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road!
    We switched trains in Indianapolis about two hours ago. There are so many uniformed boys in our car, I feel like I’m heading off to war as well. They joke and play cards and drink from small, cheap bottles of whiskey. One rather inebriated fellow squeezed between Roylene and myself as we returned from the dining car and said he was caught between two slices of heaven. I laughed—how could I not? A little fun is in order. They mightn’t have any idea what’s in store overseas, but my Sal’s letters have given me enough of an impression. I wanted to buy them all steak dinners and kiss their ruddy cheeks. Instead, I sat across from Roylene and busied myself extracting pen and paper from my bag. I kept one eye on her. She bit her fingernails and wiped the cuttings on her seat when she thought I wasn’t looking. A moment ago, I offered her my Women’s Day to give her hands something to do. She’s flipping through to be respectful, but I don’t think she’s reading.
    We’ve exhausted the standard small-talk topics. During the interminable journey from Des Moines to Indianapolis, I learned the following, and not much else: 1. Mrs. K. was right—Roylene is from Oklahoma. Roy went north to escape the dust when everyone else, including his wife, went West. The poor thing hasn’t seen her mother in years. 2. Roylene slaves away at the tavern six days a week. 3. She doesn’t like egg salad (too spongy), but blueberry pie suits her fine.
    Fascinating stuff. My boy likes Whitman and Poe. What in the world are they going to talk about? I guess it doesn’t make any difference. I have a lot to say to my son before he ships off to God knows where. The girl won’t get a word in edgewise.
    I must admit, ragged fingernails aside, Roylene’s taken a smidge more concern with her appearance. She’s rolled her hair for the trip, and she’s wearing a clean dress and the summer sweater I mended. I found a ruby-red doily I crocheted ages ago and cut it up to trim the collar and cuffs. It offsets the odd yarn color, giving it a rich maple hue. A dab of scarlet lipstick would seal the deal but that’s probably asking too much.
    The magazine lies open on her lap, but Roylene’s eyes are closing. The soldier boys have also quieted, settling into a drunken snooze. They still have quite a trip ahead. Our stop is only an hour away at this point, give or take. There is a chance Toby will be waiting for us at the station.
    Oh, Glory, I can’t wait to see him.

    Love
    Rita

  
    May 27, 1943 (3 or 4 o’clock in the damn morning)
    SANDY PINES ROADSIDE MOTEL, OUTSIDE OF COLUMBUS, OHIO
    Glory,

    There is neither sand nor pine trees in the vicinity of this motel, only a deserted gravel parking lot lit by the dull blue glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. It’s not the middle of the night but close enough. Even the earliest risers are still tucked in their beds.
    Except Roylene. Her bed is empty. The coverlet lies in a crumpled heap. She didn’t have the decency to tuck a few pillows under it to trick my sleepy eyes.
    Honestly, it is preferable to think some maniac broke into our room and stole her in the dead of night than give a second’s thought to what is really going on.
    I’ve spent the past twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not I should march over to Toby’s room and bang on the door. I’m tempted, I’ll tell you that. But to be truthful, my motivation is not to break up their tryst but to assuage my loneliness. I came here to see my boy. I haven’t gotten my chance with him yet.
    The man who picked us up at the train station was barely recognizable. After they cut Toby’s hair, they must have taken a chisel to the rest of him, chipping away at the boyish layers, sharpening his features as though his face was one more weapon to ready for battle. He waved at us, and I could hardly raise my hand in return. Roylene yelped and jumped on him like a bedbug.
    “You look pretty,” Toby said, his fingers drifting from her