I'll Be Seeing You. Loretta Nyhan

      August 1, 1943

      ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

      Dearest Rita,

      Reading your letter I could only think of one thing. Something Mrs. Moldenhauer (she’s asked me to call her Anna) said to me not a week before I received it. (And what is the matter with the post these days? I feel like it takes YEARS to get a letter, or to send one. And I live for your letters, Rita. Almost as much as I live for Robert’s. Maybe that’s because his don’t come on a regular basis and yours eventually do!)

      Anyway, she said, “Make sure you remember that you are always afraid, and that fear does strange things to people.”

      Now, it’s obvious what she meant about the “strange things” over here in my part of the world. She was talking about how I allow Levi into my life more and more these days.

      But we don’t have to talk about that right now, let’s talk about what’s going on in Iowa City. (Sometimes I feel like all I do is ramble on and on about myself without asking about you.)

      I guess you are afraid. More afraid than me, dear Rita. Because you have been married to Sal for so much longer than I’ve shared my life and bed with Robert. And your son? Please! Right now both of my children have little summer fevers (that’s why I’m able to sit and craft this LONG letter...they are both sleeping the afternoon away, my angels) and I’m worried sick over nothing. But to have one of them in harm’s way on a daily basis? I can’t even imagine the fear.

      So if fear makes us do strange things, then your whole experience that night was...well...warranted. In my opinion. I think you deserve the attention. And if it makes the time go by, if it makes the waiting easier? Well, then, my friend? Do what you need to do.

      Once everyone here is well, I might take myself up on my own advice.

      Before you judge me, let me explain.

      I am so angry at this war for taking Robert away. I know it sounds unpatriotic, but sometimes I just can’t help it. I am so damn angry that I’m here caring for our sick children, tending this garden all by myself. Levi and Marie can’t take his place. It’s a lonely, sick hole in my heart.

      I stare at his picture and try to remember the way the back of his neck smelled. How much I loved his hands enclosing mine. The sweet and tender way he kissed.

      And then there’s the other thing. In the twilight of the garden a few evenings ago, I engaged in something far more devious than your flirtations.

      We were just cleaning up after working in the garden.

      “Long day,” said Levi.

      “Yes, it was,” I replied. “Long but lovely.”

      “You are lovely,” he said.

      “I’m glad you think so.... Just look at me—I probably have dirt all over my face!”

      Levi looked at me and I knew in a heartbeat I was in trouble. He had that look on his face that he used to get when we were kids right before he’d do something silly.

      “Well, you could be dirtier...” he said as he reached down, picked up a clump of soil and threw it at me.

      “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I asked, laughing as I grabbed one to throw at him, but he was running so I had to chase him out into the yard. We ran and finally I got close enough for a direct hit. He fell dramatically to the ground as if he’d been shot. I fell in a heap next to him and we were laughing and out of breath. The sky grew quiet as our laughter and breath steadied. And then he took his finger and placed it on the side of my forehead, and let it trace my whole face as if he were blind and trying to recognize me. And I should have stopped him, but I swear my skin had a life of its own and arched right out to meet his.

      When he brought his hand down we looked at each other for a second too long. We didn’t speak again. We put our tools away side by side in the garden shed and shut the door. That’s when Levi stole his kiss. He pressed me up against the shed. He didn’t even need to ask, or woo. He pressed my shoulders back and kissed me so hard that I had to pull rough splinters of wood out of my hair for hours.

      So different from Robert. So urgent.

      Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have, but it was exactly what I wanted right in that moment. Comfort. To be young and carefree again. To be taken out of this world for even a few seconds.

      Or simply taken back in time. Levi was the first boy to ever kiss me. We were eleven years old and Robert was called back from the beaches early because he had to attend a party with his mother. My parents were going to that party, too, but they wanted me to stay home. My mother and father always loved a night out to dance under the summer stars. And I wasn’t needed underfoot. Claire, on the other hand, wanted Robert with her all the time. Anyway, the sun was setting and Levi and I were skipping stones.

      “You sure are good at this,” he said.

      “Thank you, sir,” I said.

      “Are you mad you aren’t at the party?” he asked.

      “Not even one little bit,” I said.

      “You could be dancing with Robert.”

      “Ew,” I said.

      “Hey, he ever kiss you?”

      “Who?”

      “Robert.”

      “Nope.”

      “Can I kiss you?” he asked, like he was asking if I wanted a soda water. I think I simply looked at him and pursed my lips together. And I know I wasn’t expecting to feel anything...I mean, I was only eleven, and both he and Robert were my best friends in the whole world. But when he kissed me, stars lit up behind my eyes...and for the rest of that summer I thought I was in love. Robert said it was the most boring summer—watching me and Levi make googly eyes at each other. My mother put a quick end to that childhood romance as soon as his letters started arriving at Astor House from Rockport in the fall. “He’s not one of us, and you are nothing but a child. If you write back to him I won’t let you see him at ALL next summer, believe me.” And I did believe her, so I never wrote him back. I believed my parents with my whole heart. And I believed that if I listened well enough, behaved enough, that they’d notice me a little more.

      I’ve been looking at photographs of them (my parents) all afternoon. I’m tucking a picture of them in with this letter. That’s me when I was a baby. I look just like Corrine. Or she resembles me. How does that work, anyway? They looked so serious for well-off people, didn’t they? Sometimes I wish I’d known them better. Really known them. What they thought on the inside, behind all the gloss. I’m also including a recent picture of the kids and one of my wedding day. Isn’t Robert handsome? Please send me your picture, Rita. Maybe one of