Home Front Girls

by Suzanne Hayes

  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.

  July 1, 1944

  V-mail from Seaman Tobias Vincenzo to Roylene Dawson

  Tire swing. Front porch. Whitewashed and sun-baked. Not a hint of sorrow in it. The three of us. Together.

  Yes.

  Of course I’ll marry you.

  Toby

  July 7, 1944

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Rita,

  My telegram came. He’s alive. Seriously wounded in action. In the hospital.

  I was swimming down in the cove with Levi and the kids. It was Corrine’s first time there...a baptism of sorts. She took to the water right away like a little chubby mermaid. Her hair has grown (finally) and the blond curls turned the color of caramel when wet. Just like Robert’s. I was thinking of him. Wishing he was there to watch his children—Corrine so like him, Robbie so like me.... And Robbie was swimming, too. It was like a miracle. We were laughing and healing in the deep salty ocean.

  The bicycle on the road above glinted in the sun. Caught in my eye like sand.

  I swam for the rocks, and took the trail up the road. I ran fast, hiding behind trees...pretending I was a forest fairy. I kept thinking, He’ll go past the house, he’ll go past the house, but no one else on our road has anyone in need of a telegram.

  I met the boy before he got to the door.

  Has it ever happened to you, Rita, that you see a young person that you think you recognize, only to remember that it couldn’t be that person at all, because you are all grown up? Well, for a moment that boy looked exactly like Robert when he was fourteen. Shaggy-haired, too-tall, graceless teenage Robert. All arms and legs. My love. But it wasn’t him at all, was it? No. It wasn’t.

  In the time it took for him to meet me with his outstretched hand I lived two lives. One without Robert, and one with him wounded.

  I’d not stopped (for fear of losing him in my sight) to towel off, so when I reached for the telegram, drops of seawater fell from my fingers and wet the paper before I could grasp hold of it.

  Salt from the sea, not from my eyes as it should have been.

  It’s punishment is what it is. It’s my fault.

  I should be dead. Or in a hospital in France. I can no longer face Levi or this house or this town.

  I’m going to Connecticut to be with my mother.

  Glory

  July 14, 1944

  ASTOR HOUSE

  Dear Rita,

  It’s cold in Connecticut. I won’t close the windows and the wind feels more like March than July. How is it that this bed still smells of her, after all this time? I keep burying my head deeper and deeper into the down pillows to find her. What a rabid mind I have, that makes cheese out of everything I think I know. I’m a ninny. Did I have babies? Ninnies shouldn’t have babies. Nor should whores. Only women like you, Rita. Only women like you should be allowed to have and raise babies. Maybe people like me shouldn’t be allowed to even live among the rest of society. Maybe it would be better if the rotten apples fell from all the trees. I have holes in me. All over me like a moth’s been at a sweater. I wonder where Robert’s holes are. Through his eyes? His arms? Leg? Heart? Head?

  Oh, my. I suppose I should begin again. You must think I’ve gone around the bend.

  Do you like the stationery? So fancy. Just like my mother. She liked
fancy things. I’m sitting up today (in her bed...but upright, which is an improvement and allows me to hold a pencil). I somehow managed to get from Massachusetts to Connecticut with myself and the children in one piece, though I don’t recall much of the drive. I’m beginning to feel a little better this morning, though it’s been a hell of a couple of days.

  I hope my letter to you about Robert made sense. I jotted it down and handed it to Levi to post. He begged me not to leave. I couldn’t even look at him. Looking at him seemed as bad as touching him. I thought I’d vomit and faint at the same time. So I did the only rational thing—I put the kids in the car and drove off like a mad woman. And even as I was driving—even in my grief over what has befallen Robert—I still could not get Levi’s burning gaze out of my mind. God help me, Rita...if you could see him, perhaps you’d know why. The depth in his brown eyes. The smolder just beneath the surface. How is it that the mind and the body can crave two different things? I keep trying to talk to my mother, but she won’t talk back. She’s not a good spirit. Or she’s stubborn. Either way, she’s quiet. Maddeningly so.

  I’d not been back here since her funeral. And you know when you revisit somewhere you remember being large, and then you go and it’s much, much smaller? Well, that isn’t what happened. The opposite, really.

  This house—it’s enormous. I think I had a better handle on its size when I ran through its halls as a child. It even has a name. Not overly original or creative. Astor House.

  I couldn’t believe how well kept the place is. I mean, I sign the checks for the caretakers each month, but I thought it’d be overgrown and dusty. Like a secret place or something. Dead like my mother and father.

  Not so. It’s perfect. It’s like we never left it. Spooky, really.

  When we drove up there was no one there to greet us, as I hadn’t called or written ahead. So I opened the grand front door, my hands shaking, convinced the key wouldn’t work. I was holding Corrine in one arm and Robbie was clinging on to the bottom of my spring duster. They were so quiet, both of them. No trouble at all. And then there we were, in the grand foyer. All the air came out of my chest. I sat down on a small chair by a marble-topped side table. The children sat at my feet. I don’t know how long it was until the car was noticed and Michael and Gwen (the couple who takes such good care of the estate) came fussing. But I felt as if we were statues, the three of us. Me in my hat and gloves...hands folded properly in my lap. I stared off up the sweeping staircase, waiting for my mother to come down. And my babies sat so still. Little marble garden gnomes...quiet as clouds.

  “Miss Astor, are you all right?” asked Gwen. I didn’t know her well. I hired the couple after my mother died. But she seemed sweet in a ruddy sort of way. I didn’t know how to answer her. I tried to form words with my mouth, but none came out. Michael cleared his throat.

  “Gwen, why don’t you see to the children while I put on a pot of tea?”

  That’s all it took. They are good people. People who realized I needed to sit there. Good enough not to ask me any questions.

  Gwen swept the children upstairs with superb grace. They were laughing with her, I think. Glad to be away from my hand-wringing. Michael backed away from me. I think he wiped tears from his eyes as he left. I couldn’t fathom why, but then I lifted my gloved hand to my own eyes and realized my whole face was wet with tears, wet enough to seep through the cotton. I had a dizzying moment where I thought perhaps I was still reaching for the telegram, but I wasn’t. I was home.

  I sat there, with my ankles crossed (the way Father always asked me to sit) and with my handbag on my lap and my driving hat pinned on. Like a visitor. And I stared at the staircase for a long time. Waiting for her to linger, lovely on the landing, and welcome me home. The stained-glass window on the landing soon caught afternoon light and the colors danced across my feet. I used to practice ballet here in this hall. Chaîné, chaîné, plié...and again.

  I don’t know what finally moved me. Boredom? The smell of something cooking? But my legs were stiff so I must have been there a long time. I walked through the drawing room on my way to the kitchens. Lifting a white sheet off my piano on the way. I touched the keys. Out of tune, sour. Like me.

  The servant’s kitchen, on the other hand, was warm and inviting. Michael tried to get me to eat some toast with my tea. But I couldn’t. It was then that he asked me what had happened, and though I tried to tell him, I opened my mouth and the words wouldn’t come. The tears. Only the tears. How disgusting it was. I don’t know why I couldn’t just contain myself.

  Kind Gwen came down and then brought me back up to my childhood rooms. I stayed safely outside the door frame, just close enough to see my babies happily at play...so comfortable among all my old things. And just close enough for them to see me there, to know that I was still with them. But I couldn’t go back into those sweet pastel rooms. Baby rooms. Rooms for my babies, not for me. I am no longer an innocent.

  And to be quite honest with you, Rita—my thoughts went wild as I watched them. I was thinking, Who are those children? How does Miss Gloria Astor have children? I thought I was going to be a ballerina, in France. I quit dancing years ago. After mother died...but still...maybe I should run away to France. Would everyone be better if I were just gone? Plenty of people I grew up with left their children in the care of other people to live lives abroad. Why not? Oh, but my heart wants to kiss butter off Corrine’s chubby fingers. And kiss sweet Robbie on the forehead after he’s gone to sleep. He smells of honey and cut grass, that boy. How did I get here?

  I’d never leave them. And France is different now, I suppose. The world is forever changed by war. We are forever changed.

  I walked toward my mother’s quarters. “Are they made up, or empty, Gwen?” I was able to ask, though I didn’t recognize my voice.

  “You never told us what to do with her things, so the room is just as she left it. It’s fair dusted, though, and clean as clean could be. I’m sorry, miss, if that doesn’t please you.”

  Miss? I chase chickens. Really. I touched her face. “Please call me Glory.”

  “Yes, miss,” she said before she left me in front of the double doors that led to my mother’s suite. And then she turned around. “Don’t worry about the children. Michael and me love children and we’ll keep them safe and fed until you feel well again.”

  The first thing I did was open the windows. Because the smell in the room was about to make me faint. My mother, concentrated. Tea rose. Glycerin. Cigars. (Yes, she had that man’s vice. Though she didn’t smoke them outside her rooms.)

  I didn’t know what to do. And she wasn’t there. And even if she was, she wouldn’t council me, would she? So I crawled on her big four-poster bed, like I did when I was a little girl and they were in Europe. And fell asleep. With my gloves on.

  The next few days were a blur. Gwen brought me coffee and soup. But I had her draw the curtains. Make it dark. Like a cave. And I kept on sleeping.

  But this morning? This morning I feel better. And I said to myself, “Glory, if there is stationery in your mother’s bedside table, then you must write to Rita!” and lo and behold when I opened the drawer, there was her stationery set. Voilà!

  So here I am. I have a lot to think about. I told Levi to phone me here as soon as he gets a letter from Robert or another telegram. I need to know the extent of Robert’s injuries. I need to prepare for the worst.

  I also need to know if I’ll be able to care for him. Am I doomed to be the caretaker of the sick forever? Is that a selfish question to ask? Of course it is.

  But the question haunting me more than any other is this: “How will I tell him about Levi?” I’m a harlot just like Claire Whitehall always thought.

  I think I’ll dress like her today, my mother. Wear her things and look in the mirror. Conjure her and demand advice.

  I believe I’ll be here for a bit. Feel free to write me here. T
he address is on the envelope.

  Please don’t worry too much over me. I’ll be fine.

  I also want to say that I read your last letter at a rest stop on the way here. I swept it into my handbag before I left Rockport. Tell Roylene congratulations! I am so, so proud of her. What a monumental decision. She’s in my thoughts. Her bravery.

  I’m trying to learn from her. I’m trying to be brave.

  The sun plays games with its shadows here. My mind is working in waves. There’s no more air left inside today. Maybe there will be more tomorrow. Rita, does the air have favorites? Does it choose to blow life into certain people and not others? Does God have favorites? How does He choose? How do any of us choose?

  Glory

  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.