Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (26 page)

“Kenny.”

Kenny’s eyes retained their wistfulness as he lifted his hand and stroked her arm. Then he shifted her toward the bench. “Why don’t you tell me how you found out, Rosalie? Did you see him? Is that how you know?” He glanced at his watch. “The bus seems to be late.”

Late?
Rosalie looked at her watch. It was only an hour until her shift started. If she left now she could get home, change, and get to work on time. But how could she leave Kenny?

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, this is gonna be quick.”

Kenny had known since that call from Mom that Dad would be coming to Seattle, but when he’d read the telegram, fear gripped him. He hadn’t wanted to face Dad, not yet. His dad had something to show for his dedication and sacrifice. What did Kenny have to show for it?

“You got a telegram, didn’t you?” Rosalie’s sincere voice encouraged Kenny.

He looked at her and realized he’d never felt so comfortable around a woman.

“Yeah, it just came.” He slid the heavy paper out of its holder. “The telegram says he’s coming soon, but that’s all. You saw him?”

“Yes!” Rosalie explained how she and Birdie were helping the USO girls welcome the troops at the Colman Ferry Terminal. “I was talking to your father for a while before I realized it was him. He was caring for a friend—putting someone else’s needs before his own.”

Kenny nodded. “That sounds like my dad. He’s always taking care of everyone. He’s always been so strong. He’d walk around like—” Kenny paused, his eyes getting misty. He shook his head. “He’s always acted like he was put on this earth to care for others.” Emotion built in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

“You must be nervous to see him.” Her eyes filled with compassion. “He’s strong, though. Even without—even with his injury.”

“I know. He lost his leg.” Kenny’s eyes closed, and in the blackness he strove to imagine his father’s muscular arms reaching down to roll a wheelchair. His one leg—normal, strong; his other gone at the knee. From now on, people would always be helping him reach things, drive places, get around. He’d never be able to walk hand-in-hand with Mom, dance with his sisters, tackle Kenny at football. Kenny opened his eyes, trying to accept reality.

He tried, but he couldn’t see his father as anything but the stout, powerful man he’d always known. Rosalie’s words didn’t surprise him. “Of course he’s strong. His strength comes from the Lord.”

“I could feel that. He encouraged me.”

A soft chuckle escaped Kenny’s lips. “He has a way of encouraging folks, even when he’s in trouble.” A memory floated to Kenny’s mind like a nostalgic breeze. “There was this one time—”

Rosalie leaned closer, hand under chin, eyes engaged.

“He was plowing the potato field. The tires got stuck in a sloggish mud puddle leftover from a storm. Dad got out, thinking he’d locate a board to shove under it, give it some traction. That’s when he got stuck.” Kenny rested his back against the bench, his thoughts far away.

“The way he tells it, first he lost a boot, then another, then his balance. Before he knew it, sticky muck trapped him up to his knees. With all his strength, he couldn’t pull himself out.”

“Oh no.” Rosalie’s forehead wrinkled. “I just can’t imagine your father stuck in mud like that.”

“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.