We turn right onto a road not far from my own house, then pull into a dirt driveway. My great-great-grandparents’ house is two stories, painted white. It feels private—trees isolate it from the few neighbors down the street, and I can see that the backyard is surrounded by forest. The Bentleys must be fairly wealthy, especially in the small fishing community of Montauk in 1944.
I’ve never seen this house before, and I remember my grandfather telling me that it burns down in the ’60s. It’s a strange feeling, knowing the future. I find myself staring through the trees in the direction of my own home. My grandfather lives there now, with his family. I try to picture my grandfather as a little boy but I can’t. Everything is so different in this time. I wonder if I would even recognize my bedroom, painted in another color and decorated differently. Perhaps it would be like the town—a ghostly outline, a shadow of a place I’ve always taken for granted.
Mary tugs me toward the bright red front door. Before we reach it, it opens to reveal a petite woman with dark red hair, identical to mine and Mary’s. She’s wearing a green button-down dress, with a short cardigan perched around her shoulders.
“This must be Lydia.” Her face is soft, with small lines around her eyes and mouth. She looks genuinely welcoming, not at all suspicious, and I am instantly at ease. “I’m Harriet Bentley.” My great-great-grandmother.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
She smiles. I notice that we have the same curve to our upper lip, the same high cheekbones. And now I know where I got my red hair from.
“Come in, dear, you must be exhausted.” She steps back and I walk into the entryway. It’s a long hallway, with hardwood stairs that lead up to a shadowy second floor. There’s a formal parlor to the left, with stuffy-looking couches and an antique wooden coffee table. A grand piano sits near the front windows, which are covered in heavy black fabric.
“You have to see my room!” Mary grabs my arm. “And I bet you want to take a bath. You can borrow one of my dresses. We need to get you out of those strange clothes.”
I glance helplessly at Mrs. Bentley, but she just smiles as Mary tugs me up the stairs.
A half hour later I am clean again and holding up what looks like a corset with straps attached to the bottom. We’re in Mary’s small bedroom, which is nothing like my neat, simple room at home. There are two twin ruffled pink beds and framed pictures of flowers on the walls. Clothes and shoes and makeup cover every available surface.
Mary is stretched out on one of the beds, flipping through a magazine. She catches my expression and laughs. “Have you never seen a girdle before?”
“I guess … but what are the straps for?”
She rolls her eyes at the question. “To hold up your stockings, though lord knows I have none of those left. When Ma gave her old bras to the war effort, she made me give up almost all of my nylon stockings. Can you believe that? What are the boys gonna do, wear bras into combat? I know we’re not supposed to complain and all, but sometimes this war makes life so hard.” She swings her legs in the air behind her as she flips through the pages of her magazine.
“Handing over your underwear? That sounds rough.” The girdle is lower than a corset, and it’s supposed to pull across my stomach and hips. It reminds me of the shapewear my mom is always buying.
“Do I really have to wear this?”
Her eyes go wide and her mouth falls open. “Lydia, what kind of question is that? What would people think?”
I sigh and pull on the girdle. It sucks in my stomach and creates a smooth line over my hips. I turn in the mirror, inspecting my new hourglass shape.
“Where’d you get that scar?” Mary points at my right shoulder. I glance down at the white, raised circle, noticeably bright against my pale skin.
“I don’t know.” I run my fingers over the slight bump. “I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.”
“I have a scar on my knee. See?” Mary flips over and lifts one leg. “Fell off my bike when I was nine.” She sits up and jumps off the bed. “Here, I’ll get you a dress to wear. I’d give you stockings too, but this war!”
She throws her hands up and then turns, sticking out her leg. “Look at all the holes I’ve mended in these already. And they were just hand-me-downs from my mother.”
Her stockings are covered in small, carefully sewn lines.
“Sometimes I even have Suze draw a line up the back of my leg so at least it looks like I’m wearing them. I just got some leg makeup, though. Once it dries it looks exactly like stockings, and I saved up a ration so I can buy a new girdle this summer. I had to make the one you’re wearing out of parachute silk.”
My grandfather once told me about the rationing during World War II, how everyone was allotted only a marginal amount of materials like sugar, meat, tea, tinned goods, and even clothes, but I never really thought much about it. I certainly never imagined I would experience it too.
Mary rifles through her open closet. She tosses a thin green dress at me, and I pull it on over my head. It has a high neckline, boxy short sleeves, a small, tucked-in waist, and a swingy skirt. I admire the smooth, emerald fabric. Vintage dresses from the ’40s are always covered in holes or smell like mothballs. I’ve never worn something new like this.
Mary hands me a pair of wedged cork sandals and I pull them on.
“You look swell, Lydia,
