Dear Rita,
My letter is a bit late because Robbie was ill. He’s fine now, don’t worry. But watching him fight, pale again. Gasping for air again. It tore another piece out of me. Soon I’ll be a Frankenstein of worry. All patches and zigzag stitches of the girl I used to be. Like I said, he’s fine now. But his recovery is slow. I hold my breath when he coughs. I’ll be so, so happy to usher in the spring.
Now, about your news... Congratulations! A boy. I’m so happy for you. Please send my regards to Roylene and let her know I’ve sent a layette separately. I ordered it from the Spiegel Catalog. Did you get yours yet? I sent one in the package just in case you haven’t gotten one. Their spring collection is just lovely. I hope you are getting a lot of time with that new baby. Corrine is a running terror now, just like Robbie used to be. I miss those quiet infant days. I remember being able to stare at my babies for hours on end, never knowing where the time went. Would you mind sending me a picture?
And, thank you for sharing your stories about Sal! An olive tree...oh, I’m getting one, too. Tell Sal that your silly, Able Grable of an East Coast pen pal is going to grow olives for him, as well. What a wonderful letter to get. I wonder about that so, so often. Those other memories the boys are making. Robert fills his with domestic things or life at camp. The food, the care packages, the nights when they all sit out and stare at the moon aching for home, smoking. But he doesn’t tell me about battle, and he doesn’t tell me about the culture. I wish he would. I’ll write to him after I finish this letter and ask him some leading questions. Perhaps he’ll take the bait and talk to me about where he is stationed. I’d love to know.
Things are getting awkward again in my home. How long did I think it would last? This ridiculous arrangement between Levi and I? Did I really think that we could be around each other every minute of every day without something happening?
Here’s what happened. It was the first warm day. About a week ago. I asked Marie if she’d help me wash my hair outside. It’s a habit I cling to from when I was a little girl. My mother used to wash my hair with a mixture of baking soda, rose water and apple cider vinegar out in the sun. I know it sounds smelly, but the vinegar dries free of any odor. And the hair is simply silky afterward. Anyway, I was sitting out in the middle of the yard on a kitchen chair waiting for Marie to come and rinse out the vinegar with warm water. I had the basin next to me and the cider had been sitting in my hair for a little too long. I called to her. I don’t know what happened. Either she is unaware of what’s gone on in this house, or she was simply too busy with the kids...but when the warm water began to run down my hair, rinsing out the acrid smell of the vinegar, it was Levi’s hands, not Marie’s, that began massaging in the rose water.
My first instinct was to jump. Or at least speak. But I couldn’t. His hands felt so good in my hair. From the roots, up to my scalp. His strong hands. Those hands I held and trusted when I was still a little girl. Those hands that rinsed my hair before...before we ever touched each other in inappropriate ways. Only now—now they stirred my soul.
“All I want to do is kiss you, Glory,” he said. “Just one more time.” His voice seemed to move as he poured more water from the basin onto my hair. Some splashed on my face and he ran his hands over my closed eyes, over my nose and lips.
It took everything I had not to answer him. Not to open my eyes. Because I knew that even if my intention was to scold him, my mouth would open to his mouth instead. So I stayed there. Quiet. Mute, even. And when he was done, he wrapped my hair in a towel and walked away.
I cried a river, Rita, but at least I kept my word.
It’s hard. But it feels like a sacrifice that focuses my attention on the war more than any ration book ever could.
God grant me strength.
In other news: my speech went well at the Women to Work rally! I’m not so nervous anymore. Not like that first time near Christmas. I don’t know why or how, but when I stand at that podium a surge of energy goes through me and I feel as if I could talk for hours and hours. I wish you could see me, I really do.
As for the garden, I did follow your advice and purchased my seeds from a local farmer. My entire dining room is covered in little greenhouses and every day the children and I watch for the first green sprouts to push up through the dirt. Mother is rolling in her grave seeing our fancy dining room covered in little buckets and glass slabs. Not to mention the smidgens of dirt always on the floor. But this is a garden house now. A garden house where people are waiting between what was and what is going to be.
All my love,
Glory
P.S. Give that baby a kiss for me. Tell him Auntie Glory sent it.