My desire to do so surprised me, Glory. I had to turn away and choke down the emotion clawing at my throat. I held my grandson so tightly he squirmed.
Lawyer Bill gave Roylene a fatherly kiss on the forehead, and then it was over. My son was a married man.
Afterward, we went to lunch with Bill and Mary Ann, and we all signed a card to send to Toby. Even Roy scribbled his congratulations. We rubbed Little Sal’s hands with sliced beets and pressed them onto the V-mail. I don’t know if it’ll go through, but the sweet gesture made even Mrs. K. smile from ear to ear.
We’re heading back to Iowa City first thing in the morning. Roylene just wondered aloud if she’ll feel like a different person tomorrow.
I feel like a different person today.
Love,
Rita
P.S. Even with all the commotion, I’ve been thinking about you all the time. Write soon, hon. I can’t wait patiently for news of your homecoming. I just can’t.
August 15, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
I’m home.
I will never be able to thank you enough for your last letter. I’ve folded it and put it in a small silk satchel that I pin to the inside of my slip (or overalls when I’m in the garden). I hope this letter gets to you quickly. We are always waiting, aren’t we? All in a state of hesitation and held breath. Sometimes it’s glorious like a storm at the end of a hot day. And sometimes it’s like waiting for a vaccination. Perhaps the greatest gift this war has given us is the anticipation itself. Such things out of the ordinary lead to the most inexplicable extraordinariness.
Extraordinariness in the form of a married woman who’s been untrue. Who’s fallen into false love with an old option and then kicks that option aside like a flat tire. Yes, at least my time at Astor House gave me a little clarity about what it is I’ve done. And I was scared. So scared to face Levi after all the things I said. After refusing him that one final time without any warmth or apology. But there he was, waiting for me with an open heart and a hammer.
And we did as you said, Rita. We began the project of making a comfortable reentry for Robert. My husband, his best friend. We sawed and hammered side by side, with the children helping with the smaller things, taking breaks to steal some sunlight for their souls. As we worked I realized something else. I do love Levi, Rita. In some ways, I’ve married both of them. Robert and I were married by our similar histories and by a priest, under God. Levi and I were married when we were eleven years old, by the goddess of the sea. But I’m not a pagan princess... I’m a human wife. And it’s time to let my childhood go. I pushed it away with every “bang” of the hammer.
You gave me this gift, Rita. The gift of time. And this war gave me you. Such sweetness out of such sorrow. (And I’d throw it all away, all of it, if we could travel back in time so that you could have Sal back and Toby safe.) We don’t need to have the answers. We’ll never have them. They’ll come and go and change. And all we can do is figure out the best way to behave when life comes at us. Even if society says it isn’t right. Right is so subjective, after all.
Robert is scheduled back home in the fall. He thinks late September. The house will be ready for him. Now I just have to work on myself. Will I be ready for him? Who knows.
I love you, Rita. Have I told you? Is it too odd for me to say? When do you think it would be proper to begin planning our grand “reunion”? I think if I had that to look forward to, it might make the trying days ahead less trying.
AND there is a new painting from Robbie enclosed. It’s of his family. Me and Robert (note his wheelchair), Levi and Corrine. Don’t go thinking my boy is a genius. Robert wrote to him and asked him to paint it just like that. He’s a very, very good father. I wept when I read the letter to Robbie and helped him with the wheels on the wheelchair. But Robbie told me, “Don’t cry, Mama, the world is good to us. Look how big the sunflowers are! Only lucky people have sunflowers like that!”
Our boy. He loves you, too.
Your account of Roylene and Toby’s wedding was lovely. I wish I’d been there. You are a wonderful woman. Roylene is lucky to have you. And do I dare say that YOU are lucky to have her? Oh, I envy her at times.
And one more thing: we took the kids to the outdoor market and I bought the most delicious “fudge.” I told the woman there I wanted to send the recipe to my sister in Iowa and she was flattered that it would travel all that way, so she kindly jotted it down. Here it is:
Carrot Fudge
Ingredients:
Carrots
Gelatin
Orange essence
Method:
Finely grate carrots and cook four tablespoons in just enough water to cover for 10 minutes. Add flavoring with orange essence, grated orange rind or orange squash/cordial.
Melt a leaf of gelatin. Add gelatin to mixture. Cook quickly for a few minutes stirring all the time. Spoon into a flat dish. Leave to set. Cut into cubes.
All my love,
Glory
August 23, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
Thank heavens you’re home. Really home.
I have to be honest—I can’t predict what is going to happen once Robert returns. I suppose what I’m trying to say is be open to failure. Given what’s at stake, well, everywhere, it feels like some sort of betrayal to even write that word. But once you accept it as a possibility, you can make plans for the event it does happen.
Okay, I’m done being serious. Are you sighing with relief?
Tell Robbie his family portrait is hanging in my dining room above the buffet, a place of honor. It’s lovely. His legs may not be nimble, but his fingers are. I’m thrilled you’re cultivating this. When the body is not working so well, it’s key to keep the mind moving. (This will hold true for Robert, as well.)
So...news on the Iowa front: my garden could feed all of General Bradley’s men and then some. The tomatoes have taken full advantage of all the sun we’ve been getting—passersby could mistake my backyard for a children’s party full of red balloons. Roylene is going to help with the canning this year, and I’ll send you some of Sal’s famous sauce. His recipe is the best kept secret in Iowa City! As the torchbearer, I feel it is my duty to pass it along, and since I now have a daughter-in-law Roylene is the lucky recipient.
Oh, Glory, she’s such a dear. I’ve finally broken her of the habit of standing while she eats—the girl has the dishes done before the food’s even hit her stomach! She’s shy about hanging her underthings outside, but laughs uproariously at Groucho’s best innuendos, her back against the sofa, ribs bobbing up and down at every witticism coming from the radio.
The other day I arrived home from work a bit early and found her and Little Sal in Toby’s closet, nestled between his pressed shirts and old spelling bee trophies. Her face turned the color of rhubarb jam! I told her not to worry—she could have easily caught me among Sal’s things, sniffing for a trace of him like an old hound dog. And Little Sal should start getting used to his father’s scent—this war can’t last forever, right?
I also wanted to tell her I’m grateful she’s brought new love into the house, but I didn’t want to embarrass her further, or remind her that Toby’s not here. She’s got enough to think about.
Roylene’s building herself up to go see Roy. They had words when we switched buses in Des Moines. I was minding Little Sal so I didn’t hear much, but Roy seethed until we got to Iowa City. Charlie and Irene met us at the depot, and amid the chaos of congratulatory hugs and bag retrievals and settling into Charlie’s car (He’s gotten his hands on one somehow. Don’t ask—I surely don’t!) Roy slipped away.
Whatever transpired is playing on that girl’s mind. Roy left the argument unfinished, and she’s wrestling with it, I can tell. She talks about heading down to the tavern to “Say hello,” but ne
ver quite makes it out the door.
I offered to accompany her, but she refused. Charlie said he’d drive her and stick around, but she’s turned him down as well, gently, saying she’s got to do this for herself or she’ll always question her ability to do so.
The world could certainly learn a lot from Roylene Vincenzo.
Well, take care and know that I’m rooting for a smooth return of the hero Robert Whitehall.
Love,
Rita
P.S. School is back in session, and Charlie, Irene and I are again eating lunch on the greens. Sometimes I bring Little Sal, who pulls on the grass and delightedly points at ants with his pudgy fingers while I try fruitlessly to brush them away. It’s enjoyable because my subconscious has stopped trying to play cupid. I find it hard to believe I couldn’t see they are two perfectly fine puzzle pieces that just don’t fit. It’s a mystery, isn’t it? How that works?
August 23, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Toby,
I love you, too. And yes, it was strange but not wrong, if I’m making sense.
I’ve been a wife for two weeks now. I’m living in your home, which through your ma’s kindness feels like my own. My life in the tavern seems far away, like it happened to someone else. My days are quiet, one tumbling into the next.
Work’s hard to find unless you live in Des Moines or Cedar Rapids. The USO center said they’d take Little Sal on the days your ma has to work, but the factories around here don’t need me. Everyone who can wants to help, which is nice, but it don’t help me none. The other day, I thought I’d take one more walk into town to check for openings. If I didn’t see anything, I’d start asking at the local farms. I figured they could always use another set of hands.
When I got to Clinton Street I saw the enlistment office. My feet walked in before my brain caught up. I was flappin’ my eyelids like a real country bumpkin when an officer asked me if I needed anything. She stood at attention while she waited for my answer. Her uniform was crisply ironed and the deepest, prettiest blue I’d ever seen. “I’m just looking for work,” I said. “But I haven’t found nothing yet.”
“Yes, you have,” she answered right back. “Your country needs you to work for Victory. Join the WAVES and free up a stateside guy to go overseas. The training center is in Cedar Falls. That’s just a hop, skip and a jump from here.” She took me in, her eyes bright. “You look perfectly suited for it. What do you say?”
I said yes. Scrawled my name on the dotted line.
Oh, Toby, don’t be mad. Do you remember the first time you sat on the counter while I chopped onions and washed dishes? I asked why you enlisted and you said it was an opportunity to see the world and meet history face-to-face. You also said you believed this war to be one of the only times you’d get into a fight and know for certain you were on the right side of things.
I barely finished high school. Kansas City was the farthest I’d ever been from home since leaving Oklahoma. What can I offer Little Sal? What kind of wife will I be to you, if the only thing I can talk about is how to make a good corned beef sandwich?
I’ll be gone a year. I’ll miss Little Sal something desperate, but my mind will rest knowing he’s staying with your ma. I want to give him to her for a short while. She’s not easy with him yet—when he bumps his head on the crib or topples into the coffee table she cries out like he lost an arm. If she has time alone with him, maybe she’ll be more comfortable.
I haven’t told her yet. She’s lonesome, and having us around helps. I’ve seen lots of lonesome people in the tavern, so I can spot it even when they try to hide it. Telling her will be harder than breaking the news to Roy, that I know.
I probably shouldn’t, but I’m gonna go see him and tell him why I’m leaving. I have to. My mama never did.
Your wife,
Roylene
August 26, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA OR THE BANKS OF THE SEINE!
Madame Gloria!
Paris is liberated! Vive la France!
Because Sal is nowhere, he is everywhere. I imagine him atop the Eiffel Tower, waving French and American flags. We always talked of going to Paree to drink champagne and eat the stinkiest of cheeses. He would wear a beret and I a silk scarf.
But, as de Gaulle said, “These are minutes which go beyond each of our poor lives.”
So, in honor of this victory I’m revealing my best soufflé recipe! Here goes:
Spinach Soufflé
3 eggs, separated
½ cup medium white sauce
1 teaspoon grated onion
½ cup grated cheddar cheese
2 cups finely chopped cooked spinach
Beat egg yolks until thick and lemon-colored. Combine white sauce, onion and cheese. Stir egg yolks into white sauce mixture. Add spinach. Fold in stiffly beaten egg whites. Set in a pan of hot water and bake in a moderate oven (350°F) about 50 minutes, or until firm. Try not to open the oven before it’s done!
Cordialement,
Rita
P.S. I think Roylene is ready for her big confrontation with Roy. She’s got a look about her that says she’s made up her mind. I’m worried, but that girl has already proven she’s got a backbone, so my money’s on her.
August 26, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Oh, Rita,
Can you believe it? France. It’s as if Robert did it all by himself, I swear. I feel him everywhere. His grace and his strength. His almighty altruism. It’s as if he WILLED them to win. The tide is surely turning now. I can’t wait to talk to him about all of this. I hope he’ll remember it. I hope they tell him, blow by blow, what happened.
The bells are ringing, only they aren’t mourning bells!
Levi and I fairly ran into town with the children to spend the day on the beaches stopping by all sorts of impromptu picnics. There’s nothing but smiles and tears today. So many mothers and sisters and lovers full of hope now. And pride. Flags everywhere, like it’s the Fourth of July all over again!
We lit sparklers tonight. Just the four of us, and we sat and looked at the moon.
“I miss Daddy,” said Robbie.
My throat closed. I couldn’t speak. “Soon, Robbie...so soon he’ll come home. And when he does, the whole world will be thankful.”
“I think that’s my cue to leave,” said Levi. And he did.
I didn’t watch him go, and the children didn’t whine. We snuggled there, the three of us on our back porch, and lit more sparklers.
All I could think about was Sal.
And Toby. And Robert. And you and Roylene. How we find love in the strangest places. And how it never plays by the rules if it’s right.
Did I ever tell you I spent a whole year in France? It bothered me to no end when it was occupied. How can you occupy anything so free, so brazen and bold. How do you take over a people so in love with life?
The answer is, you can’t.
I’m thinking of your boys, Rita. I’m thinking of Sal ushering the lost souls into the gates of heaven. And of Toby, who is celebrating just as we are at this very moment.
They are fireflies in my eyes.
In hopes of peace,
Glory
P.S. I love being a woman. A woman among amazing women. Women who understand just how much we need one another.
P.P.S. In that spirit, I leave you with thoughts of my mother’s favorite song. Do you know the singer Billie Holiday? My mother traveled down to New York to see her sing in nightclubs. Once she brought back a recording of “It’s Like Reaching for the Moon” and she sang it so much we all committed it to memory. I think she felt it defined her relationship with my father. I think it defines this beautiful day!
September 6, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
How lovely and amazin
g and QUIET it’s been. I’m spending a good deal of time gardening. Well, you can hardly call it that, I suppose. It’s more like reaping! Oh, holy dear LORD, the sheer volume of tomatoes!
I’ve become a veritable domestic goddess. Sewing and cooking. Mothering. Preparing for Robert’s arrival. (Which could be any day. The army is so disorganized for such an organized army...well, you know what I mean!)
So I’ve been making a lot of things with tomatoes.
Tomatoes and cream and sugar for breakfast.
Tomato omelets for lunch and dinner.
Tomato soufflé.
Tomato SOUP. (So much soup.)
Tomato sauce, as well.
But here is why I am writing to you. This recipe. Oh, Rita. Make it and feed it to our Roylene!
Tomato Soup Cake
(I know! But it’s good. Trust me. SO GOOD!)
½ cup shortening
1 cup sugar (substitute 3⁄4 cup honey per rations)
1 cup tomato soup (best used if sitting in icebox for a few days)
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon cloves
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup raisins
1 cup chopped nuts (of course, if you can get them!)
Blend shortening with sugar. Stir baking soda into tomato soup. Make sure it dissolves. Add to shortening and sugar. Sift dry ingredients and add to the mix. Stir in raisins and nuts. Pour into a greased and floured 13x9-inch cake pan and bake at 350 degrees for almost an hour. Glaze or frost or simply butter. Good toasted, too.
As for your new pal Roylene. I’m so happy for both of you! And more than a little bit jealous. I’d give anything to sit in your kitchen.
And I know your voice. It’s deep and rich and full of laughter behind all that. So don’t you worry. Me? I sound like a bird who got caught in a fan! And if you have any bad habits I’ll just love you more. You’ve been doing the same for me.
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