so ashamed I ever complained about the boy’s energy. I’d give my own life to watch him make mischief. My world is, suddenly, so, so quiet.

  Anyway... I’ve told you a bit about Robert, Levi and myself as children. But I suppose you might be wondering how I settled on Robert. It was simple, really. The three of us decided that our friendship had no room for romance (after that summer when we were kids and my heart belonged to Levi). And we stayed true to our pact all through our early teens. It was so much fun, I have to admit...going to the summer dances with a boy from Connecticut and then being swept up by Levi and Robert...their dates glaring at me from the punch bowl. How we’d dance! All three of us. I think we always knew that somehow we would end up all together.... But I suppose we couldn’t have imagined this war and how it divides us now more than class or time could have. It drives a wedge between us like a million autumns. When my mother died I was lost. I don’t remember much, except brushing her hair. I was taken to the hospital to recover, and when I woke up, there he was.

  Robert.

  He was the one who came. And in that moment, when he looked into my eyes, I didn’t see anyone but him. It was like a clearing in a dark forest. You get there and it was like you always knew it...an internal map.... He was always mine. We were born to be together.

  “I’ll never leave you,” he said, speaking softly against my brow. And I knew he wouldn’t. Even this war can’t rob me of his heart.

  Of course, there were obstacles, but we were so in love we swept right through it all. I may be paying for that sin right now. Levi took it hard, and we callously pretended not to notice. And now, just look at the mess I’m in.

  Claire Whitehall didn’t approve, either. But she wouldn’t have approved of Princess Elizabeth.

  Levi was Robert’s best man at our wedding. He smiled through the whole thing, but I could tell he was in pain. I avoided his eyes for the whole day. And later, when he got me alone near the tall willow at the back of our yard, he said, “You made a wise choice, Glory. Don’t ever doubt it,” and he kissed me on the cheek.

  “Hey! What’s all this?” asked Robert with a good-natured laugh in his voice.

  “I suppose we are saying goodbye to childhood romances,” I said lightly. Too lightly, because Levi cleared his throat and made some excuse about having to leave early.

  “He’ll get over it,” said Robert.

  And I thought we’d all get over it. But the past is a curious thing, dear Rita. It keeps our feet all muddled up when we yearn to run free.

  My mother and father had a better story than my own. I was seventeen when I fell in love, newly orphaned with a boatload of money and three houses to choose from. I’m not hard to look at and neither is Robert. It’s a small world and we just...well...he saved me. He saves me still.

  Now my parents, on the other hand, had a grand love affair. My father knew all there was to know about money, property and investing. He saw the crash a mile away and kept all of our assets safe. He was rich his whole life. Steeped in money. I think it was opium—way, way back. Scandalous, isn’t it? He wasn’t as handsome as he was rough-looking. Kind of like Levi but with colder eyes. Father used to say, “Feelings make you weak, which is fine if you want to be a weakling,” and then shake his newspaper. I sent you a picture. I’m sure you can see what I’m talking about.

  My mother, Corrine, was another story. She didn’t have anything but her stunning face. Born into poverty. No one will tell me how they met, so it leaves me to believe she might have been h
is “lady friend” before he married her. My mother did everything for him. The sun rose and set by his desires. I think I was an accident or afterthought. Don’t get me wrong, I think they loved me (I know they loved me) but Franny (I wrote about my Portuguese nanny, right?) was the one who filtered down that information. And Father demonstrated his love by leaving me all the money and property. Legally binding me to it. I couldn’t sign it over to Robert or any other husband even if I wanted to. That was kind of him. Women rarely get the opportunity to have such responsibility over their own finances. I didn’t even know that until Anna told me.

  This house I live in was our summer home. It was always my favorite place because it’s where we were all together. It’s smaller than the other two (one in Cambridge and one in Old Lyme, Connecticut) and I was at boarding schools from the time I was six. Father said it was better to raise me like an “English boy.” Said he thought America was due for a “shake-up” and we’d all be better off European.

  For someone so right about so many things, he was wrong on that account, don’t you think?

  I think they met out West somewhere. California or Oregon. They always kept their past between themselves. Like some sparkly secret hidden behind their eyes. I like to imagine that my mother was working somewhere wild and romantic (even unseemly!) and my father found her and swept her off her feet. Carried her away and brought her into a life of wealth and leisure.

  I imagine he looked at her and said, “You magnificent woman, I do believe you were meant for better things. Come live with me and be my love....”

  And she replied, “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

  I’d like to think he took her to dress shops and let her buy whatever she wanted and then brought her home like she was a treasure found deep at the bottom of a roaring river.

  Robert says I’m a “hopeless romantic.” I suppose he’s right.