Tell me more about you, Rita. Tell me what else you grow in your garden and how you grow it. Should I be doing anything now in my yard? Tell me what its like to have a grown-up boy. Robbie might just kill me. He already hates the baby. Im trying to tell him everything will be all right, but how can I say it with a straight face? My sons no idiot. He knows when Im lying.
The medicine wont taste bad.
The bath is not hot.
Daddy will be safe.
Lies.
Im so big now I cant do much. And the snow...it falls and there isnt any relief. I go to the market once a week and then come home.
So thank you, Rita. Thank you for writing back. Because life is so closed up...and now it feels more open, like a wide, wide field in Iowa.
Im enclosing a sketch of my square bit of earth here on the cliffs that I call a backyard. Its sunny. Tell me what I should plant in my victory garden, Garden Witch.
And tell me a better lie to tell my son so he grows up as good and open and pure as yours seems to be.
With great newfound affection,
Glory
February 19, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
I wish I had red hair! Once my hair was as vibrant as Tobys, but now its faded and pale. I wear bright coral lipstick all the time so people have something else to look at. Thank heavens for Mr. Max Factor.
Anyway, your letter came just before lunch yesterday. I read it while picking at a hamburger plate in a dark leather booth at the Capitol Café. Irene is in Omaha visiting family, so Id planned on staying inside with some egg salad and a cup of tea. Then the postman arrived and I got ants in my pants so I grabbed what he brought and hoofed it into town.
The emptiness is hard to get used to. Its the middle of the academic term, yet I could roll a bowling ball down Washington Street and not hit a soul. Im sure the weather has something to do with it (a whopping eight degrees at noontime), but more likely its this war. With so many boys gone overseas the university might as well rename itself Sister Josephines School for Educating Ladies. And those gals have no time for meanderingthey are busy bees indeed.
It sounds like you have your hands full as well. Robbie will come around, but he is at a tough age. Now that I think about it, all the ages are difficult, even after they leave the house. Take my Toby, for instance. Turns out you were slightly mistaken in your assessment of himhe isnt quite on the shortlist for sainthood.
I had just returned from the café yesterday when someone knocked on the front door. My heart nearly stopped beatingthe unannounced visitor is about as welcome as the devil these daysand I ran to the window to see if a government vehicle sat in our driveway. I wanted to start dancing when I saw it was a girl standing on the porch. She was a colorless, skinny thing, mewling like a cat, and when I ushered her inside she started crying, tears so big and fat I worried shed drown.
Her name is Roylene.
My daddy owns Roys Tavern? On Clinton Street? By the co-op grocery?
Everything is a question with this girl, like she doesnt trust herself enough for the declarative. I took her coat and snuck a sly glance at her tummy (flat as a pancake, thank God), and poured a cup for her. She slurped at it like a Chinaman.
Apparently when my Toby turned eighteen he headed straight for the enlistment office, and then took a detour through Roys Tavern on his way home. Instead of going to class last November he sat on a bar stool writing in his notebooks and spouting poetry to Roylene. My daddy says Im no good behind the bar? So I work in the kitchen? Toby sits between the sacks of flour and potatoes and keeps me company?
At that last question she started crying again. I swear, Glory, I did not know what to do. I patted her hand, which was all bone. That girl might work in a kitchen but she sure isnt doing any eating.
Have you tried writing to him, hon? She cried harder at this, her small frame racking over my kitchen table.
Im no good at it? I thought Id just wait until he came back? But I cant wait anymore?
Do you want me to include a message from you when I write to him?
Her face lit up, and for a few short seconds I could see what kept Toby interested.
Please?
So shes coming back next Monday, her day off. I have no idea what Toby really thinks of her. Im tempted to write him a letter first, to ask, but now that just seems mean.
I have been giving some thought to your garden.
Im spoiledIowas soil is rich and loamy. I was stumped, so I asked Irene. She said to think about the rocky places were reading about in the newspapersthe shores of Italy, the mountains of Greece. What do they grow there? Oregano? Lemon balm?
Or, you could simply throw down a few inches of compost and fake it. Thats what we do, isnt it? Do the best with what we have? Its not lying, dear. Dont look at it that way. Its hopeful pretending. Consider it your patriotic duty.
Sincerely,
Rita
February 20, 1943
V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo
Sal,
I can fit exactly fifteen lines on these damn things. Sixteen if I dont sign my name. Youll know who its from, wontcha? Maybe Ill seal it with a kiss and the censor can get lipstick all over his fingers.