Dear Glory,
I haven’t written in a few weeks because I’m giving you and your family a rest from outside meddling. Still, I find myself thinking about your situation every day. I’m not sure I would have told Robert, but, as my mother always said, “The truth comes out, whether you like it or not.” It was rising to the surface, anyway, right? You just stuck your hand in the water and yanked it up, saving it some time.
Healing takes patience, which is something I’m trying to come to terms with.
Tonight, I’ve been sitting on the front porch passing out oatmeal cookies to the neighborhood children (recipe to follow). Before the war, the local schools hosted apple dunking contests and the neighbors gave candy treats to the children on Halloween. Now, the little ghosts and goblins traipse from door to door, asking for bits of aluminum and tin, shouting, “Scraps to beat the Japs!” instead of “Trick or Treat!”
But the children are snug in their beds at this hour, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see a tumbleweed blowing down this deserted street. It’s chilly, but I’m wrapped in a heavy quilt. The porch light aids the moon in providing light. I don’t want to go inside. If I didn’t worry about the baby waking in the middle of the night, I’d sleep out here with the rabbits and squirrels.
Little Sal is keeping the loneliness at bay, to a certain extent. On the days I don’t work for Dr. Aloysius Martin, I lose myself in my grandson’s eyes, which have finally found their color, a deep gray. It’s been a while since I’ve taken care of such a young child, so when he settles in for his afternoon nap, I sneak one in as well. Some days I awake with a start, forgetting the year or where I am. My eyes search the room for proof that Sal existed. If I don’t spot any, I convince myself I’m still in Chicago, still the kind of woman who sneaks into back alleys with gangsters. I lay there trembling, wondering if I really did find my way to the tailor shop, or if that was all a dream and I made the wrong choice and ended up with nothing.
Maybe it’s easier to imagine the past two decades never happened than deal with the events of the past year.
Writing to you helps immeasurably. Roylene also helped, though she seems farther and farther away each day I don’t receive a letter from her. I weave romantic tales for Little Sal, stories he won’t remember, though I hope hearing about his parents will keep them present somehow. I tell him epic tales of Grandpa Sal’s heroism, which strangely has a distancing effect for me. Was he really mine?
Tomorrow is All Souls Day. I don’t think I’ll go to mass. I need to spend the time remembering Sal’s soul is with me. It’s getting harder and harder to remember that lately.
I also think I’m going to head to the American Legion to see if I can be of more assistance. Funny how Victory seems within our grasp, yet there appears to be more work to do than ever. Mrs. Kleinschmidt is so enthralled by the single-mindedness of her purpose she’s shaking like a Model T.
And... I very much like the idea of a visit, Glory. It gives me something wonderful to wait for. Now that’s a change, isn’t it?
Love,
Rita
Oatmeal Drop Cookies
1 cup flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1½ cups rolled oats
½ cup seedless raisins
¼ cup brown sugar (firmly packed)
1 egg, beaten
¼ cup dark molasses (I like to use blackstrap, but some can’t handle the strong taste)
¼ cup orange marmalade
½ cup shortening, melted
Mix and sift flour, baking powder and salt; stir in rolled oats and raisins. Stir brown sugar into egg; beat well. Beat molasses, marmalade and shortening into egg mixture. Gradually stir in oatmeal mixture. Drop from teaspoon on lightly greased baking sheet. Bake in moderately hot oven (375°F) for 12–15 minutes.