Toby’s Poem
In the days of boyhood, summer came late
and the fan hummed low
and I couldn’t see past the sunflowers
Sometimes, here, in the damp heat
I wake and think I’m there.
But the hum doesn’t drone
it grows
Airplanes, not out of boyhood dreams,
a nightmare sort of use
Clearing rows of passage
by massacring tall flowers
Spreading seeds of hate
for violent gardens
The enemy, my shadow,
Looked at me
loomed in me
and though my gun won
I lost
I will wake soon
in my summer room
And all this blood
Won’t ever have happened.
Something’s not right, Mrs. Whitehall. At first I thought he’d written a poem for the baby, but no one would read this to a child. I’d like to get your take on things. It doesn’t seem right to ask Mrs. Vincenzo.
Thank you kindly.
Regards,
Roylene Dawson
March 6, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
My letter is a bit late because Robbie was ill. He’s fine now, don’t worry. But watching him fight, pale again. Gasping for air again. It tore another piece out of me. Soon I’ll be a Frankenstein of worry. All patches and zigzag stitches of the girl I used to be. Like I said, he’s fine now. But his recovery is slow. I hold my breath when he coughs. I’ll be so, so happy to usher in the spring.
Now, about your news... Congratulations! A boy. I’m so happy for you. Please send my regards to Roylene and let her know I’ve sent a layette separately. I ordered it from the Spiegel Catalog. Did you get yours yet? I sent one in the package just in case you haven’t gotten one. Their spring collection is just lovely. I hope you are getting a lot of time with that new baby. Corrine is a running terror now, just like Robbie used to be. I miss those quiet infant days. I remember being able to stare at my babies for hours on end, never knowing where the time went. Would you mind sending me a picture?
And, thank you for sharing your stories about Sal! An olive tree...oh, I’m getting one, too. Tell Sal that your silly, Able Grable of an East Coast pen pal is going to grow olives for him, as well. What a wonderful letter to get. I wonder about that so, so often. Those other memories the boys are making. Robert fills his with domestic things or life at camp. The food, the care packages, the nights when they all sit out and stare at the moon aching for home, smoking. But he doesn’t tell me about battle, and he doesn’t tell me about the culture. I wish he would. I’ll write to him after I finish this letter and ask him some leading questions. Perhaps he’ll take the bait and talk to me about where he is stationed. I’d love to know.
Things are getting awkward again in my home. How long did I think it would last? This ridiculous arrangement between Levi and I? Did I really think that we could be around each other every minute of every day without something happening?
Here’s what happened. It was the first warm day. About a week ago. I asked Marie if she’d help me wash my hair outside. It’s a habit I cling to from when I was a little girl. My mother used to wash my hair with a mixture of baking soda, rose water and apple cider vinegar out in the sun. I know it sounds smelly, but the vinegar dries free of any odor. And the hair is simply silky afterward. Anyway, I was sitting out in the middle of the yard on a kitchen chair waiting for Marie to come and rinse out the vinegar with warm water. I had the basin next to me and the cider had been sitting in my hair for a little too long. I called to her. I don’t know what happened. Either she is unaware of what’s gone on in this house, or she was simply too busy with the kids...but when the warm water began to run down my hair, rinsing out the acrid smell of the vinegar, it was Levi’s hands, not Marie’s, that began massaging in the rose water.
My first instinct was to jump. Or at least speak. But I couldn’t. His hands felt so good in my hair. From the roots, up to my scalp. His strong hands. Those hands I held and trusted when I was still a little girl. Those hands that rinsed my hair before...before we ever touched each other in inappropriate ways. Only now—now they stirred my soul.
“All I want to do is kiss you, Glory,” he said. “Just one more time.” His voice seemed to move as he poured more water from the basin onto my hair. Some splashed on my face and he ran his hands over my closed eyes, over my nose and lips.
It took everything I had not to answer him. Not to open my eyes. Because I knew that even if my intention was to scold him, my mouth would open to his mouth instead. So I stayed there. Quiet. Mute, even. And when he was done, he wrapped my hair in a towel and walked away.
I cried a river, Rita, but at least I kept my word.
It’s hard. But it feels like a sacrifice that focuses my attention on the war more than any ration book ever could.
God grant me strength.
In other news: my speech went well at the Women to Work rally! I’m not so nervous anymore. Not like that first time near Christmas. I don’t know why or how, but when I stand at that podium a surge of energy goes through me and I feel as if I could talk for hours and hours. I wish you could see me, I really do.
As for the garden, I did follow your advice and purchased my seeds from a local farmer. My entire dining room is covered in little greenhouses and every day the children and I watch for the first green sprouts to push up through the dirt. Mother is rolling in her grave seeing our fancy dining room covered in little buckets and glass slabs. Not to mention the smidgens of dirt always on the floor. But this is a garden house now. A garden house where people are waiting between what was and what is going to be.
All my love,
Glory
P.S. Give that baby a kiss for me. Tell him Auntie Glory sent it.
March 6, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Roylene,
I am so pleased that you feel you can entrust me with such a task. You are being very brave and your actions are commendable. I wish you were closer because I’d have you come and speak to the women in our group. You are quite an inspiration. And I know it isn’t something you feel you have a complete grasp on, but keep on pushing through. For Toby...and for you. Okay?
Now, about Toby’s poem. First: I am so honored that you would share it with me. Really. I cried when I read it. What an amazing young man.
If I were to break it down for you I’d say this: Toby’s longing for home. He wishes he was back in Iowa with you and with his Mom and Dad. And something’s happened to him that makes him worry that even if...when...he does come home he won’t be the same person he was before. Does that make sense? I think he’s telling you he’s changed. That something violent has happened.
If you write back to him, I suppose it might be good to let him know that there isn’t any change that would keep you from caring for him. He’s still Toby no matter what happens over there.
Please don’t hesitate to contact me about anything else you may need. I’m here. Waiting like the rest of us. And these letters make the time go by.
All the best,
Glory
March 11, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
Make sure to let those seedlings get accustomed to the outdoors incrementally. Plants resist change just as much as people do. Are your hearty perennials poking their sleepy heads through the soil yet? When your lemon balm comes back, pluck some leaves and make a tea for Robbie. This Garden Witch says it’s good for promoting healthy breathing. Use dried chamomile for yourself. It calms the mind.
Don’t worry about the timing of your letters. (Though your last one nearly had me reaching for the smelling salts. Maybe you should s
tick to washing your hair in the bath?) Difficult as it is, you obviously have your priorities straight, my dear. Time and devotion will heal Robbie, and it appears you are giving him ample amounts of both.
Roylene has taken to motherhood like a duck to water. She’s back in that kitchen, peeling potatoes with Little Sal watching from a basket on the floor. I’m helping when I can, but you know how much a baby needs his mother at the start.
The gorgeous layette arrived yesterday. Thank you, hon, for your kindness. I walked the package over to the tavern and Roylene nearly passed out in the tomato soup when she touched the fine lace. I expect you’ll hear from her soon.
Overall, Iowa City has been pretty calm. My job for Dr. Aloysius Martin (He’s such a formal man I always feel the need to use his entire name!) has fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm. I know my duties, and I know what’s expected of me, and when I shut the light off and lock the door I know when I return in the morning I will find the office exactly as I left it. I can’t say the same for the other aspects of my life.
Besides a quick telegram responding to Little Sal’s birth, Toby hasn’t written. I also haven’t heard from Sal since the “olive tree” letter. I like to think he’s moved on to tomatoes.
On the homefront, Mrs. K. is causing trouble again. Only this time it’s...complicated.
Last weekend we had a burst of unseasonably warm weather. I invited Irene and Charlie over to meet Little Sal, and for some iced tea and cheese rarebit (recipe to follow). The sun shone so brightly it seemed a shame to stay inside, so the three of us settled onto the front porch, leaving Roylene inside to nap with the baby.
Mrs. K. decided, at just that moment, it was extremely vital that she sweep her already immaculate front steps. I took the hint and called her over. She’d met Irene before, but not Charlie, at least not formally. I made the introduction and she offered him a limp hand. That should have been my first red flag. I quickly settled her in with a glass of iced tea and a heaping plate.
Then the interrogation began.
“How do you earn your living, Mr. Clark?” was her opening shot.
Charlie sells vitamins door-to-door. He was explaining this to Mrs. K. when she interrupted with, “Why aren’t you serving in the armed forces?”
He told her about his perforated eardrum. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she fell into a ponderous silence.
Later, Mrs. K. volunteered to check on Roylene and Little Sal. When she returned she squeezed her generous hips between Irene and Charlie, so she could sit on his left side. She rejoined the conversation, but you would have thought Mrs. K. was a radio with a broken tuner, her voice kept dipping and rising so. But I knew what she was doing. It was my old trick to gauge Charlie’s hearing abilities.
The sun finally set and we stood to say our goodbyes. Charlie stuck out his hand to Mrs. K., who wouldn’t take it. “I’m not sure whether it’s the scent of the past or a whiff of the future, but, sir, you stink of the jailhouse,” she pronounced.
I wanted to die. Charlie still bowed his head to the old hag, but then hightailed it off my property with a confused Irene in tow.
I was furious with the old woman and I told her so.
“His eardrum is perfectly fine,” she insisted.
I couldn’t argue with that. I’d suspected the same.
Mrs. K. sensed her victory and stepped closer. “And did you see his shoes? How shiny they were? Who in this town has new shoes?”
I didn’t have an explanation for that, either. Mrs. K. accused him of profiteering and said I shouldn’t ever ask him back. If he is involved in the black market I would never allow him on my property again. I don’t like “ifs,” though. I should talk to Charlie, right? Talk to him without making it feel like a confrontation? But I guess that’s what it will be, regardless of how I frame it.
Well, take care and write when you can, not before.
Love,
Rita
P.S. I heartily enjoy picturing you preach to the masses. In my imagination you have a clear, musical voice, and everyone listens intently, not even daring to cough. Don’t tell me if it’s not true—it’s what I want to believe. So there.
Hearty Cheese Rarebit
1 pound grated American cheddar cheese (or, as Mrs. K. insists, Swiss)
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup beer
2 egg yolks, slightly beaten
Hot buttered toast or crackers
Paprika
Melt cheese and butter over hot water, slowly. When about ¼ of the cheese has melted, add half the beer slowly. Continue to cook until cheese is all melted, stirring constantly. Stir in remaining beer into egg yolks; add slowly to cheese mixture. Stir constantly until thick and smooth. Serve immediately on toast or crackers, garnished with paprika.
March 21, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dearest Rita,
Spring! Oh, beautiful (cold, dreary, icy) New England spring! My plants are growing and I just can’t wait to put them in the ground. It’s not safe to plant most things until Mother’s Day...and that seems a world away.
Rita, how I enjoy your stories of Mrs. K. I’ve begun reading them to Levi... I hope that’s okay. Not your entire letters—those belong to me. But your stories! My goodness. You should pen a novel while you’re sitting at that desk. I love to think of you there at work. Making all the women in your life, in your town, realize that it’s possible to leave their kitchens and be active members of society.
Here in Rockport things are waking up after the long, icy winter. The church bell tolls almost every day. I’ve stopped being able to attend most memorial services. Too many boys are dying. It seems like a lie. Like an impossibility. And the war itself seems stuck in the mud of a European spring. Robert says it feels like “two steps forward, three steps back” all the time.
I’ve been a wizard in the kitchen. I love to cook. I think it’s so odd that every week now I make speeches trying to liberate women from the shackles of wifely serfdom...at the same point in my life where I’m learning just how good I can be at homemaking. I’ve learned to sew, knit and crochet. (Truthfully I used to do these things with my nanny, but I haven’t revisited the skills as a grown woman.) I know you probably do all these things better than I do, but I’ve made you something. I hope you like them.
Overalls. Yes! I’ve taken men’s overalls and pulled in the midsection and shortened the length. I’ve completely guessed at your size. (If you need them bigger or smaller just send me your measurements. Look at me, assuming you will like them.)
I’ve taken the liberty to embroider some vines and flowers on the legs and bib. I’ve made them for the women in town, and they are quite popular. Who would have thought such things were possible. Such joy coming from overalls.
I love wearing them with Robert’s old flannel shirts. And I never wear my hair up anymore (only when I’m cooking). And I don’t even try to have it cut or tame the curls. They just fall all around me. Levi tells me Robert won’t recognize me. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. That situation is still holding...but it’s so, so complicated, Rita. I can’t even tell you.
Anna is getting older by the day. It’s a sad thing, watching someone so vital begin to age rapidly. Marie has taken over the Sunday masses, but I’m in charge of almost all the organizing now.
And did you hear? They’ve begun allowing students at Radcliffe to attend classes at Harvard! When I heard the news I immediately thought of a good use to that abandoned house of mine in Cambridge. I’ve decided to turn it into a boardinghouse for women who want to go to school but can’t afford it. I’ve gone so far as to speak with some architects about possible renovations, and I’ve applied for the necessary permits.
Someday, mark my words, women will be allowed into elite colleges. Harvard was my father’s alma mater. And I would have loved to go. But no matter how mu
ch money or power you have in society, women are always excluded. Is the university where you work coeducational? I sure hope so. Someday I’d like to set up scholarships. In my mother’s name.
All my best,
Glory
P.S. As soon as the lemon balm revives I’m going to make your tea for Robbie. I’m certain it will put pink right into my son’s cheeks. Thank you so much for being my darling Garden Witch.
March 25, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
Oh, your package came today and I had to write immediately. I adore your gift. Thank you ever so much. Good, strong fabric is hard to come by, and my pair of dungarees has just about disintegrated. You got the height right, but I’m going to take the waist in an inch or two. Turns out rationing is good for one thing besides feeding our troops—trimming my figure! I’m about the same size I was before I had Toby—imagine that! I can’t wait for Sal to see the newly svelte me.
I was delighted to hear about your philanthropy. The University of Iowa—I’m proud to say—has always allowed women to attend. In the first group of students, one-quarter were women. That was a century ago—do you feel the turmoil of the past few decades has made folks less open-minded? That’s certainly something to think about, and definitely something to fight against if the answer is yes.
Providing young women with opportunities is as wise an investment as putting your money in oil or automobiles. We don’t know what the world will be like after the effects of this war settle. Will Hitler have his New World Order? I don’t like to think so. However, the world will be a new place, with all the shifts and realignments that come with change. We best prepare all of our citizens for that.
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