June 27, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Loneliness is built into the fabric of this war, isn’t it? When it gets bad I say a little prayer before I stick my hand in the mailbox, hoping against hope for something glorious. The “Rockport, Massachusetts” stamp on the front of an envelope means the clouds will part, revealing a brilliant sun.

The funny thing is, I don’t really need the letters anymore to talk to you—we have whole conversations in my head. Do you hear me over there by the sea? Someday after this crazy war is over, we will meet. I look forward to that day, but to be honest the thought fills me with anxiety. What if you hate the way I pluck my brows? What if my voice blasts your ear like a foghorn, or I screech like chalk against a board? What if I have a horrible habit of interrupting or absentmindedly picking my nose? I’d be the last to know, right? What if...what if you just don’t like the looks of me?

It’s strange, isn’t it? I’m familiar with the contents of every chamber in your aching heart, but I have no idea what your hair looks like in the sun.

We will meet someday. I know it, too.

But in the meantime...news from the Iowa front. We haven’t heard anything from Toby yet. As far as I know, he’s contemplating Roylene’s proposal when he isn’t scrubbing latrines and avoiding enemy fire. Roylene’s been dodging her own bullets lately, so she hasn’t had much time to pine.

Last Saturday morning, she showed up on my front porch with Little Sal and a shiner the color of dried prunes. It seems Roy overheard her discussing possible job opportunities with one of the waitresses and lost what’s left of his mind. He gave the poor girl a good thwomping in the alley behind the tavern when she stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

Sal always said it takes a true coward to hit a woman, but I think it just takes a regular old son of a bitch. “That’s enough,” I said when I saw her face. I picked up my pocketbook and my sweet, rosy-cheeked grandson and walked over to Mrs. K.’s door.

She opened it wearing a housedress and pins in her hair. “Can you watch him for a while?” I asked. Mrs. K. began mumbling excuses in German, but I kissed that baby’s soft head and handed him over to her awkward embrace. “He’s no trouble. Roylene’s got a bottle made and he takes lukewarm oatmeal.”

We hit the pavement before the old warhorse could say “nein.”

On the way to the tavern we stopped at Charlie’s boardinghouse and Irene’s apartment and asked them to back us up. Ted, the boy with the eye patch, ran into us near the co-op and asked what’s what. When we told him he joined in, and I’m sure we were a sight marching down the sidewalk, kind of like Our Gang all grown up.

We had so much energy, Glory. It filled my lungs and reached every corner of my body, all the way down to my toes. I thought there was a distinct possibility that I could take on Roy myself, if that’s what it came to.

Only he was nowhere to be found. We pounded on the locked door and called him out, but the bar stayed dark. Roylene hadn’t brought her key, so we kept at it, shouting his name and demanding he come out and apologize. He didn’t care one bit about marking that girl for the world to see, so we didn’t give a hoot about airing his dirty laundry for all of Iowa City to inspect.

It was the middle of the day, so we didn’t notice the flashing lights until the squad cars nearly swerved into our legs. Well, most of us didn’t notice. Irene went white and tugged Charlie into the alley. That left Ted, me and Roylene.

The officers outnumbered us by two. It was only then that Roy came out of the tavern, his ruddy face crumpled up like a spent pack of cigs. “These people are trespassing on private property,” he growled, his hair blindingly white in the sun. “I want them arrested.”

Roylene squared her shoulders and stepped in front of him. “Pop, you’re gonna need to change the way you treat me,” she demanded. Her voice had a steel beam running through the middle. I didn’t know she had it in her.

Roy stuck his hand out, like he needed to protect himself from an onslaught. “Arrest these vagrants,” he said, spitting each word into the hot, humid air. The young cops gazed uneasily at each other. Roy pulled out his wallet and extracted a worn card with some signatures on it. “I hand over an envelope full of cash to the Officers’ Fund every year, you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” The boys nodded. They talked to Ted for a few minutes, then sent him on his way because they wouldn’t arrest someone who’d “already paid a great debt overseas.” That left Roylene and me.

Well, we spent the next few hours locked up in the city jail, until an officer came to tell us we could leave with a fine and slap on the wrist. His sergeant didn’t like the idea of two ladies sleeping on smelly, urine-stained cots like hardened criminals. Once I gained assurance Roylene would not have a spot on her permanent record, we accepted a ride to my house in the back of a squad car.

Of course, Mrs. Kleinschmidt stood watering her front yard as we pulled up. She held Little Sal tight against her bosom with one thick hand, the hose in the other. Her hard blue eyes stared at us as if she were etching the scene onto a photo negative for later developing.

I thanked the officer—who was really quite nice and old enough to be my father—and Roylene and I headed up my walk.

“Thank you much, Mrs. Kleinschmidt,” Roylene said. She smiled weakly, her features etched with exhaustion. Mrs. K. reluctantly handed over the baby. Roylene thanked her again and headed into the house, Little Sal watching over her shoulder with round gray-blue eyes.

“You are not a good influence on that boy,” Mrs. K. scolded over the fence. “Causing trouble. Working with a married man. Spending time with war profiteers.” She clucked her tongue. “You don’t act like a widow. Where is your black dress? Why are you wearing lipstick?”

I didn’t have any fight left in me. “Thanks for watching our boy,” I said tonelessly, and went into the house without a look back. Roylene put the baby down for a nap and I fixed the girl some cold chicken salad with sliced beets. I left her to eat in the kitchen and pounded the stairs to my bedroom. I found my gold lamé dancing dress and put it on, holes and all. I did my hair up in an elaborate twist, and put on a full face of makeup. Then I sat barefoot on my front porch and drank strawberry wine with Roylene until the sun fell all the way down. Mrs. K. was watching through the blinds. At least, I hope she was.

Roylene and Little Sal spent the night. This morning I asked if she wanted to move into my guest room. She said yes. I told myself it was for her and the baby’s benefit, but who am I kidding? I’ve been cultivating solitude, as carefully as I do my garden and the sunflowers growing past my gutters.

I don’t want to live alone, Glory. I’m afraid I’m getting used to it.

Rita

P.S. I haven’t heard from you, and I hope everything is all right. I also hope this letter acts as a distraction if that’s what you need at the moment. It’s the least I can do for you.