Home Front Girls

by Suzanne Hayes

  On my way home, I stopped over at the tavern and left a note on the alley door inviting Roylene. I asked her to come a few hours early. It’s about time I teach her to make a Vincenzo Thanksgiving feast. Maybe the two of us can figure out a way to get a container of stuffing to the South Pacific.

  I also—drumroll—invited Roy. I know I should have extended the olive branch in person, but I have no idea if Roylene finally took off that overcoat.

  Well, I need to head over to St. Mary’s to help with the linens for the memorial mass honoring the five Sullivan brothers of Waterloo. I can’t believe it’s been a year since they were killed. I think of their mother, traveling around speaking for the war effort with the weight of all that grief on her shoulders. She’s a better woman than I.

  Difficult as it is, I am trying to believe hope has a place in this war, just like you suggested. Thanks for the reminder, hon. I should be thankful for what I do have at this time of year, and my blessings are many.

  Have a lovely Thanksgiving dinner,

  Rita

  November 25, 1943,

  Thanksgiving Day

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  It’s late here. The children are asleep. The dishes are washed, the floor is swept. The leftovers covered and tucked topsy-turvy on top of themselves in the icebox. I’m afraid to open the thing! I made way too much. Seeing as I used most of my rations, I suppose leftovers are a good thing.

  Oh, darling Rita. A job? I’m so, so happy for you. And so proud. How wonderful it will be to work at a university. You’ll be great. You’ll pick it up in no time. Shorthand is nothing after you’ve battled and won over the terrifying Mrs. K.

  Robbie is doing well. But he’s still a different boy. Lately I’ve become absolutely obsessed with the ease at which we humans adapt to things. Three years ago I was a young bride in a Free World. Now I’m the mother of two children and an army wife. And the world is on the verge of chaos and tyranny. (I sound just like Anna giving one of her talks. I’m happy to even hold those words in my mouth, to let them come out of my pen is divine. I want to write speeches, too. What do you think? Would it be too horrible for Robert to come home to an activist wife?)

  Here’s what I’ve adapted to in terms of my son. He will never be a soldier. He will never be an athlete. He will be at risk of death every time he gets ill...and he will be prone to such illness. To put it bluntly, he could die. Any moment. But so could Robert and Sal and Toby. At least I am here with him. He’s not alone. Our other boys? They are alone out there without us.

  Levi kissed me again tonight. There was wine with dinner. Anna and Marie had gone. My mother-in-law never made it here. There was a little snow on the ground and it scared her away. He put the children to sleep. He’s been here more and more lately, so I’m sure I should have expected this. We’ve been exchanging glances, and every once in a while his hand brushes mine. I’ve been writing to Robert almost every night to assuage my guilt. And I miss him, Rita. I don’t want you to think I don’t. I miss him so much. But he’s not here. And the attention and friendship I get from Levi...the little everyday things like putting the children to bed. That sort of normalcy has lulled me into a false sense of what is real and what is not.

  I washed the dishes and listened to the radio. I was missing Robert. Missing the way he used to dance with me in the kitchen.

  I felt Levi behind me before he even touched me. When I turned around, his face was right in front of mine. “Gloria,” he said. I closed my eyes and it was as if my name echoed across a thousand million years. His mouth. I still feel the burn where his stubble scraped my skin. God help me, Rita, I wasn’t the one to pull away. He was. I was leaning, almost in a backbend over the sink. I could feel him pressing against me and I wanted him to just do it already. To make me the woman my mother must have been.

  Then a dish hit a glass and he ran out of the kitchen, out the back door and into the night. I followed him as far as the porch. He was standing in the dark yard staring at the sky. He didn’t turn around.

  “I can’t do this, Glory. I can’t pretend to live this life with you.” He ran his fingers through his hair but never turned around. He just walked into the night. Thank God Marie left a package of cigs. I’m smoking right now. Sitting here in your sunflower room and smoking. Thinking about writing activist speeches and becoming an adulteress. See? Look what we can adapt to. All sorts of things.

  On November 11 (Armistice Day), I received my first “romantic” letter from Robert. Mostly he fills his letters with domestic things. But not this one. He misses me, Rita. He aches for me and this is how I treat him? Is it possible to be in love with two men at the same time? Or is this feeling I have for Levi a memory? The memory of love.

  Living inside of all this anxiety is difficult. I don’t know if I should grab at life or wait for it to grab me.

  Please don’t be angry. I’m young and reckless.

  Love,

  Glory

  P.S. Robbie sent another picture. This one is of a turkey. See his handprint?

  P.P.S. It’s morning now and I am posting this letter. I thought about ripping it up and giving you a rundown of my menu instead, but I want you to know everything. Levi was sitting on the front porch this morning drinking coffee. He’d come in and made a pot. “Never again,” he said. “Whatever you say,” I told him. So I guess that is THAT.

  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 mor
ning. 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.