Home Front Girls

by Suzanne Hayes

  Anyway, those are my stories. I hope they’ve amused you! I’m sorry to ramble on like this but besides Anna you have become a divine source of comfort.

  Love,

  Glory

  October 27, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dear Glory,

  I got such an itch to see a Fred and Ginger picture after your last letter. That’s how I imagine your parents, dressed to the nines and gliding across the dance floor like figure skaters over ice. My father only danced with my mother once a year, at Oktoberfest, and he counted the box step the entire time.

  There is nothing wrong with being a romantic, Glory. It just means you see the world through a softer lens. The mind will go to great lengths to protect the heart. It sounds like yours prefers to wash memories with a little saltwater to smudge the harsh lines. I wish mine would do the same.

  I never know quite what to say to a wife when her husband ships out. I suppose I’ll settle for two wishes—safety for Robert and a peaceful heart for you.

  Well, I need to run out to the grocery—Roylene is finally coming to tea. I’ll finish this letter after she leaves so I can give you the whole scoop.

  Later...

  Please excuse my penmanship. I’ve gotten into Sal’s secret bottle of rye, found wedged between his tackle box and an ancient Christmas tree stand. I have no idea how long it’s been there. Whiskey doesn’t go bad, though, unlike everything else.

  Roylene showed up on time. I asked to take her overcoat, but she refused. “Come now,” I insisted. “You’ll broil in my kitchen.”

  But the stubborn thing wouldn’t give. She walked past me and settled in at the table, toying with the silverware. “What’s that cooking?” she asked, wariness framing her question.

  I went through the trouble of making stuffed beef heart. Anyone looking at her can tell Roylene’s diet is deficient in most nutrients. When I told her the luncheon menu, she paled and crinkled her nose. “I thought we were having tea.”

  I wanted to show her the door, but instead, for Toby’s sake, I poured her a cup and one for myself. We sat across from each other, the silence stretching out like taffy.

  “Well...” I finally said.

  Roylene drew the teacup to her lips, and proceeded to dribble its contents down the front of that damned wool coat. “Too hot,” she complained, fanning her mouth.

  “Off it goes!” My voice sounded shrill even to my ears. “I’ll spot clean it while lunch finishes cooking.”

  Roylene hugged herself, clawing at the nubby wool. “I’m leaving this on or I’m leaving!” She stood and I was next to her in a flash, my fingers moving nimbly over the cracked wood buttons. “Take it off,” I cried. I knew what was underneath. Oh, Glory, I knew.

  We tugged and pulled, but my words weakened her resolve, and her grip loosened ever so slightly. I gave a final yank and pulled her arms free. Sure enough her tummy was round as a robin’s breast, straining the seams on the front of her cotton dress.

  Roylene was breathing hard, her hands protectively over her middle. “It’s Toby’s. Don’t you say it’s not.”

  I don’t know what force kept my heart beating. I stood there, breathing in and out, wishing a dust storm would swoop in and take Roylene and Roy and that damn tavern back to the hell they came from. I pressed my wedding ring into the palm of my hand to keep from slapping her cheek.

  She’d stolen my son’s future, just as if she’d shown up with a telegram from the War Department.

  “You...thief.”

  Defiance twisted her sharp features. “I didn’t steal nothing. I don’t want nothing from you and I don’t want nothing from Toby he doesn’t want to give.”

  “Have you written to tell him?”

  Roylene straightened her shoulders and put her hands on her still-slim hips. “Not yet.”

  Toby hadn’t kept it from me. That was something to hold on to. “When are you going to inform him?”

  A slight shrug. “I dunno.”

  “I will, then.”

  She took a step forward, those dull hazel eyes catching fire. “No. It’s mine to tell. I want your promise you won’t.”

  I didn’t want to make any promises to Roylene. In the back of my mind I heard Sal’s gentle voice telling me it was not my place. At least, not yet. “All right,” I agreed, “but don’t wait too long or I will.”

  She lunged for the coat in my arms, but I held on tightly. Roylene was going to sit down and eat a healthy meal, so help me God. I steered her to the table and she choked down every bit of the overcooked beef heart. A couple of times it nearly came back up. I didn’t care.

  “I’m surprised your father hasn’t shown up at my door with a shotgun,” I said while she chewed and swallowed.

  “He doesn’t know. I’ve been wearing this coat everywhere. He hasn’t turned the heat on yet so I tell him I’m too cold to take it off.”

  I poured her a glass of milk, and then sat across from her while she drank. “You can’t fool people for long. One day soon you’re going to wake up looking like you swallowed a bowling ball. It’s important to decide whether you want to tell people on your own terms or if you want them to discover your secret by accident. If I were you, I’d want to control the situation.”

  She reached across the table and wrapped her bony fingers over mine. It felt odd, touching this woman—this stranger—who would give birth to my and Sal’s first grandchild. “Please give me some time, Mrs. Vincenzo,” she said softly.

  So I’m giving her time. Someday she’s got to pay me back, though.

  I can’t write any more. My head is a mess.

  More soon,

  Rita

  P.S. Scratch what I said earlier. Give your eyes a good rub to clear all your romantic visions. There’s no place for it during wartime. I think I can understand your father’s way of thinking. Feelings do make us weak sometimes, but other times they make us invincible. I don’t know which one is worse, to tell you the truth.

  P.P.S. I am too young to be a grandmother. I AM.

  October 31, 1943

  V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo

  Toby,

  Happy birthday. Do you know what your present is? A child. Roylene is carrying it. How’s that for a surprise?

  Here I am, worrying myself to death that this war is going to take you away, when the assassin was right here in Iowa City, biting her fingernails and peeling potatoes. Is this the life you had planned? Is she what you want? I can’t see it. And I thought I knew you better than anyone.

  I should have known enough to save you from your mistakes. I should have banged that motel door down. I should have kicked it in.

  But...what’s done is done. That baby is on its way into the world without you here to greet it. Do you trust me to do your job until you get home? I’m not sure I would, given my track record.

  Your birthday gift is a promise to try. That’s all I’m capable of at this point.

  I love you.

  Your ma

  [Letter never sent—slipped into the lining of Rita’s sewing kit.]

  November 1, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dearest Glory,

  I skipped All Souls mass. I just could not go, not with Roylene’s news, not with this war escalating. It made me crazy to think about the thousands of new souls crushed together, huddled in a universe too small to contain them. And those kneeling women, begging for their time to come? So selfish. I couldn’t stand it. Not today.

  Instead, I hung our family’s Blue Star flag in our front window. Please don’t think me morbid for my decision, or unpatriotic for waiting so long. I know it should have gone up the minute Sal reported for duty, or when Toby went off to Maryland. I always found an excuse not to. It wasn’t denial, so much as superstition, I think. Am I growing into a silly old hag?r />
  I cut the stars myself from one of my navy blue winter blouses, one for Sal and one for Toby. Identical. If it comes time to replace them with gold, I won’t do it. Tragedy should not shine like a Christmas ornament. Neither should sacrifice. If the worst does happen I will cut new stars from my black mourning dress, and I will wear it, holes and all.

  About an hour ago I caught Mrs. Kleinschmidt standing at my gate, staring hard at the flag. She had the strangest look on her face. I walked out onto our porch and she didn’t say a word. But then, she of all people should understand how little it sometimes takes to knock someone into the abyss.

  She’s a sliver in my big toe, that woman. At the YMCA on Friday there was talk of a German POW camp being planned for Algona, a small town to the north of us. Mrs. K. went white, and I feared she was going to keel over right into the pile of scrap metal the children had collected. You’d have thought she spotted an M.P. coming her way, ready to haul her off. Glory, Algona is over two hundred miles away!

  That evening we had a blackout drill. I turned off all the lights but didn’t close the side curtains, figuring that even though they’re fading, my sunflowers would do a fine enough job shielding my windows. After the siren stopped I heard a sharp rap on my door. It was Mrs. K. with a black armband snug on her fleshy arm, and a flashlight at her hip. Our new air-raid warden.

  She threatened to place me under a citizen’s arrest for defying the government’s order. I told her where she could stick those orders. Her face turned purple and she started shouting “Dummkopf! Dummkopf!” so loudly I’ll bet the Führer heard her in the Bavarian hills.

  I leaned over and said, very clearly, “Nazi-liebhaber!”

  She unsheathed her flashlight and hit me smack across the thigh. It hurt! I ran out the front door with her chasing me, brandishing that heavy stick, and I kept yelling, “Nazi-lover! Nazi-lover!” like an overgrown schoolyard bully. Oh, Glory, I couldn’t help myself.

  There is a welt on my leg the length of an ear of corn. I guess I deserve it. I suppose the strain of the past week made me lose control. Maybe I need to keep busier to take my mind off my worries? A bunch of the ladies from our USO club work at the canning plants on a temporary basis. I think it’s time I considered taking a job. Soon enough there’ll be another mouth to feed.

  Speaking of which, I left a note at the tavern for Roylene to stop by so I could take her measurements. She came yesterday. That girl is about ready to bust out of her clothes, but Roy hasn’t noticed. I don’t think he’d look up from the till if she was giving birth right on the bar.

  She chose some red wool from my fabric stash for a nice shirtwaist. (I can put in a drawstring instead of elastic.) I can’t have her fainting dead away in that ugly overcoat, can I?

  I’m trying, Glory. Really I am.

  Hope all is well with the Whitehalls.

  Love,

  Rita

  P.S. Is Robbie getting bored during his convalescence? Can he hold a pencil yet? I would like him to draw something for me. I’ll post his work in my other front window.

  P.P.S. Roylene still has not written to Toby. I have a letter ready to go that’ll get the job done. She’s got until Thanksgiving.

  November 5, 1943

  V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Sgt. Robert Whitehall

  Darling Robert,

  Oh, I have such news. Corrine is walking! I’m watching her right now, taking tentative steps, finding her footing. Her laughter nearly drowns out the bell tolling for the dead in this town. So full of life.

  In other news—and don’t call me a gossip hound, this is important—my friend Rita is going to be a grandmother! You know...my pen pal? Well, get this. Her son, Toby, must have fallen in love with the town misfit, this young skinny thing by the name of Roylene. Toby’s back overseas, and Roylene is four months gone! A baby! Rita’s having a hard time with this news, as can be expected. But I can’t help but be excited for her. I’m looking at Corrine play and all I can see is the happiness she brings our family. Make sure you stay safe, my Robert. Don’t be a hero. Be good to yourself, and don’t worry about us. We are fine. I promise.

  All my love,

  Ladygirl

  November 6, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  I am so glad you are making clothes for Roylene. Really. It might be because I have this chubby, perfect baby on my knee...or maybe because I realize how precious every little moment is because of Robbie’s illness. Nevertheless, I am excited about your new addition. Babies are babies. And they are darn cute. You are coping with this whole thing with a gracefulness that I admire. And I’m sure Toby and Sal will be over the moon. There’s nothing like a baby to keep our boys alive out there. I was hoping I might be pregnant again after Robert’s visit, but I was so sick. Your grandchild is a blessing in disguise. I promise you.

  And you will make a wonderful (YOUNG) grandmother! Just look at what your gift did for my boy. Robbie made you a picture! He doesn’t hold a pencil well but I went out and bought some nice watercolor paints at the artist colony here on Rocky Neck. He made you a rainbow. It’s in my little care package. I’ve also sent more stockings, a book of holiday recipes I found at Toad Hall bookstore (I bought two, one for each of us) and a jar of my famous (first) rosehip jam. Can you tell I’m trying to keep busy?

  Rita, would you consider coming for a visit? Maybe for the holidays? Is it too strange for me to ask? I have plenty of room here. Too much room.

  Oh, Rita, I had a hearty laugh when I read your letter. I know that’s serious business, but my goodness. I adore your stories about Mrs. K. I know she’s a thorn in your side, but she amuses me to no end.

  On another note, I’ve been going back to services with Anna. And meetings, too. We are doing all sorts of things to help the war effort. Tinfoil collection, newspaper, book drives, helping connect women who need money with jobs left empty by servicemen. I’m thrilled! I really like working next to her. I can see so much hope in the faces of the people who come down to that little meeting house.

  And I believe in Hope, Rita. I hope so hard all day long. Hope for the war to end. Hope for Sal, Toby and my dear, dear Robert to come home safe and sound. Hope for Hitler to be strung up by his you-know-whats. I hope for Robbie to be Robbie again. And I hope you’ll come to visit me someday.

  I’ve your room picked out already. Upstairs, it faces the sea. I’ve taken one wall and commissioned one of those artists to come and paint sunflowers. It’s where I’ll go to read your letters.

  What will you do for Thanksgiving? I invited Robert’s mother and for once she’s accepted. So I’ll be having Claire, Anna and Marie and Levi. I’m going to do all the cooking and decorating myself. Who needs hired help? Not me!

  With love,

  Glory

  P.S. Robbie asked who he was painting the picture for and, I hope it’s all right, I told him, “Auntie Rita.”

  November 12, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dear Glory,

  Your last letter sounded so cheerful. I’m glad. Does this mean Robbie is getting some color back in his cheeks? I certainly hope so. Please tell him Auntie Rita posted his gorgeous watercolor in her front window because she wanted the entire neighborhood to appreciate its artistry. Irene said it’s better than some of the abstract pieces in the university collection. I completely agree.

  Well, you’ve piqued my imagination, my dear. I can see the sunflower room vividly in my mind’s eye. Someday I will come for a visit, but right now I’m stuck in Iowa City because—get this—I have a job! It’s temporary and part-time, but it is an official job and I do have a number of responsibilities. I’ll be acting as secretary to the dean of the English department. Irene put in a good word, and when I proved I could type he hired me. (Pray he doesn’t ask me to take shorthand—I don’t know anything about all those squiggly lines.) The cur
rent secretary, a sweet-faced girl by the name of Florence, will leave for California directly after the Thanksgiving holiday. She’s going to San Diego for welder’s training, and will likely work in the shipbuilder’s yard until the war is over. So until then I am an employee of the esteemed University of Iowa, just like my Sal. Happy for me?

  Speaking of Thanksgiving—I went a little off my rocker and invited Mrs. K. She knocked on my door again, this time holding a snow shovel. I asked her if she meant to bump me off this time, and she cracked the tiniest of smiles, like when a baby passes gas, I kid you not.

  Then she asked me to clear her walkway, though we only got a dusting. I think she was trying to apologize, in her way. I agreed, which was me apologizing in mine. After I finished I returned the shovel and invited her. She promised to come by after she hands out turkey dinners at the USO. I bet she’s stingy with the gravy, don’t you?

  Thank heavens there are plenty of birds this year, but it seems everything else is rationed. I used eight points to buy a can of cranberries at the grocery. I wasn’t going to make it, but Sal loves my sauce, so it felt wrong to leave it off the table. Maybe I’m superstitious, but changing my menu seems like an invitation to the gods of chance to start up some trouble. With that in mind, I’m making Toby’s favorite cornbread stuffing as well, with extra raisins and celery.

  While I was picking up items at the grocery, I ran into Irene and Charlie shopping for their dinner. They didn’t notice me at first, so I spied on them from behind a towering RC Cola display. I’m not proud of myself, but there’s a lot to learn when people don’t know you’re looking, and there’s a lot about those two I want to know. Charlie’s behavior didn’t set off any alarm bells, quite the opposite, in fact. He orbits Irene, walking close but not too close, holding his hand under her elbow but not quite cradling it—it’s almost as if he fears she’s made of fine blown glass, and one false move could end in disaster. Irene does nothing to dispel this notion. It puts a barrier between them, thin and transparent like a photographer’s scrim, but there all the same. Was it made of fear? If yes, then my duty as Irene’s friend was to help push it aside. I stepped around the cola display, all smiles, feigning surprise. I invited them over for Thanksgiving dinner, as a couple. They accepted graciously. I told Charlie to bring some wine, which I intend to pour generously into both their glasses. Hopefully it’ll loosen them up some.