Dorothy Garlock (4 page)

Slowly, the train lost speed as it entered Victory. Fields and farms had given way to new homes and streets. Cars and trucks
now replaced horses and wagons. The shrill whistle of the engine signaled the train’s arrival, and it soon came to a stop
at the small depot set back from the town’s center. People began to stir from their seats, gather their belongings, and head
for the doors.

“I’m gonna get me a machine gun!” the boy shouted as he bounded down the aisle, the comic book still clutched in his waving
hand. “And then I’m gonna kill all them dirty Japs!”

“Ask your father,” his mother absently answered as she followed along behind.

Cole waited until much of the initial commotion had died down before he slowly rose out of his own seat. He’d learned long
ago that it was much easier to stay out of people’s way. Grabbing his small suitcase, he slid out into the aisle and took
a tentative step.

Born with a defect that was every bit as restricting as an ox’s harness, Cole Ambrose had a left foot that was pointed downward
and twisted inward at an unnatural angle. It was a condition that was commonly known as clubfoot, and from a very young age
he had needed to wear special shoes. As he grew to adulthood, the condition had worsened, and it became hard for him to walk
for any great length of time. The spot where his left foot struck the ground was often sore and painful as it was not equipped
to sustain his full weight. He had to move slowly, his left hip pushing itself outward in a sweeping motion. It was very slow
going. Patience was a virtue he still struggled to attain. Picking his way down the aisle, he used his right hand to balance
himself on each seat-back. His eyes scanned the floor for any loose bags or wayward shoes that might trip him up or otherwise
unbalance him.

“Just keep going, Cole,” he prodded himself.

Near the door, he glanced up to see the eyes of the soldier open and staring at him. The young man looked him up and down
and, when their eyes met, Cole could see pity in the soldier’s gaze. He felt the urge to stop, to try to explain himself,
to say that he wished he could be fighting alongside him against the Nazis or hopping from island to island across the Pacific.
He wanted to tell the soldier that he should save his pity and compassion, that his handicap didn’t make him any less of a
man, and that his look of condolence only made Cole feel worse. But in the end he walked on saying nothing.

Gingerly, he moved down the steps of the train car. An older man offered his hand and Cole took it, steadying himself on the
platform and nodding his thanks. In front of him, people were hugging, shaking hands, and slapping each other on the back.

Would such a reunion be waiting for him?

“Are you waiting on any bags, sir?” a porter asked him, breaking his reverie.

“No, I’m not,” he answered. “I only have this one.”

Before leaving Chicago, he had packed all of his clothes, books, and other belongings into a large trunk he had had sent on
ahead; it would have been next to impossible for him to move something so large and awkward on his own.

Looking first down one side of the platform and then the other, Cole could see no sign of his father. Had he forgotten or
simply decided not to come? Had something happened to him or Jason that had kept them from meeting him? Finally, just as he
was about to resign himself to a long wait, he peered into the gloom of the depot’s interior and spotted his father leaning
against the ticket counter.

Robert Ambrose looked much the same as the last time his son had seen him nearly six years earlier. His hair was a bit thinner
and the lines on his face were more pronounced, but he was otherwise unchanged. Cole felt a brief spark at seeing his father
but doubted that the feeling was returned; the older man’s face was still an unsettling mix of unhappiness and indifference.
His hands were thrust into his pockets and he remained unmoving in the shade.

Swallowing his pride, Cole walked toward the ticket counter. As he stepped awkwardly forward, his father looked down at his
feet and scuffed the toe of his shoe against the ground. Had something caught his eye or was he just ashamed of the way his
youngest son walked? Cole stopped in front of him and placed his suitcase down with a thud.

“Hello, Father.”

“Hello,” Robert said as he looked up into his son’s eyes.

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you to—”

“It wasn’t.”

For several long and uncomfortable moments, both men stood and silently stared at each other. It struck Cole that each of
them was appraising the other, searching for a sign of any change. There was little doubt that he no longer resembled the
youth who had left Victory years earlier. While he still had the same sky-blue eyes, thin nose, and square jaw framed under
a mop of blond hair, he had grown taller and his frame had filled out across his broad shoulders. With his button-down shirt’s
sleeves rolled to his elbows, his tie loosened around his neck, and a brown hat pushed back on his head, he now was a man…
albeit one with a very noticeable handicap.

Still, neither man spoke; silence was the language they used. Before Cole had left for Chicago, many of their conversations
had contained only harsh and hurtful words and they had simply begun to say nothing at all. Now, they communicated with their
eyes. Unlike the soldier on the train, no pity shone in his father’s eyes, only unease and disdain.

“I suppose I could have picked a cooler day to come home,” Cole offered.

“Could have.”

“Did Jason have—”

“Are you ready to go?” his father asked stiffly, cutting him off.

“I suppose so.”

Robert Ambrose bent down, picked up his son’s suitcase, turned on his heel, and walked impatiently from the depot. As Cole
followed slowly behind, his thoughts raced with all of the words he’d wished he had heard:
How was your trip? I’ve got your room all made up just like it was when you left. I bet you’re tired so we’ll have an early
supper so you can get some rest
. Instead, the only sound he could hear was their footfalls as they made their way to the pickup truck. In that moment Cole
realized how wrong he had been.

Nothing had changed… nothing at all.

T
HE TRUCK LEFT
the depot with Cole leaning against the passenger door, staring out at the town he had called home for his first eighteen
years. Located along a flat plain that dropped toward the Mississippi River in the west, Victory was mainly a farming community.
The rich black earth offered up a bounty of crops, mostly corn and beans, to those who were willing to work for them. Cows
and pigs were raised in abundance before being shipped northward to Chicago for slaughter.

But things had begun to change; farming was no longer the only occupation that drew people to Victory. After the lean years
of the Great Depression, new businesses and homes had sprung up as easily as spring crops. Change had come to Victory, and
along with it new families, each of them willing to do what was necessary to build their own American dream. As the truck
drove down Main Street, Cole watched as a steady stream of businesses, the bakery, barber shop, bank, and Ambrose Hardware
among them, stood as a testament to the town’s growth.

Tall elm, oak, and maple trees dotted the land, their leafy branches spread far and wide. The sweet scent of wild coneflowers,
prairie dock, and cut grass wafted over the town in summer. The creeks and rivers were full of fish, the woods stocked with
wild game. While both the heat of summer and cold of winter could be brutal, there were plenty of days in between that were
as pretty as any picture.

On this day, these sights, sounds, and colors of summer were all tinted a bright red, white, and blue; crisp, clean flags
and banners hung from nearly every business awning, every porch, and every flagpole. Posters promoting the danger of waste,
the virtue of savings bonds, and clear pictures of the enemy flashed by in the storefronts the pickup passed. Victory was
truly representative of the American heartland, united to fight the war, regardless of the cost. It had been the same in Chicago;
an America attacked was a nation now alert, ready to defend all that it so cherished.

For all of this beauty, Cole knew that Victory was made all the greater by the town’s inhabitants. The people who lived on
and worked the land were a hearty and God-fearing lot. From the men who gathered every morning at Marge’s Diner over coffee
and cigarettes to the women who organized church socials, the bonds of support between the people of Victory were as strong
as iron. Lifelong friendships abounded. The sentiment of “love thy neighbor” had never rung truer. His father had always felt
an intense pride to be among them.

To Robert Ambrose, Victory was the perfect, ideal America.

Cole had heard the story more times than he could count; how his father’s business had played an important role in the creation
of that ideal. When he had first opened Ambrose Hardware, it had been a mighty struggle just to make ends meet. He’d been
a young husband and new father and had had to do it all alone, without anyone save his wife to help him or provide support,
and had borne his troubles with the conviction that he would persevere. Through hard work, fair prices, and the grace of God,
he’d made his way and, in doing so, had become an integral part of the community. His lumber and nails were the literal framework
of each new house and business. As Victory had grown, he had grown right along with it… but it was not always that simple.

Driving along Victory’s wide, tree-lined streets, Cole thought of the hidden cost of his father’s success. Robert Ambrose
had been married to his work, desperate for anything he could do to guarantee its success. In the process, he had neglected
his duties as a father and husband. When Cole had needed help with his schoolwork, advice about how to deal with the bullies
at school, or a friendly ear to bend, his father had been absent. Instead, he had turned to his older brother, Jason, nearly
three years his senior, and full of life. It was Jason who had been there for his small triumphs, his many disappointments,
and all that fell in between.

All of this had made Cole’s relationship with his father difficult, but somehow they had managed to come to an uneasy truce.
Despite his handicap, they had built a relationship that was not quite father-and-son but more of cordial acquaintances, maybe
even friends. But that had all changed one fateful afternoon, the day that—

“We’re here,” his father announced.

The Ford rounded the corner, and from behind the full branches of a large elm tree, the house that Cole had grown up in came
into view. Even after all of his years away, it was exactly as he remembered. A stately Victorian that Robert Ambrose had
built with his own two hands when he came to Victory in 1911, the two-story home stood on a corner lot two blocks from Main
Street. Light gray in color with white framework around the windows, it had a row of stained glass windows on the upper floor
that captured the setting sunlight in a kaleidoscope of colors. An enclosed porch ran along the front of the house with support
beams holding up its lower roof.

Small details on the house still caught Cole’s eye: the latticework framing that ran along the bottom of the porch and the
colorful decorative gable trusses at the upstairs windows. His father was truly a craftsman, although his motive was not always
just to strive for beauty; he hoped to demonstrate to prospective customers that any purchase they made at his hardware store
could lead to a beautiful home, just like his own. All of his care and precision had paid dividends; the house, while thirty
years old, looked as new as the day the last nail had been driven.

“Just as I remembered,” Cole said.

Robert grunted in answer.

As the pickup turned into the short drive, Cole could see that his father still devoted as much attention to the yard as he
did to the house itself. Red geraniums stood vividly together with yellow and purple pansies, although they all drooped a
bit under the merciless sun. Perfectly trimmed hedges lined the walks and divided the property from the neighbors. Powerful
elm trees thrust their branches high into the cloudless blue sky. No weeds sprang from the ground to mar the scene. Everything
was exactly in its place.

The only thing missing was a family to live in this prettier-than-a-picture life. Cole wished that his father had devoted
half as much time to being a husband or father as he had to building his home and cultivating his yard. If he had, maybe things
would be different, maybe there would have been no harsh feelings, maybe what had happened to his mother…

A shiver of dread raced across Cole’s skin as his father shut off the pickup’s engine. For him, this house, while a beauty
to behold, was something straight from a nightmare. His memories had scarred him and were impossible to erase, no matter how
many years had passed. Now, back home after so many years away, his recollections bore down on him as if they were spring
floods.

Cole could recall vividly the day when his life was changed forever. It was winter and frightfully cold, although the sun
had shone high in a clear sky. The glare from the snow that lay on the ground was blinding. Frost ringed the windows and the
low whistle of February wind could be heard as it passed across the frozen Illinois ground.

“Is Jason at home?” he asked his father.

“Nope,” Robert Ambrose answered without bothering even to glance in his son’s direction, his eyes lost out the windshield.
“He’s got a meeting with a fella from the draft board over in Hallam Falls. Something about his induction date. He’ll be along
come tomorrow.”

“Oh,” was all Cole could manage.

As he struggled to come up with something, anything, to say to his father, it suddenly struck Cole just how difficult it was
going to be for them to live together under the same roof. He longed for Jason’s company, not entirely because of his brother’s
warm personality, but also because he didn’t want to be alone with Robert. He supposed he should get used to the idea; after
all, until he found a place of his own, they were stuck together.