William was right. He knew John would encourage them to open it. But it still felt funny. And yet, after William’s revelation, this was just the kind of distraction he probably needed.
William picked his army knife off the bureau next to him and leaned over to slice open the top of the box.
“Oh, look at that! My knife slipped. Right through the twine.”
Tom laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “I guess we don’t really have a choice now.”
“I guess we don’t.”
William finished cutting it open in perfect, clean lines. When he removed the top piece, he smiled at what he saw.
Nestled on top of everything else the box contained sat a pair of gray socks with a red border. And in it, another note from Margaret.
William looked it over and then handed it to Tom.
Dear William, she’d written.
I’ve been thinking about how the sun rises for you five hours before it does for us.
And by the time you see the moon, your day has been spent while ours has yet to fully play out.
I have spent much time lately looking at the sky. Its constancy is an anchor when I don’t know what the news of tomorrow will bring. The one gift that the dimout presents to us is that we can see the stars from our windows. Something previously unknowable in a Brooklyn lit at all hours of the day and night by streetlights and headlights and factories that never close.
But even the patient and sharp-eyed observer will learn that the stars change too. The ancients saw pictures in them and turned them into gods. The navigators of old set their courses by their placement.
Tom felt a shiver go through him. William was right. This was no ordinary girl.
William smiled, no doubt appreciating her philosophical musings as much as Tom did. “What a dolt I am. I waited too long to write her back. And now I can’t. That kind of letter deserves a response.”
He held up his hand, the bruising on it looking worse by the hour. Tom continued to be concerned that he wouldn’t get help for it, but since William was being stubborn on that point, Tom wanted to assist in any way he could think of.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll write her for you.”
Tom pulled out some paper and tried three pens before finding one that worked.
“What do you want to say?”
William shrugged. “How every letter starts, I guess.”
“Dear Margaret.”
Chapter Six
The midwife approached Margaret, Gladys, and Oliver, stepping carefully over a large crack in the sidewalk that sprouted small shoots of weeds. The disrepair of it felt like metaphor.
“How is she?” Margaret asked. The worried look on Catherine’s face unnerved her.
Catherine took Margaret’s hands in her own but looked up at Oliver before speaking.
He seemed to understand what she was inferring.
“I’m going to go pick up some things at the market over there. I’ll be right back.”
Margaret was relieved at his discretion. Though she was grateful that he’d come to their aid, and amused by Gladys’s unexpected interest in him, there were some things that seemed too delicate to discuss in front of a man. She watched him walk away, long paces that weren’t long enough, her heart racing with impatience.
When he was beyond earshot, she turned back to Catherine. “Tell us everything.”
Gladys looped her arm through Margaret’s and pulled her close.
“The baby is fine,” began Catherine. “Your friend had what we call ‘spotting.’ It’s normal at this stage of the pregnancy, though it can seem frightening.”
Margaret let out a huge sigh with breath that had begun to make her lungs ache.
“And Dottie?” asked Gladys. Margaret noticed the quiver in her voice, a departure from the always-confident woman she knew. In a strange way, it was a relief to not be alone in her concern.
Catherine continued with reassurance. “Dottie will be fine as well. But she’s very weak. She has all the signs of being anemic—fatigue, cold extremities, pale skin. If that is not remedied soon, I believe these fainting spells will become more frequent.”
“What can we do to take care of her?” Margaret felt the surge of powerful instinct to protect Dottie and the baby. She suddenly understood how a mother would think nothing of standing between a charging bull and her own child. Or how men like her brother John could go into battle.
Because if Margaret could trade places with Dottie right now, she would.
The midwife finally smiled. “She will greatly benefit from iron-rich foods. As much as she can handle. Which is difficult, I understand, in the early weeks when it’s hard to keep anything down at all. But maybe with support from her friends, she’ll be able to do it. Spinach. Beans. Red meat. Fish. Chocolate.”
Gladys’s chest puffed out at that last word. “We’ll have no problem getting chocolate for her. I have some squirreled away.”
Margaret nodded. “And I’m sure we can trade some ration coupons for the other items. Certainly we could find someone willing to trade coffee coupons for spinach.”
George came to mind. He would do anything for Dottie. But Margaret wouldn’t want to take advantage of his generosity that way. How would he even take the news that Dottie was with child? Though he would never interfere with her engagement to John, certainly the discovery would have a finality to it that made Margaret sad for him. If John weren’t her brother, if he and Dottie weren’t so in love, she would have been happy to see her and George together.
Gladys pulled her arm from Margaret’s.
“She’s going to stay with me,” she declared.
Margaret looked at her, surprised. Though she lived alone—the only girl they knew who did—Gladys’s basement room was barely large enough for one. It housed her small bed, a couch she’d rescued from a sidewalk, a table, and a cabinet whose doors were missing. By some miracle, though, she had her own shower and toilet and didn’t have to share that with anyone else in the brownstone. Which made it all worth it.
Despite the limitations, she’d turned her place into something that felt surprisingly homey. Her flair for embellishment came not only from her mouth but also from her hands. Still, Margaret couldn’t imagine how another person could fit.
“But you said there were places she could get help,” said Margaret.
“There are. And I’ve visited some of them. They’re all right when there are no other options and they mean very well. But now that I’m picturing her in one of them, I’m not sure I can stomach it. I’d rather be squeezed than to feel guilty when I could have done something.”
“Where would she sleep?” asked Margaret.
“On the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
“I’d thought about this before, but she could come to our house. And stay in John’s room. That would seem fitting.”
“And you can somehow promise her that your parents won’t tell her parents that she is expecting a baby?”
Gladys was right. That was a wrinkle. There would be no disguising the fact that something was amiss with Dottie, and though Margaret’s parents would welcome the news despite the circumstances, they would not feel right about keeping it from the Troutwines. At least in this case, Dottie could just say that she was rooming with Gladys for a while. That alone would scandalize them—moving out before being married—but it was better than the near certainty that she would otherwise be sent away and forced to put her child up for adoption. This gave Dottie, Margaret, and Gladys some time to consider contingencies and make plans.