Dart writes this letter from his temporary sleeping quarters in the living room where he has moved until there’s reliable heat upstairs once more.
He thinks Dot may remember that as the two of them left the apartment (presumably to take Dot to the train) his mother was fretting that Pop may have a fever. She was right. It’s running around 101 tonight. When Uncle Tom came over to check on the furnace, he suggested that Pop might agree to go to a VA hospital for treatment of his pleurisy. (At least the hospital would have heat!) There are two VA hospitals in the Cleveland area; one quite close and the other on the far side of the city. It is the latter to which Dart Sr. would probably go. Dr. Singer, however, suggested that Helen wait a couple of days before she disturbs her husband with this suggestion. The good doctor doesn’t seem too worried about the fever.
The same can’t be said for Dart. “He’s pretty sick, Dot. He isn’t using any of his right lung. It’s completely collapsed because of his coughing spell last week. All we can do now is wait, wait, wait and try our best to take good care of him. It isn’t any wonder that he hasn’t eaten anything, according to Dr. Singer.”
It seems obvious to me that Dart is worried sick about his father, because he hasn’t yet mentioned a single word about Dot’s visit. He tells Dot that Uncle Tom had to come over to stay with his dad during the four hours that he and his mother were away from home today.
He thanks her for her considerate telegram that put his mind to rest about her trip. Now he awaits details about her journey and the report from her doctor’s visit.
“Dot, you’ve already been gone nearly 24 hours, and after taking a couple of days to wake up to the fact that you were really here, now I find it almost as difficult to believe you’re nowhere near here anymore.”
He finally turned in his application for the City Club today. They’ll invoice him for the membership fee if the selection committee sees fit to admit him.
He says that he’s hoping he can get both Saturday and Sunday night off work to prepare for final exams next week. I’m not sure what became of his decision to quit work, but perhaps the money has become too important to him for that. He tells Dot that he has two exams on Wednesday and two more on Thursday. With luck, he’ll complete all his required reading and learn his extensive Spanish vocabulary and grammar by then.
He says good night and sends his endless love. In a P.S., he reminds her to keep her pay stubs so that they will have an easier time preparing their income tax return in 1948. In a way, that thought is nearly as intimate as some of his more fiery paragraphs. After all, nothing says “married” like filing a joint tax return!