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Take care of that library for me, sis. She’ll be the first place I visit when I come home (don’t tell Mom).
Your brother,
Anthony
Notes from the Blackout Book Club—July 25, 1942
Taken by Ginny Atkins, Owner of a Captivating Reading Voice and Certainly a Better Recorder of Minutes Than Freddy Keats, Thank You Very Much
Members in attendance: Lots. Avis’ll write them down later. She’s better at things like that.
Book under discussion:The Country ofthe Pointed Firsby Sarah Orne Jewett (Found out the middle name isn’t said like “ornery,” which is a shame, I think.)
I started with the rousing question of “How come there weren’t any murders?” Lots of secrets and regrets and all (poor Joanna!), but they never went anywhere, really. Freddy said that wasn’t the point, but I think he was only picking a fight. Avis protested that it was full of beautiful, peaceful descriptions, and that the author truly understood folks, but Delphie proclaimed it “a real yawner.”
Linda Follett, who is maybe about ten with uneven pigtails, said she read the whole thing just to find out the narrator’s name and was mad when we never found out. She insisted we all call her Hildegard out of spite.
Freddy said he liked the chapter best where the old sea captain tells of a ghostly town far up north: “There was in the eyes a look of anticipation and joy, a far-off look that sought the horizon; one often sees it in seafaring families, inherited by girls and boys alike,” he read, then added, “Reminds me of someone I know.” And didn’t he look right at me! Whether or not he meant it as a compliment, I’ll take it as one.
We talked about the part where “Hildegard” wondered if some castaways on desert islands dread the thought ofbeing rescued. Not even Martina thought she’d feel that way “though the quiet would be nice for a while.” (Gio looked offended at that, but I patted him on the back and told him it wasn’t his fault he was loud, it’s just part of being twelve and a boy. Didn’t seem to help much.) “There’s peace, and then there’s loneliness, and one can turn easily into the other,” Mrs. Whitson said, and everyone sort of nodded, because being a minister’s wife, she ought to know.
Avis read a few of her favorite parts aloud, and at the end, Mr. Maloney proclaimed, “That’sMaine, it is.” He’s got a point. Not much plot that I could find in this one, but the words were pretty, and the way she described boating out to the islands made me ache to see the sun rise over the seaward horizon. It’s been a while since I really felt homesick. Too long, maybe.
Gosh, give a girl a notebook and she goes all sentimental. This is why I should never keep a diary.
Much better review than the book: Avis’s banana pudding. She’s getting fancier with the treats, probably has more time with her husband away and all. I got over to it in time for seconds.
Avis let Rosa choose the book for next time around. She thought for a moment, in that grown-up way of hers, then pickedThe Velveteen Rabbit. It’s gloriously short, and there are even pictures. What a red-letter day for the Blackout Book Club!
twenty-five
LOUISE
JULY 27
Louise had given speeches at war-bond drives, passed along grim odds to dying patients, and even held her own at the reading of her father’s will among contentious family members who resented her inheriting the family’s summer home, all without the slightest tremor of nerves.
So why did the thought of stepping inside the Bristol-Banks cafeteria fill her with dread?
It will be fine, she told herself.They’re only women. Just like you.
Which was a falsehood, of course. They were not like her. It wasn’t only the class difference. She’d left her pearls at home and worn her most ordinary day dress to minimize the gap between herself and her audience in that regard. It was the fact that these were wives and mothers, listening to a confirmed spinster telling them how they ought to raise their children.
Nonsense. This was a business matter. A social service. Nothing more.
Frederick exited the cafeteria with a jaunty step, unburdened from the trays of sandwiches and pitchers of lemonade he’d offered to carry in, filling the role of porter instead of gardener today. He gestured to the door with a flourish. “They’re all yours, Miss Cavendish.”
She checked her pocket watch.3:45, the time between the day shift and swing shift, the two most commonly worked by women with children. Mr. Hanover had allowed her fifteen minutes to speak to any interested mothers.
She felt Frederick’s eyes on her. “You’ll do just fine. All you have to do is share what you know.” For a moment, she wondered if he was mocking her by repeating her own words from the garden lecture, but his expression was as warm as ever. “Now go knock ’em dead.”
“I would prefer that my audience remain alive, actually.” And despite her dry tone, he laughed, a deep, welcoming sound that reminded her of...
Not now, for goodness’ sake.
Some memories were best left in the past.
In a manner she knew would seem abrupt, Louise turned away from Frederick, set her shoulders with one more deep breath, and let her heels click across the bare cafeteria floor with a confidence she didn’t feel.
