I'll Be Seeing You

Love

Rita

May 27, 1943 (3 or 4 o’clock in the damn morning)

SANDY PINES ROADSIDE MOTEL, OUTSIDE OF COLUMBUS, OHIO

Glory,

There is neither sand nor pine trees in the vicinity of this motel, only a deserted gravel parking lot lit by the dull blue glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. It’s not the middle of the night but close enough. Even the earliest risers are still tucked in their beds.

Except Roylene. Her bed is empty. The coverlet lies in a crumpled heap. She didn’t have the decency to tuck a few pillows under it to trick my sleepy eyes.

Honestly, it is preferable to think some maniac broke into our room and stole her in the dead of night than give a second’s thought to what is really going on.

I’ve spent the past twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not I should march over to Toby’s room and bang on the door. I’m tempted, I’ll tell you that. But to be truthful, my motivation is not to break up their tryst but to assuage my loneliness. I came here to see my boy. I haven’t gotten my chance with him yet.

The man who picked us up at the train station was barely recognizable. After they cut Toby’s hair, they must have taken a chisel to the rest of him, chipping away at the boyish layers, sharpening his features as though his face was one more weapon to ready for battle. He waved at us, and I could hardly raise my hand in return. Roylene yelped and jumped on him like a bedbug.

“You look pretty,” Toby said, his fingers drifting from her face to the doily collar. “This sweater suits you.”

I sewed it! I wanted to shout. Don’t you recognize your mother’s handiwork? Instead, I forced a smile and said, “Isn’t she, though?”

“Smart, too,” Toby added, keeping his eyes on Roylene. He wrapped his hands around her narrow face. “Did you bring it?”

Her skinny hand dove into the front of her dress, and she pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her nonexistent bosom. “It’s not that good?” she whispered.

“Good enough to earn my girl her high school diploma,” he murmured, then briefly turned his bright eyes to me. “She wrote an essay about how to make potato soup for the high school equivalency.”

I should have complimented her, but my brain froze after the words my girl. I was supposed to hand my boy over to her? Oh, Glory, I’ve always been protective of Toby, overly so, to be honest, but I don’t think you’d have blamed me if I pushed her back on that train and sent her off to Timbuktu. Before I knew it, he’d thrown his arm over her shoulders and they were walking down the platform, away from where I stood. “Come on, Ma,” Toby called, and I scurried to catch up.

Today we spent most of our time wandering the city, playing tourist and ignoring the inevitable. I didn’t feel like a third wheel so much as a souvenir, a postcard from a past life.

And here I sit, alone. I was mistaken about Toby’s leave—he doesn’t have a full forty-eight hours. His train leaves in an hour or two. He said goodbye to me last night, told me not to bother getting up to see him off, that it was too early and I should get my beauty rest.

I’m not going to sleep through his departure. I’m going to get dressed and walk over to the train station. Then I’m going to kiss him on the crown of his head and imagine his fine, golden hair tickling my nose.

I’m going to say goodbye to my son.

Rita

June 5, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

How my heart ached for you when I received your letters. I can only imagine my Robbie all grown up and walking down the street in front of me, hand in hand with another girl. Right now I’m his best girl...and I don’t want that to change anytime soon. I suppose it’s good that Toby has a girl. And perhaps it wasn’t as scandalous as you think...their night together. Couldn’t it be that they were taking a walk under the stars? I wonder if having another person waiting for him won’t give him even more reason to make it home unharmed? I know I’m waxing enthusiastic, but I’m turning into quite the optimist lately!

I must admit, after I read your letter I pushed back the coffee table in the living room and put on the radio. I held my Robbie close and danced with him. How I cried. I whispered into his ear, “Stay just the way you are.”

And I do want him to stay how he is. I’d like a little snapshot of this time to keep in my heart forever. The only thing missing is Robert. Like a throbbing hollowness that won’t go away. A splinter I can’t find. A toothache. His absence is always right behind me.

Anyway...my life has become one big whirl of busy. It seems like I go from the garden to the tub and then pull on some stockings (Do you have any left? I’m completely out of silk but have some nylons stocked up if you want me to send you some. Shh! Don’t tell!) and run out the door and down the road to Mrs. M.’s so we can go to one of her meetings. I run so fast the hairpins come out and I have to wear my hair wild. Claire Whitehall would KILL me. Marie has been kind enough to stay home from the meetings and stay with the kids. She said, “I’ve had my turn, now you go have yours.” I swear I’m falling more in love with Mrs. M. and Marie every day.

I feel like a sparrow flitting around landing here or there. It feels good. Weightless.

The kids are doing well, though I’ve noticed that Robbie isn’t asking for Robert anymore. He’s taken to calling Levi “Papa.” I’m worried about that and know I should put the kibosh on it. Maybe I should encourage Robbie to call him Uncle Levi? He’s so like a brother to Robert, anyway....

Those meetings, though, with Mrs. M....leave me breathless. I never knew how much power we have as a people, a government. There have been some ingenious women in our history, Rita. Wouldn’t it be nice to join the ranks of Abigail Adams, Lucretia Mott or even Elizabeth Cady Stanton?

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men AND WOMEN are created equal.” Imagine! See what they don’t teach us in school? I swear Corrine will grow up knowing what she’s made of.

As for my garden, well...see for yourself. I’ve enclosed a photograph. The black-and-white won’t do it justice, but just look, Rita! Look at how lush it is, with the sea peeking out from behind the tall sunflowers at the back. I’ve named those sunflowers. I call them Rita 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and I say good-morning each day.

Sending you love and prayers for peace,

Glory

P.S. I just got another letter from Robert. His division will be moving from Sparta to New York. I should be happy, right? Because I’ll surely see him, then. But I know that being stationed back near the coast will mean that he’ll go overseas soon. I wish he could be with Toby or Sal. Maybe we can write to them and tell them to try to take care of one another? I know Toby and Sal are not fighting on the same fronts, but what if you petition them to be nearer? Can we do that?

There’s so much I don’t understand about this war. So much I wish I knew.

Oh, well. I suppose I just have to keep learning. And writing letters.

June 17, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dearest Glory,

Thank you for accepting my letters with such grace. I’ve been in such a state these past few weeks, and your words act as a balm to my frayed nerves. Sometimes I wish the censors would attack domestic letters with the same ferocity they do those going overseas. I’m certain my ravings would merit a few slashes of black ink!

So, to address your most important question: my stockings look like they’ve been in a gunfight at the OK Corral. I will gladly accept any charitable donations to my lingerie wardrobe. I can repay you in heirloom seeds and advice.

I’ll give you an advance on the advice—make sure your children know who their daddy is. We don’t know how long this godforsaken war is going to last, but we do know that our guys are in it for the long haul. I don’t mean to depress you, but that baby of yours could be walking about singing “The White Cliffs of Dover” by the time Robert returns. Levi should be Levi. Papas are Papas.

But then, I don’t know if someone like me should be handing out advice like a regular Queen Bee. I’ve behaved shamefully, Glory. Remember my friend Irene? Well, Irene is a real plain Jane, if I’m being honest, and she’s not one for mixing. In warmer weather, the university hosts a social outdoors near the Old Capitol Building. I convinced Irene to go, and promised I’d join her for moral support. Turns out I’m the one who needs help in the morality department.

As you could guess, the women outnumbered the men ten to one. We hens stood in clusters, some tittering about nothing in particular, others wondering why the men who did attend weren’t in uniform. I caught Irene staring at one of them—a tall, cowboyish sort, with thick, straw-colored hair and an easy smile. I gave her a nudge, but like I said, she isn’t the mixing type. Irene shook her head and started sucking down her ginger ale, like it suddenly required all of her effort and attention.

With a quick apology to Sal—I swear!—I sauntered over to that man, completely brazen, and asked him to join us. He did. We introduced ourselves. (He’s probably only in his mid-thirties, but called himself “Mr. Clark,” so we went by Miss Vincenzo and Miss Wachowski, like a couple of coeds.). Then darn if he didn’t reach into the pocket of his suede sport coat and pull out a flask. Irene just about keeled over.

“Ladies first,” he said, and poured a couple of thumbs into what was left of Irene’s ginger ale.

He turned to me and I didn’t have a glass. With one raised eyebrow he watched as I took hold of that flask and knocked back a shot! I haven’t done that since before Mr. Roosevelt was in office. Irene’s eyes grew big and her mouth pursed tight as a fisherman’s knot.

Well, I talked for both of us, and the next thing I knew I’d invited him over for dinner next Wednesday (with Irene, of course). I’m not sure what I’ve gotten her into, but I’m calling it a date. Irene doesn’t show it much, but she’s excited. I swear, she’s asked me six different times if she should roll her hair up or not.