by Ciara Knight
The uneven sidewalk proved difficult for his bad leg, but he’d improved. Each day he grew stronger. Although he could still see each of his ribs, his stomach was no longer sunken in, and his biceps were filling out. By the end of the street, his thigh cramped, but he wouldn’t stop. Women in pants he remembered as Mrs. Slaughter and Miss Alberts worked on the old soda fountain storefront, and an elder gentleman, Mr. Mesa, sat in a chair outside yelling orders up to some workers fixing the courthouse clock tower.
Vic turned down the alleyway behind the shops and found kids rummaging through garbage the way he’d seen many do in the war-torn European streets he’d left behind. The last thing he needed to do was try to save another child. That never ended well.
“Scram!” He waved his hands, and the kids scattered, all but the one young boy he’d seen outside the toy shop daily since Vic had returned to town.
The boy straightened his torn jacket and lifted his chin. “Why? We not doing nothing.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I don’t want you kids hanging out back here. It isn’t safe.”
“Why it isn’t safe?” His tiny nose scrunched. He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned his hips forward and then swayed back like a little man.
Vic rubbed his forehead and adjusted his hat back into place. “Because there’re boards and sharp stuff back here from the repairs being done.”
“Where we gonna get our scraps from, then?” The boy pointed at the back door to the shop. “Your missus gives us food when she can. If she ain’t gonna do that no more, we gonna starve.”
Rosie had been feeding these children. Why? He couldn’t allow these kids to cause her undue stress, not when she was calm and home without medicine for her anxious disposition she’d suffered since the second baby was lost to them.
“How old are you, boy?” Vic wanted to chase the boy off before he could do harm to his Rosie, but he didn’t like the thought of leaving another child out in the cold. So many had lived like that for too long.
“I’m all grown up and take care of myself. I’m ten.” He fisted his hands by his side like he’d duke it out to prove it.
The boy was malnourished and small. He wanted to say it was a lie, that he couldn’t be more than eight, but decided not to challenge him. “Settle down. I’m not judging you. I want to help.” Vic eyed the back door, struggling between allowing Rosie to continue feeding these children or sending them away. Perhaps this could give her something to concentrate on beyond her desire to try for another baby. She’d wanted a child so badly once it had nearly cost her her life. Perhaps this kid being around could be a distraction for a while. One that didn’t carry the weight of your own flesh and blood if lost. “What’s your name?”
“Davey.”
“Got a last name?”
“Yep.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t know.”
Vic assessed the boy’s honesty. He was scruffy and ready for a fight but had a softness to his eyes that peered from under his cap. Not a surprise, since Vic guessed the boy had had to fight for everything in his life since he was able to crawl. “Where do you live?”
“Under a roof,” Davey said with fear in his voice.
That’s when Vic realized the poor boy was probably on his own and too scared to admit it, with all the rumors of children thrown into worse conditions than the streets due to overcrowding of orphanages since the war took so many parents.
“Hungry?”
Davey’s bottom lip overcame his top in an I-don’t-want-to-admit-I’m-starving grimace. “Can always eat.”
“Tell you what. Meet me at the front of the shop at noon, and we’ll head to my house for lunch. Mrs. Bessler should have it on the table, and we’re happy to share.”
“What do you want in return? I don’t take no handouts.”
He scanned the scrawny little man who obviously knew more of the world than merited his age. “What can you do?”
“Everything. I’m strong, smart and, as my granny says, sassy enough to stay alive.”
“Sounds like a good grandmother.” Vic noticed a flash of pain that made him question if Davey’s grandmother even still lived. “Tell me, what did you used to do for food with Mrs. Bessler?”
“Clean stuff. Help in the store.”
“Tell you what… You sweep up my work area and you get some lunch.”
Davey didn’t wait for any more instructions. He hiked up his oversized pants and went to work. The boy worked harder than most men, and when he finished there wasn’t a bit of sawdust or wood shavings beneath Vic’s feet.
The clock in the square struck twelve times, telling Vic that Mr. Mesa’s instructions must’ve expedited the repair.
Davey set the broom in the corner. “I’ll wait here if you bring me the food.”
Vic retrieved his hat and coat and opened the front door. “No, you’ll come with me. My wife loves kids—”
“I ain’t no kid. I’m a man.” Davey pushed his shoulders back until Vic thought his shoulder blades must’ve overlapped.
“Yes, of course. Still, she’d love to have you eat with us.”
Davey shifted between his feet. “Don’t think so, sir. Mrs. B don’t let no kids around her no more after what happened.”
Vic eyed the street outside and then looked to Davey, who didn’t budge. “What happened?”
Certainly the boy didn’t know about her miscarriages and her attempt at ending her own life. Unless small-town gossip reached the ears of the young and misfortunate. His gut wrenched at even the thought of how alone and abandoned she must’ve felt during that time.
“You don’t know? Her own husband?” Davey removed his cap and scratched his head. A little black bug moved between his fingers. They’d battled lice as often as the enemy. The eggs laid in seams of clothing, only to hatch and infest the trenches. “She done lose a street kid. The girl died while your misses cared for her. Wasn’t her fault none, but she don’t let no kids ’round her since. Disappeared for a week after, and when she returned, she locked her door and shut the curtains. No one saw her for weeks. When I came ’round to offer help at the store, she shooed me out and told me never to return. She didn’t need no street rats coming ’round no more. But she still put food in the alley for us.”
Vic’s insides clenched tight. So much loss, and his beloved had been alone. Too alone. He’d be here for her now, and he wouldn’t let anything else happen to her. He had and always would love Rosie. There had to be a way for them to be happy without risking her in childbirth again. No matter how much he wanted a baby, he wanted Rosie more.
Chapter Three
Rosie sanded the rough edges along the corners of a chair, the one that was due to be delivered in two days. The cool air brought the smell of burned trash into the field behind their home that led to the mountains. Smoke drifted into the side of a ridge and broke apart. She worked with all the attention and strength she could muster since she’d been delayed with the attempt to be a good wife. Not to mention the time she’d wasted making a new dress that didn’t help get her husband’s attention. She’d done everything the article had said to help him reintegrate into home and married life, but it took two and he wasn’t interested. It was time for her to focus on survival again, and that meant with no business at the store, their only real income had been her branching out into furniture. A more lucrative endeavor with all the post-war rebuilding. Not that it paid all the bills, but it allowed enough for food and most essentials. A fact Vic said he appreciated. Yet, in the next sentence, he urged her to return to an easier life.
Footsteps sounded inside, and then the back door opened. “What are you doing out here? It’s cold and you don’t have your coat on.”
“I can’t work constricted by the fabric; besides, I don’t want to damage my good coat or get it dirty.” She continued sanding. “Your lunch is on the table.”
“Aren’t you going to join me?” Vic asked in a hesitant tone.
“I’m n
ot hungry.” She knew she should spend time with him and appreciate every minute, but the way he’d looked at her as damaged goods still stung. How could he love her if she couldn’t give him a child?
Footsteps drew closer, but he didn’t touch her or kiss her, despite her body craving him. “Your project can wait; you need to take care of yourself. Come eat something.”
She snapped easier than a dry, brittle trim piece. “Project?” she shrieked more than spoke. “This project, as you say, has kept me alive while you were gone. You went to war, and I don’t belittle what you faced.” She tossed down the sandpaper and rolled up her sleeves, feeling the heat of her bitterness rise from within her. “Everyone says I need to return to being a good wife. I need to focus on cooking, and cleaning, and doting on my husband while he reintegrates into his former life. As a wife I should take on the responsibility of helping you through the anger, anguish, anxiety that you brought home from the horrors you endured. Have I not done this?”
Vic took a step back, as if he feared her more than a soldier with a gun. “Yes, you’ve been perfect, my love.” He spoke softly in a way that always had her falling into his arms, but not this time.
“Then allow me to return to my project. If I ever don’t provide you with what you need or want, please let me know. Since I’m not needed at the shop anymore and I have no trouble finishing my wifely duties while you’re there as the reintegration article says I should, then allow me to fill my time with something meaningful.”
He shook his head as if shaking off his fog of confusion. “This information you read… Did it state what a man should do to help his wife?”
“No,” she said in a tone so cold she hardly recognized the voice as her own.
For several heartbeats, they stood in silence, looking at each other as if for the first time. He was thinner than before, and part of her wanted to give in and join him for lunch to make sure he ate enough, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel the rejection of his distance since she knew he’d scoot away at the dining table.
He removed his hat and held it in front of himself the way he did when he was thinking carefully about his next words. “When I was sent away, I received a manual about certain things, but when I arrived, I realized that whoever wrote the rules of engagement and how to survive had indeed never experienced what we faced. I would endeavor to guess that whatever information you’ve received was written without actual knowledge of post-war marriage. Times have changed, and I had not realized how much until this moment.”
Rosie fought the shaking in her limbs, but it won, and she knew that Vic noticed because he moved closer, sending her into retreat with her back against the brick of the house.
He paused his approach and sighed. “Can we start again?”
She blinked up at him, trying to see what he meant. The fear in his eyes spoke of his thoughts moving to the memories of her anxious fits. Is that the only way he’d ever see her? Lost, broken, confused?
“We both were told things before I came home that stuck in our minds as the truth, but I’m quickly seeing there is no truth, only compromise and understanding.” He took her shaking hand and wouldn’t release it. A man who’d never even raised his voice or ordered her to do anything held tight and wouldn’t let her go. “Listen to me, my love. I can’t and won’t lose you again. Please, give me another chance.”
She fought to take her hand away before she devoured the feeling after a four-year starvation for physical contact. “I’m not the same girl you married. I’m not a porcelain trinket that will crush in your hands.”
“Rosie.” He brushed away hair that had fallen onto her face and cupped her cheek. “I know you’re strong. Anyone who has faced the loss you have would feel the same. You’re strong and independent, and I love you for that.” His thumb grazed the scar on her wrist, and she yanked her hand away.
“You don’t understand.”
“But I do. I’m sorry that I didn’t ask, but I want to know now. I want to know everything about what you went through while I was gone, beyond the letters that you wrote. The ones that you penned with the expressed purpose of keeping me focused on my job soldiering and on staying alive. I am home now, and you need to stop protecting me.” He brushed her arm and hooked one finger around hers. “My sweet, dearest love. I know about the child.”
His unbearably sympathetic look threaded pity under her skin, leaving a stinging itch she couldn’t scratch. “I told you that I’m stronger now. Another loss of a baby will not turn me from life.”
“Not that child. The one from the street. The little girl.”
His words choked her. Her body shook at the memories of the sweet, angelic Esther, who slipped from her arms in the dead of night. Before she knew what was happening, Vic had her in his arms, holding her as her body trembled, despite her will to be strong. It was her job, her duty to be the not-so-perfect wife he’d left behind. The innocent love from when they’d first met that he longed to return to with no drama or issues, before the babies, before the war, before Esther. But she’d failed. The same way she’d failed to protect Esther, who she’d sworn to care for almost four years ago. The same way she’d failed to give her husband a healthy baby. The same way she’d failed at being a good wife.
She was tired of failing. With her palm to his chest, she pushed free of her once rock of a husband and returned to work. “I’ll make soup and fresh bread for dinner. That should warm your bones after a long day.”
“Rosie.” He touched her lower back the way he did when he led her around at a dance in their past lives. She was done being led around.
“Don’t. You don’t want to make love to me, that’s fine. I’ll be a good wife in every other way.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said, but when she resumed her sanding, he backed away the same way he backed away every time she tried to show him affection. “Rosie, please. Don’t give up on us.” His forehead rested on her shoulder, and he slipped his arm around her waist.
“I won’t. I am and always will be your dutiful wife.” Her words provided more distance between them than the oceans during war time.
Chapter Four
Vic placed the food on the desk and settled Davey in to eat before he returned to working on a toy no one would probably buy this year. His wife was amazing with how she figured out how to keep everything going while he’d been away. Sure, she’d helped check customers out on occasion prior to him being deployed, but that was all the business knowledge she’d possessed before he’d abandoned her. He’d been a fool to question her decisions and to change things when he’d returned. He’d obviously made her mad, the way she tore out of the store earlier. She’d even changed into pants and covered her beautiful hair with a scarf. The dress she’d been wearing would’ve turned any man’s head. He’d wanted to close shop and take her home immediately, but that wasn’t what she needed.
He had no idea what she needed. That was the problem. He wanted to make her happy, to take care of her, but he wasn’t doing a great job so far. Love, safety, and understanding would carry them through the years. Intimacy was but one part, a forbidden part if he didn’t want to lose Rosie.
“Mrs. B bust your chops?” Davey grumbled through half-chewed food.
Vic glanced over at him, noticing the kid had taken an eighth of the food and separated it out and then left the rest. “No. I’m working.”
“You haves to hold something in your hand to work.” He finished eating, shoved the remaining food in the bag, and then shot out the rear door. “Be back.”
Welcoming the excuse not to discuss his marital issues with a child, Vic settled into work for about twenty minutes before the front door opened and in stepped the owner of the grocery store adjacent to his shop, Mr. Mason. “Did I see that child in here today? I know you’ve been away, so you might not know, but those street kids are nothing but trouble. They stole from my store and tried to influence my daughter.”
“Davey?” Vic stood, holding h
imself steady with the edge of the workbench. “He’s been nothing but helpful.”
“Mark my words, he’s trouble. You best be careful… He’ll steal from you, break your toys, and set fire to this place the way they tried to set fire to mine.”
“They set a fire inside your store?” Vic felt a pinch of apprehension at such information. He’d liked Davey and thought he was a good child who required a little guidance but wasn’t dangerous.
“Behind my store. They put a bunch of trash in a can and set it on fire.”
“So, they didn’t set fire to your store. They made a fire behind it?”
“Well, yes, but…” Mr. Mason huffed, his face turning Santa-Claus-suit red. “I’ve done my civic duty by warning you. If anything happens to that wife of yours, that’s on you.” He pushed the front door open hard enough that it hit the wall and bounced closed.
Vic returned to work, but the man’s words were like vinegar on his soul: sour and acidic. Not that Vic had known Davey for long, but he believed the boy was scrappy but kindhearted. Or was Vic seeing what he wanted? Did this have more to do with all the children he couldn’t save who haunted his dreams and thoughts, or was it really about a child here at home who only needed a touch of understanding and care?
Davey returned empty-handed, except for the rag he took from the bucket in the back.
“What’re you doing?” Vic asked.
Davey did his look-like-a-man stretch and said, “I’m cleaning. Earning my keep.”
Vic set his chisel down and looked to the clean floor. The boy worked hard. Certainly that meant something. Perhaps he should just ask Davey his side of the story. “I need to ask you something.”
“What?” His brows narrowed with suspicion.
“Did you have anything to do with the fire at the grocery store?”
Davey ran a finger under his nose with a sniffle-snort sound. “Yeah, I started it.”
