Читать книгу I'll Be Seeing You - Loretta Nyhan - Страница 24

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