The wedding is set for early July—almost a year exactly when she would have married John—and then they will baptize Joanna and give her George’s last name of Preston. My parents took the news surprisingly well, considering the pall that has laid upon our house for the past few months. But I think the excitement of a grandchild quelled any shock at seeing Dottie with someone other than their son. Dottie’s parents have not yet been to see them but have written that they will do so now that they have plans to “make things right with the Church.” So—St. Charles Borromeo will see plenty of us in the next few weeks. As always, I’ll be sure to tell you about everything that happens.
Please thank Tom for the lovely drawings at the end of the letters. Between your words and his art, I feel as if I am in the English countryside with you all. I looked up Chilton Foliat on a map. Actually, I went through three maps at the library before I found one that had it. What a small place it must be. So very different than Brooklyn.
I’ve never told anyone this, but I’d like to see so much more of the world than I’ve been able. I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve never been out of the city other than to visit relatives in Pennsylvania. First, there was school. Then, helping in the cobbler shop. When work was slow, we couldn’t afford to travel anywhere. When work picked up, we were too busy to leave it.
My ambitions in this regard are not quite as lofty as my friend Gladys. I daresay that she would jump at the opportunity to ride a camel through Morocco or scale the Great Wall of China. As for me—and as I scour the atlas for every little village you name—I find that I would be quite content with seeing what you’re seeing in England.
Although I hear that the Allies hope to liberate France soon. I think that would be next on my list. France. Paris.
All right, William. Make me a promise. If you conquer the Axis and make it to Paris on this grand tour of yours, have a croissant at an outdoor café. Dip it in sipping chocolate and think of me. But don’t write to me about it. I might not be able to contain my envy.
In the meantime, I’ll dedicate my next Coney Island dog to you.
(Why do I think you might be getting the better end of the deal?)
All the best,
Margaret (who now has a namesake!)
Chapter Thirteen
June 1944
Hold on tight!”
“Gladys—slow down! My hand is slipping!”
“Stop dawdling, then. We don’t want to miss it.”
“We don’t want to lose each other either.”
“Geez, you’d think that attaching a few nuts and bolts would get you a seat.”
“Us and ten thousand others?”
“That’s immaterial.”
“How many people do you think are here?”
“I’m guessing all of the boroughs in New York and then some.”
“Seems like it.”
Every inch of the Brooklyn Navy Yard was packed as throngs and throngs of people gathered to witness the commissioning of the USS Missouri. Four years in the making, 887 feet long, fifty-seven thousand tons in weight, Margaret took in its magnificent expanse with immeasurable, breathless pride. She would never know which flags that flapped in the breeze had been stitched by her hands, or how much ordnance she’d engraved would be used in battle. But Margaret Beck of Brooklyn, New York, had been a part of something that would surely make history.
How many people got to say that?
In the crush of people, Margaret could barely distinguish Dottie’s voice from Gladys’s and she gave every effort to not lose them. Gladys held her right hand and was weaving her way through the crowd, inching them closer and closer to the front. Dottie held Margaret’s left hand, and between them, she felt like the middle car of the Tinker Toy Train in the window of FAO Schwarz.
That Gladys and Dottie were the engine and caboose, respectively, seemed apt.
“This is good enough!” she shouted to Gladys, who was pressing on. Margaret flushed with embarrassment as they wound their way through people who had arrived hours earlier, dismissing the fact that their tardiness was due to waiting for Dottie to finish feeding Joanna. It was her first time leaving her daughter with someone else, which would have been frightening enough. But she was leaving Joanna with her parents. Her parents, who had wanted their granddaughter to be raised by some other family. Dottie’s hesitance was understandable, but Gladys and George had convinced her that there was no better way for them to bond with Joanna than to spend some time with her.
And, to be fair, they had at last proven themselves warm, though not enthusiastic grandparents, once George and Dottie announced their engagement.
Margaret knew that Dottie, too, was replete with excitement for seeing the Missouri completed and launched into the East River. So she was glad that her friend had given the reins to the Troutwines for the afternoon.
“Would you look at that.” Gladys stopped, having led them only a few rows away from the front, where speakers were already lining up at the podium and news outlets had fixed microphones in every possible spot. “She’s a beauty.”
“She sure is,” Dottie agreed.
“Why are ships spoken of in the feminine?” Margaret wondered aloud.
“Because they’re goddesses,” Gladys answered without hesitation.
Dottie smiled. “Of course you would say that.”
“I’m serious. It’s an ancient tradition. Putting female carvings on the fronts of ships, like a mother or a goddess guiding it to safety.”
“You only mentioned goddess,” Margaret said. “Do you have something against mothers?”
“Not since this girl became one.” Gladys nudged Dottie in the side with her elbow.
The crowd began to cheer as the navy band struck up a tune. Excitement buzzed through Margaret’s veins like the many wires leading up to the lectern.
Gladys looked up, and Margaret and Dottie followed her lead. Though they’d been close to the Missouri many times, they had not been nearly touching distance to its hull before, as they were now. Margaret felt dwarfed by its towering metal edifice and marveled that such a thing could even float. The chains alone, looped and gathered on either side of it, looked as if they made up half the weight.
It was a city unto itself, built to carry nearly two thousand sailors across oceans.
She felt envious of the people way up on the top deck—little specks from her vantage point—and what position they held to be allowed to stand so many stories above the crowd. Oliver was somewhere up there, having secured a press pass. He’d acquired a second one and invited Gladys to join him, but she turned him down, saying that she was going to watch it with “her girls” and the rest of the hoi polloi from down below. But Oliver promised a full accounting later. Would he get to visit its many chambers? The Missouri was supposed to be state-of-the-art, complete with a library, dentist’s office, and even a doughnut shop!
She expected a mouthful from Gladys, but for once, her friend was speechless.
“We’re just in time,” Dottie whispered into Margaret’s ear. “Isn’t that Senator Truman up there at the podium?”
Margaret shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted until she could see the main speaker. Indeed, it did seem to be the senator from the state of Missouri, his face familiar to them as a frontrunner for the vice-presidential ticket in the upcoming election. It was to be Roosevelt’s fourth term if he won again, and conventional wisdom predicted that his failing health might render him unable to complete his years. So the vice-presidential selection was more important than ever, as there was a good chance that whoever filled the role could very well take over as president.