I'll Be Seeing You

I love my husband, Glory, but I can’t tell you how nice it is that a man will be admiring my cooking and the way I keep my house. Your suffragette women would probably give me a good pounding if you told them I said that, but it’s true. I suppose what I’m saying is I understand why you have Levi around, it’s just you must understand there are lines we can’t cross.

Warm regards,

Rita

P.S. I haven’t seen Roylene since our trip to Ohio. I didn’t embarrass her or Toby that morning, but I think she suspected I knew what went on. She stared out the window the entire return trip, and scurried off as soon as we arrived in Iowa City.

P.P.S. I haven’t gotten any V-mail at all. Not one letter from Toby or Sal. I think the postman is afraid of me. Every afternoon I nearly tackle him as he approaches our mailbox!

July 4, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dearest Rita,

I know it’s been a while since I wrote back to you. So many things are happening right now and I don’t quite know what to do with myself. The earth moves and I’m trying to find a foothold.

First things first. This letter is inside a box of all sorts of stockings. I hope you like them. I also included a jar of strawberry jam I put up. (If you knew me really well you’d know what a surprising thing that is!) But I wouldn’t have any strawberries, or any garden for that matter, if it wasn’t for you.

Thank you for that.

I’m purposely writing this letter today as it is the birthday of this great nation. The one we sacrifice for every day. One town over, in Gloucester, we have a parade and then bonfires on the beaches. And I took baby Corrine and Robbie. Corrine is getting so big now. She’s a smiley baby with fat cheeks. She soothes me so. I put her in this fancy new pram Claire gave me (she’s a good one for presents, that Claire...), and Robbie helped me push. We were a bit early so I strolled them over to the beaches that Levi, Robert and I made our magical paradise as kids. There were bonfires already starting even with the sun not quite set. And that’s when I saw him. Levi, staring out over the ocean. I’d invited him to come with us...but he told me that the three of us (the children and I) should be spending more time as a family. That happened right after I asked him to stop encouraging Robbie to call him Papa. I’ve known him long enough to know I’d hurt his feelings.

“Papa!” Robbie shouted as he ran down the beach. Levi caught him and threw him up in the air. Two dark shadows against the setting sun, laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

As they walked toward me, I heard Levi talking to Robbie.

“I’m not Papa, I’m Uncle Levi. You have a daddy who is fighting for our nation. He’s a hero, and we want to remember that every day, okay, pal?”

Robbie looked up and nodded.

“Want to come watch the parade with us, Levi?” I asked.

“You bet,” he said, and put Robbie on his shoulders as he found a place for us in the crowds.

The parade itself was beautiful. As well as the celebrations afterward. And to be quite honest, I’m not usually a fan of parades.

It was the strangest thing. The celebration felt many layered. Like a quilt of sorts. See, some of the families are beginning to get notices more and more that their boys are gone. I don’t know how you do it, with both your men out there. Everywhere I looked there were people waving their small paper flags and crying. And I know they were tears of joy and pride...but tears just the same. Tears don’t belong at parades and bonfires.

No word from Robert about when he might be going overseas. It’s the not knowing that kills me.

And because of that, I started to cry, too. Levi took Robbie down from his shoulders and pulled me into a hug. It shouldn’t have been awkward...we’ve hugged lots of times. But his embrace felt different. Painful as well as safe. I can’t really explain, except it scared me a little. When he released me, he tucked an errant wisp of hair behind my ear. Oh, Rita. In that moment I felt what you must have felt at that dance. Like a woman. A young, attractive woman. And it felt wonderful.

Anyway, I’ve missed your stories. So write back and tell me what is going on in your life. And maybe a new recipe? I’m getting darn tired of my own.

By the way, guess what I did? I went down to city hall and changed my affiliation. I am now a proud member of the Democratic party.

Father and Mother are turning in their graves!

With much affection,

Glory

July 8, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

Sal,

I got your letter yesterday. You didn’t ask for my opinion, but I’m going to give it anyway (surprise, surprise).

What happened on that battlefield might be your fault, and it might not. It’s definitely Hitler’s fault. He started it.

I’m not making light, but I don’t think you should beat yourself up for decisions made on only a second’s worth of thought. Mistakes will happen. Yes, I do realize we’re talking about a boy’s life, and I know what a slipup can mean, but if you hold yourself to the standard of God, you will forget what it’s like to be a regular old human.

And what has prepared us for this? The Depression? We had our hard times, and we pulled through. Did we find out we were made of tougher stuff than we thought, or did circumstance breed heroism? I’m not sure. This war is certainly forcing out the best in everyone, so it follows that a little bit of the worst will squeeze out, too. Even from you and me.

I love you, and more important, I believe in you,

Rita

July 13, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I was so glad to get your letter, kiddo. For a minute I’d worried I’d lost you to the uncertainties of this damn war. And I need a friend more than ever. Iowa City clears out in the summer, our population dipping to half of what it is when the college students are here. The sun shines so mercilessly on these empty streets, I can’t go barefoot on the cement for more than a second.

So, thank you for the stockings. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave a pair to Irene. She was desperate, about to surrender to the last resort of swabbing her legs with tea bags and tracing the seam with a kohl pencil. I believe Irene is knitting a chic beret for the baby as a thank-you gesture. I’ll send it along when she’s done, which should be sometime in 1963.

I sincerely hope you’ve gotten more information about Robert’s shipping out. Being kept in the dark is tough. Before this war I felt like if I needed to know something I could find a way to know it. But so much is unknowable now, completely beyond my grasp. Sal’s letters make me question if I’ve ever truly understood anything about human nature.

Including what’s been happening these past few weeks. I don’t wish to distress you, hon, but this letter might do exactly that, so I apologize in advance. It’s just that I’ve been keeping everything inside me, and not having anyone to talk to is starting to do some internal damage. Does it help to know I feel better confessing my sins to you instead of Father Denneny down at St. Mary’s? At least I know you aren’t going to make me say any rosaries.

So.

Remember the big dinner with Irene and the cowboy?

Irene came over early. The poor girl’s hands shook so hard she couldn’t hold a bobby pin to save her life. I rolled her hair and helped with her makeup. She looked very presentable. Maybe not pretty, but polished, put-together. A guy could do a lot worse.

The cowboy was on time, I’ll give him that. Turns out his first name is Charlie, which surprised me. I thought it would be Tex or Hank or some other rodeo name. He brought a bottle of wine with him and that same easy smile. Irene kept her lips glued together so I yapped and yapped until I had to take care of the meat loaf. I poured them each a glass and disappeared into the kitchen.

I must have been gone a while because when I came back half the bottle was gone and Irene’s face looked like the beets I’ve been pulling from my garden. Charlie sat in Sal’s chair, his long legs splayed out so far the tips of his boots nearly touched Irene’s ankles. Their laughter filled my house, every nook and cranny, leaving no room for the sadness I’d been cultivating.

I hated them, Glory. That’s a strong word, hate, but it overtook me. Those two had nothing to worry about. The Germans weren’t going to march into their living rooms, crushing their hearts to bits. The Japanese weren’t dropping bombs in their backyards. How dare they? I wanted to kick at his stupid feet and shake Irene until her teeth rattled.

Instead, I walked back into the kitchen. I got what was left of Sal’s bourbon and had a nip, then two. I drew a few breaths, brought the food to the dining room and called them in to dinner.