Agnes stomped the dirty clumps of snow off her fur-trimmed boots onto the faded welcome mat. Satisfied that she wouldn’t ruin the hardwood floors, she removed her wool mittens and gave the front door a perfunctory knock. Without waiting for an answer, as she often did, she pushed it open and entered the foyer.
“Violet! I came to see if you needed anything from the market. My mother’s gout is acting up again. I’m running her errands today,” Agnes called, brushing the melting snowflakes off her shoulders.
There was no energetic voice in response. No soft tapping of penny loafers across the uncarpeted floorboards upstairs. No rattling of dishes in the kitchen, although it was lunchtime. No Bing Crosby coming from the Victrola in the dining room. No furious scratching of a fountain pen or the staccato notes of a typewriter emanating from the study. Silence.
“Vi?”
Agnes poked her head into the parlor. At first, she couldn’t see Violet. She was slumped on the threadbare sofa, her back to the doorway, her bronze curls barely visible, the curtains drawn against the harsh sunlight, the fire reduced to embers.
“Vi? What’s wrong?”
“This,” Violet whispered, her slender piano-playing fingers holding out a crumpled piece of beige paper.
Agnes hesitated, fearful about what it said. She’d seen the Western Union messenger girl with her drab olive skirt and sensible oxford shoes strolling down Violet’s street minutes earlier. The appearance of Ruth Meyers and the telegram in Violet’s hand could mean one of three things, none of them good. Injured. Missing in action. Dead. Wanting to be supportive, she took the telegram from Violet and inhaled the scent of dried ink. She read the sentences aloud to herself. Violet flinched. Agnes didn’t realize how much it pained her to hear the message again.
“Oh, my dear Vi. He could be perfectly safe...somewhere in Germany.” Agnes tried to sound optimistic, but failed when she remembered that the Nazis had killed two of their former classmates in the past month.
Violet didn’t acknowledge what Agnes said, either in words or movements. She sat immobilized. A crumbling marble statue of a Roman empress. The peeling flowered wallpaper on the opposite wall seemed to consume her attention. Her newborn son William wriggled and cooed in her arms. Agnes shrugged off her coat, pushed aside a stack of well-thumbed mathematics journals and one pristine cookbook and perched on the sofa beside Violet.
“I can’t find the solution,” Violet sobbed, more to herself than anyone. “The problem is that James is missing. Anytime I can’t figure out the answer, I go back to the beginning, to the first line of my calculation. I check the formulas, the arithmetic. I might get a fresh piece of paper and start over. I don’t know where to begin, how to solve this!”
***
Her dilemma began in a diner, on a sweltering afternoon in May, during her senior year of high school. She sat hunched over a calculus textbook, scratch paper strewn everywhere, in a back corner booth. She was oblivious to the chatter and laughter surrounding her. Her classmates celebrating the end of another school day with milkshakes and fries. Elderly men complaining over bad cups of coffee about the Allied forces’ slow progress in Europe. Waitresses yelling orders of chili dogs and grilled cheese sandwiches to the sweaty cooks in the kitchen.
With a red silk ribbon keeping her hair off her face, Violet scribbled an equation. She studied it for a moment, frowned and erased it. She went back to chewing her pencil and tapping her foot on the checkered linoleum floor. Her glass of Coca-Cola had long ago gone flat. She didn’t notice the rowdy group of boys tumbling into the booth behind her. But, they noticed her.
“Hey, Violet! What are you doing?” clamored Charlie Peterson, leaning over the back of the booth, his pimply face and bad breath inches away from hers.
George Hoffman slapped his arm in response. “Idiot, can’t you see that she’s attempting to do some sort of math? Though not very well from what I can see. Look at all those tiny bits of eraser.” He shook his head in mock disappointment.
“Your brother told me awhile back that your father won’t allow you to go to college,” Harry Davies added. “Said he wasn’t going to pay for a girl to find a husband when she can find one here. The money would be better spent getting your brothers situated in life.”
Violet ignored them. She had heard similar comments throughout her time at Woodrow Wilson High School, mostly that since she was female, she’d be unable to handle anything more complicated than home economics. However, her stitches were always crooked, her cakes burnt beyond recognition and her teachers exasperated at her indifference towards the domestic arts. Mathematics, on the other hand, was simple, elegant, predictable and, above all, fascinating. The satisfaction she got from solving a challenging problem overwhelmed any sense of achievement she got from a perfectly pressed cotton dress.
“I guess Violet doesn’t want to talk to us lovely chaps. Let’s go, boys,” Charlie said. He scrambled out of the booth, caught sight of Betty Baker’s shapely legs and rushed across the diner, his friends in tow.
“Thank God,” Violet whispered. Before she could return to differentiation in peace, a faint shadow fell over her table.
“What do you want now?” She didn’t bother looking up.
“I want to apologize for those guys. They’re morons,” said James Burton, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, a bit nervous. “They had difficulty passing algebra last year. It’s best to pay them no mind.”
Violet set her pencil down on her open textbook and glared at him.
“I plan on doing exactly that.”
Staring up at the ceiling and rocking back and forth on his heels, James searched for a clever response. Violet was the smartest, most determined girl he had ever met. All he could come up with was “You like math, huh?”
“Actually, I love it. I love that there’s always one correct answer, no matter what,” Violet said wistfully. “But, I’m not allowed to take the higher-level math classes at school. Being a girl and all. So, I borrow books from the library and study on my own whenever I get the chance. It’s amazing how it governs everything. Don’t you agree?”
Before James could answer in the affirmative, Violet’s twin brother barrelled into the diner, jingling the bell over the door so hard that it sliced through the noise inside and caused everyone to wince. He pushed the standing customers aside with his broad shoulders, seemingly unaware of their cries of protest.
“Vi! I know you’re here. I saw Harry Davies outside and he told me, “ Jack bellowed.
Violet groaned and began gathering up her things, carefully organizing them as she went. Textbooks on top of notepads and folders full of worksheets. Pencils, pens, erasers and a slide rule into a small outside pocket of her leather satchel. She knew that Jack had been sent on a mission to find her, most likely by their mother. If Violet didn’t come home immediately after school to start her chores, her mother believed that she was either shirking her duties as a female member of the household, purely out of laziness, or engaged in some sinful activity, despite Violet’s previous assurances to the contrary.
“Found you! Excellent. Listen, Ma needs you. Something about pies for the Sunday church picnic or maybe putting the laundry on the clothesline. Doesn’t matter, really. Pack up whatever it is you’re doing and hustle it,” Jack said. Having relayed their mother’s message, he headed straight to the lunch counter, where the lovely Betty Baker was perched on a bar stool, silk-stockinged legs crossed, blonde hair in perfectly coiffed victory rolls, sipping a lemonade with her blood-red lips.
“I better go. Can’t disappoint Ma. Otherwise, I’ll never hear the end of it, “ Violet grumbled.
“Wait. Would you like to go out for a bite to eat with me Friday night? Nothing fancy. Just a burger or something like that. You can tell me how mathematics explains everything.”
Violet was unsure if James was making fun of her. He seemed earnest enough. What the hell. If anything, a date would please her parents. They were already concerned about her marriage prospects, even though she was only 17 years old.
“OK. Meet me at Curly’s at 6 o’clock, sharp.” Violet strode out of the diner, not letting James see the unexpected smile creeping across her face.
Was her agreement to a date with James her first calculation mistake? If she had said no, would have events unfolded differently? Would he have enlisted in the army after graduation as he had originally planned, instead of waiting to be drafted? Would he have been sent to Germany to fight at all?
***
Agnes wrapped her arms around Violet and lightly kissed the crown of her head, as she used to do when they were little girls and Violet had fallen off her bike and scraped her knees on the uneven sidewalk. This time the wound was deeper, touching more than just the first layer of flesh. Agnes knew that a typical display of friendly affection wouldn’t alleviate the pain, but she stroked Violet’s hair nonetheless.
“I don’t think there is anything you can do but wait,” Agnes soothed. “I’m sure that the Army, the War Department are looking for him.”
Violet broke out of Agnes’s embrace, placed her sleeping baby in his bassinet with a loving murmur and hurried down the hallway to the study, her feet striking the hardwood floor with determination. She yanked open the middle drawer of her desk and pulled out a thick stack of letters held together with a rubber band. Every letter that James had written to her since he left for boot camp eight months ago. She trailed her chapped fingers across his boyish handwriting on the top envelope.
“Maybe he mentioned something recently that could help find him!” Violet shouted. She rifled through the pile, tossing aside any letter not postmarked after he went overseas. She ripped one letter after another out of their envelopes, scanned their contents for any indication of his location, and attempted to create a timeline aloud.
Seeing Violet pacing the room and muttering to herself, Agnes, increasingly worried, rushed to her side and clutched her elbow. “Please, you have to calm down. Oh my God, look at you. Your blouse is wet with breastmilk. And there’s blood on your skirt. I’m calling the doctor. Your mother, too.”
Violet positioned her trembling body between Agnes and the black rotary telephone on the desk, shielding her heaving chest with the fanned-out letters. “No, no, no! I’m fine. I promise. Dr. Taylor would agree with me. And my mother wouldn’t understand. I have to concentrate on finding James.” Desperation filled Violet’s voice.
“OK. But, let me find you some clean clothes and make you some tea.”
Agnes embraced Violet, trying to absorb some of her anguish. She smelled Violet’s salty tears dripping onto her shoulders. She gave her another squeeze and reluctantly left to put the kettle on before finding her a fresh blouse, skirt and undergarments. As she laid two dainty china teacups rimmed with pink flowers on matching saucers, wedding gifts from James’s grandparents, she heard a faint crinkling sound coming from the dining room. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Violet combing through a heap of newspapers on the sideboard, skimming each article that mentioned American troop movements in western Europe.
Agnes sighed, feeling helpless. She didn’t know exactly what to say or do in this type of situation, having never experienced such grief or worry herself. She didn’t have a husband or even a beau, and her family was all in good health. She went into the dining room, took the newspapers from Violet’s shaking hands, and set them back down. She locked eyes with Violet.
“I know that you’re heartbroken and scared. But, you’re not alone. You have your parents, your brothers, James’s family, and me. And your beautiful baby,” Agnes said.
“Clearly, you’ve forgotten what my family is like. How miserable they made me. James was my escape. Without him, I’m lost. I have nowhere safe to be.”
“That’s not true.”
“No one in my entire life has accepted me completely,” Violet persisted.
“I have.”
Violet dismissed her objection with a vehement shake of her head.
“No, only James encouraged me. In fact, he seemed proud of me, of how I can solve practically any mathematical problem. No judgment or ridicule or confusion or pessimism. He promised me, before he shipped out, that when the war is over, we’ll move out of this godforsaken town, he’ll get a good-paying job, we’ll get someone to help with the baby and I’ll go to college. I’ll be a mathematician.”
“It’ll all work out.”
“How can you be sure?” Violet laughed. “Take James away and everything changes. There's an infinite number of variables in life.”
She paused, her wrinkled brow and distant gaze implying that she was not only analyzing every future variable, but also those in her past, imagining what would have happened if she had adjusted each of them.
“Maybe there was one that I should’ve altered. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have fallen in love with him.”
The kettle whistled. The baby cried. Violet collapsed onto the floor and screamed.
***
Unfortunately for Violet, love is a constant. Once it enters your life, it never fully leaves, even if you want it to. And her love for James didn’t enter softly, gradually, like a gentle spring rain, but loudly, suddenly, like an unexpected thunderstorm over a thirsty land.
Ironically, that love struck her under a cerulean sky decorated with wisps of clouds like cotton candy. A balmy breeze rippled the hem of her green checkered dress as she stood in front of the backyard clothesline, a wicker basket full of freshly laundered clothes by her bare feet. She plucked two wooden clothespins out of the hanging bag and secured her father’s undershirt to the line. She resumed whispering the Fibonacci sequence to herself. She had reached the ten thousands when her mother opened the screen door and forced her out of her reverie.
“Did you get that stain out of your plaid skirt? You should’ve worn an apron when you attempted to make that cherry pie. Anyway, you have a visitor. That Burton boy again.”
“I got it out, Mama.”
James ambled around the side of the white clapboard house, hands shielding his eyes against the blinding sun, lips stretched into a wide toothy grin.
“I hope so. I’d be terribly disappointed if you didn’t,” he teased. He waved to Violet’s mother in thanks, sat down on the swing dangling from the massive oak tree nearby and began swaying lazily. The ubiquitous robins twittered high above him, an occasional cardinal interrupting their song. Soon, they would migrate south.
Violet smirked at him, although her eyes laughed in amusement. She enjoyed their flirtatious conversations. She lifted a pair of denim overalls out of the basket and heaved them over the line with a slight grunt.
“You must really hate those overalls.”
“I hate household chores in general. You should know that by now. Next, I have to weed the garden. Supposedly, the crabgrass is bad.” Violet put her hands on her hips in defiance.
“What would you rather be doing right now? If you could do anything.”
Violet didn’t hesitate.
“I would be sitting in a university classroom listening to one of the top math professors in the country.” Her face darkened as if a shadow was slowly consuming it. “Instead, I’m here, my mother’s servant, just biding my time until I marry and start a family. Just like every other girl in town.”
“You’re definitely not like the other girls in town. They all want to be the next Betty Grable. That’s what I like about you.”
“I’ll agree with you that I won’t be a famous pin-up model. Nor do I care to.” Violet grinned as she pointed at the sweaty bodice of her dress, her grass-stained feet and the frizzy hair escaping from her headscarf. “Now if only I could be the next great mathematician. That would be something.”
“You never know. Maybe you’ll marry someone who’ll support your ambitions.” James blushed and spun around on the swing so he didn’t have to see her reaction when he whispered “I would.”
Violet heard those last two words and became flustered, a rare occurrence for her.
“How would you--I mean, he--do that?” Given her experiences thus far with men, she had a hard time imagining such a husband.
“Move to the town with the best women’s college. Get a good paying job so you could attend classes. Cover entire walls in your house with chalkboards and bookshelves. Formulas and proofs everywhere. Math treatises as bedtime stories.” James chuckled. “And hire a maid.”
The future that James painted was glorious. Exactly what she envisioned when she laid in bed at night, staring up at her ceiling, trying to ignore her brothers snoring in the next room. The dream that she thought she would never have if she stayed in this town and married any other local boy, who would tell her that a home and children would be enough to fulfill her. But, James made it seem possible for her. He saw her. He accepted her. He knew what she needed. He wanted her to be happy. He was genuine. At that moment, when she least expected it, like a crack of lightning, she fell in love.
“Why don’t you?” Violet responded, blunt as ever.
***
Agnes rocked Violet back and forth like a small child frightened by what lurked under her bed at night. Her chest heaved between quick gulps of stagnant air. A sudden gust of frigid wind surrounded them as they huddled together on the dining room floor. The front door slammed shut, and someone hung their coat and scarf on the coat rack.
“Vi!” her mother shouted. “Where are you? I ran into Arthur Walston–such a dull man–at the post office. He told me that Ruthie Meyers delivered one of those horrid telegrams to you this morning.”
Her mother strode through the parlor to the dining room, rummaging through her pocketbook for a handkerchief. She grumbled that the cold made her nose run and then blew it loudly. She tutted when she saw a grieving Violet. Her daughter had never backed down from a challenge; she was fearless. Now, she was a portrait of terror and doubt. Seeing her like this transported Violet’s mother back in time to a different dining room and a different telegram. She reproached herself for remembering her own tears and her own screams. Her mother’s words returned to her as well. She placed her dry weathered hands, smelling of Ivory dishwashing soap, on Violet’s wet cheeks, rubbed her tears away with her thumbs and lifted her face.
“Is he alive or dead?” Her mother was matter-of-fact about it.
“I don’t know. He’s missing, ” Violet whispered.
Her mother turned her head and stared out the frosted window as if she was watching the past unfold again.
“Ah, just like Peter. For a short time anyway.” There continued to be little emotion in her voice.
“Peter?”
“I never mentioned him to you or your brothers. Barely talked to your father about him. They didn’t seem relevant.”
“They?”
“His disappearance. His death.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I got two telegrams.”
“What?”
“Arthur Walston’s son brought them to me. He was working for his father at the time–an absolutely awful delivery boy. We had been married for a year. We didn’t have a house of our own yet so I was living with your grandmother. You can imagine what that was like. I couldn’t do anything right for her.”
Violet’s mother took a deep breath.
“I still remember what the second one said. ‘Deeply regret to inform you that Private Peter Landon Infantry is officially reported as killed in action July 9th.’ I spoke to no one for two days,” she admitted, clearly ashamed. “I was numb. Then I couldn’t stop crying for a week. Hardly ate. Do you know what your grandmother, that infernal woman, eventually said to me? Took her grand ol’ time, mind you.”
“No.”
“‘When things get tough, and believe me they will, hold your head up high, keep your eyes wide open, put one foot in front of the other, and get on with it. Because women have no choice. The world would collapse if we didn’t.’ And I listened.” Her mother pointed her slightly crooked index finger at Violet and shook it for emphasis, a gesture common to the women in their family that meant she wouldn’t tolerate a rebuttal.
“But, Mama…”
“The first thing that you’re going to do is pretty simple–get up off this floor. It’s filthy, by the way.”
Any hint of motherly concern vanished, giving way completely to her typical obstinacy and impatience, which Violet had a difficult time resisting. Her mother was formidable. She stood up.
“Good girl. Now go upstairs, wash your face, and change your clothes. I’ll put the dirty ones in the washtub to soak. Otherwise, you’ll never be able to get the stains out.”
When Violet came downstairs all freshened up, her mother was humming an old-fashioned tune in the kitchen, while assembling a ham and cheese sandwich on pumpernickel bread with the hot cup of tea Agnes promised earlier. She studied her mother from the doorway in silence, gradually making the connection between her tragic loss all those years ago and her current self.
“There you are. You need sustenance if you’re going to feed that baby. He’s been fussing. This sandwich will have to do. There isn’t much food in your pantry or refrigerator. I sent Agnes to get some groceries.”
“Thanks, Mama.”
“You go sit down in that armchair by the fireplace. I’ll put your plate on the end table beside you. That way you can eat and feed little William at the same time. We’re always doing at least two things simultaneously.”
Violet sank into the frayed seat cushions. She took a sip of tea, wincing at its heat and lack of sugar, and ate a meager bite of the sandwich before reaching out for her swaddled son and cradling him in her arms. As he suckled greedily, Violet’s mother busied herself. Tidying the parlor. Stoking the fire. Shooing away with harsh words anyone who had heard the news of James’s disappearance and felt the need to console Violet with their own stories of tragedy and woe.
In the months that followed, Violet heeded her mother’s advice. Though she occasionally cried silently when the baby was fast asleep in his crib and she was alone in her bed, she held her head high, kept her eyes wide open, put one foot in front of the other, and got on with it.
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