When I stepped onto the porch to see Roylene out, Mrs. Kleinschmidt stood on her front lawn, staring hard at both of us. I watched her look down her ski slope nose at the girls tatty coat and mens galoshes. My conscience started poking at me.
Roylene, I called out as she latched my front gate.
Yes, maam?
Ill come to the tavern and read you Tobys letter when it comes.
She smiled, the little bit of brightness in that girl coming out. I waved and Roylene shuffled down the road, head hanging low between her bony shoulders. She was barely out of earshot when Mrs. Kleinschmidt started in about Okies and vagabonds and the progeny of Mr. Roosevelts handouts. I stuck my tongue out at her haughty face and she put a cork in it, stomping up her porch steps without another word. I felt guilty later so I wrapped up half the loaf of beer bread and brought it over as a peace offering. She knew right off it was a day old, and her complaints followed me all the way home. It was good the second day, and the third, too. Irene even said so when I brought her some for lunch. We ate it with stew made from every leftover vegetable I had in my icebox, along with some Spam I chopped up and added to the mix. Cook that stuff with an onion and you might as well be eating filet mignon!
Take care of yourself, hon, and let me know when that baby comes.
Sincerely,
Rita
March 16, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
This baby will NEVER come. The doctor predicted Id have it two weeks ago. I know these things cant be rushed or even speculated about. But with each passing day I get heavier and more sluggish. Like a big fat slug in the garden.
Also, my temper is short. This adorable little girl ran up to me in the market yesterday and said, Is that a baby in your tummy? and I snapped back, What do you think it is? Do you suppose Ive swallowed a watermelon?
Her sweet little eyes filled up with tears and I thought her mother might yell at me or glare, even. But no...she looked at me with soft forgiving eyes that told me she understood. Shed been there, too. Women know one another, dont we? We can peer into our deepest, hidden places.
Well, maybe not all women.
I grew up around fancy things, Rita. Nurseries and nannies. My mother? Well, lets put it this wayshe was a side dish more than a main course in the banquet of my youth.
Father and Mother traveled a lot. Its funny, I dont remember missing them. Mostly I was excited to see what presents they brought me from wherever they went. Swiss chocolate, Spanish flamenco dancer dolls, music boxes.
Gosh, sitting here doing nothing but growing large is making me remember strange, forgotten things. And Im noticing things, too.
Like the way I sway back and forth even if Im not holding Robbie. I see other mothers do this, as well. You swing, lulling them to sleep even if theyre not in your arms.
My mother never swayed. She stood up so tall it was as if a string held her up from heaven. Dont slouch, Gloria. If you slouch like that the world will treat you like a pack mule. Good posture is the key to independence.
I have to admit I still slouch sometimes.
And also, her hands. My mothers hands were always perfect. She wore gloves when she went out, but when at home she kept a pot of hand cream (rosewater and glycerin) near her at all times. Rubbing
it in methodically. Cuticles first, then nails. The backs of her hands and then up each finger. I believe her hands were soft like rose petals. But I hardly ever felt them.
She died three years ago, my mother. From the cancer. I miss her every day.
Ive been thinking of her hands a lot. I cant imagine having such perfect hands. Mine are rough, but strong. And my son knows them well.
I suppose this is all nonsense. Nonsense written by a woman very tired of carrying this weight. (And who might be at the end of her rope!)
I suppose my childhood was lonesome, too. Ive promised that my own children will never feel alone.
But theres a funny thing about promises. Its easier to keep them before you make them.
Love,
Glory
P.S. Ill write as SOON as this baby makes his or her appearance. I promise!
April 1, 1943
V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo
(Got your letter yesterday. Hows that for a turnaround?)
Husband of mine,
Happy April Fools Day! (Though I dont feel much like foolin.) Remember the time I hid all of your underwear in the freezer? You sure got me back. Im fairly certain Mrs. K. is still not recovered from the sight of my brassieres hanging from the fence posts.
I did give her that boys name from your squad. I cant imagine being so far away with no one to write to. Mrs. K. grumbled a bit, but snatched the address up so quickly I will now pay even less attention to her rheumatism complaints. When it comes to the war effort, it seems that woman has nothing but time. Shes got at least a dozen soldiers on her V-mail list, and manages to post her letters twice a week. God knows what she tells them. Still, something is better than nothing, even if that something concerns the fine points of making wienerschnitzel or crocheting a dickey.