Dear Glory,
Tell Robbie this Garden Witch can read palms. I look at his adorable handprint and see only the brightest of futures. He has a long lifeline, with lots of finely etched paths all leading to a heartline of equally impressive length. He will be special, that one.
As for his mother...
Oh, Glory. I want to lecture you, but I’m sure your confusion is punishment enough. Maybe Levi should go away for a while? It seems your closeness only breeds temptation. Will Robbie miss him too much? Maybe. Will your focus shift entirely to Robert without Levi skulking about? I’d bet on it. Give it a shot.
And, yes, I do think it is possible to be in love with two people at the same time. The funny thing is, it can never be the same kind of love. People are different, so the way you love them has to be. Doesn’t that sound logical?
I’m sorry your mother-in-law didn’t make it to Thanksgiving dinner. If it makes you feel better, Mrs. K. got stuck working, and Irene had to take a bus to Omaha to take care of her mother, who’d fallen ill. Roylene never showed—more on that later.
I had no one at my table, so I boxed everything up and brought it to the USO. There were some boys there about to leave for training, and it gave me a thrill to know they’d get such a meal before they left. Something to remember America by, you know?
Anyway, when I got back, Charlie stood on my doorstep, holding a bottle of Chianti. Turns out he didn’t know what to do with himself after waiting with Irene at the bus terminal. I wondered why Irene hadn’t just brought him with her.
I felt odd about the two of us being alone in the house, so I suggested we sit outside to take in the brisk evening air. I ran in for some glasses and when I returned Charlie had stretched out on the porch swing, his long legs nearly tripping me up. I poured us each a healthy glass and we sat quietly for a while, letting the pleasant warmth of the alcohol play against the wind biting at our fingertips and noses.
When I finished my drink, I asked, “Why didn’t you go with Irene to Omaha?”
Charlie refilled my glass, then his own. “I wasn’t asked.”
“Do you love her?” A little wine always makes me impolite, Glory. You should know this about me.
“I like being around her,” he answered. “She’s better than me. Better than I deserve.”
Probably, I thought. But I said, “Nobody’s better than anyone else.”
He looked at me, and I saw a hardness in his eyes, and a weariness in the faint lines surrounding them. “Now, darlin’, you know that’s not true.”
I had nothing to say to that.
Desperate to change the topic, I blabbered on about Mrs. K.’s oddities, Sal’s latest letter and Toby and Roylene’s situation.
Charlie polished off the last of the wine as I talked. When I finally shut my trap, he said, “You haven’t heard from Toby?”
“I don’t even know if that crazy girl has written to tell him. I’m going to do it if she doesn’t.”
“You’ve got to give her every chance.” Charlie stood and grasped my hands, pulling me to standing. “Come on. There ain’t too many places she could be.”
We found ourselves downtown, and next thing you know I was walking a little unsteadily through the door to Roy’s Tavern. The place was empty—even the rummies were down at the American Legion enjoying a free meal. Roy wasn’t behind the bar, but Roylene was, pushing an old rag over and over the dull wood. She wore the red shirtwaist—no men’s overcoat. A splotch of crimson marred her cheek. On closer inspection it took the shape of a man’s hand. My arm twitched. I didn’t know if I wanted to hug her frail body or slap the nonsense out of Roy. She noticed the look in my eye and backed up a step, skittish.
Charlie and I planted ourselves on some stools and I ordered two straight whiskeys before he could open his mouth. Roylene’s hands shook as she placed the short glasses on the bar.
“Your old man likes an open hand, huh?” Charlie drawled. He casually dropped a ten spot next to the bottle. “Pour one for yourself while you’re at it.”
She did, and sipped the liquor like an aristocrat, pinky up.
“Is your daddy around?” I asked after she finished her whiskey.
“No, ma’am,” she said. Her face was as red and mottled as my cranberry sauce. “He ran off to Des Moines for the night. Said he didn’t want to look at me.”
I smiled at her. “You took the coat off.”
“It was starting to smell like wet dog,” she said, laughing. It was contagious, and the three of us were roaring like mountain lions. It felt good to laugh with her, Glory.
When it was time to leave, I asked if she’d like to bunk with me for a few days, until Roy simmered down. She declined. “And Toby,” I said, slipping into my coat. “You’ve written to him?”
She hadn’t. “I can’t get the words right, Mrs. Vincenzo.”
Well, I wiggled out of my coat again and found pen and paper by the till. I curled Roylene’s small hand over the pen and guided her to a stool. “It’s not a math test,” I said. “Whatever you write will do just fine.” She sat there, mouthing the words as she etched them into the paper, pausing occasionally, as if transcribing a conversation only she could hear.
Charlie poured us another drink. We waited, silently sipping, the whiskey keeping me sedated enough to stay in place, to not poke my head over that poor girl’s shoulder.
When she was done, Roylene placed the unfolded paper on the bar in front of me, for approval. She has a girlish scrawl, all loops and fat letters. I folded it into thirds and slipped it in my purse. It took everything I had not to read it, and more than that to stop myself from adding a postscript. I sent it off the next morning, unread. Promise.
In a few days I’ll write my own letter to Toby. It’s a fragile method of communication, isn’t it? The South Pacific is such an impossibly long journey for those light slips of paper. I hope he gets it.
Love,
Rita
P.S. I started my job yesterday. It’s going well so far. I typed three letters, filed some grade forms and went grocery shopping for the dean’s wife. Easy peasy!
P.P.S. Watch the smoking, hon. It’ll give you wrinkles.