I hand that form across the table, and the college boy with the New York accent and the baby-smooth face frowns at it, then squints at me for a long time. “You’ve gotten in a hurry and checked the wrong box here,” he says and looks close into my eyes in a way that is filled with hidden words. “I’m sure you meant to check WHITE. There is some plan to gather coloreds into a regiment, but they’ll likely be sent to Fort Huachuca, Arizona, for training and service. It’s no matter. Obviously you meant to check here.” And he marks the box that reads WHITE. “Just initial the change. There’s no need to rewrite the form.”
As quickly as that, Father, I am a new thing. I sleep and wake and attend my training, where the soldier boys smile and the young women speak to me of their brothers and sweethearts, who will soon be off at war. I learn and study and become skilled with the radio. I keep to myself at first, then not as much.
I am an actor on a stage. Each day, I become less of myself and more of the clothing I have put on.
I send a letter to Maman, to tell her I have joined the war effort. Old Rupert will read it to her, I know. She cannot answer because I do not give her an address to write to me. I say nothing to her about the things I heard that night outside Monsieur’s study. I say nothing about the college boy at the recruiting table or the single check mark with which I have both denied and accepted what has been.
All around Norfolk, there are stories of Pearl Harbor. Terrible stories of death and suffering and the disease that spreads when so many bodies are broken at once. I pray that Isabelle is well. Please look after her, Father. For now, there is no way I can know.
Always, I wonder if the choice I have made is the right choice, the one you would have me make. There seems to be no life for me that is not, in some way, wrapped inside a binding cloth of lies.
Your loving daughter,
Iola Anne
I finished reading Iola’s box from 1942 before it was time to put the boxes away and head off to work at the Seashell Shop. Iola had been stationed in Europe rather than being sent to Pearl Harbor. As a skilled communications radio operator, and with the knowledge of French and Latin she had gained at the orphan school, she was needed in the European theater. She wrote to Isabelle, but no reply came. The last ties to Iola’s old life had been severed, whether she was prepared to let go or not.
Before leaving the closet, I peeked into the box from 1943, turning the stack of letters over inside the box and reading the first one quickly.
Even though fraternization between WAACs and male soldiers was prohibited by post command, Iola had fallen in love with a young officer from Nevada. In the last line of her note written in January of 1943, despite her happiness, she still grappled with the lies that surrounded her.
The man she loved had no idea who she was.
Tears blurred my vision as I closed the box and put it back on the shelf, checking my watch. If I didn’t hurry, I’d be late getting to Sandy’s, and I was never late.
Iola’s story whispered in my thoughts, trailing me down the stairs and out the back door. I slipped around the bayberry hedge —something I’d gotten in the habit of doing since Gina had arrived. If my sister happened to be awake, I didn’t want her to know about Iola’s house. Gina had a talent for turning random bits of knowledge to her own advantage.
She was on the cottage steps talking on her cell phone when I rounded the corner. She hung up, giving me a surprised look. “Where’ve you been? I woke up a few minutes ago and looked for you, and you were gone.”
“I just wanted to get out awhile before it was time to go to work.” I left it at that. Not a lie. Not the full truth, either. Gina seemed fine with it. She stretched her neck to one side, rubbing her shoulder. Last night must have been a doozy. She looked a little rough.
She shrugged. “Oh . . . well, whatever. Hey, I noticed that you’ve got a flat on your car. I’ll give you a ride to work, if you’ll make me a latte.”
I looked at the SUV, sitting cockeyed with the left rear tire flat against the rim. I wished I’d noticed sooner; I could have put the spare on. Now there wasn’t time. “Sure. Let me pull my hair up and grab my stuff for work, and then I’m ready.” I hurried into the cottage and was back out almost before Gina had located her purse.
We were in the car and driving through Hatteras Village before I realized she had an agenda. “So listen, I’ve been thinking . . . I’m between things right now, and you could use some help with the kids, especially if you’re going to do this handywoman business. Why don’t we get a place together —something bigger, where there’s space for all of us?”
I blinked at her, temporarily mute. Every time my sister and I moved in together, the arrangement ended in a nuclear meltdown.
Possible responses took a minute to percolate through the rubble of past disasters. “What’s the rush? You just got here, and right now the kids and I are settled at the cottage. I really can’t afford to do anything else. You could look for something for yourself, and if things change later, we can worry about it then.”
My sister’s disappointment was instant and evident enough to make me feel guilty. “Sounds like you’ll have to make a change anyway. I talked to that preacher guy —Brother Bill-bo, or whatever his name is —and he said there’s really no telling what’ll happen with the place you’re in —some sort of legal rigmarole. Anyway, so I came up with a plan. I can sell this car, get something more . . . right for the beach scene, and have money left over to rent us a place.”
My mouth was hanging open as we pulled into Sandy’s parking lot. I wasn’t even sure what to say.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I have the title to the car.” Gina snorted, rolling her head to one side, her nose crinkling. She knew exactly what I was thinking —that whoever paid for the shiny new Acura might be out there looking for it.
“Let’s talk about it later, okay?” I opened my door and took a breath like a diver escaping a malfunctioning air lock.
On the other side of the car, my sister was also climbing to her feet. “I try to do something to help you out, to make sure your kids have a place to come home to, and this is what I get? Thanks a lot.”
“I didn’t say no, Gina. I just said let’s talk about it later.” But I could feel my resolve thinning already. The usual load of guilt descended as my sister’s shoulders sagged and moisture glittered in the corners of her eyes.
“I want it to be different between us now, Tandi.”
Everything in me yearned to cross the space that separated us, hug my sister, and agree to all of it. I wanted to believe we could move beyond all the past hurts and disappointments, beyond all the patterns we’d learned from Mama and Daddy. I wanted to say, Of course things can be different, Gina. We’re family.
Instead, I said, “Me too.” Then I turned and rushed up the stairs into the Seashell Shop. I was glad when she decided to pick up her latte someplace else.
Sandy was standing near the front door, arranging a display of glass boxes in the bay window as I walked to the coffee counter to put away my purse. “You know,” she said without looking at me, “it’s none of my business, but dealing with the public for years gives you a sense of people. You and your kids are making a place for yourselves here. A life. I know that is your sister out there, and blood runs thick, but think long and hard before you jump into anything. If she means what she says, let her prove it over time. You can dress a toad in lace, but the minute you let it go, it’ll still poop on your porch.”
Sitting at Sandy’s feet, Chum sneeze-nodded in agreement.
Sandy didn’t wait for me to answer, just grabbed her feather duster and walked into the next room with Chum following behind her, the two of them leaving me to contemplate the image of my sister as a toad in lace.
A picture like that stays with you, and by the end of the day, when Sharon gave Zoey and me a ride home, I’d decided to tell Gina that I wasn’t making any decisions right now. Sandy was right. I couldn’t expect things to change overnight, and getting a house together probably wasn’t the best way to start working on our relationship. We would just be on each other’s nerves. Aside from that, so far I hadn’t seen a hint of her looking for a job or even beginning to think about what she would do with herself here on Hatteras, other than hang out in clubs.
When we reached the cottage, her car was nowhere in sight, and the clearest feeling I could identify was relief. Even that was an indication that Sandy was right. We needed time and space to find a new normal as sisters. Normal doesn’t happen overnight when the world around and between you has always been off-balance.