The Pieces We Keep(133)
In the meantime, newspaper headlines would revert to Hollywood scandals, and radio broadcasts to programs of entertainment. Foreign lands and borders worth the fiercest of battles would soon be reduced to a footnote.
But not every facet of war would fade so easily.
Among the survivors, few were left unscathed. Vivian was no exception. Once the whooping and hollering quieted, she felt the tender flare of old wounds. Much had been sacrificed on the road to victory. It was this thought that brought Mrs. Langtree to the forefront of her mind.
Vivian had made a habit of sending baked goods to the lone widow, whenever Gene went over to help with upkeep and repairs. But this time, on a bright September morning, Vivian would present the dish herself.
On the bus ride there, with little Judith at her side, it occurred to her that if the woman was as stringent about etiquette as she had been about rules, an unannounced visit might be unwelcome. Yet it was too late to fret; they were already on their way.
They soon disembarked in Ditmas Park to reach the gray and white Victorian house. With a warm pie pan in hand, Vivian guided her daughter up the steps of the wraparound porch. The planks were the very same that Vivian and Gene had painted together.
“Be on your best behavior, now,” she reminded Judith, before ringing the doorbell.
The two-year-old nodded, bouncing her pigtails, then fidgeted with the ruffles on her pink dress, the latest indulgence from Vivian’s mother.
Judith was a petite creature since birth. Hence, for those who bothered to calculate, premature delivery made for a natural assumption. For the ones who enjoyed more scandal, it could be theorized that an intimate premarital date had hastened the couple’s vows.
Either way, a paternal question was never raised, thanks in no small part to Judith’s looks. Aside from a slight curl to her hair, she was the spitting image of Vivian, with thick brown locks and copper eyes.
Only on occasion would Vivian note a flash of Isaak, from a slyness in Judith’s smile or the way she crinkled her chin, suggestive of a dimple. And if the situation allowed, Vivian’s mind would dip into a well of the past. There she would bathe in her fondest memories, scenes from another lifetime, and emerge at least comforted by a sense of Isaak at peace.
Still waiting at the door, Vivian followed up with a knock.
“Piddy,” Judith said, pointing to the lace curtains on the large bay window.
“You’re right, lovey bug. Those are very pretty.”
Among the greatest aspects of motherhood, Vivian had learned, was experiencing the wonder of things, even the seemingly mundane, as if for the first time. She was reminded of this now while admiring the house, with its charming turret and columns and latticework. The whole neighborhood, in fact, could have been plucked from a storybook. As could Judith, for that matter, a precious pixie of a girl with a heart pure as Gene’s.
Finally, the door opened.
Hair in a loose French twist, more silver now than blond, Mrs. Langtree peered through her spectacles. Though her floral housedress was finer than most, the absence of a suit came as a surprise. Vivian realized this must be how the woman began to dress after retiring from the switchboard, when the operators made way for the military staff.
“Mrs. Langtree,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re here. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
In deciphering the silence, Vivian could not tell if the woman was merely surprised or recognition had yet to settle.
“I . . . apologize for dropping by unexpectedly. We thought you might like a nice autumn dish.”
Mrs. Langtree glanced at the gift that wafted with sauteed garlic and onions. “A Victory feast,” she guessed. She said this with a fitting hint of dryness. The sweetness of victory had been tamped by the bitterness of personal loss.
“Nothing that fancy, I’m afraid. Just a shepherd’s pie fit for supper.”
Mrs. Langtree studied Vivian’s face, as though in search of her true motives. The woman was once known for her keen detection of lies. Which, come to think of it, might have unconsciously been Vivian’s reason for not coming here sooner. Secrets were but a branch on the tree of deceit.
Thankfully, Judith intervened with a squeak, a sun sneeze that flopped her wavy pigtails.
“Bless you,” Mrs. Langtree said, beating Vivian to the phrase, then dipped her head toward the girl. “I take it you’re the Judith I’ve heard all about.”
Judith tugged at her lip in an almost bashful gesture.
“According to your father, you’re a brilliant, enchanting, and very artistic young lady.”
In lieu of replying, Judith returned her focus to the ruffles on her dress.
“Gene tends to be a bit biased,” Vivian said out of humbleness but also reserve. Such flattery from the woman was uncharacteristic. “Anyhow,” Vivian went on, “here you are.” She handed over the meat pie. The perfectly browned crust attested to her vastly improved cooking skills. She had accumulated countless tips from fellow Army wives, generous friends she had come to adore.