July 21, 1944

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dearest Glory,

I am worried.

I know what it’s like to draw in the sketchbook of memory. Everything is recreated with fine lines and precision, though the models are not in front of you, only remembered through the haze of fantasy and longing. It’s real, but then it isn’t. And it lies to you sometimes.

Don’t get stuck there, hon.

Your letter made me think of that Fitzgerald novel, The Great Gatsby. Toby read it in school and loved the book so much he left it on my pillow for me to read. It crushed me. Oh, that Jay Gatsby, standing on his pier with arms outstretched toward the green light he never could quite touch. He hooked his hopes and dreams on to things unworthy of pursuit. That’s the tragedy of his story.

Toby always said Gatsby was about the inability to accept change. That idea and the image of you wandering through the lifeless Astor mansion made me think of him, but that’s where the similarity ends.

Unlike poor Gatsby, you already possess the green light—it’s just buried under memories, fear and a war that has covered this entire world in ash.

It takes and takes, this war. But it has to give in some ways—it’s the law of nature, isn’t it? To keep balance in the world? Your husband lost something on the shores of Normandy, but you, you have been given an opportunity to see what you’re made of.

I think you’ll be pleased to find it’s not just sugar and spice.

Thinking about you,

Rita

P.S. Thank you for your lovely words about Roylene. She’s settling in nicely with Little Sal, and is seeking a job in earnest. We hadn’t heard from Roy, but a few days ago he left a moldy apple crate on my front porch, filled with Roylene’s personal effects: a few worn summer dresses, a hairbrush and a pair of wool socks with some lace trim she won’t take off even though it’s hot as Hades around here.

I doubt Roy’s done with her. He doesn’t seem the type to give up without having the last word. I just hope he sticks to words, you know? Words we can handle.