I'll Be Seeing You - Loretta Nyhan

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      For my little boy who now has the big-boy responsibility of being a big brother.

      Things are slowly getting back to normal. Levi, my childhood friend who helped with the garden, has also turned out to be a help with Robbie. You should see how he’s transforming my yard. I told him what you said on how to treat the soil. He said you were wise and a good friend to have. He’s right.

      And Mrs. Moldenhauer, that woman who dragged me to the 4-H what seems like ages ago, has been a great comfort as well (even though I make fun of her). I’ve employed her “roommate,” Marie, to nanny for me. Robert insisted. She’s much younger than Mrs. Moldenhauer. Nicer, too. She cares for me and fusses over us. She’s been cooking meals and bringing them over still piping hot from her own stove.

      But I have to admit I’m also warming to Mrs. Moldenhauer herself. She’s written short stories featuring Robbie as the main character to keep him entertained. And she has this powder-white hair piled up on top of her head. I think she’s a liberal Democrat. And guess what? She’s also some sort of preacher! Keeps trying to get me to come to her church in Gloucester. But I steer clear of religion and politics.

      I only wish Marie cooked better, but thankfully I’ll be up and around and off this stupid “REST” soon. Robbie misses my chicken soup. Keeps asking for it, the sweetheart. I’ve been making it with chicken feet lately. I really have. It tastes better, I think.

      What about you? I took your last letter with me to the hospital and read it over and over.

      When I close my eyes I can see your place. So open. Almost like the ocean.

       With love (And peace soon?),

      Glory

      April 11, 1943

      IOWA CITY, IOWA

      Dear Glory,

      

      Congratulations on the birth of Corrine! How blessed you are, and how brave.

      The thought of you waking up to your husband holding his new daughter had me smiling for days. I don’t believe in miracles, Glory, but sometimes there are moments when everything seems to line up in the right order. I’m so happy your family was together for such a momentous occasion.

      The blanket that accompanies this letter was knitted with Mrs. Kleinschmidt’s best light wool. I told her it was for the Red Cross, so she didn’t give me the business about using it. Don’t worry about the lie—I did my penance by sitting with Mrs. K. while she wrote her twelve daily V-mails to enlisted men who would probably rather receive letters from Mussolini. In between missives she told me, quite frequently, that I hold the yarn incorrectly and my shoddy technique would give me arthritis in my old age.

      I hope Corrine likes it, even if it is green.

      So, Miss Glory, I have some news myself. A letter from Toby came yesterday! He’s still stateside, but will ship off to the Pacific soon. Yes, he’ll be halfway around the world from Sal. I think Toby naively assumed Uncle Sam would drop him into his father’s lap in North Africa. To be honest, I was hoping that, too.

      Toby predicts he’ll be granted some form of leave before shipping out, possibly as much as three days. He plans on coming home, even if for just a few hours. I told Toby I’d meet him halfway if it meant we could spend more time together. And what else is there to do in Ohio but drink coffee and chew the fat?

      At the bottom of Toby’s letter was a message for Roylene. It said: “Send me the recipe.” That’s it. At first I thought, maybe he doesn’t know her all that well. And if he did, why wouldn’t he write to her on his own? But then it hit me—it’s a code! Maybe I’ve been going to the movies too much, but I’m his mother and I know when something’s up. I’m going down to see Roylene at the tavern this week to see what this business is all about. Don’t worry, I’ll be real sly—a regular Sam Spade.

      Well, I can’t wait to hear all about your victory garden. Digging in the dirt will help you reclaim your figure in no time. I’m about to head out to give my soil a good flip. I just saw Mrs. K. leave, and I want to get it done before she returns or I’ll be pulling double-duty.

       Take care of yourself,

      Rita

       P.S. I’ve taped a dime to this letter so Robbie can go to the drugstore to buy a candy bar or two with his OWN money. Big brothers need their sustenance!

      April 25, 1943

      ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

      Oh, dearest Rita,

      

      Thank you so much for the lovely blanket. I wrap Corrine in it every day and think of you. And Robbie loved having money of his own. It went straight into his piggy bank (he’s so like his father!)

      When I was a little girl, I used to cherish having money of my own, too. My father’s family was and still is very wealthy. My father was probably the smartest man in America during the crash. He was smart all around. I wish I’d known him better. But money can do that to a family, make them strangers. There’s something closer about a family that struggles together. A bond. I watched the difference between me and Robert and then Levi, growing up. Robert and I came from another world.

      We were summer people in this town. Wealthy and comfortable. And then there was Levi. Working-class and a year-round resident. But his family was so, so close. I used to wish his mother was my own. She never sat back on the shores and watched us from a distance under lace umbrellas. She always jumped into the waves next to us. And she collected “mermaid toes” (little peach-colored glittery shells shaped like toenails). Her name was Lucy and she died when we were all eleven years old. I try to be like her every day.

      This war has been what I like to call “the great equalizer.” I feel comfortable living here in our summerhouse. And I don’t feel above or below anyone. Women and men, too, are acting as if they both have things to give to society. Everyone has a straight back as they walk through town, as if we are all carrying the pride of a country. It’s good to feel like that.

      Enough about the war. Let’s talk about my garden!

      My garden is just lovely. I have all sorts of herbs and vegetables starting. Lettuce is already coming up. I can’t wait to see it in full bloom. My hands are fairly caked with dirt each day and my apron, too. I love it. I love feeling the earth on my skin.

      Now, your mystery girl and Toby are obviously saying something in code to each other. But what? Oh, it’s like reading a novel. Keep me posted on this!

       With hope of peace in the near future,

      Glory

      May 2, 1943

      V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo

      Only Son,

      

      I think there is a distinct possibility surrounding yourself with all that water has done something to your Midwestern brain waves. She’s a stranger, Toby. The thought of being stuck in a train car with someone incapable of making declarative sentences is enough to send me running for your father’s bourbon.

      But...fine. If it’s really important to you, then I will ask her to come along. If we end up staying at a motel, she will bunk with me and I’ll pay for your very separate room. Am I making myself clear?

      I don’t feel comfortable doing any of this without speaking to her father first. Yes, yes, I do realize you are both adults, but crossing a birthday marker doesn’t require anything but the ability to wait for time to pass. It doesn’t prove much.

      See you in Ohio.

       I love you.

      Your ma

       P.S. I am not

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