Gladys scooted up until her knees were touching Dottie’s. She took Dottie’s hands in her own. “Dottie. First of all, what is it you want? Do you want to keep this baby? There are places…”
Dottie pulled her hands back and sent Margaret a horrified look that needed no interpretation.
“Of course I want this baby. This is John’s child. It’s…it’s just all happening earlier than I would have wanted, but I couldn’t go through life as Mrs. John Beck knowing that I’d…done that.”
Gladys leaned in farther. “No, that’s not what I meant, honey. Don’t you think I know you at all? Goodness, I’ve already sent a letter to the Vatican asking them to open a case for canonization. Though I have to say, this predicament doesn’t help your cause.”
She grinned at her own humor. “Anyway, I was going to ask if you wanted to give the baby up for adoption. And if not, there are places that can help women in your situation—unmarried—get what they need to get through it. Lodging, food, diapers. Leave it to me. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Dottie leapt from her chair and wrapped her arms around Gladys’s shoulders, dropping the skeins on her lap to the floor. Margaret knelt to pick them up and picked off the leather shavings that had embedded themselves into the yarn. She smiled at the large figure that her friends made, huddled as they were together in an unlikely embrace. Gladys was not known for her affection and Dottie couldn’t pass a dog on the street without petting it. So Margaret was pleased to witness the soft side of Gladys that cared more than she usually let on.
It was Dottie who pulled away first, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her coat, which she had not yet removed.
“You are both the best. Just the best. Gosh, this is the first time I’ve felt some hope. I’m going to get through this. I’m going to do this for John, and our future. Which is why we’re here tonight.”
* * *
Margaret was surprised to find a stash of powdered milk in her father’s cabinet next to his ground coffee tin. It wasn’t as tasty as the fresh stuff but was more preferable than water. And she knew he wouldn’t mind if they used it. After she’d warmed it for their hot chocolate, she cleaned the residue out of the little pot so that there wouldn’t be any dried flakes in it when her father came down in the morning. For all the good things she could say about her brother, he was not proficient with the small details of life. It was always a particular gripe of her father’s when John was not thorough about wiping down the hot plate or making sure that the milk pot was fully cleaned.
In the meantime, Dottie was telling Gladys about Margaret’s idea to knit socks for John’s unit. A decidedly un-Gladys thing to do. But these were different times that called upon them all to stretch the boundaries of what they’d done in the past.
“I know it doesn’t sound like much. But John wrote both of us and said they’re going to need good footwear heading into the winter. They’re expecting to march so much that their socks will thin out within days. Sure, we could go to Woolworth’s and buy some, but it’s about the morale. Just think about what it will mean to them if we take the time to create these by hand. Something that reminds them that they are worth our time. Something that reminds them what they are fighting for in the first place.”
She said this in a single breath and Margaret could only imagine what her friend must be feeling. It was suffocating to be so uncertain about what tomorrow might bring, and Margaret understood that these little efforts were as much about rescuing themselves as it was helping the men. Any little thing they could grasp on to when everything else was in disarray brought a brief sense of peace.
Gladys looked convinced, though not enthusiastic.
“I’m in. On one condition,” she said.
Margaret looked at Dottie, who shrugged.
“Name it.”
Gladys folded her arms and grinned. “Next time, I pick the joyride. Even preggers here can come along.”
Margaret inhaled sharply. She could only imagine what mischief Gladys would get them into. But she’d promised to help Dottie, so she would say yes to anything.
“You’re on.”
Dottie suggested that they continue their makeshift conclave. She pulled yarn from her bag. Gray for Margaret, blue for Gladys, and brown for herself.
“We’re going to start with a simple pattern. I’ve got supplies for both of you.”
She pulled out a package of long, slender knitting needles and unfolded a tattered piece of paper.
“These are called Wonder Socks,” explained Dottie. “The design you see here in the heel and toe is supposed to save on yarn by letting you take out those pieces and replace them when they wear. So we’ll also knit some extra heels and toes and send them along as well. Other than that though, it’s a pretty straightforward pattern. I picked wool yarn since it’s the warmest and holds up the best.”
Gladys held up one of the needles and wielded it like a sword, challenging Margaret to a silent duel.
The needles made a clinking noise as they tapped against each other, and after a minute of playful fencing, Dottie called it a draw.
“Well,” Margaret said, pleased at how the evening was turning out. “These will be our weapons, then. A woolen battlefront to make the soldiers’ feet comfortable as they fight in Europe.”
Dottie smiled, but it was wan. Margaret understood. The gravity of what they were doing was not forgotten even among their cheer. They were both worried about John. She didn’t want to lose a brother. And Dottie didn’t want to lose a husband before she even became a wife.
Gladys walked over to the Emerson radio that sat on a nearby workbench. She set aside the leather strips that laid across it and turned the dial until “In the Mood” by Glenn Miller came on, nearly at the beginning. The spirits in the room were immediately lifted and the girls got to work.
After Dottie showed them how to cast on and make the base row, they got the hang of the pattern—knit, purl, knit, purl. The difficult part was learning how to maneuver three needles instead of the two that Margaret was used to, but even that became routine as they cast stitch after stitch. It gave her a small thrill to see it come together as a kind of a tube and she could envision how it would turn into a sock.
Margaret noticed that she was stitching along to the beat. Distracted by the music—Bing Crosby, Duke Ellington, Tommy Dorsey—and the twittering of their conversation, she was surprised that an hour later, she had produced the base of a sock that, while not storefront-perfect, was something to be proud of. Despite her adeptness with a sewing needle, she’d always felt inferior with a knitting one in comparison to Dottie.
Perhaps her flaw was the meticulous scrutiny she gave her projects. Worrying over every blemish to the point that nothing felt good enough. Another of her mother’s favorite quotes came to mind, this one from Voltaire: Don’t make the perfect the enemy of the good.
John and the boys on the front had enough enemies. She didn’t need to let her insecurities add to them. They would surely love these socks, mistakes and all.
And to be honest, they were not likely to notice.
Margaret looked up and saw that Gladys was about as far along as she was while Dottie was well on her way to finishing the matched sock that would complete the pair. At this rate, they could clothe the whole army in a short time.