With love, thanks, and apologies to Sibyl
May 1917
Hardtack and a few bits of paper sailed out of the train windows. Sibyl reached down for a cracker that had hit her bare toe.
“Please write to me—Joseph H. Riley—Ft. Russell, Wyoming,” was pencil-scratched around and through the craters of the cracker’s surface. Trains full of soldiers, hollering and hanging out the windows, passed directly in front of the house’s front porch a couple of times a week now. Sibyl always went out the front door, smiled big and waved back. In their new brown khakis, they all looked the same, but they were funny, and she liked the attention.
At sixteen, Sibyl was the smallest and youngest student in her graduating class. Her mother had taken her to start school when she was five and was sent away, told that students couldn’t begin first grade till age six. So a few weeks later, on the November day Sibyl turned six, her mother had marched her back to the school and registered her for the second grade class, where Sibyl quickly surpassed her older brother’s academic achievements.
The last class photograph of her school career was being taken this morning. Her navy blue school uniform was crisp, and she had decided to carry her black lace-up shoes so they wouldn’t get dusty. A strip of wide yellow cotton banded the top of her wavy brown hair, ending in bows the size of her face above each ear. Her graduation picture, taken two weeks earlier, presented a much more dignified Sibyl, her long hair draped over the shoulders of her white dress, framing the bouquet of daffodils in her hands.
As the caboose blocked her view of the last car of soldiers, Sibyl gathered a dozen crackers and notes off the ground, each one a plea for a lifeline to home. She slid them into her pocket, dropped Joe Riley’s cracker into the shoe dangling from her hand, pushed the slipping headband back to the top of her head, and started down the dirt road that paralleled the tracks. She would be late for school.
————
“What’s that?” Minnie whispered as Sibyl dumped the hardtack out of her shoe and set it on her desk.
“A soldier threw it at me. I’ll show you later. I’ve got more in my pocket, so you can….”
From the front of the room, Miss Sullivan, who had been discussing the plan for today’s class photo, asked the two girls whether they had something they wanted to share with the rest of the class. Sibyl grinned covertly at Minnie and bent to finish lacing up her shoe, foot braced on the top of the box under her desk that kept her feet from dangling. The box was an unwanted reminder of her small stature, and a constant source of embarrassment, but she was given no choice about using it. The yellow headband slid down to her eyebrows, and her brother, Raymond, two desks behind, snorted.
“There seems to be quite a bit of hilarity happening in the back of the room.” Miss Sullivan glided through the rows of desks, stopping in front of Minnie. Then, her head swiveling like an owl’s, she pinned Sibyl with a glare. “Miss Jones, please tell me why you are late this morning.”
“I…I just got distracted by the military train, ma’am. I’m sorry.” Sibyl’s hand casually reached to cover the cracker on her desk.
“Since you seem to have so much to say this morning, let’s put that to use, shall we? Please stand and recite yesterday’s poetry assignment. Without notes.”
“Oh! A…All of it, ma’am?” Miss Sullivan’s glare deepened. “Yes, ma’am,” Sibyl mumbled. As she stood, her hand still hiding the cracker, the rest of the classroom reacted with derision. It was a very long poem.
“Prelude to The Vision of Sir Launfal, by James Russell Lowell. Over his keys the musing organist, beginning doubtfully and far away….”
Derision turned to dismay when it became clear that Sibyl had learned the whole poem overnight and the students were stuck for the duration, without further entertainment at her expense.
——–
Avoiding the center of town, Sibyl and Minnie walked the back road home to the railway section house, their fancy hair trimmings crumpled in sweaty hands. Louisville was a small Colorado coal mining town about twenty-five miles from Denver, but neither of their fathers were miners. Both worked for the railroad, maintaining the rails and the switch lamps.
“Here, you can take all of these. I’ll keep these three,” Sibyl offered. “But you have to promise to write to them. It’s our patriotic duty.”
“My mother will have fits if she finds out I’m writing to men!”
“Well…let’s pretend to be someone else. Then if your mother finds out, you can tell her the men don’t even know your real name. I’ll be…my character from the school play! Kitty Mason.”
“Okay, then I’m…oh, I know! I love the name Eloise.” Minnie pronounced the name as “E-Lois”. “Eloise McNeill.”
“Well, it’s for sure that no one would be expecting E-Lois McNeill to be part of your Italian family,” Sibyl said with a grin. They had reached Sibyl’s front door. “See you tomorrow. Bring your first letters, and we’ll get Raymond to mail them for us.”
Sibyl lived in an ugly, drab-colored house, with two bedrooms upstairs, reached by a steep, narrow staircase beginning right by the front door. Her room was on the left, and her three brothers shared the other. Her mother’s bed stood in one corner of the downstairs “living room”, and a heating stove occupied the other. On the far side of the staircase was a small bedroom officially belonging to Sibyl’s Papa, but he was rarely there. On paydays, he would disappear, sometimes for weeks. She’d once heard her mother tell a friend that when he got money, he would hitch a train to someplace where he could gamble and drink without having to hear his wife complain. He seemed to find rail work wherever he landed, and once in a while, he’d remember to send money home. Sometimes Sibyl wondered if their lives would be much different if he died on a stretch of track somewhere.
Sibyl checked downstairs and out the back for her Mama. Their neighbor had consumption and hired Sibyl’s mother to help her with food and shopping, so she was often next door when Sibyl got home. That arrangement and the laundry and sewing her Mama took in kept them fed, though pickings at the table were often meager.
Climbing the stairs, Sibyl found she was home alone, and with a satisfied grin, she closed her bedroom door, dumped her books on the bed, pulled the secreted hardtack out of her pocket, and sat down to write a letter to Joseph H. Riley, Ft. Russell, Wyoming.
——–
Dear Mr. Riley,
My name is Kitty Mason. I live in Louisville, Colorado. As your military train was passing my house, your address fell at my feet, written on the back of a very hard cracker!
I hope your train trip was a fine one, and that you will like Wyoming.
I live with my mother and three brothers, and I will be graduating from school in two weeks. I’m not sure what happens after that, though I would like to be a teacher. I have had teachers whom I very much admired, and I think I might enjoy becoming some other young student’s inspiration, as they have done for me.
I am very good at memorizing poetry, which I love, and I also like writing poetry, so here is one I have written for you.
I stand by the tracks as the train races past
And the young men go off to war.
From safe homes in the States, from our mountains and lakes,
I know they are travelling far.
Though I don’t know for sure which young men will endure
And which ones will be coming back,
I’ll write letters to those who throw notes at my toes
On the back of their dry hardtack.
Respectfully yours,
Kitty Mason
———
The dust rose into the soft, warm air as the girls kicked the rocks down the dirt road home from school.
“I got a second letter,” said Minnie.
“Me, too.” Sibyl focused on aiming a rock for maximum distance.
“This second fellow is much chattier than the first. He told me all about his family in Kansas—he has lots of brothers and sisters—and about his friend at boot camp and how they were buddies at school and signed on together and then got lucky enough to be bunkmates.” Minnie kicked a rock into the thistles. “He sounds like a lot more fun than the first one who wrote me. He was all stiff and ‘Miss so-and-so’ and ‘Mr. such-and-such said.’ But I know, it’s my patriotic duty, so I’ll keep writing to the first boy, too, at least for a while.”
“I like the boy I’m writing to. He seems nice. Oh, and he’s from Kansas, too.”
“So you haven’t heard back from the others? That seems funny, after they were practically begging someone to write to them.”
“Well, I actually only wrote to one.” Sibyl paused, looking up under her eyebrows, as Minnie planted her feet in the dust with her fists on her hips.
“What? After all that talk about patriotic duty?”
“I don’t know why. It just felt right. It was the one that hit my toe, and I just … threw all my creativity into that one and then didn’t feel like writing anyone else that day, and … that’s just what happened.”
“So you’re telling me that you just got a second letter from the same soldier? Meaning you’ve also already sent a second letter to the same soldier?”
“Yes. Sorry I didn’t tell you before.”
———
Dear Mr. Riley,
Thank you for the photograph and for telling me what boot camp is like. It must be quite challenging, but at least you have your friend Harry to keep things lively. He sounds like the kind of young man who could be always getting into some kind of trouble. I hope he doesn’t get you into any!
When you write that Fort Russell is a cavalry base, I picture “The Charge of the Light Brigade”. If you are sent overseas, will your battalion ride horses into battle?
The first contingent of boys from here in Louisville left town yesterday for training camp. The entire high school was briefly dismissed to give them a royal send-off. It was quite a ceremony, which included marching with them to the railroad station. On the way back afterward, apparently fired with patriotic zeal inspired by the occasion, my older brother Raymond drew up his own “regiment”, issuing military commands to which the group cheerfully submitted. The whole rebel group disregarded our spluttering teacher and set off briskly toward school behind Raymond, who took them back by a completely different route than the rest of us followed. The teacher was truly furious, even though they got back at the same time we did. I suspect she wanted to discipline Raymond, but some of the other teachers who thought it was pretty funny may have saved him from that fate.
Two days from now, I’ll be finished with school, and then I will be starting a whole new kind of life.
Unfortunately, teaching college is out. The tuition and housing are too expensive. I’ve been imagining for years what a kind and encouraging teacher I would be. My students would do what I asked because they loved me and respected my position, and I would teach them to love poetry, like I do. So I’m feeling sad about not being able to follow that dream. My mother has suggested I learn shorthand and typing, because there’s plenty of work for girls who have those skills.
Since I’ll never be an English teacher, you will have to bear the brunt of my frustrated desire to write poetry.
A summer breeze blows past my ear
And whispers, “Can you hear me, dear?
“The creek is cold and crisp and clear
And calling for you to come near.”
My shoes come off, their own accord,
My work can wait, it makes me bored.
I grab the hopes and dreams I’ve stored
And boldly up the creek I ford.
I don’t have a photograph I can send to you right now, but I’ve got wavy dark brown hair that I wear pulled back because I hate having it tickle my face. Some people might say I’m on the short side, but my personality more than makes up for my lack of stature. My favorite color is blue, and my best friend Minnie also has a couple of soldier pen-pals. I’ll get their names in case you know them.
Write back.
Sincerely,
Kitty Mason
———
“Joe Riley?” Minnie gaped at Sibyl. “You mean that with all those soldiers’ addresses, you and I ended up writing to best friends? You’ve got to be kidding! And you told him we are best friends, too?”
“Well, I’m writing to Joe Riley, and he said his bunkmate Harry got a picture from a girl named Eloise who lives in my town, and I figure that’s you. It didn’t make sense to not tell him.” Sibyl squinted her eyes, accusingly. “And I thought you were scared he would find out who you really are and your mother would be furious, and yet you sent him a photograph!”
“Well…he’d sent me his, and it didn’t seem right not to reciprocate, and I didn’t think my mother would ever know, and now you tell me they’re planning to get leave to come visit Louisville! What are we going to do? We don’t really know anything about what kind of men they are. What are people going to say if soldiers show up here asking for us?”
Sibyl squinted her eyes in thought. “What if we write and ask them not to wear their uniforms?”
——-
Dear Joe,
I am writing to apologize to both you and Mr. Shipley for my ignorance and my stupidity. It just seemed as though, if you arrived in civilian clothing, the town gossips would be less likely to condemn me and Eloise as bold or wanton women.
Our town is very small…just a single main street with a few blacksmiths, a grocery, and one hardware and furniture store. Oh, and a dozen or so saloons mixed in up and down both sides of Front Street. When the men are in the mines or saloons, their wives look for scandals they can talk about. Eloise and I didn’t want to provide them with fodder, and we hoped that a couple of young gentlemen in street clothing would incite less curiosity than a couple of visiting soldiers.
Of course we respect your U.S.A. uniform. We are proud of our soldiers, and grateful for your dedication to protecting our country. We meant no disrespect, and we would be glad to be seen in the company of patriots who are keeping our country safe. You two, especially.
I know you’re very angry, and again, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to insult you or your uniforms, and we — I — hope we can still be friends. Please write back.
Sincerely,
Kitty
P.S. I’m sending this to your new Texas address. I hope it reaches you. I’m sorry you didn’t get leave to visit us before your transfer. (I really am.)
P.P.S. Have you heard yet when you’re being sent to Europe?
——-
August, 1917
Sibyl’s mother had arranged for her to attend a business college in Denver, to be trained as a stenographer. Together, they traveled by bus to arrive in the city for Sibyl’s first school day, and while Sibyl attended her classes, Mama scouted out a trustworthy boarding arrangement.
Away from home for the first time, at the ripe old age of just over sixteen, Sibyl found herself to be again the youngest in the school. Her older fellow students were a revelation. There were society girls, fooling around with a business course more to have something to do than because they expected to learn anything. They came as they pleased, and stayed away when the impulse hit them, or when some society function was more inviting. There were also the older women—those unfortunately and unexpectedly widowed, some with children to support—brushing up on almost forgotten shorthand or typing skills, in hope of getting a position. And there were the other girls, just out of school, willing to learn, providing it didn’t involve too much concentration or study and allowed for a maximum of excitement, fun and companionship. Sibyl took the training more seriously than most, with the financial state of her family always in her mind.
Mama had settled on a top-floor light-housekeeping room in a big graystone house, run by the efficient Mrs. Blyly. After school the first day, Sibyl introduced her mother to two of the girls from the school who had proposed saving money by sharing a room, and Mama, agreeing to the arrangement, headed back to Louisville knowing Sibyl was as safe as her Mama could make her.
Margaret, three days younger than Sibyl, and Linnie, two years older, pulled straws to share a squeaky double bed. In a small alcove, a cooler built into the wall with vents to let in cold outside air and a two-burner gas plate on a rickety wooden table made up the kitchen. In a similar alcove opposite the kitchen was a clothes closet, with a tiny gingerbread window that didn’t open and a rod that was used to hang their few dresses. Sibyl slept under the dresses, on a narrow wooden bunk with her head pressed against one wall and her feet firmly planted against the other. A thin pad with a single folded sheet and two threadbare blankets were her protection against cold air from above and splinters from below. A battered easy chair with a vindictive spring known for attacking one’s rear unexpectedly and a couple of ancient straight chairs completed the room’s furnishings.
The saving grace of the room was a large bay window, with a window seat and a view of the avenue below. For Sibyl, buoyed by the heady wine of independence, that was enough.
Margaret was short, like Sibyl, and a little chubby, with red hair long enough for her to sit on when it wasn’t confined to a bun. Like Minnie from home, she was always up for fun adventures, and she and Sibyl quickly became fast friends.
——-
Dear Joe,
I must tell you an embarrassing truth. Kitty Mason isn’t my real name.
When I first wrote to you, I was a little afraid of my mother discovering that I was writing to a stranger. Well, a strange man. Eloise (which isn’t her real name, either, but please let her be the one to tell Harry that, when she’s ready) and I came up with the strategy of using pseudonyms, so that if our mothers found out about our letters, we could say the letters were harmless fun because you didn’t even know who we really are.
Now that I’m living in Denver, it will probably be best for you to start addressing envelopes with my real name, so that your letters don’t go astray.
Living away from home is an interesting adventure. I have two roommates, both students at the business school with me. Margaret is great. We enjoy going places together, and I’ve told her all about you. My other roommate, Linnie, is a bit of a problem. She always looks perfect, as though she’s just been coifed by a lady’s maid, but the real truth is that she drops her clothing and other belongings wherever she happens to be, doesn’t shower or wash her clothes often enough, and waits for us to clean up her dirty dishes or take out the trash, even when she’s supposed to be the one to do it!
Last week was her turn to take the trash down the three flights of stairs, and we decided not to do it for her this time. After five days of old food and trash in our bin, the room smelled so bad that Margaret and I were having trouble concentrating on our homework, but Linnie didn’t even seem to notice, or to ask why no one had taken it out! Yesterday, the smell must have started to permeate the rest of the building because the landlady suddenly burst into the room, scowled at us, grabbed the trash and slammed the door on her way out. Margaret and I were mortified, but Linnie just said, “What got into her?”
I know we just got here, but Margaret and I have asked the landlady, Mrs. Blyly, to let us know if a room opens up for just the two of us. She seems sympathetic to our plight.
Here’s a limerick for you.
Some think that my roommate is purty.
She goes through her life acting flirty.
She may seem real sweet, her smile is a treat,
But beneath all that charm, she’s darn dirty!
Cordially,
Kitty
also known as
Sibyl Jones
——-
November, 1917
Living in the same boarding house was a young man named Sammy. Blonde, kind, gentlemanly, and several years older, he began escorting Sibyl to the pictures, the theater, and the park. Though she enjoyed his company very much, Sibyl thought of him as a friend, not a beau. On a weekend trip home, though, she was unable to resist bragging about her new social life and described him to her Louisville school friends as her boyfriend. In her description, this nice-looking but unremarkable person became the most charming and handsome of men. Minnie and the others were obligingly envious.
Two of her school friends came by the house the day before Sibyl’s return to school, excited to announce that a touring Broadway show with Helen Hayes had come to Denver, and they’d decided to go see it. Sibyl agreed to join the adventure, and the next morning, the other girls joined Sibyl on the twenty-five-mile bus ride back to Denver. Changing to a streetcar when they reached the city, Sibyl, encumbered by two suitcases of now-clean laundry, looked for seats toward the back—and found Sammy. She saw in that moment what she knew her friends would see—not the handsome Adonis she’d depicted, but a tall, skinny, pasty-faced person with funny eyebrows. As Sibyl was deciding whether she could avoid having to introduce him, he grinned and pushed his way toward her through the crowded bus. She mumbled a brief introduction, calling him Mr. Hayes, hoping wildly that her friends would not connect his name with the Sammy she’d raved about a couple of days before. The girls looked at each other, suppressed amusement visible in their eyes, and Sibyl knew they’d realized who he was.
The group got off the bus together, and the two girls went off to find the theater and buy tickets. Sibyl and Sammy turned the other direction, toward the rooming house, so she could dispose of her luggage before joining her friends. Gallantly, Sammy picked up both of the very heavy suitcases as they started up the hill. Sibyl never even looked up at him.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” he asked.
Sibyl’s reply was clipped and cold. “It was fine.”
“Did you visit some friends or do anything fun?”
“No.”
“Um…. Would you like to go to the cinema tonight?”
“No.”
Sammy subsided into confused silence, and reaching the house, hefted her luggage up the three flights of stairs to her room. Sibyl knew she was irrationally angry at an innocent person who had no idea what had just happened, but her chagrin was too thick to wade through at that moment. She thanked him abruptly, shut the door, and listened at the door in a state of agitation for him to walk away to his own room. When all was quiet, she slipped out the door and dashed down the stairs to the theater.
When she arrived, the show had already started and her friends were nowhere in sight. Sibyl hurried over to the ticket window to ask if they’d left her ticket there.
“No, I’m sorry,” said a bored clerk. “But there were a couple of girls who bought tickets and then turned one back in, saying their friend must have found something better to do. Is that you?”
Dismayed and demoralized, Sibyl didn’t bother to answer. She made the endless walk back to her room alone, hoping to avoid Sammy, at all costs. She was angry at her friends for ditching her, embarrassed by having been caught lying about her handsome boyfriend, and ashamed of the way she’d treated Sammy. She scarcely got the door closed before dissolving into a wash of tears.
The next day, feeling guilty and contrite, Sibyl tried to be extra nice to Sammy. He’d been so at a loss as to why she was unhappy, didn’t know what he’d done wrong, and seemed a little afraid when she approached him. Sibyl suggested a walk to the park, and without revealing her social faux pas about him, she told the sad story of the theater tickets and the Helen Hayes show she’d so wanted to see.
“Well, let’s go!” Sammy exclaimed.
“Where?” asked Sibyl still looking down at her dragging toes.
“I’ll take you to see the show!” He beamed at her. “I’ll get tickets, and we’ll go together this evening! No sense in giving up!”
Sibyl’s eyes slowly rose to meet his, and she smiled at him. He really was a good friend, and she vowed to be a nicer person from that moment on.
——-
Dear Joe,
Maybe it’s silly of me, but I’m glad you’re still addressing me as Kitty. I feel as though I am Kitty when I’m writing to you.
The weather here has turned cold enough for City Park Lake to freeze over. Margaret and I have been ice skating!
Margaret is quite a good skater, but I had never even tried on a pair of ice skates before yesterday. At first, I thought not knowing how to skate was a tragic handicap, but there seemed to always be some young gentleman willing to help me stand up on those tricky blades.
We made lots of new friends who walked us home and then stayed to warm up. One of the fellows is an actor, who has invited me to come watch them shoot a film! It was a grand afternoon. I wish you could have joined us! Although maybe there’s not much opportunity for ice skating in Kansas? If that’s true, then you and I would have both spent most of the afternoon in various non-vertical positions. It would have been worth a good laugh.
If you do skate, maybe someday you can show me how. With so many helpers, I never did learn to skate solo yesterday.
I saw my friend Minnie (Eloise) last week when I made my usual weekend trip home, and she says she’s still writing to your friend, Harry. It sounds like she finally told him her real name. I think it’s quite remarkable that my best friend from home is still corresponding with your best friend from home, and it all happened by coincidence.
Minnie and I had a long conversation about what it must be like for you and Harry, working to resolve the revolution in Mexico while wishing you were helping on the European Front. We concluded that Texas might be a safer place to be, but we understand your feelings about the urgency of the war in Europe. From what you’ve told me about how many troops are being mobilized from Fort Bliss, I can’t help but think you will be fighting overseas soon.
My birthday is November tenth, so while I was home last weekend, my mother threw a surprise birthday party for me. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out quite right. Minnie and another friend from school were at my house, just sort of sitting around for the longest time without seeming to know what to say. My mama was acting very odd, and then she suddenly blurted out that there was supposed to have been a surprise party, but it looked like no guests were coming! Just as I was feeling very let down, and the four of us were looking at each other wondering what to do, a crowd of my friends showed up at the door and yelled, “SURPRISE!” By that point, it really was a surprise for those of us already in the house. They didn’t explain their tardiness, but it didn’t matter. It was really fun to see everyone.
When is your birthday?
Warmly,
Sibyl
“Kitty”
P.S. I told Margaret about you and your buddies, and she asked me to “introduce” her to you, and to ask if you have a friend who might like to receive letters from her. She’s a bit jealous of our friendship, I think!
——-
January, 1918
Before going home for Christmas, Margaret and Sibyl made a deal with Mrs. Blyly, the landlady, for them to move into a room down the hall from the one they shared with Linnie. It was much smaller, but it would be theirs alone on the first of the year. They said nothing to Linnie about this arrangement, because they were worried that she would make some sort of fuss that would prevent them moving out and away from her mess.
On January 1st, Sibyl walked in the door to find Margaret seated at the bottom of the rooming house stairs, red-faced and scowling.
“Do you know what she’s done? Our ‘friend’ the landlady gave our new room to Linnie!”
Sibyl’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“I got back a little bit ago and went up to the room Mrs. Blyly promised us, and Linnie was there unpacking her suitcase into the bureau. I didn’t even know what to say! I just stared at her. Then she smiled at me ever so sweetly and said, ‘This is my room, if you don’t mind’. When I finally got my voice back, I tried to tell her that Mrs. Blyly had promised us the room, but Linnie told me Mrs. Blyly had accepted her payment for next month’s rent, so the room is officially hers.”
“Should I go talk to her?” Sibyl was starting to feel a little hot under the collar.
“It’s no use. We’ve been double-crossed, and that’s that. And now we’re about to be late for school, and we’ve both got suitcases and no room to put them in.”
In desperation, they stashed their suitcases in a closet off the hallway, just till they could figure out a plan, and rushed to school.
By the end of the school day, they’d decided that if Mrs. Blyly was so partial to Linnie that she would stab them in the back, they didn’t want to live in her old house anyway. They retrieved their suitcases, turned their backs on their first big-city apartment without even speaking to their landlady and set out to find a new place to live. Not until they’d lugged their suitcases several lengthy blocks did they consider that it might have been wiser to leave the suitcases hidden at Mrs. Blyly’s until after they’d found their new lodgings. Nor did they talk to their mothers or take the time to consider this an opportunity to move closer to the school.
They found a “Room for Rent” sign a few blocks down, and rang the bell. A small, wizened lady answered the door.
Sibyl piped up. “May we see the room? And is it light housekeeping? And can you please tell us the rent?”
The woman looked hard at them. “That’s a lot of questions. Who sent you?”
“Who…? No one sent us. We saw your sign. May we see the room?”
“The Priests at the Rectory didn’t send you?”
Margaret blustered, “No, ma’am. We really just liked the looks of your house. We are students at the business college, and our homes are in nearby towns, but we need a place to live while we’re here at the school.”
“Hmph.” A long pause ensued. “Well come in, then. You can see the room.”
She conducted the girls past a pleasant sitting room and a dining room with a long table, then upstairs to a lovely, bright room. There were clean curtains on the window, and the furniture seemed sturdy and true. There was a four-poster double bed, and even a small desk for studying. And the bathroom was directly across the hall. Everything about it was better than where they’d been, and she named a price that seemed fair, for two of them.
Then with another look around and a dismayed gasp, Sibyl yelped, “Where are the cooking facilities?”
The landlady snorted as though she’d suggested something horrible. “Nobody cooks in my rooms, young lady!”
Sibyl and Margaret looked at her, stumped.
“This is a boarding house! I serve my roomers two meals a day. Extra, of course.”
Crestfallen, the girls looked at each other, then at her.
“Well,” said Sibyl, “We can’t possibly afford to pay board, I’m afraid, so…”
They began to move toward the door.
In her tight, crisp voice, the landlady said, “If you wish to rent the room, you may have kitchen privileges.” The girls looked at her, clueless. She huffed, “You may cook on my stove at such times as I am not using it, and eat your meals in the dining room after my other lodgers have finished.”
“For the same price?” asked Margaret, eagerly.
“Yes,” she said, “Providing you do not make a mess in my kitchen.”
——-
Dear Joe,
Margaret and I moved to a new place two weeks ago. That wasn’t our plan, but it’s a much nicer place than where we were, and Linnie has been left behind to clean up her own messes.
The room here is clean, and the people seem nice, but they’re kind of nosey. They seem to watch whatever we do, and when we’ve been out, they sometimes comment about it in ways that seem rude. I’ve no idea why.
We love our apartment, but sometimes I think the landlady dislikes us. Well, me, especially. I can’t imagine what I’ve done to offend her. She almost seems suspicious of me. I’m trying to be extra nice and keep her kitchen extra clean. Maybe that will help.
Please send letters to the new address below.
I’m sorry to hear you still haven’t heard anything about being deployed to the Western Front. My older brother, Raymond, was also moved from place to place “stateside” before they transferred him to his final training in Oklahoma for the Balloon Corps. He was there for some time before he was sent overseas. I’m sure they haven’t trained you on the enormous cannon you’ve described only to keep you in Texas!
By the way, Margaret is very much enjoying her correspondence with your friend, Frank. Or maybe you’re not friends, exactly, and you’re just in the same battalion? Either way, they both seem to be having fun writing letters. Thank you for introducing them.
I’ll write more later, but here’s a quick poem:
I’d like to find a lovely little room where I could stay
Above the crowded streets to watch the sun rise up each day.
There wouldn’t be the need for cooking, cleaning, or a key,
Because it would be safe and all my needs met magically.
I’d like to think there wasn’t even rent I’d have to pay,
But that would be my mother’s, and from her I’ve moved away.
Affectionately,
Kitty
P.S. Here’s a photograph of me and Margaret. I’m the one on the left.
——-
Edgar, the actor Sibyl had met on her skating adventure, stayed true to his word and came calling one Saturday afternoon to take her to see the movie set he was working on. He and his father were both playing bit parts in the movie.
The sets, actors, make-up, camera man and director all lived up to her expectations. That first day, the company was shooting a western, and after Edgar did a few shots with a lasso from atop a beautiful brown horse, he slipped aside to show Sibyl around.
“Come see the dance hall,” he said, flush-faced. He threaded her arm through his own and escorted her away from the horses and over to the buildings that had been set up for the shoot.
Sibyl squeezed his arm in delight when they crossed the threshold of the “bar”. “Oh, those are the bad guys! I’d know them anywhere!” Rough-looking miners, unmistakable gamblers, and girls in dance-hall finery stood around talking while waiting for the director to call their scene.
“And see that balcony?” Edgar grinned. “It looks sturdy, but it’s made to break away when someone falls against it. The railing on that staircase is the same. There’s a scene with a big fight, and those will all get broken. We’re shooting that next, so you’ll get to see.”
Sibyl very much wanted the director to notice her and ask her to be in a scene or two, but the closest she got was an introduction as “Ed’s little girl friend” when the director called a halt for lunch and everyone gathered in the lunchroom across the street.
The dance hall scene didn’t disappoint, and as Edgar escorted her home at the end of the day, only a sense of decorum kept Sibyl from skipping.
“Oh, Edgar, that was so much fun! It must be wonderful to be out there, in front of the cameras, pretending to be someone else. You looked as though dancing with those girls was the most fun anyone has ever had.”
“I’m playing a part right now down at the theater, too. My dad and I are both in the play. Would you like to come? I can get you a free ticket!”
“Oh, I’d love that. But if you’re onstage…well, I wonder if I might bring a friend to watch with me.”
“Sure! I’ll get you free tickets every week, if you’ll come!”
“I accept, on behalf of myself and my roommate, Margaret. And thank you very much for the offer.”
For several weeks, Sibyl and Margaret felt quite privileged to be able to attend performances they couldn’t otherwise have been able to afford. Edgar took them backstage to see the sets and meet the cast, and he never failed to include a box of chocolates for Sibyl at intermission, or to take them out for a soda after the show.
A little star-struck and flattered by the gentlemanly attention and the unfailing courtesy, Sibyl found herself very much enjoying Edgar’s company. Margaret started leaving them at the bottom of the front stairs after the walk home.
One night, Sibyl found Margaret waiting with a cocked eyebrow, as she came through the door, bubbling.
“Oh, my, I’m having so much fun! Margaret, maybe I should join the theater company. I know I could do at least as well as some of those girls, if not better!”
Eyebrow still cocked, Margaret sat silent.
“What’s the matter? Are you all right?” Sibyl sat, subdued.
“I was waiting outside the theater for you and Edgar, when his dad went by with someone from the backstage crew. They were talking about Edgar, and you, and guess what.”
“Were they saying something bad? About me?”
“No. Do you know how old Edgar is?”
“Well, I haven’t asked him, but I assume he’s our age. Or maybe eighteen?”
“He’s fifteen, Sibyl!”
“Oh, no.” She waited for her breath to return. “Oh, I wish you hadn’t heard that.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe he seems nicer than some of the other men we’ve met because he’s too young to have learned to be a scoundrel. Does this mean we should stop going to the theater?”
“He’s your ‘beau’. You decide. Maybe we can still go, but keep the thank yous from getting too…personal? Or maybe we should dampen our enthusiasm by sometimes having other engagements. I don’t know. I’m sorry, Sibyl. I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Thank you. I suppose. I wonder how old he thinks we are! Oh, Margaret, what would Mama say if she found out I’m being courted by someone two years my junior! Please don’t tell her. I’ll figure something out about how to handle things, but I enjoy his company very much, so I may drag my heels about it, just a little bit.”
——-
March, 1918
Dear Joe,
I’m writing to you from yet another new address. Do you think I’m becoming a vagabond?
After several weeks of feeling uncomfortable, despite the lovely room, I finally found out what had been going on. One of the roomers there—a young man who pretended to be my friend but I think felt I had spurned his attentions—had started a whispering campaign of lies about me. I don’t know that he actually said anything definite, but we learned that it was his innuendos about my dating a whole battalion of different men that were causing smirks and lifted eyebrows amongst the other roomers. No wonder the landlady was looking at me with dislike and suspicion!
I was hurt, of course, but Margaret was so angry she was ready to spit cats. She gave the fellow a real talking to, but the damage had been done. The landlady told us that when our rent was up, she would be needing the room.
We have now moved only a few houses away. Leaving the last place in such a hurry meant we couldn’t be too choosy. We are in an odd little house, with the bathroom far away down the hall again, and a two-burner gas plate. (That part is good. We were getting tired of sneaking into the kitchen to cook at odd hours.) There’s no ice box, and the landlady suggested we keep things cool by putting them on the windowsill. It smells a little funny here (maybe because everyone has food on their windowsill), and the furniture and curtains are kind of ragged.
When the landlady showed us the room, she said the oddest thing. “You come and go as you please, understand? I never interfere with my roomers, never! You can do anything you want to. Anything!” I suppose that means we won’t run into the kind of condemnation we did in our last place (undeserved as it was), but her statement was so emphatic that we barely could get the door shut in time to hide our giggles.
There’s a girl next door who throws a lot of parties. She has invited me and Margaret, but each time so far, we’ve told her we had to study for tests. We often hear her through our wall, too, when she and her husband are laughing or saying things we can’t quite hear. No, we’re not eavesdropping—the walls here are very thin!
She’s very friendly, and brings us food sometimes from the place where she waitresses. Her name is Tiny, probably because she’s just a little slip of a thing, with one of those new short, curly hair dos.
We’ve never seen her husband, only heard him. She gave me kind of a funny look when I asked about him, but she just said he’s mostly only around on weekend nights.
Anyway, until further notice, please send your letters to this slightly newer address.
Always,
Kitty
——-
April, 1918
When Sibyl’s Mama arrived at the apartment door with a red face and hands on hips, the girls knew they were in a stewpot of trouble. Mama had settled Sibyl into Mrs. Blyly’s place with the feeling that she was leaving them in a safe spot. Her response to their move to the second apartment had been explosive, despite Sibyl’s authoritative pronouncement that it was better and cleaner. Now here they were, one further step from Mrs. Blyly’s, in a fleabag room, with neighbors of dubious vocations and recreational pastimes.
After the first letter home explaining the move, Sibyl had become reluctant to tell her mother anything more about their new rooming house. She couldn’t actually explain some of the things she saw and heard. But she still felt grown up and fully capable of taking care of herself.
Mama, reading between the lines of her letter, had come to the conclusion that things would be better if she were to move into Denver and set up housekeeping. After all, Sibyl would soon be done at school and was likely to secure a position in Denver, and if she were to be there permanently, it would be foolish for her mother to continue to live thirty miles away in the small town of Louisville.
Sibyl was chagrined. It would be nice to be fed the excellent meals her mother could cook, and for her clothes to get clean without having to carry them thirty miles on a bus. On the other hand, there went the precious freedom and independence to which she’d become accustomed. Her ability to come and go as she pleased and date whomever she pleased without having to ask permission was all going to end.
Mama rented the top two floors of an apartment building. The lower of these contained a piano, a couch and various chairs, a kitchen, a bathroom, and three bedrooms, two of which housed roomers whose rent would help keep the bills paid. The upper floor consisted of three partially-furnished bedrooms that could also be rented out. Margaret and Sibyl were assigned the front bedroom on the top floor, regretfully trading their independence for stability and home-cooked meals.
——-
Dear Joe,
I’ve got a job! I applied at the Denver Rubber Company only a few days after I finished my classes, and I was hired right away! My boss is a fat, grumpy-looking man who always has a chewed-up cigar stub in his mouth. I can’t understand a word he says to me because the cigar is in the way!
The other employees seem nice enough. I don’t know a thing about rubber, of course, but I’m just here to type letters, so I suppose that will be all right.
All the classes have finally paid off. They are paying me $45 every week!
Margaret got a job right away, too. We both feel very lucky, and my Mama is pleased that I am able to help pay for the apartment and our groceries.
I suppose this “officially” makes me an adult. What do you think?
Yours,
Kitty
P.S. The incident in the mess hall with the mashed potatoes and chipped beef was very funny to read about, but for Harry to say it was YOU is unconscionable! I’m sorry to hear you got disciplined for that (though perhaps your part did make the prank a bit more interesting), and I’ll help you with ideas for retaliation, if you want. How about hiding a smelly sardine under his bed where he won’t be able to find it?
——-
June, 1918
“Oh! Margaret! He’s coming for a visit!” Sibyl blanched and accidentally crumpled the letter in her fist.
“What? Who?”
“JOE. He’s getting a furlough. He’s going home to Kansas but he’s stopping here to see me on his way.” Sibyl’s eyes skimmed unseeingly around the room. “I only know him from his letters. I mean his photos show he’s nice looking, and he looks friendly, but what do I really know? Now I’m really glad Mama moved to Denver. Otherwise, where would he stay? Where would we have met him? And I do mean ‘we’. You have to promise to stick by me, so that if I don’t want to be alone with him, I won’t have to be!”
“Oh, Sibyl, I promise, but really! This is wonderful news. It will be fun!”
A few days later, Joe stepped off the train in Denver, the handsome, uniformed, dark-haired young man from his pictures, but with a liveliness of expression the camera had not been able to capture. He carried a large bag in one hand, and his hat in the other. Sibyl saw him immediately and knew she mirrored the uncertainty she saw on his face. She grabbed Margaret’s arm for support and hauled her forward around the knots of happy reunions. With her eyes locked on Joe so as not to lose him in the crowd, she saw him relax when he spotted her moving his direction.
“Joseph H. Riley. I’m Sibyl Jones.” She thrust her hand out for a shake, feeling like a young child trying to act all grown up.
Joe took her hand and bowed slightly. “Miss Jones. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m looking for a young lady named Kitty Mason. I wonder if you know her and might point me in her direction?” He raised his eyes to hers, with a twinkle.
The knot in Sibyl’s stomach melted away, and without missing a beat, she said coolly, “Miss Mason is unable to be here, due to a string of engagements with charming young men, and she sent me and my friend Margaret to meet you in her stead. She is making an effort to open a slot on her dance card to meet you. Mr. Riley, this is Margaret Evans.”
“Miss Evans, I’m pleased to meet you.” Joe shook her hand and winked.
“Our rooms are not far from here,” said Sibyl, a little shyly. “We have a guestroom ready for you, of course. My mother is looking forward to meeting you, and I think she’s baked cookies. Do you need help carrying anything?”
“No, this is all,” said Joe. He planted his hat back on his head and, still awkward, the trio made its way to the streetcar. On the ride, the conversation turned to a report on Joe’s trip, the weather, and the places the girls wanted to show him in Denver. By the time they reached the rooming house, they’d found enough common ground to enter the apartment as friends.
——-
Sibyl and Margaret had both asked for a few days off from work, explaining that they were responsible for hosting a soldier visiting from “the front”. They had decided in advance that was the phrase they would use to make it sound like a patriotic obligation, and that they wouldn’t mention exactly which front, or how they knew this “poor soldier”.
That freed up the week for visits to the movie theater, the ice cream parlor, and the park, making a game of window shopping on the way to each destination. Margaret, true to her promise, was present on every expedition, and by week’s end, Sibyl found herself regretting having extracted that promise. After every day’s adventure, Joe and Sibyl sat up talking long after everyone else in the house had gone to bed, telling stories about bratty siblings, family outings, school pranks and friendships, and Joe’s hopes for travelling abroad. On his last evening with them, the girls invited friends over for a dinner that ended with singing around the piano, while Margaret played. Margaret’s piano skills were limited, and the efforts at music devolved into boisterous laughter.
Late that last night, alone together on the couch, Sibyl found herself feeling shy once again and sat looking at her hands in her lap. Joe watched her, noticing the errant curls straying from their restrictive bun, the tight lines of distress around her eyes, and the feet that didn’t quite reach the floor.
“I wish you didn’t have to go so soon,” Sibyl finally murmured. “This week has been lovely.” She looked up at him. “I’m so glad you decided to come.”
“I am, too.” He smiled gently at her. “If I had a few more days, I wouldn’t leave yet, but my family is expecting me. I know it’s been only a few months since I saw them, but home feels so…long ago. And I really want to go home.”
“Of course you do. Do you think you might come again some time?”
“If that’s an invitation, you can count on it.” Sibyl noticed again the spark that lit his eyes when he smiled.
“I feel as though I’ve known you a very long time,” said Sibyl. “You fit right in with my friends and my family. It’s almost as though we grew up together.” Sibyl blushed just a little. “I’m sorry, that’s a silly thing to say. It’s just such a surprise, after we met in such an unconventional way.” She paused. “And we didn’t actually meet at all, until months after we met.”
Joe laughed, dispelling her discomfort. “It’s not silly, it’s a true thing. We’ve known each other without meeting, and now we’ve met for the first time already knowing each other. It is like we’ve been friends for a long time.”
A sudden silence in the room was a palpable pressure in Sibyl’s ears.
“Yes,” she said, and looked down again. “I think we can now say we’re really friends.”
“Kitty.” Joe looked at her. “I want to come back. And I want us to be very good friends. And I want you to meet my family. And I want to spend a lot of time with you. Will that be okay?”
Her eyes rose to meet his. “Yes,” she said.
——-
September, 1918
“Here, I found a few dried peas we can use. You take these two, Margaret, and I’ll keep this one.” Sibyl peered over the edge of the windowsill. “Here comes someone. Do you want to drop it on the lady or the dog?”
Margaret studied the situation, and declared that she would aim for the dog.
“Well, okay, but I think it might be a wasted pea. Dogs expect to have things bump into them.”
“Still, that’s my decision. Here goes.” Margaret dropped the pea from the window, and the girls pulled their heads back into the room just as the pea missed both lady and dog and struck the sidewalk.
“My turn. I only have one, so I don’t want to miss.” Sibyl waited till a woman with a little boy neared their window, and dropped the pea. The boy’s hand flew to his blonde head, and he squinted upward to find the origin of the offending object. The girls scrunched down below the windowsill, muffling their laughter in the curtains.
“Oh, Margaret.” Sibyl sighed. “Do you have to go? I don’t want you to move out!”
“Mothers. What can I do? It doesn’t make sense for me to keep living here with your mother when mine has a place in town now, too. Besides, I’ll be closer to my job. And I can still come over and drop peas.”
“Speaking of which…you should find your next target. You have to hit this one, to keep up with me.”
“Okay, see that couple? I’m going to drop it into the gentleman’s hat.”
“That’s no good! He won’t even feel it!”
“Well everyone out there has hats, except that little boy you got. What do you want me to do?” Margaret waited till just before the dark grey hat reached the sidewalk below them, then let go.
The pea hit the edge of the hat’s top indentation, and slowly rolled to the center. The girls’ jaws dropped in delight, and they had to slam the window closed to contain their laughter as they watched the gentleman and his wife continue their morning constitutional, with the stowaway pea rolling slowly back and forth in its stately crevasse.
——-
Dear Joe,
Alas, my dear Margaret has moved out of our shared room to live with her family, who relocated to Denver a few weeks ago. I miss her terribly, but the other side of that coin is that I have a room all to myself for the first time since leaving Louisville.
Fortunately, she’s not too far away. We still spend time together after work. Her hours are almost the same as mine, and we meet for lunch at a small café halfway between her firm and mine to compare notes about our jobs, our bosses, and our co-workers. I think mine are an okay crew, for the most part. It sounds as though Margaret works with some real grouches.
She tells me she is still writing to your battalion-mate, Frank. (He calls her “Muggs”. How awful!) I think it’s lovely that they’re still in touch. And I know that Minnie is still writing to your friend Harry. Next time you visit, maybe you can arrange to bring the other fellows with you, and I can round up the girls, and we can have a picnic or go to a dance or something. (I suppose the three of you getting leave all at once might be tricky, but a girl can hope.)
Time for a limerick:
There once were three girls who wrote letters
To young men, all real go-getters.
The fellows were lonely,
The girls not too homely,
And when they met up, things were betters.
Okay, not my best. But embarrassment will spur me on to greater efforts.
Yours,
Kitty
——-
Dear Joe,
I’ve left the Rubber Company, because I’ve found a place I like much better. I’m working for a supply company now, and my new boss is very nice, and he doesn’t smoke!
I’m still mostly taking letters and then typing them up, but I’m also helping out in the bookkeeping department, typing up various lengthy columns of figures and such. He’s always saying such nice things about how fast and efficiently I work, which makes me want to work even harder. Sometimes I skip lunch, just to get more work done! I suppose that’s silly, but they’re paying me $75 a week, and I do want to keep the boss’s good opinion.
I hope your work isn’t too arduous, and that your Sergeant isn’t giving instructions from behind a cigar.
When you are deployed overseas, I think it may take longer for our letters to reach their destination. The letters we get from Raymond sometimes take many weeks to arrive.
Yours,
Kitty
——-
October, 1918
Dear Joe,
I wonder if they have re-stationed you. Maybe they’ve finally sent you overseas? Having not heard from you for almost two months, I’m afraid my letters are not reaching your hands. I will hope this note gets forwarded to you so that you can drop me a line to let me know your new address. I know you don’t want to miss the poem I’m going to send you!
Yours,
Kitty
——-
Dear Muggs,
I hope things are better with you than they are here. The flu has hit the camp, and many of the men are pretty sick. Joe Riley has been seriously ill for some time, and he wanted me to write you and ask you to tell Kitty. He’s getting her letters, but he can’t write back right now. Just tell her he’s thinking about her. I’m sure he is.
Sincerely,
Frank
——-
Dear Joe,
I’m so very sorry to hear you aren’t well. I’ve heard about this flu. Some of my friends in Louisville got pretty sick. Luckily, they have recovered, and I haven’t caught it yet.
Work is the same, my apartment is the same (I know that’s probably a surprise), my friends are the same. I’m sending you all my good thoughts and a wish for you to feel better soon. I’m also sending a poem.
My favorite young man has the flu.
I wish there were things I could do.
I’m worried a lot about what he’s got
And until he gets well, I’ll be blue!
And no, that’s not the poem I promised in my last letter. You’ll have to wait till you can write back to me for that one.
Love,
Kitty
P.S. I’m really very worried about you. Please write to me as soon as you are able to do so.
——-
Dear Joe,
Frank wrote to Margaret that you’re able to sit up and drink some broth. It’s too bad he could only visit you from outside the hospital window. The quarantine isn’t very easy on those of you inside, is it? It’s wonderful news, though, that you are feeling better.
Harry wrote to Minnie that your cough makes it hard for you to sit up for very long, so he must have stared at you through that window, too.
I feel very much in-the-know, as though I’m hearing the “Joe Riley news update”. Frank says that your deployment was finally scheduled but has been postponed because so many in your battalion are sick.
I’m still fine, but every time I sneeze I become frightened that it’s the first sign of flu. My mother is feeding me so much chicken soup I think I may grow feathers. I wish I could get some of it to you! It sounds as though you need the feathers more than I do.
Love,
Kitty
——-
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM, October 16, 1918
Miss Sibyl Florence Jones, 809 17th Street, Denver, Colorado
Very deeply regret to inform you that Joe Riley suffered a relapse and died last night. Got word that he was in bad shape and went to see him. Asked if there was any message he wanted to send to Kitty. He said “No, she knows what I would like to tell her.”
A good man, a good soldier, a good friend. Will miss him greatly. Bringing him home.
My heartfelt condolences.
Harry Shipley
——-
In the tiny hours of a late October morning, in a borrowed winter coat, Sibyl stepped off the train in Smith Center, Kansas and looked fearfully around to see if someone was there to meet her. The invitation to Joe’s funeral had come from his mother, and her own mother had told her it was right to go. In addition to the coat borrowed from a friend of her mother’s, she’d also been loaned a dress by the lady downstairs. Sibyl felt the dress looked too “old” for her, but she didn’t want to meet Joe’s family in clothes that were not presentable. She had had neither the time nor the money to buy something appropriate, and clothing was the least of her worries for the trip. Travelling alone to a strange place to meet strange people was a major step, and Sibyl had lost her mature self-sufficiency with the arrival of Harry’s telegram.
Two young girls about Sibyl’s age approached and introduced themselves as Harry’s sisters, and together, they went to the small, warm home of Joe’s mother and family.
“Kitty. We’re all so glad to meet you.” Joe’s mother smiled at her kindly, though her face was drawn and her eyes focused inward. “Joe wrote of you in almost every letter, especially after his visit with you in June. I wish you could have visited us for a happier reason.”
Sibyl looked into those far-away eyes and felt even more lost than she had upon her arrival. She didn’t know how to help, or what to say. She wanted her own mother’s arms at that moment.
“I wish that too, Mrs. Riley. Joe was…I wish we’d had more visits together.”
“Yes.”
The day passed in a haze of trying to find right things to say. The Shipley girls told stories about the trouble Joe and Harry got into growing up, and though the conversation was warmly nostalgic, nothing felt right for anyone in the room. They were all afraid that silence might fall.
Food and visitors came and went, and that evening, Sibyl lay in a strange bed in a strange room, overwhelmed by her sorrow and loneliness. She wished for her mother and cried herself to sleep.
The next day, Sibyl went back down to the depot with the family to meet the train on which Harry was bringing the body of Joe Riley home. Harry’s family joined the Rileys on the platform.
The train pulled into the station, and Harry came down the stairs to hug his family. His face was tear-stained and sad, and when his sister introduced him to Sibyl, he put his arms around her and just held her, as though she could fill the hole Joe’s passing had left in his life. His best friend, childhood playmate, partner in crime, bunkmate…she could feel him reaching into her for all those things she couldn’t be, couldn’t give, couldn’t even know. In that moment, Sibyl truly realized, for the first time, that she’d never see Joe again.
The funeral happened, the families wept. Sibyl, in her borrowed clothes and feeling like a family member that didn’t belong, endured. Three days later, her head full of fantastic and improbable tales of Joe and Harry, she waved farewell to two families to which she did now belong, and the train carried her home.
——-
November, 1918
The flu blew into Denver like a tornado. Sibyl’s mother was too ill to get out of bed for over a week, recovering and relapsing in short, frightening bursts. All types of gatherings and meetings were cancelled, schools closed, hospitals overloaded, doctors overworked. Face masks were the order of the day, and no one dared venture into a crowd. Sibyl returned home sobered, sad, and tired and quickly succumbed to the epidemic as November chilled the outside air. Seriously ill, her mind composed letter after letter to Private Joseph H. Riley—letters with language they’d never exchanged. The poem she’d promised to write for Joe bloomed and opened.
A missive was sent by a girl to a soldier.
His name and his station was all that she knew.
The letter sailed out to this absolute stranger.
The girl, that was me, and the soldier was you.
This girl and that soldier, so young, full of promise
Began correspondence in tentative tones
That blossomed in time to be words full of meaning
And set a new feeling deep into our bones.
We finally met, and the world was a wonder—
Much bigger and brighter than ever we knew,
We found some new colors and reasons for laughter,
Though I never said it, the colors were you.
Life took you away to the war, my dear soldier.
In so little time, life was taken from you.
I still can’t believe that the news of your dying
Without me and far away really is true.
The soldier is gone, and the girl is no longer
A child who thought every dream could come true.
My face may be young, but my heart is much older
I’ll now go through life without promise of you.
She awoke on November 10th, bedraggled and disoriented, to the sound of bells and jubilant shouting outside her window. Still sad, still weak, and uncertain about almost everything, she listened to the celebration, hazily wondering how everyone knew it was her birthday.
Her mother peeked through the door, retreated briefly, then entered carrying a beautiful white cake with one brightly burning candle.
“Honey? Sibyl. I’m so glad you’re finally awake. Happy birthday, dear one. It’s a perfect day to rejoin the living. The war is over! It’s all over.”
Sibyl smiled wanly at her. She couldn’t think of anything to wish for that could come true, but she gamely blew out the candle. “Thank you, Mama.”
Her mother set the cake down and pulled a knife out of her apron pocket.
“Mama? I’m so tired. I think…later. Will that be okay?”
Her mother smiled at her, and rested her hand gently on Sibyl’s head. She put the knife back in her pocket and her finger to her lips, and quietly backed out of the room.
Sibyl lay in bed, taking stock. Today, she was eighteen. Her mother’s well-intended suggestion to rejoin the living had only made her realize she’d have to start over. For her, the bells were tolling the end of what had already been a whole lifetime.
She sat up, put her feet on the floor, and reached out, dipping her finger in the delicate white frosting. Finger went into mouth, and the flavor of sweet cream and butter melted on her tongue.
There was a whole cake’s worth of promise in front of her. What was its promise to her?
On uncertain legs Sibyl stood and crossed the room. Tears pooling in her eyes, she looked down from her window at the people in the streets, celebrating a new beginning.