store overseas, but my Sal’s letters have given me enough of an impression. I wanted to buy them all steak dinners and kiss their ruddy cheeks. Instead, I sat across from Roylene and busied myself extracting pen and paper from my bag. I kept one eye on her. She bit her fingernails and wiped the cuttings on her seat when she thought I wasn’t looking. A moment ago, I offered her my Women’s Day to give her hands something to do. She’s flipping through to be respectful, but I don’t think she’s reading.
We’ve exhausted the standard small-talk topics. During the interminable journey from Des Moines to Indianapolis, I learned the following, and not much else: 1. Mrs. K. was right—Roylene is from Oklahoma. Roy went north to escape the dust when everyone else, including his wife, went West. The poor thing hasn’t seen her mother in years. 2. Roylene slaves away at the tavern six days a week. 3. She doesn’t like egg salad (too spongy), but blueberry pie suits her fine.
Fascinating stuff. My boy likes Whitman and Poe. What in the world are they going to talk about? I guess it doesn’t make any difference. I have a lot to say to my son before he ships off to God knows where. The girl won’t get a word in edgewise.
I must admit, ragged fingernails aside, Roylene’s taken a smidge more concern with her appearance. She’s rolled her hair for the trip, and she’s wearing a clean dress and the summer sweater I mended. I found a ruby-red doily I crocheted ages ago and cut it up to trim the collar and cuffs. It offsets the odd yarn color, giving it a rich maple hue. A dab of scarlet lipstick would seal the deal but that’s probably asking too much.
The magazine lies open on her lap, but Roylene’s eyes are closing. The soldier boys have also quieted, settling into a drunken snooze. They still have quite a trip ahead. Our stop is only an hour away at this point, give or take. There is a chance Toby will be waiting for us at the station.
Oh, Glory, I can’t wait to see him.
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.”
