Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (37 page)

He’d been surprised when he’d arrived at the hospital and had found Aunt Tilly and Nick there also. Nick for a checkup, which he only received because Dad pulled in some favors—not only from the VA, but also from some Christian charity groups in town, willing to help. Ultimately, Kenny knew, it was the contracting company that needed to work out the situation with the VA, but he’d delve into that more on his trip overseas.

The two unexpected visitors had wanted to watch Rosalie’s speech as well—Nick mostly wanted to see Lanie sing—so Kenny agreed to drive them.

“Why’d you have to park so far away?” Aunt Tilly asked as she slowly ambled on the pavement, clinging to Kenny’s arm as he pushed Dad in the wheelchair.

Nick hobbled with his cane. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“I’m sorry. There was nowhere closer left. We’re late!”

Kenny’s dad chuckled. “We must look like quite a motley crew—two cripples and an old lady.”

“You watch your mouth, mister.” Aunt Tilly’s finger wagged at him.

“I’m just saying,” Dad continued, “it’s a good thing you’re with us, Ken, or we might just get stuck out here. I could see Nick wobbling into my chair, sending me tumbling into the river. They’d have to dispatch a rescue unit to get me out.”

Kenny felt Tilly’s arms tremble because of the cool, drizzly Northwest day. He took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

“Now, Andrew, you have a nice boy here.” Tilly patted Kenny’s arm.

They approached the mechanic’s hangar, where crews worked on airplanes that didn’t pass their test flight. Three B-17s waited, but only two gangly fellows were there, lollygagging at a table playing cards. Kenny figured everyone else was out watching the activities.

He glanced at Aunt Tilly as they walked. “Thank you, Aunt Tilly. I do try to be a ‘nice boy,’ but I doubt Rosalie thinks so now.”

His dad looked toward him. “You know, son. She will probably be upset about that article, but if she cares about you, she’ll understand you didn’t write it.”

Kenny knew Dad was right, but something still nagged at him. Something about the way Rosalie looked at him the other day before he left for the bank robbery story. “I have this feeling something else is wrong, but she hasn’t said anything.”

Nick patted his back. “Listen to your engaged friend, Kenny. Women don’t always tell you what they’re upset about.”

“I know what she’s upset about,” Aunt Tilly blurted out. “You’ve been spending too much time at work. No woman likes that. She needs to feel like a priority.”

Kenny rubbed the back of his head. “I just don’t think that’s it. I offered to skip a big story just to go for a walk with her”—he patted his father’s shoulder—“the one about the triple bank robberies. Passing on that one could’ve nixed Mr. Bixby’s confidence in me. Then I’d be back to writing Macaroni Man stories.”

Dad reached behind and pressed Kenny’s hand on the chair. “Son, have you ever thought that the Lord may want you to write lighter stories—‘as unto him’?”

Kenny coughed, the absurdity of Dad’s comment prickling his throat. “What are you saying? How on earth could writing softball stories help anyone?”

“We don’t always understand God’s purposes, but son, I’d be proud of you no matter what you wrote.”

“Well, thanks, Dad, but you’ll be even prouder once you read the story I’m leaving tomorrow to write.”

Dad lowered his hands and folded them on his lap. “Saipan. That’s pretty impressive, and I am proud of you for getting that piece. It’ll help a lot of people, I hope. But I’m just as proud of the Macaroni Man story.”

Kenny nodded as he listened, but he didn’t believe it.

“I’ll be praying for you every moment, son.”

“As will I,” Tilly added.

“Me too, pal.”

Kenny eyed Nick suspiciously.

A grin spread across Nick’s face. “Now, don’t look at me like that. My sweet Lanie’s been teaching me a thing or two about spiritual things. We even went to church together last Sunday.”

“Lanie? I didn’t know she was a believer.”

“Me either, but she sure is. Reads her Bible every day, she tells me. Always wanting to help people.”

They finally reached the wide open parking lot where everyone was gathered—thousands upon thousands of people. The B-17 Flying Fortress had already landed and was parked behind a stage decorated with red, white, and blue banners, flying like the Fourth of July.

“Hey,” Kenny said, pointing, “isn’t that Lanie there on the stage?”

“Shoot, I’m missing it.” Nick peered at the stage. “It’s the Flying Fortress Quartet. They call it a quartet, but the other girls are really just Lanie’s backup singers.” Nick rolled his eyes. “I better get over there before she’s done.” He trotted ahead, teetering as he balanced between his cane and a bum leg.

“We’d better make our way too. I want to be there when Rosalie gives her speech.”

“Onward and upward!” Dad said, thrusting out his arm like a general.

Tilly tightened her grip on Kenny’s arm. “But not too fast, honey.”

Kenny led the other two through the crowd, arriving a few feet back from the bannered stage just as Lanie and her backup singers began the last verse of “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.”

To the side of the stage, Kenny spotted a folding chair where he thought poor, worn-out Aunt Tilly could sit. They meandered to the chair, and Kenny situated Aunt Tilly and Dad in a spot with a clear view. Then he lifted his camera from his bag strapped around his shoulder, and pinned his press pass onto his coat.

Before he jaunted to the stage to click some photographs, he knelt in between their chairs and held their hands. “Say a prayer for my girl.” Nerves eddied in Kenny’s stomach as he gazed at his father and aunt. He cherished their support and love. He depended on them as much as his lungs depended on air. He glanced up at the stage, knowing Rosalie would stand before the silver microphone soon. His heart ached to think of her waiting to go on, probably trembling with anxiety, alone.

“We will, son.”

Making his way next to the stage, past the cordoned-off line, Kenny aimed his camera at the microphone, judging the best angle. Then, through his lens, he saw Rosalie waiting in the wings. She wore her work outfit, but for some reason, she looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. Perhaps it was because it’d been so long since he’d really looked at her, appreciated her.

Yet he knew she must be aching inside. Not only because of the slanderous article but also because she was moments away from facing her greatest fear.

I bet her hands are sweaty. If I could, I’d hold them anyway, as long as she needed.
He nearly succumbed to the urge to jump onto the stage and rush over to her. Pray with her, hold her, and whisper encouraging words. He lowered the camera and tried to catch her gaze, but her eyes were focused on the microphone, where Lanie sang the last note.

If he couldn’t hold her, at least he could pray for her.
Lord, give Rosalie peace.

The crowd howled as the Flying Fortress Quartet, led by the veritable movie-star Lanie, in her tight blouse and perky red lips, finished their set. Rosalie waited in the wings, not a veritable anything, just a real-live riveter wearing a yellow-checkered work top and denims and calloused hands. She was only doing this for one reason, to help the war effort. She released a dull sigh.
I’ve got to focus on that, or I’m not going to make it.

Mr. Stafford stood next to Rosalie. Perhaps because she bit her thumbnail and wiped her hands on her jeans, the tall balding man must’ve noticed her nerves and awkwardly patted her head from time to time. Sweet, but not that effective.

Lanie peacocked off the stage, pausing to give her adoring fans one last wave, then scampered off stage, directly toward Rosalie. Rosalie didn’t clap, or even smile, but glared straight ahead as Lanie traipsed toward her, face glowing. When Lanie spied Rosalie, her eyes wilted, the corners of her lips dipped.

Rosalie shifted her shoulders, showing mostly her back to Lanie—to give her the hint to stay away. But Lanie stopped in front of Rosalie anyway. Before the Southerner spoke, Rosalie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to deal with you right now. I have to give my speech.”

Lanie’s lips formed a pretty frown. “I’m sorry, Rosalie. Please don’t be angry with me.”

Rosalie’s old friend, rage, burbled inside like a simmering teapot, ready to boil.
Does she really expect me not to be furious?
“Lanie, you didn’t just hurt me. You hurt others too. Now go away and let me concentrate on my speech.”

Lanie’s eyes, glittering a moment before, reddened. “Okay, fine. Be mad at me, even though I didn’t mean any harm. But don’t blame Kenny.”

“I don’t blame Kenny, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work out. What do you care anyway?”

One of the other singers grasped Lanie’s arm before she could answer. “We have to get changed for our second song!” The girl giggled, and Lanie’s face hinted excitement.

“I’ll talk to you later, okay? I really didn’t mean to hurt you; please believe me,” Lanie pleaded as she was dragged away by the girl.

Rosalie didn’t say anything as Lanie disappeared. She didn’t care about Lanie anyway, or her aching, shattered heart. In a moment, she’d step onto that stage, smile, wave, shout out a “We’re in it, let’s win it!” and give her speech. She needed to center her thoughts.
Think about the war effort. This will help people. Put your own troubles aside.

She breathed in, practicing the tricks her advisors taught her. Exhaling, she focused on the words she’d labored over—alone, despite Kenny’s promise to help.
Nope
. She warned herself.
Can’t think about him
. Right now, none of that mattered.
Concentrate on the words
. Just the first sentence, then the rest would follow.
How does it start again?
Cold moisture oozed from the pores in her palms.
Oh no, I can’t remember!
She sucked in air.
This is supposed to help, right?
It only made her heart slam faster.

Mr. Stafford patted her head again, and Rosalie attempted to reassure him with a smile, but it only came out as a louder wheeze. His eyes looked worried.

Then as if to magnify her terror, the emcee, Ann Miller, grasped the long metal microphone. “Let’s hear it one more time for the Flying Fortress Quartet!”

When the crowd settled down, words coming out of Miss Miller’s mouth slurred into Rosalie’s ear canal, sticky like oatmeal glopping from a serving bowl. “And now for a special treat. You’ve read about our very own Rosie the Riveter?”

The throngs of humanity cheered and clapped, like a summer thunderstorm echoing off the hills. A gag plugged Rosalie’s throat. She wanted to scream,
Wait! I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do it!
But not even a whisper shook past her lips. She closed her eyes and willed her fear to be quiet. Willed time to stop. But the emcee’s radio voice forged ahead.

“Give a warm Seattle welcome to Rosalie Madison, Seattle’s Own Rosie the Riveter!”

Again, the thunderous clapping blended with hollers and whistles.

“Okay, Rosalie, let’s go.” Mr. Stafford offered his elbow, and Rosalie slipped her hand through. “Don’t worry, Rosalie,” he said as their feet clomped across the never-ending wooden stage.

Rosalie didn’t answer. She just focused on not tripping. Right foot. Left foot.

“Hey, Rosie!” a man’s gravelly voice called from the crowd. “Where’s that reporter boyfriend?”

Rosalie face burned in contrast to her icy hands. She didn’t dare peek at the heckler but focused ahead. Just a few more steps.

“I love you, Rosie!” another man hollered. “When you’re done with that reporter, give me a call, baby.”

Rosalie’s throat thickened, and then the thickness lurched to her nauseated stomach.
Lanie, why’d you write that article? Kenny, if you weren’t in my life, it wouldn’t have happened.
She wanted to run away, but she focused ahead.
A few more steps, girl. In twenty minutes, you’ll be done.

Mr. Stafford patted her hand as they reached the microphone. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, cupping his mouth. “They’ll settle down once you get started.”

The next few moments blurred by as Mr. Stafford spoke about Rosalie’s accomplishments at the plant and her great efforts to help with the war effort. “And because of all these outstanding achievements, we’re delighted to give you, on behalf of the Army-Navy awards committee, this card with a personal note from President Roosevelt and this E-award for Excellence in War Production. Congratulations, Rosie.”

Rosalie grasped the award with her fingertips and shook Mr. Stafford’s hand. “Thank you,” she mumbled. Then fright gripped her. His next words would be asking her to give her speech. Her tongue felt numb.

“You’re an example for us all. And now, Rosie, would you like to say a few words?”

She was supposed to say, “I’d love to. Thank you, Mr. Stafford.” But no words came.

Mr. Stafford lightly stroked her arm, compassion curving his lips. “You can do this, Rosalie,” he whispered. Then his eyes brightened, and he shuffled in his pocket. “Listen, I heard Mrs. Roosevelt say something the other day. Oh yes, here it is.” He lifted a folded paper. Opening it, he read: ‘You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing you think you cannot do.’” He tapped Rosalie’s arm. “You can do anything, Rosalie Madison. Remember, we’re proud of you. Everyone here loves you. And don’t forget to smile.”