Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  “Not really. Just two. Either he’s a coward, or there’s something wrong with him.”

  Birdie’s face grew stern. “That’s not nice. Listen. I talked to him last night—”

  Rosalie grabbed Birdie’s arm. “You did? When?”

  Birdie tipped up her chin, daring Rosalie to challenge her. “Look, I’m willing to look out for you, even if you aren’t. Partly I stuck around last night so the other girls wouldn’t have to ride home alone—like I told you when I came in. Partly I stayed to talk to Kenny. He’s a swell guy. Honorable, nice, and funny.” Birdie rinsed out the dishes and left them in the sink. Then she hurried into the small living area, sitting on the sofa to put on her shoes.

  Rosalie trailed after her again, wondering what made her friend so anxious this morning. After putting on her shoes, Birdie started straightening up the living room as if she had a bee in her britches.

  “You learned all that last night?” Rosalie didn’t know whether to thank Birdie or be horrified. But what if Kenny thought she put Birdie up to it? Her toes curled just thinking about it.

  On the other hand, she felt a rush of gratitude toward her friend. Her mother always said that moms and friends could see the truth better than you could. You could count on them to determine if a guy was a bad apple or a good one.

  “Yes, Kenny was a good sport.” Birdie clasped her hands together, a mischievous grin curving her lips. “He let me ask the questions. I knew I didn’t have much time, so I sort of drilled him. He was really nice about it.” She preened a little. “Even told me you were a lucky woman to have a good friend like me.”

  “He’s right.” Rosalie reached over to squeeze Birdie’s hand.

  “But to answer your question, I don’t know why he’s not fighting, but I do know that rather than jumping to conclusions, you should find out for yourself.” Birdie patted Rosalie’s hand, then hurried back to the balcony. She grabbed the newspaper left on the table, then entered and closed the door, locking it.

  Rosalie appreciated her friend’s concern, but nothing Birdie said changed the fact that he was a reporter. Besides, Rosalie had already given him a chance, and he had proved that he only wanted her for a story.

  “I just don’t know if I can trust a guy like that, Birdie.” She silently pleaded with her friend to believe her—if not, her yearning for love might triumph over common sense. In the end, she’d only get hurt. “Last night, I fell for his line. But obviously he just wanted me for a story.”

  Birdie sighed, shaking her head. Then she clapped her hands together twice. “Hey, why aren’t you hurrying? We’re due at breakfast in twenty minutes!”

  “Breakfast?”

  Then, as if remembering a dream, she recalled Birdie coming in late last night and suggesting they go out for breakfast as she crawled into bed.

  “Breakfast. Right.” Rosalie rubbed her brow. “But does it have to be this morning? I’m not sure I’d enjoy it. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Yes, it has to be today. We have to celebrate, uh—” Birdie lifted the newspaper in her hand. “It’s not every day that you make the paper.” Birdie held it up for her.

  Rosalie didn’t want to disappoint her friend, so she put on her shoes. She was about to comment that Birdie hadn’t even known about the news story when she invited her to breakfast, but Birdie’s small gasp caused Rosalie’s gaze to dart to her friend. “What is it?” Rosalie hurried to her side.

  Birdie’s thin hands concealed her face. The open newspaper lay at her feet.

  Rosalie picked it up, noticing a small story that she’d missed the first time.

  U.S. FLIERS RAID FOE IN INDO-CHINA;

  HONGAI IS TARGET FOR BOMBERS ESCORTED BY FIGHTERS—

  BIG FIRES ARE STARTED

  CHUNGKING, China, June 9 (U.P.)—The Fourteenth United States Air Force, switching its operations against the Japanese in Indo-China after helping the Chinese win their greatest victory of the war in Central China, yesterday attacked Hongai, coal mining and shipping center….

  Birdie’s husband, John, was in the Fourteenth.

  Rosalie lifted her head. “Oh, Birdie.”

  Birdie’s eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t that this news was any different from the numerous other stories reported every day. The difference was that it was personal.

  “He’ll be all right. He’s the best pilot….” She patted Birdie’s back, trying to provide the same kind of comfort her friend gave her, but her words felt hollow, empty. But what else could she say? Ever since Vic had left, she’d heard all the platitudes. She’d been assured and encouraged. But none of it really helped. In the end, all the good thoughts and warm wishes never helped Vic—or eased her guilt.

  From the apartment above came the patter of light footsteps across the floor, with heavier footsteps following. As with most of the tenants in their building, their upstairs neighbor Betty’s husband was off fighting, leaving her to raise their child alone. Then came a loud crash, as if Danny had run into something, followed by the toddler’s cry.

  Birdie walked blindly to the sofa and dropped onto it as if her legs could no longer bear her weight. Rosalie remembered the swirling thoughts that worry brought to the surface. Birdie probably saw visions of John in his flight suit, the newsreel images of Japanese zero fighters’ missiles whistling through the air. Rosalie experienced it each and every time the newspapers reported a new mission in the Pacific—where Vic was. And then her fears were realized.

  The child’s crying stilled, and a door opened and slammed as Betty left the apartment to drop off Danny at her sister’s house before heading for work. Betty was one of the lucky few who had family close by to help her.

  Birdie’s chest rose and fell as she fingered the arm of the sofa. “Y’know,” she spoke without looking at Rosalie, “just a few minutes ago God was reminding me in His Word about His faithfulness.” A silent hope shined in her eyes beneath the worry. “God’s with John, watching over him. He promised.”

  A crank turned in Rosalie’s stomach, cinching it tight. Vic’s mom had claimed that same promise—and where had it gotten her son? “Tell you what. Let’s stay home for breakfast this morning. We have a little sugar ration left. I can whip up some of my famous apple-cinnamon muffins.”

  But Birdie shook her head, as if trying to shake free from the worried thoughts. “No, I still want to go out. Besides, I’ve invited Lanie and Iris to join us.” Birdie tried to make her voice perky, but it didn’t work. Instead she squeaked like Mickey—or, rather, Minnie—Mouse.

  “You sure?” Rosalie smoothed her skirt. “If you’d rather do it another day…”

  “No, really.” Birdie wrapped her hand around Rosalie’s arm. “I need something to keep my mind occupied, and a big stack of pancakes is just the thing. I’ve heard the place is great.”

  Chapter Ten

  The persistent trill of an alarm clock penetrated Kenny’s dreams, jarring him from an exhausted slumber. As he rolled onto his back, he felt every spring and lump of the thin mattress. From the room’s other twin bed, Nick snored away—despite the clock’s continuing frantic vibrations. C’mon, Mr. Schwarz, shut the blasted thing off. Seven o’clock today had arrived much too soon.

  Finally, the slap of a hand on metal, and then blessed silence. Kenny squinted open bleary eyes and found morning sunlight sifting through the slits of the threadbare curtains.

  The run-down tenement’s thin walls allowed tenants on surrounding floors to share Mr. Schwarz’s rise-and-shine schedule. The elderly Jewish gentleman, resettled from the Netherlands, retained exclusive, decisive control of the alarm, and negotiating was not allowed. But since a fellow had no way to get his hands on a new alarm clock these days—or toaster, fork, bicycle, or anything metal for that matter—Kenny thanked Mr. Schwarz for being an early riser.

  Kenny yawned and sat up, then groaned as his body ached in protest. Ugh, he hadn’t jitterbugged like that since—well, since the last time Nick dragged him out. He massaged his stiff cal
f while his awakening mind ran on ahead. He had a cargo hold of plans for the day, and first on his list was breakfast at The Golden Nugget—with Rosalie.

  A sparrow sang outside his window, and Kenny felt like singing along. Last night, Kenny’s spirits had soared to the moon when Rosalie’s friend Birdie had bounced back from the bus. They’d talked for quite a while, then she’d told him point-blank that she wanted to know how she could help Kenny and Rosalie get together again. He suggested The Golden Nugget—his home turf—and she promised to have Rosalie there at eight o’clock sharp. Aside from the question of whether she’d actually go out on a date with him, he needed that riveter story. And maybe, just maybe, as they spent time together, she’d see that he really was a good guy.

  “Thank you, Birdie!” he exclaimed as he bounded out of bed.

  “Huh? What?” Nick mumbled.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  Kenny showered in the bathroom down the hall, then settled at the rickety, folding card table to read and pray. The scent of freshly brewed coffee made Kenny’s mouth water, and he wondered who in this rundown complex, a block from the old Skid Row, had managed to get his hands on that precious commodity.

  Kenny finished his morning Bible study with 1 Corinthians 1:25: “Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men.”

  Thank You, Lord, he prayed, but his mind whirled too much to concentrate. He usually found thoughts most clear in these morning times, when he was able to forget about deadlines, the daily commute, and even about the war. But today, no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t forget about Rosalie.

  He eyed his grandfather’s watch. 7:36. Time to go. Nick snored on from the bedroom as Kenny donned his black fedora and headed out the door. But at the top of the shabby stairway, his neighbor and landlady, Mrs. Rosetti, called to him.

  “Kenny! Kenny! Kenny!”

  Inwardly, he groaned. Not Mrs. Rosetti. Mrs. Rosetti was notorious for buttonholing unsuspecting tenants in the hallway, trapping them into listening to her interminable ramblings—only half of which anyone could understand through her thick Sicilian accent.

  Reluctantly, he turned. “Yes, Mrs. Rosetti?” He looked at his watch again, impatient.

  She thrust a scrap of paper into his hand. “Phone. Message for you.” And to his immense relief, she departed back into her cave.

  But his relief was short-lived as the import of what she said hit him. Phone messages and telegrams—these days, neither of them meant good news.

  With trepidation, he unfolded the thin slip of paper, and his heart slammed against his ribs when he saw who had called.

  Mom.

  He picked up the black receiver and held it to his ear, hoping he could get through. Those on the homefront were asked to only use long-distance calls for emergencies and to keep even those brief. Often phone calls were delayed because the metals needed to build extra phone circuits were being used to fight the war. He said a silent prayer that this call would connect.

  “Number please?” came the operator’s bored voice.

  “Wallingford, 554. Collect.” Kenny leaned against the paneled wall and stared at the dusty stairwell.

  “One moment please, sir.”

  The electric light hanging down buzzed as he waited, tapping an impatient foot. He didn’t want to miss Rosalie, but—

  A fresh slap of worry hit his gut.

  Finally, his mother picked up. “Hello?” she said, and he knew from her slow, muted tone that something was very wrong.

  “I have a call for you from Seattle, ma’am, from a Mr.—” The operator waited, and Kenny neared his mouth to the receiver. “Kenny Davenport. This is a collect call. The charges will be billed to…”

  Kenny closed his eyes as the operator seemed to speak to his mother like a recording on slow speed. On his end, the noisy rush of tenants headed for work faded, and his throat thickened with fear. Is it Dad? What else could it be?

  He imagined the rough touch of his father’s hard-edged hands as he embraced him as a child. His father’s hands covered with grease as he and Kenny spent Saturday afternoons under their Model T. His hands embracing Kenny’s when he graduated from college. Is he with You now, God? Are You holding his hand now?

  The operator continued, finally asking, “Will you take the call, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” his mother said.

  “Go ahead.” The operator hung up.

  “It’s your dad, honey.”

  Kenny waited, numb.

  “He’s okay. Well, mostly.”

  The muscles stretching from Kenny’s back and shoulders relaxed as a wave of relief cascaded through him. He wasn’t gone.

  Since Dad had shipped out to the South Pacific, Kenny grasped that there was a possibility he and his mom and sisters could join the somber fellowship of families who lost their sons, brothers, and fathers. Just like everyone else, the prospect always loomed. His father’s letters had implored them to take heart if he did lose his life, knowing he served the Lord and the sailors under his spiritual care to the end.

  Six months ago, when they’d received word his father had been injured, they were not overly concerned, because Dad’s letter told them he was recovering in Hawaii and would be home soon. They’d been a little worried when the letters stopped after that, but a call into Veterans Affairs confirmed he was well and still recovering. Now Kenny wondered if there was more to the silence.

  He blew out a slow breath. He couldn’t imagine building a future without Dad’s advice, prayers, and guidance. When he was a child, he’d always climb on his father’s lap when he got home from work. His dad would listen to Kenny’s discoveries of the day and answer Kenny’s questions—like how to make a prop plane from sticks and a rubber band, and why the ants down by the creek didn’t like to swim. Kenny smiled, remembering those days.

  Even after his dad had left for the open seas, Kenny couldn’t stop sharing the high points of his day with him, but now he put his thoughts into letters. Every night he wrote to Dad, laying out everything that happened, trying to make the mundane details sound fascinating or funny, and wishing he had something more heroic to tell.

  “Kenny, are you there?” In the background he could hear his sister talking to someone—maybe one of his aunts or a neighbor. Homesickness rushed over him, surprising him, and he longed for her presence. To see the peace in her eyes and to claim some for himself.

  “I’m here.” He gripped the phone. “Mom, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  From the stairs came the uneven click-click of Mr. Schwarz’s cane, preceded by a cloud of cigar smoke.

  “Yesterday in the mail was a bundle of letters. You know how long it takes them to get through. They must have had quite a trip from Hawaii to take so long—”

  “And the letters, Mom, what did they say?” he interrupted.

  “There was a lot of news. A few months’ worth, but in them your father explained the accident and his injuries. He happened to be in the section of the ship hit by the torpedo. So many men weren’t as lucky. Many didn’t survive.”

  “And Dad? What happened?”

  “His leg was crushed, Kenny. It—it’s amazing he survived, but they had to remove his leg. His left leg.” Her voice caught. “I’d known he’d been injured, but, well, I didn’t expect it was something so life-changing.”

  Kenny envisioned Dad’s faith-filled eyes. Even though his father’s strong back could carry any burden, like Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress, he also knew how to lay his burdens before the Lord.

  Kenny leaned his shoulder against the wallpapered wall, water-stained and peeling. “Did it say when he’s coming home?”

  “Your dad said he was recovering well—or as well as could be expected. He was hoping to leave soon. At least that’s what he said in the last letter that was dated over a month ago. Oh, I wish it didn’t take so long to get the mail. But, Kenny, he sounded good. His faith is strong, but…” She faltered. “For
a man like him to lose a leg—”

  Kenny heard the operator pick up.

  “I’m sorry, but prepare to hang up. You have one minute. You are about to lose your circuit.”

  “Mom, is there anything I can do?” he hurriedly said.

  “Just pray, hon. Pray for your dad.”

  “I already am, Mom.” His throat tightened and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be with his mom, to hold her and his sisters. “Mom, do you want me to come home?”

  “No, no. Don’t even think about it. You’ve got important work to do. You know, finding a good woman and, oh, that reporting thing you do too.” She chuckled. “Just teasing, honey. You know I’m very proud of what you do.”

  “I know,” Kenny responded, grateful that, even now, his mom retained her sense of humor. “I love you. Let me know when you hear anything.”

  “I will. I love you—”

  The phone clicked, and a dial tone buzzed.

  Kenny hung up and stared at the receiver. His father had lost his leg. Impossible for him to grasp. Memories flooded his mind: football games in the fallen leaves after Thanksgiving dinner. All the living room furniture pushed back to make room for his dad and his sisters, falling over themselves laughing while trying—and failing—to teach him to jitterbug.

  Kenny swallowed hard, and his heart felt heavy. How often had he written a story without understanding the emotion behind it? He was good at focusing on the facts. But the emotion—that’s where the real story lay. It was more than just battles and dates to him now. Much more.

  He breathed in and looked at his watch. 7:54. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since the last time he’d checked, yet everything had changed. He’d be late now for meeting Rosalie, but suddenly, that didn’t seem so important anymore. Maybe he’d axe it and visit the Veterans Hospital instead. Write a story about the men who sacrificed and continued to suffer. He thought of Nick slumbering down the hall. He still longed to tell Nick’s story—now more than ever. If only he could get Bixby to sign off on it.