LITMIR.BIZ

      July 13, 1943

      IOWA CITY, IOWA

      Dear Glory,

      I was so glad to get your letter, kiddo. For a minute I’d worried I’d lost you to the uncertainties of this damn war. And I need a friend more than ever. Iowa City clears out in the summer, our population dipping to half of what it is when the college students are here. The sun shines so mercilessly on these empty streets, I can’t go barefoot on the cement for more than a second.

      So, thank you for the stockings. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave a pair to Irene. She was desperate, about to surrender to the last resort of swabbing her legs with tea bags and tracing the seam with a kohl pencil. I believe Irene is knitting a chic beret for the baby as a thank-you gesture. I’ll send it along when she’s done, which should be sometime in 1963.

      I sincerely hope you’ve gotten more information about Robert’s shipping out. Being kept in the dark is tough. Before this war I felt like if I needed to know something I could find a way to know it. But so much is unknowable now, completely beyond my grasp. Sal’s letters make me question if I’ve ever truly understood anything about human nature.

      Including what’s been happening these past few weeks. I don’t wish to distress you, hon, but this letter might do exactly that, so I apologize in advance. It’s just that I’ve been keeping everything inside me, and not having anyone to talk to is starting to do some internal damage. Does it help to know I feel better confessing my sins to you instead of Father Denneny down at St. Mary’s? At least I know you aren’t going to make me say any rosaries.

      So.

      Remember the big dinner with Irene and the cowboy?

      Irene came over early. The poor girl’s hands shook so hard she couldn’t hold a bobby pin to save her life. I rolled her hair and helped with her makeup. She looked very presentable. Maybe not pretty, but polished, put-together. A guy could do a lot worse.

      The cowboy was on time, I’ll give him that. Turns out his first name is Charlie, which surprised me. I thought it would be Tex or Hank or some other rodeo name. He brought a bottle of wine with him and that same easy smile. Irene kept her lips glued together so I yapped and yapped until I had to take care of the meat loaf. I poured them each a glass and disappeared into the kitchen.

      I must have been gone a while because when I came back half the bottle was gone and Irene’s face looked like the beets I’ve been pulling from my garden. Charlie sat in Sal’s chair, his long legs splayed out so far the tips of his boots nearly touched Irene’s ankles. Their laughter filled my house, every nook and cranny, leaving no room for the sadness I’d been cultivating.

      I hated them, Glory. That’s a strong word, hate, but it overtook me. Those two had nothing to worry about. The Germans weren’t going to march into their living rooms, crushing their hearts to bits. The Japanese weren’t dropping bombs in their backyards. How dare they? I wanted to kick at his stupid feet and shake Irene until her teeth rattled.

      Instead, I walked back into the kitchen. I got what was left of Sal’s bourbon and had a nip, then two. I drew a few breaths, brought the food to the dining room and called them in to dinner.

      When they saw my cooking their faces just about melted with gratitude. I used all my rations to buy beef, veal and pork, so I could make the meat loaf right. I boiled some carrots with the early potatoes, and you would have thought I was serving caviar.

      The guilt crept up on me, but when I tried to make up for my terrible thoughts, I overdid it. I ate too much, laughed too hard, polished off Sal’s bottle. Charlie was open and polite with Irene, but he kept an eye on me, wary almost, like I was the bomb about to go off and shatter the evening.

      I don’t think Irene noticed, so taken was she by this cowboy. When I saw the stars in her eyes I grew even more ashamed. This was my friend, and she deserved a little fun. I collected the plates and excused myself, retreating for the safety of the kitchen.

      I took my time washing and drying. When I heard Irene’s tinkly laugh I took the pan out back to add the grease to the Mason jar on the patio. (Mrs. K., who is only talking to me out of a sense of patriotic duty, is in charge of lard collection for our block.)

      In Iowa, the summer nights are still as can be. I heard him walk through the kitchen. I heard the match strike and his first deep drag on the cigarette. When the screen door slammed it sounded like a gunshot.

      “Everything hunky-dory?” he drawled.

      “Where’s Irene?” I said in place of a real answer.

      “Powder room. She was feeling a little queasy.” Everything he said was outlined in humor. I didn’t know if it meant he was basically kind or inherently mean-spirited. It was impossible to tell.

      He sat next to me on our patio and balanced his cigarette on the edge of the cement. Then he leaned back, reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a pressed handkerchief.

      “Give me that,” he said, and caught my wrist with one large, rough hand. He wiped the grease from my fingers, one by one, slow and methodical.

      Oh, Glory, I didn’t stop him. After he’d cleaned my hand, he stuffed the kerchief back into his pocket like it was nobody’s business, picked up his cigarette and went back in the house.

      I sat on that patio until Irene came out to tell me Charlie was going to take her home. She slurred her words, and I should have talked her into staying the night. But I didn’t.

      After they left I sat on my bed, picking at the chenille with my fingernails. I yanked at the threads, over and over, talking to Sal in my head and blaming him for everything. He’s forty-one years old, like me. At that age he could have waited out the lottery until the end of the war. There is no reason for him to be in a strange land, the grim reaper holding him close, saying, “Yes, today is the day,” or “No, not yet.”

      We were having a fight right there in the bedroom, a fight we should have had a year ago, and he wasn’t even around to defend himself.

      I went to bed with my clothes on, on top of our ruined bedspread. Before I fell asleep I tried to think of what North Africa was like, to imagine it, Glory, but all I could think about was those rough hands pulling the grime from my fingers.

      I woke up early the next morning feeling pretty low. Before putting the kettle on, I got pen and paper and wrote to my husband, telling him about my sunflowers and the broken shed lock and funny stories of Mrs. K., strengthening his tie to me and our life together. That is my job, right? To comfort him. To keep the portrait of what he left behind intact. Isn’t that a woman’s duty during wartime?

      I’ve confessed all my guilty thoughts to you, but I’m going to devise my own penance, if that’s all right. Toby’s asked me to check up on Roylene, but I’ve been avoiding the tavern. I walk past the dingy windows with my head down, staying clear of that sad, skinny little girl. I need to make an effort. My Toby is fighting for the world’s freedom and he asked me to do one simple thing. I might as well try to do it.

       Love,

      Rita

       P.S. I used the last bit of corn syrup to make a War Cake. Do you know it? I’ve included the recipe. I figured it’s the least I could do after unloading all my neuroses on you. Instead of butter I smeared your wonderful strawberry jam on it. Heavenly!

       War Cake

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