Dear Rita,
My hands shake as I write this letter. The most horrible thing has happened. Well, not the most horrible thing. No one (close to me) has died.
But I went to a memorial for another boy I knew growing up. A neighbor of Levi’s. I felt I needed to go and support him. Levi cried silently through the service, his body steeled against the internal shaking. The grief and the shame radiated off him like August sunlight. I left the children with Marie, and as it turned out, that was a VERY good decision.
After the mass I held Levi close. Closer than I’ve allowed him in ages. We sat in the pews after everyone went down to our local coffee shop for the reception. He placed his head against my chest and I murmured empty words of solace. Right there in God’s house, I comforted him. All he could say was, “Why can’t I go? Why can’t I go?” and I cried, too. For him...and for the boy who died...and for Robbie. May he never be kept from doing anything he feels he must do.
Afterward, we went to a local coffee shop. (The proprietor closed it for the family whose house is too small. It was really so gracious. If there is one thing this war is doing it’s helping us be more human to one another....) I approached the boy’s mother to pay my respects.
And she slapped my face.
“I’d spit at you if I could, you tramp! Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are with your house high on your hill and your deeded ocean rights? Making speeches telling our daughters to go to work instead of staying home—which is their godly duty? JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE fooling with a man who is not your husband while that husband is at war? We know you! We ALL know you!”
The room went dead silent. She shook with sobs. Her husband looked at me, and there was apology in his eyes which—I think—hurt me most of all. And then he ushered her out of the shop.
I began to walk...and then I ran. I ran, Rita. All the way home. Down Main Street. Through the rotaries, I ran where only cars should go. And then I ran up my private road to my house on the hill.
And she’s right.
Who do I think I am?
Glory
P.S. And, I’ve only just realized something that I hadn’t before. If this town knows, then Robert will find out. Oh, Rita. I’m in a big, fat mess. One of my own making, but a mess just the same.