Dear Glory,
The Allies have liberated Rome!
I’m as proud as if Sal had opened the city gates himself. (In my imagination he did.)
I’ve spent the day glued to the radio. Is it wrong to feel relief even though the future is still not certain? I do, though. Immense relief. I slept soundly for the first time in ages last night.
And now I’m curled up in Sal’s chair with paper and pen, writing to you while I wait for the president’s speech. Roylene and Little Sal are here, keeping me company. The baby lies on a blanket examining his toes. Roylene is stretched out on the floor next to him, slowly writing her own letter—to Toby. She shields her words with one bony hand. I wonder what she’s hiding.
What she doesn’t realize is I don’t mind if she’s writing words of love. It’s her job to remind Toby that he is alive. If she slips in a photograph of herself wearing a polka-dot bathing suit—or less—well, I’m all for it. My boy could use something illicit to think about, even if it is flat-chested, ninety-pound Roylene. Look at me! All this talk of liberation is turning my mind salty!
Charlie and Irene are coming for dinner (together, but not together), and afterward we’re going to listen to the radio and pray. I’m sure you’re doing the same in Rockport, as is everyone else in this great nation. It’s got to have some power, right? Enough to give our boys the wind at their backs and solid ground beneath their feet?
Later...
Oh, Glory, he sounds worried. Still, the strength and intensity of his words made me want to crawl into the radio and grab hold of his magnificent voice. It could carry me to a better place. It could carry the world.
Our boys will hear it as they push forward. They’ll hear the sounds of our prayers and feel the strength of our love and gratitude. They have to.
Fred Waring’s group played “Onward Christian Soldiers” after the speech. Did you hear it? Usually that song makes me want to roll my eyes, but not this time. Charlie started crying, in the convulsive, soundless way that men do. “Don’t you understand,” he said after composing himself, “that’s a funeral dirge for the first wave.” We all thought about that, the many lives lost before we even opened our eyes this morning. I squeezed Charlie’s hand, but he left the room shortly thereafter. Irene stood up and sat down and stood up again, unsure of what to do. Then Charlie came back, eyes red, looking miserable.
We all sat, frozen in place, as the radio droned on.
After a bit Roylene walked over to Charlie, the baby on her hip. Without waiting for permission, she plopped Little Sal down on his lap.
Charlie held him gingerly, using only his fingertips, as though the baby might break if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t give him back, though, and after a few minutes, Charlie’s smile returned, and he drew Little Sal closer to his chest.
Seeing that baby in a man’s arms did me in. I bolted for the kitchen sink, splashing cool water on my face so I wouldn’t vomit. Before I could lift myself, I felt a consoling hand at my back, soft and warm against the thin cotton of my dress.
It was Roylene.
She wrapped her skinny arms around my midsection and squeezed. “This is from Toby,” she mumbled against my bosom. She held on while I cried, this wispy little sapling supporting a rubber-limbed, fully grown weeping willow.
It’s dark and quiet now here in Iowa, bedtime for most, though something tells me I won’t sleep quite as well tonight.
Love,
Rita