I'll Be Seeing You

At the bottom of Toby’s letter was a message for Roylene. It said: “Send me the recipe.” That’s it. At first I thought, maybe he doesn’t know her all that well. And if he did, why wouldn’t he write to her on his own? But then it hit me—it’s a code! Maybe I’ve been going to the movies too much, but I’m his mother and I know when something’s up. I’m going down to see Roylene at the tavern this week to see what this business is all about. Don’t worry, I’ll be real sly—a regular Sam Spade.

Well, I can’t wait to hear all about your victory garden. Digging in the dirt will help you reclaim your figure in no time. I’m about to head out to give my soil a good flip. I just saw Mrs. K. leave, and I want to get it done before she returns or I’ll be pulling double-duty.

Take care of yourself,

Rita

P.S. I’ve taped a dime to this letter so Robbie can go to the drugstore to buy a candy bar or two with his OWN money. Big brothers need their sustenance!

April 25, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Oh, dearest Rita,

Thank you so much for the lovely blanket. I wrap Corrine in it every day and think of you. And Robbie loved having money of his own. It went straight into his piggy bank (he’s so like his father!)

When I was a little girl, I used to cherish having money of my own, too. My father’s family was and still is very wealthy. My father was probably the smartest man in America during the crash. He was smart all around. I wish I’d known him better. But money can do that to a family, make them strangers. There’s something closer about a family that struggles together. A bond. I watched the difference between me and Robert and then Levi, growing up. Robert and I came from another world.

We were summer people in this town. Wealthy and comfortable. And then there was Levi. Working-class and a year-round resident. But his family was so, so close. I used to wish his mother was my own. She never sat back on the shores and watched us from a distance under lace umbrellas. She always jumped into the waves next to us. And she collected “mermaid toes” (little peach-colored glittery shells shaped like toenails). Her name was Lucy and she died when we were all eleven years old. I try to be like her every day.

This war has been what I like to call “the great equalizer.” I feel comfortable living here in our summerhouse. And I don’t feel above or below anyone. Women and men, too, are acting as if they both have things to give to society. Everyone has a straight back as they walk through town, as if we are all carrying the pride of a country. It’s good to feel like that.

Enough about the war. Let’s talk about my garden!

My garden is just lovely. I have all sorts of herbs and vegetables starting. Lettuce is already coming up. I can’t wait to see it in full bloom. My hands are fairly caked with dirt each day and my apron, too. I love it. I love feeling the earth on my skin.

Now, your mystery girl and Toby are obviously saying something in code to each other. But what? Oh, it’s like reading a novel. Keep me posted on this!

With hope of peace in the near future,

Glory

May 2, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo

Only Son,

I think there is a distinct possibility surrounding yourself with all that water has done something to your Midwestern brain waves. She’s a stranger, Toby. The thought of being stuck in a train car with someone incapable of making declarative sentences is enough to send me running for your father’s bourbon.

But...fine. If it’s really important to you, then I will ask her to come along. If we end up staying at a motel, she will bunk with me and I’ll pay for your very separate room. Am I making myself clear?

I don’t feel comfortable doing any of this without speaking to her father first. Yes, yes, I do realize you are both adults, but crossing a birthday marker doesn’t require anything but the ability to wait for time to pass. It doesn’t prove much.

See you in Ohio.

I love you.

Your ma

P.S. I am not a carrier pigeon. If you want to write to this girl, then write to her, and vice versa.

May 9, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I’ve just returned home after a lovely Mother’s Day mass at the aptly named St. Mary’s. As I watched the darling young schoolgirls bring their floral offerings to the statue of Our Lady, I thought of you. I hope you are adjusting well to a new baby in the house, and this letter finds you well. If the world can’t be at peace, then maybe you can find a little in your living room.

Now...I have so much to share—hold on to your hat....

First, I finally received a letter from Sal! Large sections were blacked out, but I was able to piece together enough of it to know that he is fine. Sal’s primary responsibility is sewing up wounds (which is pretty funny, as he grew up in the back of his family’s tailor shop on the west side of Chicago). Some of the other guys wrote Stitch on his helmet, and the nickname has stuck. At least, he told me, they didn’t write Old Man.

Getting his letter was like Christmas morning and my wedding day rolled into one. It’s amazing what a few lines on a V-mail can do for a person. The worry doesn’t stop, but, to borrow a military phrase, it retreats in the face of its enemy, which I guess is hope. Sal’s taking care of himself, and besides the end of this war, that’s the most I can ask for.

I’ve heard from Toby, as well. I’ll be seeing him next month, when his leave is granted. We’re meeting halfway, in Columbus, and it looks like he’ll have a full forty-eight hours to visit.

If you sense a certain lack of enthusiasm in my words, then you really are starting to get to know me through these letters. I am remarkably unenthused. Toby requested I bring Roylene with me to Ohio, and—believe it or not—I’ve agreed. Yes, I will be sending my son off to war with that skinny gal standing next to me blubbering away. I was about to refuse, but this is what my son wrote in his last letter: “Ma, don’t you always say to never walk away from an opportunity to do a kindness? Well, here’s a golden one. Be nice to Roylene.”

The thing is, I don’t always say that. Sal does.

I have no idea if Toby’s interested in this girl or if she’s his charity case du jour. My husband and son have always been suckers for the underdog. Not me. We’ll see what happens.

Give those little ones a kiss,

Rita

May 11, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I’m in a mood today. Writing to you probably isn’t the best idea, but I’m going to do it, anyway. Will you still write back if I reveal a few blemishes on my character?

I’ve just finished picking slugs from my garden. Most satisfying thing I’ve done in a while, watching those vile things drown in a cup full of sudsy water. I’m a menace to all the living today. The reason for my destructive state? Guilt. It makes me mean. And I’ve been feeling guilty as hell all morning.

Yesterday I finally got around to visiting Roy’s Tavern. I did try once before, when Toby’s first message for Roylene came. That evening, she was taking the garbage out when I approached, and I flattened my back against the wall so she wouldn’t see me. I watched her struggle with the bin’s lid. A bottle fell out and hit the pavement, bits of glass rolling every which way, but I stayed where I was while she ran back into the tavern for a dustpan and broom.

Roylene cleaned up every shard, slowly and methodically, as though the act was the only thing in the world she was meant to accomplish, as though she’d been placed on God’s green earth to do that, and only that. She had no reason to hurry. Her life is set. She could have been eighteen or eighty.

The sight of her filled me first with sadness and then a strong sense of revulsion. There should not be a place for Toby in such a life. If he hadn’t been about to ship off to war, would my son have reached out to someone like her? Shouldn’t their relationship—or whatever it is—be another casualty of history? I practically ran from the tavern that night, with no intention of going back.

I do realize how this sounds. I suppose I am a snob, but please see me as a mother who wants the best for her child. If it makes any difference, I did make a genuine attempt yesterday to discuss the Ohio trip with her father.

I talked Irene into going with me, figuring she’d keep me from changing my mind. We arrived at the tavern at the lunch hour, and only a few older men sat drinking their meals at the bar. The interior was a picture of gloom, none of the early-spring sun filtered through the dirty windows. Irene gave me the eye, but I made a quick peace with the mission to accomplish, and nudged her forward. We scooted our bottoms onto a pair of bar stools and ordered two ginger ales and a corned beef to split. The barman, short and skinny with a shock of white hair atop his head, gave us the once-over.