Читать книгу I'll Be Seeing You - Loretta Nyhan - Страница 29

June 17, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dearest Glory,

Thank you for accepting my letters with such grace. I’ve been in such a state these past few weeks, and your words act as a balm to my frayed nerves. Sometimes I wish the censors would attack domestic letters with the same ferocity they do those going overseas. I’m certain my ravings would merit a few slashes of black ink!

So, to address your most important question: my stockings look like they’ve been in a gunfight at the OK Corral. I will gladly accept any charitable donations to my lingerie wardrobe. I can repay you in heirloom seeds and advice.

I’ll give you an advance on the advice—make sure your children know who their daddy is. We don’t know how long this godforsaken war is going to last, but we do know that our guys are in it for the long haul. I don’t mean to depress you, but that baby of yours could be walking about singing “The White Cliffs of Dover” by the time Robert returns. Levi should be Levi. Papas are Papas.

But then, I don’t know if someone like me should be handing out advice like a regular Queen Bee. I’ve behaved shamefully, Glory. Remember my friend Irene? Well, Irene is a real plain Jane, if I’m being honest, and she’s not one for mixing. In warmer weather, the university hosts a social outdoors near the Old Capitol Building. I convinced Irene to go, and promised I’d join her for moral support. Turns out I’m the one who needs help in the morality department.

As you could guess, the women outnumbered the men ten to one. We hens stood in clusters, some tittering about nothing in particular, others wondering why the men who did attend weren’t in uniform. I caught Irene staring at one of them—a tall, cowboyish sort, with thick, straw-colored hair and an easy smile. I gave her a nudge, but like I said, she isn’t the mixing type. Irene shook her head and started sucking down her ginger ale, like it suddenly required all of her effort and attention.

With a quick apology to Sal—I swear!—I sauntered over to that man, completely brazen, and asked him to join us. He did. We introduced ourselves. (He’s probably only in his mid-thirties, but called himself “Mr. Clark,” so we went by Miss Vincenzo and Miss Wachowski, like a couple of coeds.). Then darn if he didn’t reach into the pocket of his suede sport coat and pull out a flask. Irene just about keeled over.

“Ladies first,” he said, and poured a couple of thumbs into what was left of Irene’s ginger ale.

He turned to me and I didn’t have a glass. With one raised eyebrow he watched as I took hold of that flask and knocked back a shot! I haven’t done that since before Mr. Roosevelt was in office. Irene’s eyes grew big and her mouth pursed tight as a fisherman’s knot.

Well, I talked for both of us, and the next thing I knew I’d invited him over for dinner next Wednesday (with Irene, of course). I’m not sure what I’ve gotten her into, but I’m calling it a date. Irene doesn’t show it much, but she’s excited. I swear, she’s asked me six different times if she should roll her hair up or not.

I love my husband, Glory, but I can’t tell you how nice it is that a man will be admiring my cooking and the way I keep my house. Your suffragette women would probably give me a good pounding if you told them I said that, but it’s true. I suppose what I’m saying is I understand why you have Levi around, it’s just you must understand there are lines we can’t cross.

Warm regards,

Rita

P.S. I haven’t seen Roylene since our trip to Ohio. I didn’t embarrass her or Toby that morning, but I think she suspected I knew what went on. She stared out the window the entire return trip, and scurried off as soon as we arrived in Iowa City.

P.P.S. I haven’t gotten any V-mail at all. Not one letter from Toby or Sal. I think the postman is afraid of me. Every afternoon I nearly tackle him as he approaches our mailbox!