Dear Glory,
Make sure to let those seedlings get accustomed to the outdoors incrementally. Plants resist change just as much as people do. Are your hearty perennials poking their sleepy heads through the soil yet? When your lemon balm comes back, pluck some leaves and make a tea for Robbie. This Garden Witch says it’s good for promoting healthy breathing. Use dried chamomile for yourself. It calms the mind.
Don’t worry about the timing of your letters. (Though your last one nearly had me reaching for the smelling salts. Maybe you should stick to washing your hair in the bath?) Difficult as it is, you obviously have your priorities straight, my dear. Time and devotion will heal Robbie, and it appears you are giving him ample amounts of both.
Roylene has taken to motherhood like a duck to water. She’s back in that kitchen, peeling potatoes with Little Sal watching from a basket on the floor. I’m helping when I can, but you know how much a baby needs his mother at the start.
The gorgeous layette arrived yesterday. Thank you, hon, for your kindness. I walked the package over to the tavern and Roylene nearly passed out in the tomato soup when she touched the fine lace. I expect you’ll hear from her soon.
Overall, Iowa City has been pretty calm. My job for Dr. Aloysius Martin (He’s such a formal man I always feel the need to use his entire name!) has fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm. I know my duties, and I know what’s expected of me, and when I shut the light off and lock the door I know when I return in the morning I will find the office exactly as I left it. I can’t say the same for the other aspects of my life.
Besides a quick telegram responding to Little Sal’s birth, Toby hasn’t written. I also haven’t heard from Sal since the “olive tree” letter. I like to think he’s moved on to tomatoes.
On the homefront, Mrs. K. is causing trouble again. Only this time it’s...complicated.
Last weekend we had a burst of unseasonably warm weather. I invited Irene and Charlie over to meet Little Sal, and for some iced tea and cheese rarebit (recipe to follow). The sun shone so brightly it seemed a shame to stay inside, so the three of us settled onto the front porch, leaving Roylene inside to nap with the baby.
Mrs. K. decided, at just that moment, it was extremely vital that she sweep her already immaculate front steps. I took the hint and called her over. She’d met Irene before, but not Charlie, at least not formally. I made the introduction and she offered him a limp hand. That should have been my first red flag. I quickly settled her in with a glass of iced tea and a heaping plate.
Then the interrogation began.
“How do you earn your living, Mr. Clark?” was her opening shot.
Charlie sells vitamins door-to-door. He was explaining this to Mrs. K. when she interrupted with, “Why aren’t you serving in the armed forces?”
He told her about his perforated eardrum. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she fell into a ponderous silence.
Later, Mrs. K. volunteered to check on Roylene and Little Sal. When she returned she squeezed her generous hips between Irene and Charlie, so she could sit on his left side. She rejoined the conversation, but you would have thought Mrs. K. was a radio with a broken tuner, her voice kept dipping and rising so. But I knew what she was doing. It was my old trick to gauge Charlie’s hearing abilities.
The sun finally set and we stood to say our goodbyes. Charlie stuck out his hand to Mrs. K., who wouldn’t take it. “I’m not sure whether it’s the scent of the past or a whiff of the future, but, sir, you stink of the jailhouse,” she pronounced.
I wanted to die. Charlie still bowed his head to the old hag, but then hightailed it off my property with a confused Irene in tow.
I was furious with the old woman and I told her so.
“His eardrum is perfectly fine,” she insisted.
I couldn’t argue with that. I’d suspected the same.
Mrs. K. sensed her victory and stepped closer. “And did you see his shoes? How shiny they were? Who in this town has new shoes?”
I didn’t have an explanation for that, either. Mrs. K. accused him of profiteering and said I shouldn’t ever ask him back. If he is involved in the black market I would never allow him on my property again. I don’t like “ifs,” though. I should talk to Charlie, right? Talk to him without making it feel like a confrontation? But I guess that’s what it will be, regardless of how I frame it.
Well, take care and write when you can, not before.
Love,
Rita
P.S. I heartily enjoy picturing you preach to the masses. In my imagination you have a clear, musical voice, and everyone listens intently, not even daring to cough. Don’t tell me if it’s not true—it’s what I want to believe. So there.
Hearty Cheese Rarebit
1 pound grated American cheddar cheese (or, as Mrs. K. insists, Swiss)
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup beer
2 egg yolks, slightly beaten
Hot buttered toast or crackers
Paprika
Melt cheese and butter over hot water, slowly. When about ¼ of the cheese has melted, add half the beer slowly. Continue to cook until cheese is all melted, stirring constantly. Stir in remaining beer into egg yolks; add slowly to cheese mixture. Stir constantly until thick and smooth. Serve immediately on toast or crackers, garnished with paprika.