Wives
Mia Woltman

     Matilda Newport looked at her fingertips the way she did at the end of every shift. Her right hand revealed an index finger where several holes had grooved it. The skinny thing looked like a honeycomb. She imagined bees crawling between the divots, burrowing their yellow bodies into the paleness. She shivered away this thought as well as the sight of the dried blood on her thumb from where she had rubbed the two fingers together. They’ll stop bleeding once you build calluses. Matilda remembered her tablemate, Eleanor, holding up her hands with a proud smile. Like mine, see? Tough as nails. She’d winked and fluffed her blonde curls to emphasize the irony.

     Standing on the corner of 31st and Main, Matilda still wondered when she’d be synonymous with a piece of hardware. The clouds overhead bothered the workers waiting to lay down their heads. An annoying mist made her wish the sky would get on with the pour already. The first reason was because she could use a refreshing rinse of her hair that stuck to her neck, and the second was because she never cared to handle the in-between of things. Like today, why work a shift that would get her home before the hour of supper when she could work a bit longer? No matter when she returned to her apartment, she’d reason with the time stamp long enough to say it was a good enough hour as any. Or when she first signed on to craft parachutes, she’d wanted to see her contribution to the war effort, not hassle with the tedious tasks of the front lines. This was the way she rationalized things. She shuffled to the side on the crowded sidewalk to let a man in an oversized coat wiggle into the hoard of people with the same expression – fatigue. He performed a sigh that was only suitable for Mondays and a Monday it was. A mole on his upper lip bobbed up and down when he released the biggest exhale Matilda thought she’d ever see. She wedged her worn hands into the pockets of the waistcoat wrapped around her thin frame and wished that nobody else joined the crowd. She was fidgeting with an old bandage, a magnet to the woolen pilling of her coat when another man scooched to her to the left. Now, she was nearly straddling the curb and cursing New York’s transportation system. “Excuse me, miss?” She looked up from her feet which would have made a splendid second position for a ballerina if only fate hadn’t led her to factory work. Her Mama always said she had the lines for such a dream.
     “I think you may have dropped this.” In his outstretched hand, there was a wrinkled slip of paper. She had been complaining nonstop about her feet hurting and the other girls at her table kindly (and rather quickly) handed over the address to the shoe store which they claimed every war worker frequented. Eleanor, with her fluffing habit, assured they were ‘quite’ fashionable. Effie, a mother to four children, promised the shoemaker was ‘quite’ negotiable.
     “Yes, thank you. Say, have you been acquainted with this address before?”
     “Wonderful shoes. I only need the one, of course.” The man’s thick black hair reminded Matilda of her own Italian roots. His height made it so she had to peer up at him when he spoke. She learned from his delayed introduction that he was Anthony Groves and that this Anthony standing in front of her had a wooden leg. She didn’t know how to react to the pant leg (that he had tugged higher) since she’d only ever seen men with two. She figured the war would be changing this streak very soon so she simply smiled and introduced herself as Mattie Newport. “I could take you there if you’d like.” He scanned the street from right to left.
     “Oh, no. I was asking for a friend. I appreciate your nice offer.” This was not a man to who her blisters should be complained but then again, blisters seemed like a very minuscule problem to him in the scheme of things. The two of them fell into a kind of awkward silence until the Mole Man sighed again, confirming everyone’s conviction that the bus wouldn’t be coming any time soon and that their pillows would have to wait just a bit longer. “Care to at least have me walk you home?”

     She must have scrambled for a response too long since he started down the busy sidewalk. He waved her up to him. Perhaps it hurt worse for him to stand still and have to balance square on his feet than to rhythmically swing one leg in front of the other. She imagined that once you got going, it was hard stopping. What if her Paul were to come home with only one of his legs attached? Would she boggle her eyes at him like she was to this poor man now? Whether it was out of pity, wish to save the fare, or longing for a man’s company, Matilda hobbled off the curb and joined Anthony at his side. While moving quicker than she expected, he asked, “You’re a parachute maker?”
     “How did you know?” The surprise in her voice was more scrutiny than shock.
     “I saw your fingers when you reached for the paper.” He winked without a smile.
     “I could be a lousy tailor or anything for that matter. What job nowadays takes into consideration the state of its employees’ hands?” He chuckled at her sarcastic tone and simply said he was a lucky guesser then. The two of them continued walking down the sidewalk that lined the empty storefront windows. Sal’s Candy Shop, marked by its blue striped awning, was the only building that had any sort of vibrancy to it. As long as his customers (who struggled to reach the counter) earned a few pennies for doing chores and such, business was promised and candy was flossed.

     At times Matilda and Anthony fell into a single file line to avoid the foot traffic of late evening. This formation made her feel a bit silly as they made a great effort to navigate. When they were side by side again he had asked about what it was like working on the parachutes. Was it worrisome to know the kind of life or death responsibility weighing on her shoulders? Was it hard hearing the whir of the machines all day?
     “Well, of course. But like most factories, there are systems. I mostly sew but other times I work on packaging them. I don’t much like wearing them to model the straps and such.” Eleanor’s favorite part, Matilda thought. Her lower back ached just thinking about the weight. She recognized her habit of rambling and felt her cheeks warm in the mist that had turned into a light rain. She would have to dry her uniform before tomorrow morning when she’d fasten the buttons again and pin the skirt that was too loose. She found that folding it over once or twice pulled it up too high on her long legs.
     “You girls have been switching to nylon, haven’t you?” Anthony sidestepped a woman who was looking down and cracking her knuckles. Perhaps she was a journalist of sorts. Typing had its own peril, she supposed. As he did this swift motion, Matilda noticed the bag that was slung around him.
     “You were Air Force?” He nodded, then lowered his head to mumble something inaudible about the Germans.
     “Captain. Returned not too long ago.” Anthony patted his bad leg and tightened his lips, drooping the five o’clock shadow around them. “Is it true women are using these parachutes for wedding gowns?” He pretended to fan a large skirt. This caused Matilda to emit the smallest laugh before she reminisced about her own wedding. She had spent weeks upon weeks stitching together white webs of silk like a quilt. The thing weighed a ton but it was a beautiful parachute dress, no doubt. Paul had caught a glimpse of it before the wedding when she was trying it one last time before its debut in the church. The day of, he had admitted the secret and wiped his wife’s tears. But, darling, we’re immune to bad luck.
     The nostalgic smile that replaced Matilda’s look of exhaustion answered him. They turned two corners before heading East into the park that would blanket their heads from the last of the raindrops. They didn’t have much longer to walk but knowing this caused Matilda to realize she had actually enjoyed the company. Most days she was too tired to even talk to herself or too sore to make nice with the person sitting on the same bus seat. The park was quiet including its birds except for a playful baseball game. Muddy children slid into puddles, dismissing the angry mothers who would have to modify tomorrow’s laundry. September had just arrived and neighborhood children were soaking up every last bit of summer. Though it was a bit chilly for this time of year, the children discarded their coats. In just a few days, the boys would be sniffling over their assigned readings, sneaking use of their handkerchiefs between pages.
     The girls, on the other hand, sat under a large tulip tree that had lost its blossoms in July’s humidity. That tall tree was Matilda’s favorite in the whole park. Sometimes she would stroll right past the bus stop to catch the honey-colored flowers in their peak bloom. What a contrast to the dim factory they were. The girls giggled and braided each other’s damp hair, trying to make it curly with the help of some frizz. A few of the girls looked like the siblings of the ball players. Matilda recognized the red-headed girl who lived in her building on the upper floor. Matilda would occasionally look after Annie while her mother stepped out to run an errand or when her mother nursed the newborn and couldn’t for the life of her manage both children at once.
     At the same time the batter ‘let one fly’ as the boys shouted, Matilda asked Anthony if he had a wife back home. “I do and I must say, she’s alright on the eyes.” He adjusted the strap that kept sliding off his shoulder and nudged Matilda’s arm playfully. She was relieved that they were both already wed and that this walk meant nothing more than casual chatter. His eyes grew warm at the talk of his wife, causing her to miss Paul. Oh, how she longed for his arms at night.
     When the girls at the factory felt especially talkative and brave enough to mention their husbands, everyone agreed that bedtime was most dreadful. I didn’t ever think I’d miss that snore, Effie laughed through beaded lashes. I just miss having someone there in the dark, Margot reasoned, sucking on a pricked thumb making her look like the youngest of the crew. How about the sleepless nights?  This one from a giggling Eleanor. In a way, Paul looked like Anthony except he couldn’t grow facial hair and wasn’t as tall. Matilda realized that yes, she’d love nothing more if he returned that very second even if it meant both of his legs were blown off by something or another. Was this grim to think? If it was, Matilda shrugged it off.
     She stopped in the stone path and asked Anthony if he’d be kind enough to let her say hello to Annie who waved with bubbling excitement now, two pigtails swinging back and forth. The six-year-old was nearly about to burst. He said, “Of course, but we’d better get on with it soon.” What that had meant, Matilda wasn’t sure. Perhaps his wife was holding supper. Regardless, she left her stained shoes at his side, not wanting to get them any wetter.

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     Anthony Groves watched the woman skip over to the child, her ankles red as tomatoes. He understood why Paul had always called her Mattie, Matilda was much too serious of a name for her. He stood there in the rain that was thankfully clearing up. While he saw Matilda decorating the girl’s hair with the flowers she plucked from the clover, the satchel burned at his side. Day after day, these letters became more difficult to deliver. He tried to focus on the baseball game that had picked up with the break in the clouds. He couldn’t get the crash out of his mind. How could he? Those men were his brothers and they would want the message delivered personally, not by a man in a uniform knocking on the door. This was the right way, he thought. This way, she’d have grown comfortable with me enough to let me embrace her when the words broke her heart.
     Matilda finished weaving the last white bud into Annie’s hair when she waved to him. The girl who seemed fairly little for her age sucked the nectar out of a flower, smiling at the woman’s soothing touch. Meanwhile, he stood there frozen, brows furrowed, with one hand resting gently on the corduroy bag. Matilda stared for a minute, stood, and dropped the clover. So she had seen the envelope.
     “Will you let me walk you the rest of the way, ma’am?” He had to raise his voice an octave so she could hear but instantly regretted being so forward. He looked at the broken woman, her glossy eyes turning lifeless the more she realized her husband was gone, the more she made sense of the afternoon’s spontaneous company.
     “You knew him?” She whispered, stepping closer. Mattie maintained a numb face as she passed the playing children. Annie was picking at another flower, oblivious to the war that was ruining lives in every crevice of the country. He took her arm in his and left her question unanswered until they were in front of the stairs of her apartment building. A kitten lay on one of the steps, its front paw hanging over the stone side. Calico.
     “I did, ma’am-”
     “Mattie.”
     “Excuse me. We were in the crash together. Got into a bit of trouble demanding I deliver these letters myself. The government likes to scare girls, I guess.” Anthony sighed and rubbed away the sweat on his forehead. His own hands were shaking. He looked at Mattie who wouldn’t even face him. Grief was a terrifying thing. The woman who he had just seen moments ago in the park had aged several years within half a mile. “Why don’t I come in with you and make us some tea?” He figured that she could use some warmth. A fog from the rain was settling on the street, and if he was being honest, he wanted to sit down.
     He invited himself in when she blankly stared at his question. He felt her eyes on him as he maneuvered the steps in a graceless manner. “Please do tell me that you live on the first floor.”
     “Second.”
     When they eventually arrived at the door fastened by a pair of rusty hinges, she paused. “Take off that bag before you come in. I won’t have it.” She stared straight ahead into the wood, still refusing to look at him even now.
     He stuttered. “Mattie, I can’t. These are official documents and if they get stolen–”
     “Just take it off then.”
     And so he did as soon he entered the apartment. Knowing that Paul had lived in such a nice place was comforting. The living room was quite small but made enough room for a nice sofa and library. A row of herb plants lined the window in the kitchen. Pots and pans, fortunately scrubbed, sat on the burners. There wasn’t much space to put things but he could tell Mattie had tried to make it look like a fine home with the picture frames scattered throughout. The beige walls were boring but were brought to life with the smell of mint and thyme. “The teapot is just there on the table.”
     Anthony turned around to see Mattie watching him. He flushed but she shook her head as if to reassure him that there was no reason to be ashamed for looking. He smiled very briefly and went about warming the pot. It was already full so all he had to do was light the stove and ignore the half-written letter on the table where the pot was resting on a pile of stamps. Anthony was trying to find something to say but only came up with, “Mind if we sit down and wait for the pot?”
     As if a sudden energy fueled her, Matilda hurried to the sofa as if she were apologizing for keeping him standing so long. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I can manage myself.”
     Anthony looked up from his seated position on the chair seated across from the sofa. Her little voice surprised him. “You’re probably right, miss. But let me make you something to eat first. Give me a piece of mind.”

     “How are the others?” Matilda sat cross-legged on the sofa, fidgeting with the loose skin on a fingertip.
     He exhaled deeply while situating his wooden leg straight out in front of him. “I was the only one from the accident that returned but I can assure you that Paul tried his very best to keep breathing like I told him. You can bet on it. I never took Paul for such a tough one but he surprised me.”
     “I meant the other wives. How did they take it?”
     “You’re the second. The one before you lives in upper New York. The other lives in New Jersey on a farm, I hear.”
     Matilda collapsed into her lap then, holding her shaking head in her hands. She looked at her shoes through a blurry sight and began to laugh hysterically.