Page 30 of Letters From Victor

I slipped a Nat King Cole record on the turntable and placed the needle. After a few scratchy seconds, a lush instrumentalintro swelled through the living room. Closing my eyes, I smiled, humming along with the tune.

I turned to folding the laundry I had taken off the line earlier, letting the rhythm settle my thoughts. I focused on the warm, clean scent of the sun-dried linens, the soft, worn cotton of Frank’s undershirts, Frankie’s pajamas, and his tiny socks.

The last wisps of daylight bled into an indigo sky. There was something winsome about a winter twilight—a quiet, simple, understated beauty. With a sigh, I drew the curtains closed and went to the kitchen to slide the meatloaf into the oven. I wiped my hands on my apron and glanced at the clock. Frank would be home soon, and I needed to pull myself together before he arrived.

I switched on a few lamps to dispel the encroaching shadows and returned to the living room. Frankie was still absorbed in building a tower with his wooden blocks, his little brow furrowed in concentration. I settled onto the sofa and picked up my mending basket, hoping the routine task would steady my nerves.

As I stitched a split seam in one of Frank’s work shirts, the front door clicked and swung open, followed by Frank’s heavy footfall in the foyer.

I took a steadying breath and schooled my expression into a warm smile as I set aside my sewing and stood. “Welcome home, darling,” I greeted him sweetly, crossing the room to take his coat and hat. The wool was damp from the misty evening fog, cool beneath my fingertips. “How was your day?”

Frank loosened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, the curls mussed from hours beneath his hat. “Brutal,” he muttered. “That new accounts manager, Anderson, is a real piece of work—breathing down everyone’s necks over every damn detail.” Frank’s shoulders were slumped, his face drawn with fatigue.

I made a sympathetic noise as I hung his coat and hat on the rack by the door. Frank exhaled heavily as he trudged toward the sideboard in the living room.

Frankie’s face lit up as he spotted his father. “Dada!” he squealed, scrambling to his feet.

Frank gave him an absent pat on the head as he passed by on his way to pour himself a generous three fingers of bourbon into a cut crystal tumbler. The amber liquid sloshed against the sides as he raised it to his lips and took a long swallow. He closed his eyes for a moment, then grimaced at the burn.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, setting down his glass.

“Meatloaf.”

He grunted. “Good. I like that.” His gaze swept over the tidy living room and the folded laundry stacked neatly on the end table. “Looks like you finally got caught up on the housework today.”

I bristled at his tone but smoothed my expression as I turned away. “I did have a productive day, yes,” I replied evenly, moving to the kitchen to check on the meatloaf. The savory aroma of onions and herbs wafted out as I opened the oven door. “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”

The music cut off abruptly, replaced by the crisp click of the radio dial. The evening news broadcast played as Frank settled into his armchair with a weary groan. I set the table with our everyday dishes—plain white porcelain edged with a thin blue stripe. The clinking of the plates and cutlery punctuated the droning voice of the newscaster. Steam curled toward the ceiling as I lifted the meatloaf and casserole dishes out of the oven and set them onto trivets on the cream-colored countertop.

I stepped into the doorway to call them to dinner but paused, watching the scene unfold. Frankie toddled over to Frank, his chubby hands outstretched. “Play, Dada?” he asked hopefully, holding up a red wooden fire truck.

Frank barely looked at him. “Not now, kiddo. Daddy’s tired.” He took another swig of his bourbon and rested his head against the back of the armchair, eyes closed.

Frankie’s bottom lip quivered, but he didn’t cry. He was already learning to swallow his disappointment. My heart ached for him.

“Spill it, Babs.”

The gilt-rimmed china plate slipped from my soapy fingers, but I caught it before it crashed onto my mother’s kitchen counter. I looked up at Edith and cleared my throat. “Spill what exactly?”

She nudged me with her hip as she picked up another plate from the sink and wiped it with a blue-and-white checkered dish towel. “You’re twenty million miles away and sighing like a schoolgirl fawning over Cary Grant.” She shot me a knowing look. “I know you. Something’s clearly on your mind, so spill it.”

I set my towel aside and leaned against the marble counter, my hands pressing into the cool stone. “You’re right,” I admitted with a sigh. “There is something I need to talk to you about. But not here.”

I glanced through the kitchen doorway toward the living room where Mother, Frank, my brother Bill, and his wife, Janette, sat around a square table playing bridge. Frankie lay curled on the sofa, fast asleep. Mother insisted the staff have Sundays off—one of her grand magnanimous gestures—but that meant Edith and I were left to manage the aftermath of family dinners ourselves.

“Can we step outside for a bit?” I asked.

Edith arched an eyebrow but nodded. She draped the damp checkered cloth over the faucet. “Lead the way.”

I wiped my hands on my apron, untied it, and hung it on the hook by the pantry. Edith followed me through the kitchen door onto the back porch.

“Are the dishes done, girls?” Mother hollered at us.

“We’ll finish them in a minute,” Edith called over her shoulder and closed the door behind us before Mother could protest. “Ugh! I’m forty, but she still treats me like a child.”

The Sunday afternoon air was crisp and mild. A cool breeze whispered through the hedges, carrying the faintest trace of salt from the distant ocean. Edith lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and sank gracefully into a wrought iron chair. She tipped her chin toward the chair opposite her.

“All right, it’s just us now. What’s going on?”

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