Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

lot of mistakes, but one in particular has haunted me. At one time I thought I could take this secret to my grave, that no one would ever know. But I’ve had lots of time to think recently, and I understand now that I can’t lie to you any longer.

PART ONE — 1933 —

one MOLLY

Just before turning onto our lawn, I stopped, pulled off my shoe, then hopped on one foot, needing to pour out a small handful of pebbles. They’d snuck in through the hole at the toe, and I didn’t want to track them inside. I’d gotten used to the routine and barely noticed it anymore. It was so much better than leaky boots in the winter.

As soon as I stepped inside, the smell of corned beef and cabbage coming from the kitchen almost overwhelmed me, wafting like old socks through the house. Mum would be annoyed I hadn’t been home to help prepare dinner, but Mr. Palermo had needed me to stay a little later. Fortunately, he’d sent me home with vegetables, though they were a bit droopy. That was one of the benefits of working at a greengrocer. I laid the sad-looking carrots and greens on the counter so I could snap open my purse, then I dropped my weekly earnings into the rusty Folger’s coffee can on the counter, which I privately called the Ryan Family’s Friday Night Tax Bucket.

At the clanking of the coins, my mother turned from the pot on the stove. The circles under her eyes looked darker than usual, and at the sight of them, I felt a pang of guilt that I hadn’t been home sooner. At one time, Mum had taken pride in her appearance. On the mantel were framed photos of her and Dad, taken long before I was born. Above her lacy white collar, her narrow chin was lifted with determination, her dark hair striking, and her expression direct; she’d been in the midst of the suffragette movement, her mind a hundred years away from raising children during a depression. Then there was the photo of her, pregnant with me, holding the little hands of Richie and Jimmy. All alone and raising three babies while Dad was at war. No wonder she looked tired. Now her face was lined, and there were hints of grey at her temples, put there by the efforts of keeping our house of seven running on next to nothing. I missed her smile, and her laughter most of all. The wages my father, brothers, and I brought in each week were so meagre, she’d started taking on mending jobs on top of everything else she was doing. It was too much.

“Thought you’d never get here,” she said, brushing straggling wisps from her forehead. “Your father will be home any minute, and the table still needs setting.”

“I’ll just put these vegetables in the cellar first,” I said.

I headed downstairs, into the earthy darkness, and placed the vegetables in the coolest spot of the cellar, away from the canned food. Not for the first time, I wished we had a little white refrigerator like my best friend Hannah had. She and her family, the Dreyfuses, lived just across the street, and I spent a lot of my time over there. Last week, Hannah’s mother had poured me a glass of lemonade, and I could still feel that ice-cold drink trickling down my throat. But for my family to save up the five hundred dollars needed for a refrigerator, we’d have to fill at least ten tax buckets, plus we’d still need to eat. Pushing the thought from my mind, I returned to the kitchen where my oldest brother, Richie, was already sitting at the table, flipping through the newspaper with a frown on his face. I peeked over his shoulder and read a headline about President Roosevelt initiating his New Deal domestic reform program. I wished the president luck on that. Any kind of relief from this Depression was needed in the worst way.

“Good day at work?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You know how it is. Aisles are so empty I could open a bowling alley. Why would anyone come to a hardware store if they can’t afford to build anything?”

I felt bad for him, but not surprised. With businesses closing down all over the city, we all wondered how long he’d be able to keep that job.

“You coming to the game tonight?” I asked, hoping to lift his spirits. “It’s the season opener.”

“Probably not. I’ve got things to do.”

Richie and I had always been close. He was four years older than me, but we’d grown up doing mostly the same things. He was the one who had taught me how to play baseball, with him pitching and me swinging the bat, both of us with our matching red hair and freckles. But once I was old enough to really help Mum around the house, I didn’t have as much time to play. I still went to watch games as often as I could, though. Going to baseball games with my friends and family was one of my favourite things to do, and it was also one of the rare free activities in the city. These days, free was important.

Mum gestured for me to set the table, and I got out the old china plates, careful not to chip them more than they already were. Richie lifted his elbows so I could slide his plate beneath the newspaper. I had just placed the last fork on the table when I heard Dad’s heavy tread on the doorstep. Richie straightened automatically, and my mother smoothed her hair. That was the effect Sergeant Garret Ryan had on people. As the door opened, my three other brothers trundled down the stairs, somehow sensing he was home.

Dad stepped inside and took off his hat as Mum bustled to greet him. He was thick in the middle with a