And it might make their Saturday evening knitting nights easier. Her father was reluctant to let them keep using the shop, given the dimout rules.
Catherine looked at her watch. “I’m so glad you came for me and that I was able to help. But I have another appointment to go to. Dr. Feingold will leave his office address and phone number with Dorothy. Please encourage her to call him if she needs to. Day or night. And even to come in for regular visits. A baby has the best chance if the mother is seen by a doctor throughout her confinement.”
Gladys didn’t have a telephone of her own, but there was a party line in the hallway of her building. Even if someone was using it, surely they would relinquish it in the case of an emergency.
Margaret and Gladys thanked Catherine and she refused when they offered to pay her. Yet another time today when the kindness of a stranger had dispelled the gloom of war, reminding Margaret that there was more goodness in the world than not. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Oliver lingering outside the door of the market, seeming to wait for the right time to rejoin their group.
And when he did, he’d brought four oranges, one for each of them.
* * *
Margaret was grateful that the new position in the engraving department began on Monday. She’d sent word to the head of the sewing wing that she and Dottie would be unable to finish out the week, confident that they had already heard the news and were counting on them leaving anyway. She cringed at the loss of a few days’ wages, but nothing was more important than taking care of Dottie and the baby. And she’d make it up in time with the money from the promotion. She came in the early hours while Gladys was at work and then spent the afternoons shopping for things she could make for their dinners.
It was no small task, and one that was beholden to the old trial-and-error method. Dottie’s baby let its aversions be known, which included nearly everything that was supposed to be good for it. Dottie couldn’t hold down the beans, no matter how Margaret cooked them. And the mere smell of red meat had Dottie rushing for the toilet. They hit the jackpot, though, at the discovery that she could, in fact, withstand the two things they thought would have been the worst offenders: spinach and fish.
Fresh spinach was nearly impossible to come by at this time of year, or so they thought, until, near the end of the week, a paper bag with two ribbon-wrapped bunches of it appeared at Gladys’s front door with a note attached.
Gladys—You deserve roses, but I think you might appreciate this instead. A friend of mine has a victory garden growing in his rooftop greenhouse. I talked him out of a few bunches for now and will use my very persuasive powers to finagle more. Similarly, I’m hoping to use them to talk you into going to dinner again with me on Friday night. I’ll come by at seven o’clock with high hopes.
—Oliver
Dottie was glad for the gift. Gladys feigned nonchalance, though her friends knew better. And Margaret was happy to look up a word that had not yet appeared in the New York Times—finagle.
* * *
“Come on. Hand it over. There are no secrets in the Sock ’Em Club.”
“The Sock ’Em Club?” Margaret slid William’s letter deeper into her coat pocket as she asked the question of Gladys. Instead, she picked up her latest project, blue socks in a new pattern that Dottie had shown her. With the red border, of course.
“Yeah. If we’re going to be spending our time here knitting socks like old ladies, I figured we needed to call it something. It has two meanings. By sending socks to the boys, we’re sockin’ it to Hitler.”
“Are we ten years old again?”
“Humor me, doll. You and Dots have known each other since you were kids. Let me in on some of the fun.”
Margaret smiled. “I like it. But you’re the last person I would have thought would want to revert to childhood things. I thought you sprung out of the womb all grown up, heels, cigarettes, and all.”
Gladys plumped her curls and spiraled one around her finger until it bounced back into place. Despite work and knitting nights and taking care of Dottie, Gladys made no revision to her nighttime routines.
“Don’t be deceived by appearances,” she scolded. “If we’re honest, we all wish we lived back in a time when we had no worries and other people took care of things for us.”
“Ah, yes. But then you wouldn’t have this den of iniquity all to yourself.”
Gladys scoffed. “Hardly to myself. My friend got knocked up and took over my bed. Put a real cramp in my love life.”
Margaret held back a smile. Despite all of Gladys’s posturing, Margaret knew that neither of them had spent a night with a man. As for Margaret, she rather liked the romantic notion of waiting until she was married. And Gladys’s opinions about the superiority of womankind set a standard that only the most remarkable of men would be able to meet. So far, none had. Though Oliver held some promise.
Dottie walked out of the tiny bathroom and seemed to have heard everything they were saying.
“Don’t let her fool you, Margaret. Gladys is a mother hen deep down, and I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“I know it,” Margaret acknowledged. “She’s just such fun to tease.”
Gladys sank into the little couch and patted the cushion next for her, inviting Margaret to sit. Dottie crossed the room and sat back on the bed that had become her own.
“Now,” said Gladys in a firm tone. “Cough it up. I want to see that letter.”
“What letter?” asked Margaret. She really didn’t mind them seeing it, but it was fun to antagonize Gladys.
“Don’t play dumb with me. It’s from the boy in John’s unit, right?”
Margaret knew that if she didn’t turn it over, Gladys would have no compunctions about grabbing it by force, even if Margaret had put it down the front of her blouse.
“I’ll give it to you if you tell us whether or not you’re going out with Oliver again.”
Gladys folded her arms and sank back into the tweedy fabric. “Well, as I haven’t made up my mind yet, there’s not much to tell.”
Dottie spoke up. “I’m declaring Rule Number One. There are no secrets in the Sock ’Em Club, Gladys. You’ve read and reread Oliver’s little note more times than I can count. And last time you went to dinner with him, you came home blushing like a freshly picked apple.”
“Elizabeth Arden, darling. It’s the rouge I put on my cheeks.”
Margaret pulled William’s letter from her pocket and handed it to Gladys. “Here. In good faith. And in the hopes that you say yes to Friday night. Don’t get too excited, though. William’s a boy who is overseas and at war for the first time. He says all the things you might expect from one in that circumstance.”
Gladys snatched it from her fingers with more force than was required, as Margaret was readily giving it up.
Dear Margaret, she read out loud.
Thank you for sending another letter. And more socks. I am under no illusions that you writing to me was mere happenstance. When I pressed, Tom admitted that your brother had asked specifically for you to do so, as I have yet to receive letters from home. But don’t write to me out of pity. I am bunked with the two best guys in the world and I am good. Still, receiving your notes has been a delightful surprise.