Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (12 page)

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.

Something clicked.
Let’s say I did get a fix on the Rosie the Riveter story. If Bixby liked it well enough, couldn’t it open the door to more?

Rosalie was the key to opening that door.

One more glance at his grandfather’s watch told him that if he really hustled, he might still make his date.

A light breeze off Elliot Bay ruffled the burgundy awning of their apartment complex. Two large flowerpots overflowing with fuchsias and petunias welcomed visitors and residents to The Queen’s Garden.

Pausing beneath the awning, Rosalie tossed a smile to their neighbors, Lanie and Iris, who called their names as she strode up the sidewalk. Iris wore a sporty blouse beneath a pale mint knit cardigan—almost identical to Rosalie and Birdie’s. When she and Birdie weren’t working, they often chose the femininity of a soft sweater and skirt, although many ladies wore slacks even when not at work.

Lanie wore perfectly clean and pressed work clothes—jeans and a blue shirt like the one from the Rosie the Riveter poster. A bandanna tightly covered Lanie’s shiny blond hair.

Rosalie grinned. “Aren’t you the eager beaver this morning?” she teased Lanie.

Lanie nodded and shrugged.

Then Rosalie looked at Iris. “Birdie said you were meeting us to walk to this
sublime
greasy spoon she heard about, but it looks as if you two were already out and about.” She strove for a light tone, for Birdie’s sake.

“Well, I was hoping the fresh air would do me good,” Iris said, wriggling between Rosalie and Birdie in order to chain elbows with them. Together they tromped past the small businesses lined up on Queen Anne Avenue. “Didn’t have the best night last night, to tell the truth, so Lanie and me decided to go for a morning stroll. That’s when we saw the notice.”

“Notice?” Rosalie echoed.

“We’re all getting kicked out.”

Birdie halted. “Honestly? Kicked out?”

Birdie, already pale as she processed the reality of her husband flying a dangerous mission, now looked as if she might cry. Rosalie unhooked her arm from Iris’s and wrapped it around her friend.

“When?” Birdie asked.

“One month. Pretty big of ’em, eh? Giving us a whole month to find a new place to live?” Seeing Birdie’s lower lip tremble, Iris added, “Now, now, don’t you worry. That’s plenty of time to ask around. We’ll find something for sure.”

Still, Birdie’s shoulders slumped, and Iris pulled her into a hug, then kept an arm over her shoulders as they continued down the hill.

Trailing Iris and Birdie, Rosalie kept step with a quiet Lanie and wished she could be as positive as Iris. But Rosalie knew that, despite Iris’s confidence, finding a new place wouldn’t be easy. New laborers arrived in the city every day, and each of them needed a place to live.

Only 7:40, and already the red transit buses, filled with mostly female laborers, rumbled by, one after another. Rosalie covered her nose as a gust of warm exhaust wafted over her. Then she fixed her gaze on the city spread before them, wondering if someplace out there they’d find a new home.

From here the view of the downtown area was breathtaking. No wonder people chose to build such beautiful homes in this location. Rosalie had long ago resigned herself to never living in a fancy home like that. A roof over her head was fine by her.

Would she have even that a month from now?

Her friends were quiet, apparently lost in similar worries. Their landlord had warned them months ago of this possibility. Rosalie had hoped it wouldn’t happen quite so soon. Hard to believe their building would be torn down—the cozy, inviting apartment she and Birdie had created along with it.

Burying her worries, at least for now, she quickened her pace until she drew alongside Iris. “You said you didn’t have a good night,” she said. “Why? What happened? You seemed your normal electric self when we flew the coop last night.”

Before Iris could answer, an aging soldier from the Great War, lounging on a nearby bench, hooted, startling them all.

“That’s her!” he exclaimed. “That there’s Rosie the Riveter!” He elbowed his companion and pointed at Rosalie.

His friend looked up and a broad smile creased his leathered old face. “Sure as shootin’, it
is
her!”

The old veteran rose and shook the
Tribune
’s morning edition at Rosalie. “Miss! Will you autograph this for me?” he asked, shoving his paper at her.

Rosalie’s cheeks warmed. “My name’s not Rosie, sir.”

Birdie poked Rosalie’s back with her finger, nudging her forward.

“Ain’t this your picture?” the veteran asked, holding up the paper.

Iris lifted the
Tribune
from his liver-spotted hand, glanced over the image the man pointed to, then handed it to Rosalie. “You’re right. That’s her, sir.” She threw the old guy a wink. “Don’t worry. She’ll sign it for ya.”

The man’s companion fumbled at his shirt pocket. “Hold up, now. I’m sure my Bonnie stuck a pencil in my pocket so’s I could do my crossword puzzles. Hold up.” He patted his pants, front and back, before reaching again into his right shirt pocket, then finally the left. “Aha! It was in my left pocket. The left pocket! What was that woman thinking? Fifty years she tucks it in the right side, and today the left.”

“Aw, shut your trap, will ya?” his friend grumped. “I’ve never seen it in any pocket but the left one.”

“I’m not sure,” Rosalie faltered. “It’s not like I’m a star.”

“You’re a star to them,” Lanie said sweetly. “Just look at their faces.”

“And what’s one small signature?” Birdie cooed. “It’ll make their day.”