49

The Book of Summer

Ruby Young Packard

December 26, 1942

Cliff House, Sconset, Nantucket Island

It’s the day after Christmas.

The island is ugly and bitter and cold. A fine match for my mood. It’s taken all my grit and drive to get through these past few months. The world is different knowing Mother, Topper, and my not-quite-a-baby are no longer in it. The days as a “la-la girl” are done and over and I must press on somehow.

The U.S. Needs Us Strong.

Lately everything, every last bit of thing, from advertisements to newspapers to fliers around town, it’s all “For Victory.” Save for victory. Plant for victory. Smoke cigarettes for victory. As for me, the motto will be, Keep a stiff upper lip for victory. Wake up tomorrow, for victory.

Yesterday we celebrated Christmas, at least as much as two and a half broken spirits can. Daddy, Mary, and I ate our feast; a goose we weren’t supposed to have but Daddy got a hold of nonetheless. A sad party: the three leftovers, and then the two. Mary darted off to Washington as soon as she set down her fork. I left soon after.

I hated to abandon Daddy, if even for a few days, but I couldn’t bear Boston a moment longer. The city has grown too loud, the voices jumbled, as if everyone’s speaking a different language. No ferries were running so I paid a fisherman a hundred clams and rode with him out to Nantucket. He white-knuckled it all the way, sure he was going to end up with my death on his conscience. I partway hoped it might be the case.

Oddly I find beauty in the island’s drabness. Everything is the same color, even the waves crashing at the shore. The wind whispering through the walls is a dulcet song and there’s comfort in the harsh cold. At least I have things left to feel.

As 1942 comes to a close, I can’t help but think “damn you, you stupid year!” or a million other things besides. It’s been a rotten time, filled mostly with heartbreak and hell. Mother, the baby, Topper. Back to back to back. Even all this time later, I can’t pick out one pain from the other. What hurts the most? The loss of those I’ve loved a lifetime? Or the love I’ll never have?

I’m sure Mother never dreamed something like this might go into her Book of Summer. I guess that’s why I wrote it in the winter. But rest easy, dear mom, that you had this house built for comfort. And so far it’s the only place where I’ve found the slightest hint of calm, probably because in this home the ghosts of you and Topper and my almost-child remain.

Until sunnier days,

Ruby