Dear Glory,
Thank heavens you’re home. Really home.
I have to be honest—I can’t predict what is going to happen once Robert returns. I suppose what I’m trying to say is be open to failure. Given what’s at stake, well, everywhere, it feels like some sort of betrayal to even write that word. But once you accept it as a possibility, you can make plans for the event it does happen.
Okay, I’m done being serious. Are you sighing with relief?
Tell Robbie his family portrait is hanging in my dining room above the buffet, a place of honor. It’s lovely. His legs may not be nimble, but his fingers are. I’m thrilled you’re cultivating this. When the body is not working so well, it’s key to keep the mind moving. (This will hold true for Robert, as well.)
So...news on the Iowa front: my garden could feed all of General Bradley’s men and then some. The tomatoes have taken full advantage of all the sun we’ve been getting—passersby could mistake my backyard for a children’s party full of red balloons. Roylene is going to help with the canning this year, and I’ll send you some of Sal’s famous sauce. His recipe is the best kept secret in Iowa City! As the torchbearer, I feel it is my duty to pass it along, and since I now have a daughter-in-law Roylene is the lucky recipient.
Oh, Glory, she’s such a dear. I’ve finally broken her of the habit of standing while she eats—the girl has the dishes done before the food’s even hit her stomach! She’s shy about hanging her underthings outside, but laughs uproariously at Groucho’s best innuendos, her back against the sofa, ribs bobbing up and down at every witticism coming from the radio.
The other day I arrived home from work a bit early and found her and Little Sal in Toby’s closet, nestled between his pressed shirts and old spelling bee trophies. Her face turned the color of rhubarb jam! I told her not to worry—she could have easily caught me among Sal’s things, sniffing for a trace of him like an old hound dog. And Little Sal should start getting used to his father’s scent—this war can’t last forever, right?
I also wanted to tell her I’m grateful she’s brought new love into the house, but I didn’t want to embarrass her further, or remind her that Toby’s not here. She’s got enough to think about.
Roylene’s building herself up to go see Roy. They had words when we switched buses in Des Moines. I was minding Little Sal so I didn’t hear much, but Roy seethed until we got to Iowa City. Charlie and Irene met us at the depot, and amid the chaos of congratulatory hugs and bag retrievals and settling into Charlie’s car (He’s gotten his hands on one somehow. Don’t ask—I surely don’t!) Roy slipped away.
Whatever transpired is playing on that girl’s mind. Roy left the argument unfinished, and she’s wrestling with it, I can tell. She talks about heading down to the tavern to “Say hello,” but never quite makes it out the door.
I offered to accompany her, but she refused. Charlie said he’d drive her and stick around, but she’s turned him down as well, gently, saying she’s got to do this for herself or she’ll always question her ability to do so.
The world could certainly learn a lot from Roylene Vincenzo.
Well, take care and know that I’m rooting for a smooth return of the hero Robert Whitehall.
Love,
Rita
P.S. School is back in session, and Charlie, Irene and I are again eating lunch on the greens. Sometimes I bring Little Sal, who pulls on the grass and delightedly points at ants with his pudgy fingers while I try fruitlessly to brush them away. It’s enjoyable because my subconscious has stopped trying to play cupid. I find it hard to believe I couldn’t see they are two perfectly fine puzzle pieces that just don’t fit. It’s a mystery, isn’t it? How that works?