I'll Be Seeing You. Loretta Nyhan
patriotic duty.
Sincerely,
Rita
February 20, 1943
V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo
Sal,
I can fit exactly fifteen lines on these damn things. Sixteen if I don’t sign my name. You’ll know who it’s from, wontcha? Maybe I’ll seal it with a kiss and the censor can get lipstick all over his fingers.
I miss you. The nights are quiet, but the mornings are worse—this town seems cleared out, like everyone snuck off without saying goodbye. I know what you’re thinking and I am trying to keep myself busy. Promise. I have a war wife pen pal (surprise, surprise) and Mrs. Kleinschmidt has me down at the American Legion rolling bandages. I hate the look of them. Bandages have only one use, you know?
I guess you do know. But I’m not supposed to write about things like that so I won’t. The thought of you getting a letter with the words blacked out is just too depressing.
Anyway, Toby wrote last week. He said the air in Maryland smells like fish soup and his bunkmate’s name is Howard. He neglected to mention anything about the girl who came looking for him a few days ago, some scrawny thing named Roylene. Ring a bell for you? Didn’t for me. I suppose she’s harmless enough.
Now I’ve done it. Only one line to say I love you. And I do. Be safe. XO Rita
March 1, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
I’m so glad you are good at telling stories. I haven’t curled up with a good book in a long time, since before Robbie was born. When I was a girl, I’d spend the day at the beach with only a blanket and the latest Nancy Drew mystery. I loved her outspokenness. She was never afraid. I admired that so.
And what a mysterious situation you find yourself in. I wonder what your boy is up to. Do you like her, this girl? I couldn’t tell from your letter. I guess it doesn’t matter. At least you have something to take your mind off Sal.
My Robert’s mother, Claire Whitehall, doesn’t like me. Never did. She thinks I’m “new money” because my mother wasn’t technically part of the New England aristocracy. Imagine. I was brought up summering right here on these rocks in this town. I’d barely even kissed a boy until Robert. And even though I’ve known her my whole life, I can’t seem to get her to accept me. I’ve almost stopped trying. Almost.
An herb garden sounds lovely. I’ve ordered seeds from the Sears Roebuck catalog and my dear friend Levi Miller is going to fix up a big square like you said with all that good soil. Then I’ll put in all kinds of things. And some big sunflowers just for you.
Levi can’t fight. He’s got a bad heart or something. You’d never know it from looking at him. As children, we played on the beaches together every summer right here in Rockport. He never seemed to have any difficulty keeping up with Robert when we were small. Or me, for that matter—have I told you I was considered a tomboy? Still am, in some ways, though you’d never suspect it if you saw me. It’s Levi who plays with Robbie now that I can’t run around anymore. I’m almost due. Any day now, actually. I’m not even a bit scared of the pain. Does that convince you? It doesn’t convince me.
As I write this letter I’m watching Robbie, my little love, play in the snow. My heart aches for Robert. Rita, will it ever stop? The missing? I just don’t know. Everything is the same, and then new, and then the same again (only not really the same). The best thing for me is to keep on going about my day as if my sweet husband were to walk in the door any moment, picking up Robbie with one strong arm, and folding me close to him with the other.
I still cook for him. I know it sounds crazy. I’ve been making this recipe every week. It’s so easy, and doesn’t touch the sugar ration. Enjoy.
Beer Bread! (So simple and good.)
Mix one bottle of beer, three cups of self-rising flour and 1/2 cup corn syrup. Bake at 375°F for 45 minutes.
Let me know if you like it.
Warm wishes,
Glory
March 9, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
You would think Iowa would be oozing with corn syrup—corn grows everywhere here. Would you believe I once saw a stalk shooting up through a crack in the sidewalk? Our grocery was all out, though, so I borrowed some from Mrs. Kleinschmidt. She’ll probably lord it over me, but the bread was worth it. Completely delicious.
My heart goes out to Levi. The men left here walk around town like they forgot where they parked their cars. Do you know that look? Something’s missing, and probably will be for their entire lives. Are they the lucky ones? I don’t know. I am glad you’re giving Levi something to do. Have him get that soil in fast so you can let it set a bit before you plant. Treat new soil like a newborn babe—lots of rest, lots of food, lots of love.
Roylene came back, scratching at the door again like a stray. She wanted to add something to the note I was writing to Toby. “Well?” I said as we sat down at the kitchen table. She jammed one dirty fingernail in her mouth and bit down. Her eyes looked everywhere but at me.
Patience is indeed a virtue, but I had dishes to wash and wasn’t feeling particularly virtuous. “Spit it out,” I said.
She flinched. “Tell him I finally got the potato soup right?”
So I used one of my precious lines of V-mail for an update on Roylene’s cooking skills. I didn’t ask her to stay for dinner. Heck, I didn’t even pour her some tea. Maybe this war is making me mean. I haven’t heard from Sal. Not a word, Glory, and it’s driving me nuts. To answer your question, the missing never stops. For me, the wondering is even worse. We’ve been married for twenty-one years. I’d like to think I’d know if he died. I’d feel it, right?
When I stepped onto the porch to see Roylene out, Mrs. Kleinschmidt stood on her front lawn, staring hard at both of us. I watched her look down her ski slope nose at the girl’s tatty coat and men’s galoshes. My conscience started poking at me.
“Roylene,” I called out as she latched my front gate.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’ll come to the tavern and read you Toby’s letter when it comes.”
She smiled, the little bit of brightness in that girl coming out. I waved and Roylene shuffled down the road, head hanging low between her bony shoulders. She was barely out of earshot when Mrs. Kleinschmidt started in about Okies and vagabonds and the progeny of Mr. Roosevelt’s handouts. I stuck my tongue out at her haughty face and she put a cork in it, stomping up her porch steps without another word. I felt guilty later so I wrapped up half the loaf of beer bread and brought it over as a peace offering. She knew right off it was a day old, and her complaints followed me all the way home. It was good the second day, and the third, too. Irene even said so when I brought her some for lunch. We ate it with stew made from every leftover vegetable I had in my icebox, along with some Spam I chopped up and added to the mix. Cook that stuff with an onion and you might as well be eating filet mignon!
Take care of yourself, hon, and let me know when that baby comes.
Sincerely,
Rita
March 16, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,