The Book of Summer

But how do you say that to someone who looks so beautiful, eyes shining with hope? How do you tell her that she’s not seeing things clearly?

Hell, maybe I’m the one who has it wrong. Maybe the douche wasn’t really leering at the cocktail waitress. It’s conceivable he didn’t yell at her later, calling her a “fucking idiot” for some minor infraction. And Lala could’ve been overreacting when she pulled me aside and said he “totally creeped her out.” You’ve always insisted she doesn’t understand how real people work.

Well, it’s safe to say this entry isn’t staying in the book. I’ll help Cissy with what she needs then become invisible. At the wedding I’ll try not to watch. I won’t say a word to you.

I’m wishing you a lifetime of happy, Bess. And the ability to recognize if you’re not. Remember, you came to Cliff House before, when you needed to start over. It’s not just for summers. It stands in the bad weather, too.

Always,

Evan Mayhew





48

WASHINGTON, DC

SEP 13 4:43PM

MR. PHILIP E. YOUNG

25 COMMONWEALTH AVE. BOSTON

THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON STAFF SERGEANT ROBERT APPLETON YOUNG WAS KILLED IN A TRAINING MISSION ELEVEN SEPTEMBER IN ARIZONA. CONFIRMING LETTER FOLLOWS.

J A ULIO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL





49

The Book of Summer

Ruby Young Packard

December 26, 1942

Cliff House, Sconset, Nantucket Island


It’s the day after Christmas.

The island is ugly and bitter and cold. A fine match for my mood. It’s taken all my grit and drive to get through these past few months. The world is different knowing Mother, Topper, and my not-quite-a-baby are no longer in it. The days as a “la-la girl” are done and over and I must press on somehow.

The U.S. Needs Us Strong.

Lately everything, every last bit of thing, from advertisements to newspapers to fliers around town, it’s all “For Victory.” Save for victory. Plant for victory. Smoke cigarettes for victory. As for me, the motto will be, Keep a stiff upper lip for victory. Wake up tomorrow, for victory.

Yesterday we celebrated Christmas, at least as much as two and a half broken spirits can. Daddy, Mary, and I ate our feast; a goose we weren’t supposed to have but Daddy got a hold of nonetheless. A sad party: the three leftovers, and then the two. Mary darted off to Washington as soon as she set down her fork. I left soon after.

I hated to abandon Daddy, if even for a few days, but I couldn’t bear Boston a moment longer. The city has grown too loud, the voices jumbled, as if everyone’s speaking a different language. No ferries were running so I paid a fisherman a hundred clams and rode with him out to Nantucket. He white-knuckled it all the way, sure he was going to end up with my death on his conscience. I partway hoped it might be the case.

Oddly I find beauty in the island’s drabness. Everything is the same color, even the waves crashing at the shore. The wind whispering through the walls is a dulcet song and there’s comfort in the harsh cold. At least I have things left to feel.

As 1942 comes to a close, I can’t help but think “damn you, you stupid year!” or a million other things besides. It’s been a rotten time, filled mostly with heartbreak and hell. Mother, the baby, Topper. Back to back to back. Even all this time later, I can’t pick out one pain from the other. What hurts the most? The loss of those I’ve loved a lifetime? Or the love I’ll never have?

I’m sure Mother never dreamed something like this might go into her Book of Summer. I guess that’s why I wrote it in the winter. But rest easy, dear mom, that you had this house built for comfort. And so far it’s the only place where I’ve found the slightest hint of calm, probably because in this home the ghosts of you and Topper and my almost-child remain.

Until sunnier days,

Ruby





50

RUBY

May 1943

Ruby sat across from Mary in a heavily paneled, dank restaurant near Capitol Hill in Washington, DC. Oh but they were a heartbreakingly long way from Sconset. It was enough to make a girl weep.

“What do you mean you won’t go with me?” Ruby said as she shifted anxiously in her seat.

Never mind the throb of sorrow that forever pulsed through Ruby, her entire body ached after traveling a wicked mile (or five hundred) from Boston to DC in a train stuffed with servicemen. All of them rattling toward other cities and states, new futures heretofore unknown.

Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourselves into? Ruby had wanted to scream at them. Your good looks and bravado will turn to junk once Uncle Sam gets ahold of you!

Just as she’d predicted, just as she’d feared when Topper and Sam announced their support of the war.

Oh, God, Topper. It’d been eight months since he died and the mere thought of him stung like a fresh cut. To think, the last time Ruby saw him was at Mother’s funeral, when she was still pregnant, when faith didn’t seem like something from a children’s book. Almost a year out and the devastation of the losses still hung on Ruby like a heavy cloak. Now, this matter with Sam.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said now, in the paneled DC haunt. “I wish I could help, but it’s not a possibility.”

“Mary. Please. I’m begging. I’ve never asked anything of you before.”

Ruby hated the desperation in her voice, but desperate she was.

“I’m rather busy,” her sister-in-law said simply, though it was not simple, this bad business they now found themselves in. “I can’t take a whole day off from work to visit another hospital.”

“You told me you go to Portsmouth all the time!”

“Yes. To provide medical aid and for training. Not on ill-advised jaunts that could land me in a bundle of trouble.”

“Sam is in the hospital,” Ruby said, enunciating each syllable. “A naval hospital. My husband is injured and you, the closest person in my life aside from Daddy and Sam himself, you can’t come with me to see him?”

Ruby’s cheeks burned. She thought surely—surely!—as Mary was a nurse, she would take this trip. Ruby should’ve gone with her first instinct, which was to ask Hattie. But in that regard she didn’t want to receive four letters saying Hattie would come, followed by a telegram saying that she couldn’t. Just as she had last summer. Just as she had for Topper’s funeral. Ruby’d had a beast of a time forgiving her for that.

“There are others who need me more,” Mary said.

“And what about me?” Ruby asked, loud enough to cause some bluster.

The people nearby cast them curious looks.

“Don’t I need you?”

“Ruby, I can’t. Not in my current position. I haven’t even received my full qualification yet. Think of how it’d come across.”

“We’re family,” Ruby said. “You and I, we’re both Youngs, don’t you see? We’re supposed to help each other, especially now with Mother and Topper gone.”

“I’m sorry.…” she said for the fourth time, or the fifth.

And Mary was sorry, truly. Though this was exactly zero consolation to Ruby.

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