Dear Glory,
The boy who delivered the telegram was beautiful. I watched him come up the road, my eyes following his path as he passed each house and rejected the address with a quick flick of his head before moving to the next, like a hummingbird in search of the flower which holds enough nectar.
His skin shone with health and the hair peeking out from under his cap was dark gold, a shade deeper than Toby’s. I spent a moment worrying Toby’s hair had darkened in the year since I’d seen him last. I decided it would still suit him, took a sip of my tea and studied my nails, disappointed in what typing had done to them. My mind visited the two colors of nail varnish in my bathroom cabinet, and I tried to decide which I liked better.
The boy approached the gate and I smiled and gave a little wave. His response was a twitch of the shoulder. His hand would not come up and his eyes would not meet mine.
And I knew.
The first part of my brain to respond chanted a quick prayer: Not Toby, not Toby, not Toby. It didn’t occur to me that if God listened to my plea, then Sal’s name would be on that telegram.
I felt the slip of paper in my hand. I must have signed the book. I don’t remember. I read, mouthing the words like a young child.
Then I screamed. I know I kept screaming because the boy backed into the closed gate, wincing with fear. I yelled for him to go, shrieked, but he wouldn’t budge. Later, I remembered they aren’t supposed to leave a recipient alone after bad news. He was simply following guidelines. But I couldn’t reason, Glory. I thought he might have another in his bag for me, the final one that said no one would come back, that the war had taken them both.
I threw my cup down and ran. With the door closed behind me I could breathe again. This was Sal’s house. Our first house together. He would come back if I willed it. If I shut everything else out and filled the room with memories, the past could become the present, and I could live there, with him. I would never leave.
What I was really doing was building a tomb. I have no body to bury. Sal could be anywhere. I needed him to rest. I had to draw his soul to me.
When I got your first letter I knew I was doing the right thing. And I did dance with him.
When I got the second, I thought about the things I did not like about myself. They were the very things that made Sal trust me enough to marry me. I had to do right by my husband.
When I got the third, I thought about a sweet, pale little boy drawing a chicken. I thought about a baby’s palm pressed against my window, a boy named for his grandfather.
When I got the fourth, I did take a peek through the curtains to watch Charlie and Irene. They were digging holes for two tomato plants much too close together. The roots would intertwine. If one died and I had to tear it from the ground, the other would only survive if it could burrow into the soil with the roots that remained.
When I got the fifth, I found my mourning dress and buried it under a heap of junk in the front closet. Then I found my gold lamé dancing dress and cut a star from it. I sewed it over the blue one. Tragedy might not shine, but my husband did. More than anyone else. I rehung the flag in the window.
And then I walked out into the sunlight.
Thank you for bringing me there.
Love,
Rita