Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  “Well, guess who happened along?”

  “You?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was probably four or five, and my pet frog had just died. I was out looking for my papa, hoping for a hug.”

  “I bet you were a cute little guy.” Rosalie’s eyes danced.

  “I’ll have to show you photographs sometime, so you can judge for yourself. Anyway, somehow I managed to stay out of the mud. I tell ya, he comforted me for at least an hour—well, it seemed that long to a kid—before he told me to go fetch Mom.” Kenny touched his fist to his chin as he gazed beyond Rosalie toward a broad cedar standing watch over the busy city street.

  “That’s a wonderful story.”

  “There are so many more stories like that,” Kenny almost whispered. The memories brought comfort, but also dread.

  Rosalie pulled Kenny’s hand into hers and ran a thumb over his palm.

  “All I ever wanted was to make him proud.”

  “He’s a good man, isn’t he? Like you.”

  Kenny’s heart sank as frustration and disappointment in himself caused a heaviness to fill his chest. “Not like me,” he muttered. “I haven’t done anything but let him down.”

  Out in the bay, Kenny spotted the Kalakala forging its metal hull back toward Bremerton, and he wished he were on it, dressed in a sharp army uniform, ready to serve his country in a real way. No more writing meaningless articles. Kenny stood and tramped to the curb, leaving Rosalie on the bench.

  She followed, grasping his arm. “How did you let him down, Kenny? He seemed so proud of you.”

  Kenny searched down the street. “Why’s the bus so late?”

  “Kenny?” Rosalie’s tender voice now irritated him. Couldn’t she see he didn’t want to talk about this?

  She waited silently.

  Fine. If she had to know. “Haven’t you wondered why I’m not off fighting, Rosalie?” He held his gaze straight ahead. “It’s because I promised my father I’d use writing to fight the Nazis.” He laughed too loudly. “But now all I get is lame local stories.” He turned his gaze in her direction. “And I can’t even nab a story about a local girl who won the riveting contest.”

  The words were barely out of Kenny’s mouth when a bus turned the corner, approaching the bus stop. Two older women, with shopping bags in hand, approached the curb, preparing to board. Kenny looked to Rosalie. He didn’t want to go, especially to follow a dumb story, but he knew he had no choice.

  Kenny blew out a slow breath when he realized it wasn’t his bus that rumbled to the curb. The women boarded, then it rumbled away, its exhaust clouding his thoughtless words as if suspending them in air.

  Why did I say that to her? Kenny’s hand rushed to his forehead, shame seeping into his chest. He pivoted to Rosalie. Her eyes appeared moist—saddened but not angry. “I’m sorry.”

  Soaking in her wounded gaze, Kenny longed to enwrap her in his arms and beg forgiveness. Protect her from his own frustration, his unkindness.

  But before he could reach out to her, she lifted her hand and smoothed her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay, Kenny.” The corners of her lips rounded upward as her hand cascaded to his neck, shoulder, arm, then back to her side. Kenny’s shoulders relaxed. “He is proud of you, you know.”

  Kenny didn’t know his father really was proud. Couldn’t. Because he hadn’t been completely honest with him. His dad assumed Kenny printed stories that actually helped people. Now he’d know the truth.

  “I tell my men that my son’s fighting the war with a typewriter instead of a gun,” Dad wrote in one of his letters.

  And Kenny had let these statements ride, uncorrected. How could he tell his father his outpouring of pride was misplaced? Kenny tried to avoid the subject of his career. He could do this in letters, but face to face? His dad would know everything now.

  And he knew Dad would say he was proud of Kenny anyway. But Kenny knew that, inside, more than anything else on this earth, Reverend Davenport wanted a son who rose above the average man and soared in excellence. Whether it be as a reporter, a soldier, a doctor didn’t matter to his father. What mattered was the magnitude of help to humanity. God created each of us to serve, to give—his father had made sure he’d known this. Each man’s role in life was to follow in the footsteps of Christ. And writing macaroni stories did not reach that mark.

  Kenny eyed the girl standing next to him, supporting him. He knew Rosalie couldn’t understand all this, but she seemed to care, and if she did, he would let her in. He’d tell her what was really going on in his heart. But not today. Now he had the macaroni man’s story to write, and then, he’d visit his father. And beneath all his trepidation, a trace of joy over seeing his dad stirred.

  Finally, Kenny’s bus wrangled to the curb, its brakes screeching.

  “Thank you, Rosalie. Thank you for telling me he’s here. And thank you for—being a friend. I’ll see you soon, I hope?”

  “Yes. I’d like that. And Kenny.” She gripped his sleeve, hindering him from stepping away. “Your father is proud of you. It wasn’t hard to tell. You need to know that.” She released her grip, and Kenny advanced toward the bus.

  Passengers boarded as Kenny stole one last moment with Rosalie. “See you soon?”

  She nodded, then perked up. “I almost forgot. He’s at the naval hospital in Lake City.”

  “You comin’, mister?” the bus driver called.

  “Coming.” Kenny stepped toward the door. “I’ll visit him tonight. I’ll be seeing you!” He climbed the stairs as the door squeaked closed.

  “Kenny!” Rosalie’s voice sounded from the street, and Kenny raced to an open window, peering down at her at the curb.

  “What is it?”

  “He said to give you two more messages!” The bus began to move, and Rosalie ran alongside. “The first one is, he loves you!”

  The bus gained speed, and Rosalie lagged a bit behind.

  “What’s the second message?” Kenny shouted.

  “Meet me at the plant for an interview tomorrow at one o’clock, and I’ll tell you!”

  Kenny’s steps had been light as he left his interview with Mr. Merlino. Writing a softball macaroni story didn’t seem to matter anymore. Rosalie was willing to be interviewed, which meant he’d be able to write bigger, better stories soon. More than that, she cared for him.

  Yet Kenny’s buoyancy sank as he strode up the sidewalk toward the military hospital. A hint of breeze ruffled his hair, and a misty rain fell. Wiping away water droplets from his forehead, he hurried up the front steps. He stepped inside the doorway and paused. The hall was nearly empty. Only a few nurses bustled around with dinner trays. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He removed his hat as he approached the nurses’ desk.

  “Can I help you?” The middle-aged nurse lifted tired eyes, brushing a strand of graying hair back under her white nurse’s cap.

  “Andrew Davenport’s room, please.”

  “Are you family, sir?” she asked, eyeing his camera bag. “Only family is permitted.”

  “Yes, I’m his son.” Kenny patted his bag. “Just came from work. Is he doing okay?”

  “As good as could be expected. It was a hard journey, and the injury—it’s not something one could recover from overnight.” Sympathy laced her eyes, and Kenny also saw questions. He imagined anxious parents normally came to check on their sons, not a son to check on a father.

  “He was sleeping last time I peeked in.” She pushed back her chair from the desk and rose. “We’re keeping his dinner tray in the kitchen, but if you’d like us to wake him…maybe we can make you a sandwich too.”

  “No, no. Don’t wake him.” Kenny’s fingers balled tightly. “He probably needs his rest.”

  She nodded and then turned and hurried down the hall, pausing at the last door on the left. Then she looked back over her shoulder. “Oh, it makes sense now,” she whispered. “You must work for the Tribune. The first thing Mr. Davenport did when he arrived was ask us to find all
the old papers we could. We had a large stack, saving them for the paper drive, you know.”

  Kenny forced a small smile, but inside he felt as if he’d been sucker-punched in the gut. Even though he wrote his father nearly every day, he rarely sent clippings. He’d wait to write a real story before he did that. He struggled to swallow down the emotion rising in his throat. Now Dad knew what Kenny’s stories consisted of—celebrity visitors to Seattle and cute local stories. Dad saw that his hopes for a son who would fight for victory with the pen were nothing but misplaced ideas. Kenny’s writing hadn’t helped the war effort one bit.

  “Feel free to wait around until he wakes up, if you like.” The nurse’s voice was soft.

  Kenny quietly stepped into the room, purposefully focusing on his father’s face. His hair looked grayer than Kenny remembered. His face paler. His cheekbones more prominent. Did their country realize it had taken the last of his father’s good years? Taken his…

  Kenny’s gaze moved down his dad’s body to his legs. His right leg looked the same as it always had, but the left…ended just below the knee. Kenny sucked in a breath and leaned back against the wall. A stream of tears pushed past the rims of Kenny’s eyes, and he quickly wiped them away. Sad tears. Angry tears. Ashamed tears.

  He moved to the chair, but it was occupied with a stack of newspapers open to his articles—every one. Victory Square, with the photograph of Rosalie and Kenny on stage with Lana Turner, topped the stack. It only made sense since his dad had already met Rosalie. He wondered if Dad liked her, approved. She was so different from the church girls back home.

  His dad stirred slightly, a low moan escaping his lips. A heavy weight, confusing and arduous, settled on Kenny’s chest. His dad lay before him, softly snoring, unlike the wild roars he used to unleash to the rafters—and neighbors—at home. A part of Kenny wanted to wake him, look in his eyes, and see the acceptance and love he so longed for. And then spend the afternoon playing checkers, laughing about old stories, and sharing their dreams for the future. He’d missed his father so deeply over the last two years.

  But the weight restrained Kenny from acting on his desire, because he dreaded a disappointed gaze even more. Holding his position, he waited, but Dad didn’t wake.

  After a moment, Kenny pulled his notebook from his shirt pocket. I’ll leave a note, so he’ll know I was here. He obviously needs to sleep.

  Dad,

  I came by but you were sleeping. I’ll stop in again tomorrow or maybe the day after. It’s good to know you’re here—safe on American soil. I’ll call Mom and let her know. I can picture her excitement. I’ll tell her you’ve already met my girl too. That’ll really get her excited.

  I love you, Dad, and I know you’ll be up and around in no time. I’m proud of you.

  Your son,

  Kenny

  Kenny glanced over his words, wondering if he should say more. He padded to the bed and gently touched his father’s strong hand. Memories of those hands flooded his mind.

  “And I’ll work to make you proud,” Kenny whispered.

  The next day Rosalie’s paintbrush swished a coat of white paint over the dining room wall at Tilly’s house. Beyond the room, many of her soon-to-be housemates’ voices echoed across the wood-paneled hallway. A crew of them had gathered in the kitchen, wrenches in hand, to replace a rusty pipe. If they could pound out B-17 bombers in record time, surely a rusty pipe wouldn’t defeat them.

  As brilliant white covered over dingy yellow paint, Lanie hustled into the room from the front living room, her hair tied up in a yellow bandanna. “There you are.”

  From the look of her pristine work getup, Lanie wasn’t planning on getting her hands dirty. Rosalie glanced across the room at the grandfather clock, its face the only part uncovered by sheets. She’d need to leave in fifteen minutes to catch the bus.

  “Yes, here I am. Busy at work. Trying to get the house all ready for us to move in.” Rosalie forced a grin, reminding herself this house was a gift, and it didn’t really matter that some people put in more work than others. Rosalie gave one last stroke and then placed the paintbrush in the tray next to the can.

  “I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you.” Lanie leaned on a chair, her manicured finger accidentally plunging into a plop of paint. She wiped it on the sheet covering the table, then tilted her head. “I heard from my brother stationed on the same base as Iris’s husband, Jake. I was talking to him, and it seems Jake has a girl down there. I just don’t know how to tell Iris.”

  Knowing Iris was a few feet across the hall in the kitchen, Rosalie shook her head and waved her hands. But it was too late. A loud clang sounded from the kitchen, like a pipe dropping to linoleum. Rosalie’s heart fell.

  Rosalie left Lanie and raced to the kitchen. Confusion lurked in Iris’s eyes—along with disbelief. Birdie stood next to her like a protective pit bull.

  Footsteps approached, and Lanie peered in. She moved to Iris and took her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her Southern accent dripping with remorse. “I didn’t know you were here. I never would’ve—”

  “Lanie! How could you repeat such things?” The words spurt from Birdie’s mouth.

  Lanie’s head jerked away from Iris toward Birdie. “I just wanted to figure out how to talk to her about it.” She stood taller, her voice firm but not harsh. “I was hopin’ Rosalie could help.”

  Iris pushed away from Lanie, her hand rubbing her forehead. “What did you hear, exactly?”

  Everyone looked at Lanie, whose shoulders slumped. “My brother said he saw Jake keepin’ company with a beautiful English lady. I didn’t even know it was your husband, until he told me the fellow’s last name, and that he was married to a motorcyclin’ parts carrier in Seattle. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

  “Hold on a second.” Stepping forward, Rosalie eyed Lanie. “You say your brother saw Jake with this woman?”

  Lanie’s eyes flit upward, and she coiled a strand of hair around a finger. “I think so. Or was it his friend who saw him?” She scrunched her lips together. “Does it really matter?”

  Rosalie knew Iris and Jake had struggled in the past. This kind of rumor would kindle doubts Iris already had about her marriage. And for Lanie to even bring it up when the evidence was so weak was another example of Lanie’s lack of common sense—or was it sheer spitefulness?

  Placing a hand on Iris’s back, Rosalie kept her gaze on Lanie. “You should’ve been more careful, talking about this kind of thing.” Lanie’s eyes drooped, and she looked at her hands, so Rosalie softened her voice. “I suppose you didn’t mean to hurt Iris.”

  With a quick turn, Rosalie focused on Iris. “Listen.” She grasped her friend’s shoulders. “It’s only a rumor. Lanie doesn’t even know who exactly saw them. Maybe she was someone he worked with, or a friend’s wife. There could be a hundred reasons he was seen with her, if he even was. You know how rumors are.”

  “I know, but—” Iris’s chin quivered, and she lowered her head. “I guess I’m not surprised. I mean, the way things have been lately. It could be true, Rosalie.”

  “No. There’s no reason to think it’s true until you know for sure.” Rosalie thumbed away a tear on Iris’s cheek. “Keep your chin up, hon. Keep smiling. Be the strong woman I know you are. We’ll find out the truth, and then we’ll work it out.”

  Birdie sidled up next to her. “That’s right. We’ll be with you whatever happens. But I don’t think it’s true.”

  Clara joined in the hug. “We’re on your side.”

  “Miss Madison?” A male voice broke the girls from their moment and caused Rosalie to jump. She looked up to spot Phil from the lumberyard standing in the doorway where Lanie had stood a moment before. Lanie was nowhere to be seen.

  The man cleared his throat, removed his cap, and twisted it in his hands. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but can you spare a few minutes?”

  “Of course.” She gave Iris’s shoulder one last squeeze.

 
; Rosalie hurried toward the waiting man. She led him through the dining room, where Lanie had picked up the painting where Rosalie had left off.

  “I need to talk to ya about the roof,” the man said as they moseyed through the living room. “Wanna follow me outside?”

  Reaching the front yard, they swiveled and gazed at the house. “You’ve been doing a swell job cleaning up the inside, but there’s a bigger problem.” He pointed toward the roof. “You’re going to have to replace it.”

  “Replace the roof?” Rosalie shook her head.

  “Yep, and the attic. Too much dry rot up there.”

  Rosalie’s hand moved to her chest, remembering the time she’d dangled from a hole in the attic. Thank goodness Kenny’d saved her. “I tried to clean up the attic and almost broke my neck. There’s no way I’m going up there again—and especially not to the roof. How can I ask my friends to?”

  “We have folks who can do that. Skilled carpenters a little too old to join the military.”

  “But we have no money. Almost all of our materials have been donated, and we’ve been doing all the work ourselves.”

  “That’s a problem.” The man crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Don’t know what to tell you. But I wouldn’t live in that place with that roof. ”

  “Well, thank you, I’ll have to talk to the others and the owner.” Even as she said the words the idea of them coming up with any amount of cash seemed impossible. She looked up to see Birdie striding out of the house.

  “Hey, sweets,” Birdie said, struggling to sound chipper, but obviously still upset by the incident with Iris and Lanie.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll catch up. I just need to talk to Tilly. I need to ask her to pray.”

  Birdie gave Rosalie a quick hug. “Nothing is impossible with God,” she said, and Rosalie wondered how she knew.

  Rosalie thanked the man, then headed around the house to find Tilly, who was trying to tame the weeds in her victory garden. As Rosalie approached, she saw that Iris was already there, pouring out her heart.