Loretta Nyhan - I'll Be Seeing You

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 a carrier pigeon. If you want to write to this girl, then write to her, and vice versa.

May 9, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I’ve just returned home after a lovely Mother’s Day mass at the aptly named St. Mary’s. As I watched the darling young schoolgirls bring their floral offerings to the statue of Our Lady, I thought of you. I hope you are adjusting well to a new baby in the house, and this letter finds you well. If the world can’t be at peace, then maybe you can find a little in your living room.

Now...I have so much to share—hold on to your hat....

First, I finally received a letter from Sal! Large sections were blacked out, but I was able to piece together enough of it to know that he is fine. Sal’s primary responsibility is sewing up wounds (which is pretty funny, as he grew up in the back of his family’s tailor shop on the west side of Chicago). Some of the other guys wrote Stitch on his helmet, and the nickname has stuck. At least, he told me, they didn’t write Old Man.

Getting his letter was like Christmas morning and my wedding day rolled into one. It’s amazing what a few lines on a V-mail can do for a person. The worry doesn’t stop, but, to borrow a military phrase, it retreats in the face of its enemy, which I guess is hope. Sal’s taking care of himself, and besides the end of this war, that’s the most I can ask for.

I’ve heard from Toby, as well. I’ll be seeing him next month, when his leave is granted. We’re meeting halfway, in Columbus, and it looks like he’ll have a full forty-eight hours to visit.

If you sense a certain lack of enthusiasm in my words, then you really are starting to get to know me through these letters. I am remarkably unenthused. Toby requested I bring Roylene with me to Ohio, and—believe it or not—I’ve agreed. Yes, I will be sending my son off to war with that skinny gal standing next to me blubbering away. I was about to refuse, but this is what my son wrote in his last letter: “Ma, don’t you always say to never walk away from an opportunity to do a kindness? Well, here’s a golden one. Be nice to Roylene.”

The thing is, I don’t always say that. Sal does.

I have no idea if Toby’s interested in this girl or if she’s his charity case du jour. My husband and son have always been suckers for the underdog. Not me. We’ll see what happens.

Give those little ones a kiss,

Rita

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