then delivered.
V-mail was only one page long, and many people still used airmail so that they could write longer letters. But Kitty was struggling to fill this page. She could do it if she wrote big, but if she wrote big, Julian would know she was having trouble coming up with things to say, and that would make him feel bad.
“Tell him about the movie you saw tonight,” Louise said.
Kitty sighed. “I did.” The Paradise Theater had more than three thousand seats, and they’d all been filled, many of them with servicemen, who got to go for free. These boys got lots of things for free: tickets for ball games, boxing matches, and the theater. Rides on public transportation. All the food at the servicemen’s center: hot dogs and sandwiches, cake and pie and cookies and candy. Hard-boiled eggs, cigarettes, coffee, and milk. Toilet supplies and canned goods and fresh produce donated from people’s gardens. Kitty had read in the paper that, in a single evening, five hundred dozen doughnuts had been served. She felt proud of all Chicago was doing, but she wondered how it really felt to the boys:
Give us your life and we’ll give you some doughnuts!
But maybe that was just her. The men seemed as though they truly appreciated everything. One USO center had gotten a letter from a grateful Marine stationed in Guadalcanal, saying, “You know what we talk about in our foxholes while the Jap bullets whiz over us? The Chicago servicemen’s centers.”
“Tell him about some stuff at work,” Tish said, and again Kitty said, “I did.” Helen Turnbull was p.g., she’d written. Rose Ellison had moved in with her sister. (Because her sister’s husband had been killed, but she didn’t tell Julian that.) She’d written that she was going to apply at Douglas Aircraft, so that she could help make the Skymaster. If they didn’t hire her, she’d try the Studebaker Company, which made aircraft engines, the Pullman-Standard Car Manufacturing Company, which now made cargo planes, and International Harvester, which made torpedoes.
She wanted to ask Julian whether he was frightened, but she knew he’d never give her a straight answer. She wanted to ask him if he ever thought of her, but wasn’t he supposed to tell her things like that automatically? Even Hank longingly alluded to their brief time together and how pleasant it had been for him, how he sure missed the scent of a nice perfume, the softness of a girl’s skin. Kitty pressed down hard on her pen, and the tip snapped. “Darn it!”
“What’s the
matter
with you?” Tish asked. She put down her pen
—she
was using
regular
stationery because she
never
ran out of things to say. Tonight she was writing to Warren Mueller, a banker’s son from Albany, New York. Tall guy with curly black hair and nice shoulders. Before the war, he’d gotten a new car every year. He said he thought Tish was a dish, ha ha. Tish had known Warren for exactly one week, and here she was filling up page after page. “Do you say the same thing to every guy?” Kitty had once asked, and Tish had said, “Gosh, no. That would be rude! What if the guys ever met?” Kitty wondered: Was this possible? She supposed so. Tish wrote on and on, a little smile on her face. How could she be so sure the guy would be interested in what she said?
Tish got up for another cup of tea. “Julian is practically your fiancé, for cripes’ sake. You love him! I don’t get it; what’s your problem?”
She sat down and blew on her tea. Louise looked at her expectantly, and Tish sighed. “If you wanted tea, why didn’t you ask me when I was up?”
“Why didn’t you ask
me
?” Louise answered.
Tish stood. “Okay. Who wants more tea?”
“I do,” Louise sang out.
“Kitty?”
“No.” Kitty didn’t want anything. She wanted to go to bed. She wanted to go to bed and sleep until the war was over.
“Maybe you should try being really honest with Julian,” Louise said gently. “Tell him what’s in your
V-mail was only one page long, and many people still used airmail so that they could write longer letters. But Kitty was struggling to fill this page. She could do it if she wrote big, but if she wrote big, Julian would know she was having trouble coming up with things to say, and that would make him feel bad.
“Tell him about the movie you saw tonight,” Louise said.
Kitty sighed. “I did.” The Paradise Theater had more than three thousand seats, and they’d all been filled, many of them with servicemen, who got to go for free. These boys got lots of things for free: tickets for ball games, boxing matches, and the theater. Rides on public transportation. All the food at the servicemen’s center: hot dogs and sandwiches, cake and pie and cookies and candy. Hard-boiled eggs, cigarettes, coffee, and milk. Toilet supplies and canned goods and fresh produce donated from people’s gardens. Kitty had read in the paper that, in a single evening, five hundred dozen doughnuts had been served. She felt proud of all Chicago was doing, but she wondered how it really felt to the boys:
Give us your life and we’ll give you some doughnuts!
But maybe that was just her. The men seemed as though they truly appreciated everything. One USO center had gotten a letter from a grateful Marine stationed in Guadalcanal, saying, “You know what we talk about in our foxholes while the Jap bullets whiz over us? The Chicago servicemen’s centers.”
“Tell him about some stuff at work,” Tish said, and again Kitty said, “I did.” Helen Turnbull was p.g., she’d written. Rose Ellison had moved in with her sister. (Because her sister’s husband had been killed, but she didn’t tell Julian that.) She’d written that she was going to apply at Douglas Aircraft, so that she could help make the Skymaster. If they didn’t hire her, she’d try the Studebaker Company, which made aircraft engines, the Pullman-Standard Car Manufacturing Company, which now made cargo planes, and International Harvester, which made torpedoes.
She wanted to ask Julian whether he was frightened, but she knew he’d never give her a straight answer. She wanted to ask him if he ever thought of her, but wasn’t he supposed to tell her things like that automatically? Even Hank longingly alluded to their brief time together and how pleasant it had been for him, how he sure missed the scent of a nice perfume, the softness of a girl’s skin. Kitty pressed down hard on her pen, and the tip snapped. “Darn it!”
“What’s the
matter
with you?” Tish asked. She put down her pen
—she
was using
regular
stationery because she
never
ran out of things to say. Tonight she was writing to Warren Mueller, a banker’s son from Albany, New York. Tall guy with curly black hair and nice shoulders. Before the war, he’d gotten a new car every year. He said he thought Tish was a dish, ha ha. Tish had known Warren for exactly one week, and here she was filling up page after page. “Do you say the same thing to every guy?” Kitty had once asked, and Tish had said, “Gosh, no. That would be rude! What if the guys ever met?” Kitty wondered: Was this possible? She supposed so. Tish wrote on and on, a little smile on her face. How could she be so sure the guy would be interested in what she said?
Tish got up for another cup of tea. “Julian is practically your fiancé, for cripes’ sake. You love him! I don’t get it; what’s your problem?”
She sat down and blew on her tea. Louise looked at her expectantly, and Tish sighed. “If you wanted tea, why didn’t you ask me when I was up?”
“Why didn’t you ask
me
?” Louise answered.
Tish stood. “Okay. Who wants more tea?”
“I do,” Louise sang out.
“Kitty?”
“No.” Kitty didn’t want anything. She wanted to go to bed. She wanted to go to bed and sleep until the war was over.
“Maybe you should try being really honest with Julian,” Louise said gently. “Tell him what’s in your
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