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,
This baby will NEVER come. The doctor predicted I’d have it two weeks ago. I know these things can’t be rushed or even speculated about. But with each passing day I get heavier and more sluggish. Like a big fat slug in the garden.
Also, my temper is short. This adorable little girl ran up to me in the market yesterday and said, “Is that a baby in your tummy?” and I snapped back, “What do you think it is? Do you suppose I’ve swallowed a watermelon?”
Her sweet little eyes filled up with tears and I thought her mother might yell at me or glare, even. But no...she looked at me with soft forgiving eyes that told me she understood. She’d been there, too. Women know one another, don’t we? We can peer into our deepest, hidden places.
Well, maybe not all women.
I grew up around fancy things, Rita. Nurseries and nannies. My mother? Well, let’s put it this way—she was a side dish more than a main course in the banquet of my youth.
Father and Mother traveled a lot. It’s funny, I don’t remember missing them. Mostly I was excited to see what presents they brought me from wherever they went. Swiss chocolate, Spanish flamenco dancer dolls, music boxes.
Gosh, sitting here doing nothing but growing large is making me remember strange, forgotten things. And I’m noticing things, too.
Like the way I sway back and forth even if I’m not holding Robbie. I see other mothers do this, as well. You swing, lulling them to sleep even if they’re not in your arms.
My mother never swayed. She stood up so tall it was as if a string held her up from heaven. “Don’t slouch, Gloria. If you slouch like that the world will treat you like a pack mule. Good posture is the key to independence.”
I have to admit I still slouch sometimes.
And also, her hands. My mother’s hands were always perfect. She wore gloves when she went out, but when at home she kept a pot of hand cream (rosewater and glycerin) near her at all times. Rubbing it in methodically. Cuticles first, then nails. The backs of her hands and then up each finger. I believe her hands were soft like rose petals. But I hardly ever felt them.
She died three years ago, my mother. From the cancer. I miss her every day.
I’ve been thinking of her hands a lot. I can’t imagine
