I'll Be Seeing You. Loretta Nyhan
you own a bunch already?”
“I want to repair it,” I said, struggling to soften my voice. “Don’t you want to look your best for our trip?”
She handed the decrepit sweater over like she was giving me one of her kidneys, and then ran down the street without a backward glance.
We leave for Ohio in five days. Wish me luck.
Rita
May 26, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
How nice of you to offer to fix Roylene’s sweater. I’ve been getting handy these days, too. Marie is teaching me to knit and crochet. And I’ve picked up some embroidery on my own. Sometimes I wonder about my mother and what she did with her free time. As far as I know she never cooked, cleaned or made anything with her hands. I’d feel robbed if I couldn’t do these things. There’s such a sense of accomplishment.
The days are slow and soft with a new baby. Marie has moved in for the moment, so I can better care for Corrine. As I’ve said, Robbie is full of energy and more than a little attention deprived since her birth.
A few days ago, we were all sitting on the porch having breakfast and something terrible happened. Marie and I were talking about the war, Mrs. M.’s sermons and ration cards. Robbie was trying to get my attention but I insisted he stay quiet. I had little Corrine at my breast. (I decided to breast-feed her. Mrs. M. said it was my patriotic duty. I’m enjoying the closeness. I didn’t breast-feed Robbie. Claire Whitehall, the mother-in-law of all mother-in-laws, told me it was a disgusting habit and gave me a jar of some powdered milk.) Anyway, Robbie walked right up to me and smacked the baby on her head!
I wanted to hit him, Rita. I wanted to throw him right over the railing of the porch. And that feeling...the rage that rose up so suddenly made me remember another time. The only other time I’ve ever felt violence surge in my blood.
Robert, Levi and I were about twelve years old. We’d just reunited on the beaches here in Rockport and the day started out lovely. Then Levi started to tease me about how my body was changing. I didn’t want to become a woman, so I was sensitive to it. I was so afraid that if I changed too much, we wouldn’t be best friends anymore.
“Stop looking at me like that, Levi,” I shouted.
“He can’t help it, Glory. You’re turning into a Ladygirl right in front of us. What are we supposed to do?” asked Robert.
Somehow, Robert saying that made it so much worse. And I noticed they’d changed, too. They looked like young men. And they were both so handsome in their different ways. Robert light, Levi dark.
Levi elbowed Robert. “Hey, leave her be. Race you to the sandbar!”
And the two of them took off without me. When they returned to shore, falling on the sand laughing and out of breath, I walked right over to them with my hands on my hips. I wanted to bury them both in the sand and leave them for dead. So I did something that I’m not proud of...and it’s worse than you not inviting Roylene into your home. I kicked Robert in his side. Hard.
I didn’t know what my foot was going to do until it did it. Moved by the anger, not by my own will. I wanted to make both those boys suffer the way I’d suffered. But I learned that all I did was create a great chasm between us. (And I hurt my foot rather badly!)
And that’s war, right, Rita? Two sides hurting each other, acting out in violence, before trying to resolve any feelings? Or maybe that’s too simple. I’d like to think that America is like Levi’s mother. The grand negotiator.
Robert didn’t speak to me for an entire week. In the end, Levi was the one who brought us all back together. Making jokes and reminding us that no matter who we became, we’d always be friends. He was probably taking the advice of his wise, wise mother. But it worked.
So, there I was, sitting on the porch, my hand encircling Robbie’s wrists in a fierce grip. But instead of walloping him, I got up, gave my cherub-cheeked baby to Marie and brought Robbie inside. I went to his room and let him pick out some books.
“Let’s read, just you and me,” I said.
He climbed up on my lap and I read to him, one hand pushing his hair from his brow and placing kisses on his head between pages. After the first book he said, “I’m sorry, Mama.”
I gave him one more kiss. “I know, Robbie. Sometimes we do things when we are mad and scared, and we don’t mean them at all.”
I was so glad I’d kicked Robert that day, and remembered what it felt like, because if that hadn’t happened...I would have spanked my poor boy.
Anyway, I have a lot of time on my hands these days. I love being domestic. Robbie’s helped me roll up all these balls of tinfoil to bring to the local junk man who does something with them for the war effort. We’ve even got as far as peeling the foil from gum wrappers! And we’ve begun collecting milkweed pods. Mrs. M. says there’s a factory out in Michigan that’s turning the silk from the pods into parachutes. Can you imagine?
Oh, and I’ll leave you with a ration book idea:
Take the lard you’ve bought and put it in a bowl. Mix it with yellow food coloring and you can almost fool your taste buds into thinking it’s butter!
Love, love, love,
Glory
May 26, 1943
SOMEWHERE IN WESTERN OHIO
Dear Glory,
Greetings from the (rail) road!
We switched trains in Indianapolis about two hours ago. There are so many uniformed boys in our car, I feel like I’m heading off to war as well. They joke and play cards and drink from small, cheap bottles of whiskey. One rather inebriated fellow squeezed between Roylene and myself as we returned from the dining car and said he was caught between two slices of heaven. I laughed—how could I not? A little fun is in order. They mightn’t have any idea what’s in store overseas, but my Sal’s letters have given me enough of an impression. I wanted to buy them all steak dinners and kiss their ruddy cheeks. Instead, I sat across from Roylene and busied myself extracting pen and paper from my bag. I kept one eye on her. She bit her fingernails and wiped the cuttings on her seat when she thought I wasn’t looking. A moment ago, I offered her my Women’s Day to give her hands something to do. She’s flipping through to be respectful, but I don’t think she’s reading.
We’ve exhausted the standard small-talk topics. During the interminable journey from Des Moines to Indianapolis, I learned the following, and not much else: 1. Mrs. K. was right—Roylene is from Oklahoma. Roy went north to escape the dust when everyone else, including his wife, went West. The poor thing hasn’t seen her mother in years. 2. Roylene slaves away at the tavern six days a week. 3. She doesn’t like egg salad (too spongy), but blueberry pie suits her fine.
Fascinating stuff. My boy likes Whitman and Poe. What in the world are they going to talk about? I guess it doesn’t make any difference. I have a lot to say to my son before he ships off to God knows where. The girl won’t get a word in edgewise.
I must admit, ragged fingernails aside, Roylene’s taken a smidge more concern with her appearance. She’s rolled her hair for the trip, and she’s wearing a clean dress and the summer sweater I mended. I found a ruby-red doily I crocheted ages ago and cut it up to trim the collar and cuffs. It offsets the odd yarn color, giving it a rich maple hue. A dab of scarlet lipstick would seal the deal but that’s probably asking too much.
The magazine lies open on her lap, but Roylene’s eyes are closing. The soldier boys have also quieted, settling into a drunken snooze. They still have quite a trip ahead. Our stop is only an hour away at this point, give or take. There is a chance