Vivian and Don Move in, part two

In 1942, Leta's daughter Vivian and three-year-old son Don moved in with her and her husband Robert Fields. The situation was temporary. Vivian’s husband Edward, like many American men, was participating in the war effort. Edward had been summoned to develop and install radio equipment in aircraft. While the young family’s financial situation was secure enough for Vivian and Don to remain in the rental house, other considerations indicated that the young wife and mother would adjust to being without her husband better in the company of others.

After Edward left for Washington in September, their earlier reasoning proved correct. The loneliness that the young woman expressed infected the entire household. Normally friendly, outgoing and even tempered, Vivian became irritable and impatient. Where she previously observed Don’s antics with fondness and adoration, she more often than not was constantly chiding him to be quiet or settle down, which confused the little boy tremendously.

Vivian herself became restless. Leta could hear her daughter up at all hours of the night, simply pacing through the house. Sometimes she would rise as well and try to engage her daughter in a game of rummy or gin, but Vivian would play two or three hands and then become impatient with that, as well. Always a reader, Vivian would sit for only a few minutes with a book or magazine before casting it aside with a loud sigh. Even in the kitchen, where Vivian was normally a dedicated cook, the young woman would become distracted. One afternoon she measured the sugar into lemon custard for a pie twice, and then curdled the custard by adding milk as if she was making two different kinds of pies at the same time. When she realized her mistake, she collapsed in tears.

“Darling, it’s all right,” Leta said soothingly. “We have enough lemons to start over.”

But the young woman would not be consoled.

When Leta touched her arm, the skin was as hot as the oven.

Just then Don entered the kitchen, saw his mother in her distraught state and also began to cry. Leta stood helplessly between them, but only for a few moments.

“Enough!” she ordered severely.

Don, who was basically crying emphatically ceased, but Vivian persisted, although more quietly.

“Come on, darling,” Leta said to the little boy. “Let’s go into the living room and read a book. Your mama needs a few minutes alone.”

She took his hand and headed toward the doorway. Before she left the room, however, she turned to her daughter, somewhat of a heap on the table.

“Vivian, pull yourself together,” she instructed.

Once she had calmed and distracted her grandson, feeling very fortunate that the child’s emotions were quickly altered, Leta returned to her daughter in the kitchen. Vivian was still sitting at the table, but the crying stopped. The effects, however, persisted. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen, her breathing barely perceptible.

Leta didn’t say anything, but immediately returned to the task at hand—the lemon pie.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” Vivian gasped after a few more moments. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t seem to have a handle on my emotions. I can’t concentrate on anything. I am tired half the time and too unsettled to sleep the other half. I jerk awake in the middle of the night and have to move. I’m just so confused.”

Leta stopped what she was doing to face her daughter. She knew exactly what the nature of Vivian’s behavior was. She had felt it many times before, and most acutely after the death of her beloved Albert. It was a raging of emptiness that grabbed hold of a person and squeezed. The constant grip was deceptive. Sometimes a person could believe that the hold had loosened, but without warning, it would resume. There was no rhyme or reason. There was nothing but the cavernous emptiness.

“I know you miss Ed,” Leta said. “That’s good. But you still need to function. This behavior has got to stop. You’re not a school girl.”

“I know,” Vivian agreed. “But how?”

“Do you trust me?” Leta asked.

Vivian looked at her with curiosity.

“What do you mean?”

“Just do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Vivian said, although there was uncertainty in her voice.

“Good. Now help me finish this pie.”

That night Leta and her husband Bob took Vivian to Tom’s Place, a local tavern. This was Leta and Bob’s usual Friday night repast, but Vivian was never much of a drinker. She would have a glass of wine on a holiday, but not much else. At first, she resisted, using Don as an additional excuse. But when reminded that she had previously agreed, her parents were watching out for her, and she could bring her little boy, she acquiesced.

After they finished with the supper dishes, the quartet walked the five blocks to the tavern. It was still early and nearly empty.  Bob ordered beer for everyone. “My grandson gets the kids’ beer,” he clarified for Vivian’s sake.

First, the bartender served Don. “Here you go, young fellow. Try this.”

“What is it?” Vivian asked.

“Yummy!” Don exclaimed after his first sip.

“You like?” Leta asked.

“Oh, Grandma, it’s great!”

“What you are drinking, little man,” the bartender said, “is called root beer.”

“What?” Vivian gasped.

“Entirely non-alcoholic. Like Coca-Cola,” the bartender said.

“Oh, okay, then,” Vivian said softly.

“But for you,” Bob said, “we have something a little bit stronger.”

Over the next two years, Vivian and Don would frequently join Leta and Bob for a Friday night of beer. While the regular repast did not remove Vivian’s loneliness, it did reduce it for a while and make her far easier to live with.