Van’s parents did not make it easy to see my children. I took a bus up to Batesville every week to be with them, but the Willises would only allow me to see them in their presence, usually out in their large back yard, and then for no more than an hour or two. When it was time to leave, the children would ask me why I couldn’t take them with me. I had no explanation, except to promise them that someday they would live with me, a promise I had no real hope of making good on. I never left my boys without tears in my eyes.

I worked three hours during lunch and then returned to the Garhole to work from 5pm to 11pm. Guests of the hotel came down for drinks, and so did the men who worked at the nearby Arkansas Gazette. Politicians hung out there. Occasionally soldiers who worked at the recruiting office at 3rd and Main dropped in after work.

My style as a waitress was cheerful, and with men even slightly flirtatious, though I made it a policy not to go out with customers after work. This was a policy I broke when one day, at a table of soldiers—enlisted men—I found myself teasing a guy with the nametag Goldstein on his uniform about his drinking coffee when everyone else at the table was ordering beers. He had fine features, soft brown eyes and, I noticed, delicate hands. “With you nearby, what I do need alcohol for?” he said. I fluttered my eyelashes and went into my best obviously phoney plantation southerner act: “I declare, sir, you do say the kindest things.”

After this Goldstein left with his Army buddies. Half an hour later he returned alone, and asked if he might take me out to dinner one night. I told him that I worked nights, and didn’t get off till eleven. He asked if he could meet me after work that night, and I found myself saying, “Sure, OK, why not?”