I’ll spare you the ugly details, but needless to say, we were relieved that Gladys had already made a spot for Dottie in her apartment because they threw her out officially when she refused to go upstate for a few months. No euphemism there—she would have been expected to deliver the baby and turn him over for adoption before even holding her. (Or him, as it may be.)
There is some light in this darkness.
George, a friend of ours who serves as a foreman at the Navy Yard, has been particularly solicitous of our Dottie these past few months. At first, his company was a comfort to her after the loss of John, and when she told him about the baby—though he had certainly guessed since explanations of overeating in light of grief are fruitless given how terribly thin we all are from the rationing—he began to dote on her so that she wanted for nothing. Bringing books and treats that she would like. Winter flowers. And taking her for drives into the countryside for fresh air. He even insists on driving her to the Navy Yard—whether their shift is the same or not—so that she doesn’t have to take the bus and “breathe in all that exhaust.”
On days where our hours are the same, Gladys and I are the grateful co-recipients of his generosity.
It’s never been a secret to Gladys and myself that he is in love with her, though I don’t think Dottie has yet clued up on it. But George’s attentions—which come with no strings and are offered merely out of the goodness of his dear heart—have been a boon.
He has assisted in our subterfuge in the engraving department, which entails an almost comical choreography of walking next to her, giving her light bags to carry to conceal her shape, and dark corners in which to work, all for the purpose of hiding her predicament for as long as possible. When it’s discovered that she “has a bun in the oven” (really, that’s no better than “in the family way”) she will be summarily fired. And we all know that she’s going to need every penny she earns once this baby is born.
In other news, Oliver still comes around calling for Gladys. He has joined her in rallies for the rights of women, protests for the poor, and campaigns for all her causes. I can’t figure out if his heart is as activistic as her own or if he’s just covering stories for his newspaper back in England, but I’m guessing that the Brits have far less interest in the living conditions of children in the Bowery when there is a war in their own backyard. So I suspect it’s infatuation. Or deference. Whomever deigns to capture the heart of my beloved Hurricane Gladys will have to possess a touch of both.
* * *
William handed Margaret’s latest letter to Tom as soon as he’d read it, as was their habit.
Tom buttoned his pajamas and climbed into his bed. It had been a long day—an eighteen-mile march with full gear, just as the weather was beginning to warm. Word came that they would be activated soon, so Captain Dick Winters—who had, at long last, replaced Sobel after a revolt among the troops that had garnered some demotions for those involved—had ramped up the drills. Tom’s legs and back ached decades before their time, and a cut in his left arm from crawling under barbed wire was worrying him. He’d seen a medic and taken penicillin for infection, but it was red and burned like the dickens. Still, he took Margaret’s letter from William and squinted as he perched on his side and held it up to the bedside light.
A smile spread across his face as she talked of Dottie and George and Gladys and Oliver. She’d written six pages and affixed extra postage stamps for the weight—but he was grateful for her loquaciousness (a word he’d learned and would slip into the next letter) because she brought color to her descriptions of her friends and made him feel like he was reading a radio drama script.
He felt his cheeks grow warm and hoped that it didn’t show. But William missed nothing.
“You’re hot under the collar for Margaret Beck, aren’t you?” asked William all of a sudden.
Tom jerked his head around.
“I am not. What a notion.”
“Are too. I can see you blushing even in this light.”
“I’m making an appointment for you to go to the eye doctor. Go to sleep.”
The crickets outside chirped and Tom listened to them before William spoke again.
“Want to know something? I sent her your picture.”
Tom sat up straight, his heart quickening. “You did what?”
“All right, all right,” said William, waving his hands in surrender. “Not just your picture. The one that the Browns took of the three of us. You, me, and John.”
Tom could no longer feel the pain in his arm. All of his attention had been pulled into this new turn in the conversation. He’d tried to bury any such thoughts that had arisen, convincing himself that it was the novelty of her letters that he liked. But he knew better than that—if he lived in the same town as Margaret Beck, he would want to take her out dancing. To see that smile in the photograph come alive as he held her in his arms. But these were not luxuries he could dwell on if he intended to further his career in the military.
William was spot-on with his observation.
“I almost told her that I was you and you were me, but in the end, I just left it blank. Do you want to know why?”
Tom was silent.
“Because you’re the good-looking one,” William answered anyway. “If she thinks the tall and handsome guy is the one who writes her letters, she might fall just in love with you.”
“But you’re the one the letters are from,” Tom pointed out.
“Sort of. For now.”
“For now?”
William leaned over the side of the bed in a conspiratorial stance.
“Look. I know what you and John were up to when he asked her to write to me. You both felt sorry that I hadn’t received any letters. You were real pals for thinking of it. And she was a sport to go along with it. But now I’m getting more letters from home than I have time to keep up with. So why don’t you just take over writing the letters to Margaret?”
A little thrill of possibility shot through him at the thought.
“And sign them as Tom?”
William shrugged. “If you want.” Then he shot his arm up in the air. “Or better yet, no. Keep writing them as William.”
Tom’s brows furrowed. “Why would I do that?”
William settled back and propped himself up on his elbows. “Look. I have sisters. And once upon a time, I used to be a little imp and sneak into their rooms to read their diaries.”
Tom’s eyes widened.
“Yeah. I’m not proud of it,” William admitted. “But I learned a little something. Now, I don’t know if this applies to all girls, but it does to my sisters. They could lose their heads over a boy just because of a passing word he’d say and they’d pick apart meaning where there was none.”
“What does that have to do with Margaret?”
“It’s like this. You’re Mr. Military. Despite that romantic heart of yours, it may be a long time before you’re in a position to settle down. If you write as me, it keeps your head in the friendly arena. No temptation to get all mushy like you might do if I left you to your own devices. Really, I’m protecting you both.”
“That sounds a lot more complicated than it needs to be.”