Home Front Girls

by Suzanne Hayes

  The mystery part about your boy and that Roylene is the fascinating thing. What are those two up to? I was listening to I Love a Mystery the other evening (I try to catch it every night, but it’s hard with the baby) and I was thinking your story would be a great plot. Better than theirs.

  Keep strong, Rita. I’m happy to hear I’m not alone in my growing fondness to old-lady neighbors. Don’t let anyone else bully you or I might just have to take a train and wave my wild little son around. “Take THAT!” I’d say.

  He’s been so naughty he’d send any bigot running.

  Yours in true friendship,

  Glory

  May 21, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dear Glory,

  I’m sitting on our patio this early morning, with a cup of tea to warm me before the sun makes its appearance. My garden is doing well, though I think if I eat any more spinach I’ll turn into Popeye. How is yours coming along?

  I got a kick out of your last letter. That Mrs. Moldenhauer sounds like a suffragette. I’m old enough to remember those. My father called them “dirty birdies.” I think our pops would have gotten along.

  I also think you should go back to the church meetings. What could it hurt? Sal always says it’s our responsibility as human beings to never lose our curiosity. He is absolutely right. And let’s face it, we’re not the ones doing the heavy lifting in this war. The least we can do is not let our brains atrophy. Get in there and see what these gals are all about. New ideas leave the old ones shaking in their shoes, don’t they?

  Then again, those most eager to tell people what to do are often those most in need of guidance. You are getting advice from a hypocrite, my dear. I haven’t talked to Mrs. K. since that incident in her kitchen. Not a word. She peers at me over her blinds, but I look away. I’m a big chicken, afraid of an old woman. Squawk! Squawk!

  The situation with Roylene is even worse. I did buy those tickets, just as I promised. They sat atop my dresser gathering dust for days, a constant reminder of a mission unaccomplished. Oh, but how Toby’s expectations gnawed at my conscience! When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I squared my shoulders and planned another visit to Roy’s Tavern. Irene refused to go back—she claims Roy is a madman—so I was flying solo. I got all gussied up in my most expensive-looking suit, and applied my makeup with the precision of a surgeon. I pulled on my baby-pink day gloves and shoved my feet into a pair of tan pumps with ankle straps. (I still have decent ankles, kiddo.) I was ready to take on that mean little man.

  Only I never made it past the front gate.

  A few mornings later, Roylene showed up on my porch, wearing a flour-sack dress and a hand-knit sweater the color of wet sand. I was mortified that it was she who came to me.

  “I saw you at the tavern?” was all she said.

  The morning still held the chill of spring, but I didn’t invite her in. “Wait here,” I said, and dashed into the house to retrieve the train tickets. I gave her one of them and explained the departure and arrival schedule. “You’ll need to get permission from your father,” I stuck on to the end of my lecture. “I don’t think he’d appreciate you running off.”

  She stared at me, blank as a barn door. Her eyes are a dull hazel, unable to decide between brown and green.

  “You’re very welcome,” I snapped. I hadn’t meant to sound overly harsh, but maybe I did because a crimson flush crept down the steep slopes of her cheeks. She opened her mouth, then decided fleeing was her best option. Roylene nearly tripped down the steps trying to get away from me. I would have hightailed it for the safety of my living room as well, but a moth hole on the back of her sweater caught my attention—it had frayed into a crater.

  “Roylene!” My tone brought her to a halt.

  She turned, slowly, a look of complete terror on her face.

  “Give me your cardigan.”

  Her fear slid into confusion. “It’s my only warm-weather sweater, Mrs. Vincenzo? Don’t you own a bunch already?”

  “I want to repair it,” I said, struggling to soften my voice. “Don’t you want to look your best for our trip?”

  She handed the decrepit sweater over like she was giving me one of her kidneys, and then ran down the street without a backward glance.

  We leave for Ohio in five days. Wish me luck.

  Rita

  May 26, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  How nice of you to offer to fix Roylene’s sweater. I’ve been getting handy these days, too. Marie is teaching me to knit and crochet. And I’ve picked up some embroidery on my own. Sometimes I wonder about my mother and what she did with her free time. As far as I know she never cooked, cleaned or made anything with her hands. I’d feel robbed if I couldn’t do these things. There’s such a sense of accomplishment.

  The days are slow and soft with a new baby. Marie has moved in for the moment, so I can better care for Corrine. As I’ve said, Robbie is full of energy and more than a little attention deprived since her birth.

  A few days ago, we were all sitting on the porch having breakfast and something terrible happened. Marie and I were talking about the war, Mrs. M.’s sermons and ration cards. Robbie was trying to get my attention but I insisted he stay quiet. I had little Corrine at my breast. (I decided to breast-feed her. Mrs. M. said it was my patriotic duty. I’m enjoying the closeness. I didn’t breast-feed Robbie. Claire Whitehall, the mother-in-law of all mother-in-laws, told me it was a disgusting habit and gave me a jar of some powdered milk.) Anyway, Robbie walked right up to me and smacked the baby on her head!

  I wanted to hit him, Rita. I wanted to throw him right over the railing of the porch. And that feeling...the rage that rose up so suddenly made me remember another time. The only other time I’ve ever felt violence surge in my blood.

  Robert, Levi and I were about twelve years old. We’d just reunited on the beaches here in Rockport and the day started out lovely. Then Levi started to tease me about how my body was changing. I didn’t want to become a woman, so I was sensitive to it. I was so afraid that if I changed too much, we wouldn’t be best friends anymore.

  “Stop looking at me like that, Levi,” I shouted.

  “He can’t help it, Glory. You’re turning into a Ladygirl right in front of us. What are we supposed to do?” asked Robert.

  Somehow, Robert saying that made it so much worse. And I noticed they’d changed, too. They looked like young men. And they were both so handsome in their different ways. Robert light, Levi dark.

  Levi elbowed Robert. “Hey, leave her be. Race you to the sandbar!”

  And the two of them took off without me. When they returned to shore, falling on the sand laughing and out of breath, I walked right over to them with my hands on my hips. I wanted to bury them both in the sand and leave them for dead. So I did something that I’m not proud of...and it’s worse than you not inviting Roylene into your home. I kicked Robert in his side. Hard.

  I didn’t know what my foot was going to do until it did it. Moved by the anger, not by my own will. I wanted to make both those boys suffer the way I’d suffered. But I learned that all I did was create a great chasm between us. (And I hurt my foot rather badly!)

  And that’s war, right, Rita? Two sides hurting each other, acting out in violence, before trying to resolve any feelings? Or maybe that’s too simple. I’d like to think that America is like Levi’s mother. The grand negotiator.

  Robert didn’t speak to me for an entire week. In the end, Levi was the one who brought us all back together. Making jokes and reminding us that no matter who we became, we’d always be friends. He was probably taking the advice of his wise, wise mother. But it worked.

  So, there I was, sitting on the porch, my hand encircling Robbie’s wrists in a fierce grip. But instead of walloping him, I got up, gave my cherub-cheeked baby to Marie and brought Robbie inside. I w
ent to his room and let him pick out some books.

  “Let’s read, just you and me,” I said.

  He climbed up on my lap and I read to him, one hand pushing his hair from his brow and placing kisses on his head between pages. After the first book he said, “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  I gave him one more kiss. “I know, Robbie. Sometimes we do things when we are mad and scared, and we don’t mean them at all.”

  I was so glad I’d kicked Robert that day, and remembered what it felt like, because if that hadn’t happened... I would have spanked my poor boy.

  Anyway, I have a lot of time on my hands these days. I love being domestic. Robbie’s helped me roll up all these balls of tinfoil to bring to the local junk man who does something with them for the war effort. We’ve even got as far as peeling the foil from gum wrappers! And we’ve begun collecting milkweed pods. Mrs. M. says there’s a factory out in Michigan that’s turning the silk from the pods into parachutes. Can you imagine?

  Oh, and I’ll leave you with a ration book idea:

  Take the lard you’ve bought and put it in a bowl. Mix it with yellow food coloring and you can almost fool your taste buds into thinking it’s butter!

  Love, love, love,

  Glory

  May 26, 1943

  SOMEWHERE IN WESTERN OHIO

  Dear Glory,

  Greetings from the (rail) road!

  We switched trains in Indianapolis about two hours ago. There are so many uniformed boys in our car, I feel like I’m heading off to war as well. They joke and play cards and drink from small, cheap bottles of whiskey. One rather inebriated fellow squeezed between Roylene and myself as we returned from the dining car and said he was caught between two slices of heaven. I laughed—how could I not? A little fun is in order. They mightn’t have any idea what’s in store overseas, but my Sal’s letters have given me enough of an impression. I wanted to buy them all steak dinners and kiss their ruddy cheeks. Instead, I sat across from Roylene and busied myself extracting pen and paper from my bag. I kept one eye on her. She bit her fingernails and wiped the cuttings on her seat when she thought I wasn’t looking. A moment ago, I offered her my Women’s Day to give her hands something to do. She’s flipping through to be respectful, but I don’t think she’s reading.

  We’ve exhausted the standard small-talk topics. During the interminable journey from Des Moines to Indianapolis, I learned the following, and not much else: 1. Mrs. K. was right—Roylene is from Oklahoma. Roy went north to escape the dust when everyone else, including his wife, went West. The poor thing hasn’t seen her mother in years. 2. Roylene slaves away at the tavern six days a week. 3. She doesn’t like egg salad (too spongy), but blueberry pie suits her fine.

  Fascinating stuff. My boy likes Whitman and Poe. What in the world are they going to talk about? I guess it doesn’t make any difference. I have a lot to say to my son before he ships off to God knows where. The girl won’t get a word in edgewise.

  I must admit, ragged fingernails aside, Roylene’s taken a smidge more concern with her appearance. She’s rolled her hair for the trip, and she’s wearing a clean dress and the summer sweater I mended. I found a ruby-red doily I crocheted ages ago and cut it up to trim the collar and cuffs. It offsets the odd yarn color, giving it a rich maple hue. A dab of scarlet lipstick would seal the deal but that’s probably asking too much.

  The magazine lies open on her lap, but Roylene’s eyes are closing. The soldier boys have also quieted, settling into a drunken snooze. They still have quite a trip ahead. Our stop is only an hour away at this point, give or take. There is a chance Toby will be waiting for us at the station.

  Oh, Glory, I can’t wait to see him.

  Love

  Rita

  May 27, 1943

  (3 or 4 o’clock in the damn morning)

  SANDY PINES ROADSIDE MOTEL,

  OUTSIDE OF COLUMBUS, OHIO

  Glory,

  There is neither sand nor pine trees in the vicinity of this motel, only a deserted gravel parking lot lit by the dull blue glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. It’s not the middle of the night but close enough. Even the earliest risers are still tucked in their beds.

  Except Roylene. Her bed is empty. The coverlet lies in a crumpled heap. She didn’t have the decency to tuck a few pillows under it to trick my sleepy eyes.

  Honestly, it is preferable to think some maniac broke into our room and stole her in the dead of night than give a second’s thought to what is really going on.

  I’ve spent the past twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not I should march over to Toby’s room and bang on the door. I’m tempted, I’ll tell you that. But to be truthful, my motivation is not to break up their tryst but to assuage my loneliness. I came here to see my boy. I haven’t gotten my chance with him yet.

  The man who picked us up at the train station was barely recognizable. After they cut Toby’s hair, they must have taken a chisel to the rest of him, chipping away at the boyish layers, sharpening his features as though his face was one more weapon to ready for battle. He waved at us, and I could hardly raise my hand in return. Roylene yelped and jumped on him like a bedbug.

  “You look pretty,” Toby said, his fingers drifting from her face to the doily collar. “This sweater suits you.”

  I sewed it! I wanted to shout. Don’t you recognize your mother’s handiwork? Instead, I forced a smile and said, “Isn’t she, though?”

  “Smart, too,” Toby added, keeping his eyes on Roylene. He wrapped his hands around her narrow face. “Did you bring it?”

  Her skinny hand dove into the front of her dress, and she pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her nonexistent bosom. “It’s not that good?” she whispered.

  “Good enough to earn my girl her high school diploma,” he murmured, then briefly turned his bright eyes to me. “She wrote an essay about how to make potato soup for the high school equivalency.”

  I should have complimented her, but my brain froze after the words my girl. I was supposed to hand my boy over to her? Oh, Glory, I’ve always been protective of Toby, overly so, to be honest, but I don’t think you’d have blamed me if I pushed her back on that train and sent her off to Timbuktu. Before I knew it, he’d thrown his arm over her shoulders and they were walking down the platform, away from where I stood. “Come on, Ma,” Toby called, and I scurried to catch up.

  Today we spent most of our time wandering the city, playing tourist and ignoring the inevitable. I didn’t feel like a third wheel so much as a souvenir, a postcard from a past life.

  And here I sit, alone. I was mistaken about Toby’s leave—he doesn’t have a full forty-eight hours. His train leaves in an hour or two. He said goodbye to me last night, told me not to bother getting up to see him off, that it was too early and I should get my beauty rest.

  I’m not going to sleep through his departure. I’m going to get dressed and walk over to the train station. Then I’m going to kiss him on the crown of his head and imagine his fine, golden hair tickling my nose.

  I’m going to say goodbye to my son.

  Rita

  June 5, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  How my heart ached for you when I received your letters. I can only imagine my Robbie all grown up and walking down the street in front of me, hand in hand with another girl. Right now I’m his best girl...and I don’t want that to change anytime soon. I suppose it’s good that Toby has a girl. And perhaps it wasn’t as scandalous as you think...their night together. Couldn’t it be that they were taking a walk under the stars? I wonder if having another person waiting for him won’t give him even more reason to make it home unharmed? I know I’m waxing enthusiastic, but I’m turning into quite the optimist lately!

  I must admit, after I read your letter I pushed back the coffee table in the living room and put on the radio. I held my Robb
ie close and danced with him. How I cried. I whispered into his ear, “Stay just the way you are.”

  And I do want him to stay how he is. I’d like a little snapshot of this time to keep in my heart forever. The only thing missing is Robert. Like a throbbing hollowness that won’t go away. A splinter I can’t find. A toothache. His absence is always right behind me.

  Anyway...my life has become one big whirl of busy. It seems like I go from the garden to the tub and then pull on some stockings (Do you have any left? I’m completely out of silk but have some nylons stocked up if you want me to send you some. Shh! Don’t tell!) and run out the door and down the road to Mrs. M.’s so we can go to one of her meetings. I run so fast the hairpins come out and I have to wear my hair wild. Claire Whitehall would KILL me. Marie has been kind enough to stay home from the meetings and stay with the kids. She said, “I’ve had my turn, now you go have yours.” I swear I’m falling more in love with Mrs. M. and Marie every day.

  I feel like a sparrow flitting around landing here or there. It feels good. Weightless.

  The kids are doing well, though I’ve noticed that Robbie isn’t asking for Robert anymore. He’s taken to calling Levi “Papa.” I’m worried about that and know I should put the kibosh on it. Maybe I should encourage Robbie to call him Uncle Levi? He’s so like a brother to Robert, anyway....

  Those meetings, though, with Mrs. M....leave me breathless. I never knew how much power we have as a people, a government. There have been some ingenious women in our history, Rita. Wouldn’t it be nice to join the ranks of Abigail Adams, Lucretia Mott or even Elizabeth Cady Stanton?