Tracie Peterson (2 page)

“Kenny,” he said, glancing toward the ceiling, “I know this isn’t what you’d want me to do, but you have to understand.” He felt tears come to his eyes and angrily refused to wipe them as they trickled down his cheeks.

Someone down the hall switched on a radio and the faint melody
of Christmas carols filled the silence. Kenny had loved Christmas. He’d told David over and over how much fun Christmas had been in his hometown of Longview. He’d made David promise that as soon as they could get leave together, they’d go to Longview and spend time with Kenny’s family. If they could make it for Christmas, so much the better.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly. . .”

Though the melody was faint, he instantly thought of Kenny and the wonderful description of holiday festivities he’d given David.

“
First, my mother and sisters go all out to decorate the house
,” Kenny had told him. “
I know you probably think me a little old to enjoy such things, but I’m just a big kid at heart
,” his superior had confided.

“
The whole place will smell like the heart of a Washington forest
. My
mom will hang fir boughs off the mantel and down the banister, then Pop will go out and cut down the biggest pine tree he can fit in the house
.” Kenny’s eyes had actually lit up at the memory. David had felt more jealous of those memories than of anything else he’d ever known or seen.

Stretching out on the bed, mindful of the revolver, David ignored the pain in his nerve-damaged arm and instead forced himself to think back on all that Kenny had related.

“
We have a piano in the front room and my mom plays the most beautiful music you’d ever want to hear. Why, I believe she could get music out of a turnip
,” Kenny had joked.

David easily remembered his own comment. “
I thought that was supposed to be blood
.”

Shaking his head, Chief Petty Officer Bennett had laughed like a schoolboy. “
Not my mom. She’d want something more productive than blood. Of course, given the state of the world and the fact that America is bound to go to war anytime now, blood might just be the most productive thing after all
.”

That thought brought back the ugliness and sorrow of the days that followed. David shook his head as if to force the memories to leave him, but they wouldn’t go away. They never had. Not by means of the sleeping pills or pain medication, not even the strongest drink.

December 7 was firmly etched in his memory. Every detail. Every horrible moment. Even the ones David hadn’t actually witnessed were there in his imagination. He tried to forget. God knew—if
there was a God—how hard he had tried to exorcise the scenes in his head.

The USS
Arizona
had been his home with Kenny and thousands of other sailors. His life had been good under Kenny’s guidance. Oh, he had still managed to get into his fair share of scrapes, and more than once he’d insisted on having things his own way, usually with the help of his fists. But just as faithfully his supervisor had bailed him out of trouble. He had become Bennett’s pet project, and while at first David saw this as only an opportunity to abuse Kenny’s concern, the man’s steadfast kindness had caused him to begin thinking twice about his actions.

That’s why it hurt so much to realize he’d never again be able to see Kenny. To tell him he was sorry for sneaking off in the middle of the night to party and carouse the Honolulu hot spots. And he had been sorry. In fact, ever since meeting up with Kenny, David had suddenly found himself to have a conscience. And in the wee hours of December 7, 1941, his conscience had been bothering him something fierce. When he’d finally used up all the cash he had on hand and exhausted any hope of free drinks from the house or his buddies, David had made his way back to the
Arizona
in a stolen jeep.

Kenny would understand. He would somehow cover for David’s stupidity and keep him out of any real trouble. Kenny would even pray, usually while holding David’s head over the toilet while he got sick from his escapades.

David opened his eyes and refused to remember anything more. He lifted the gun and drew a deep breath. If there was any mercy in this life, it would all be over in a matter of seconds.

“
You made me a promise
.”

For a moment, David nearly jumped up from the bed. He could have sworn he’d just heard Kenny’s voice.

He glanced down at the gun. He would have to hurry. He was losing his nerve. Pain or no pain, it took a special mind-set to do a job like this, and if David remembered even one more detail of his friendship with Kenny, there was no guaranteeing he’d be able to go through with this.

“
You promised
.”

David sat up, his right hand shaking as he struggled to control the gun. “I know I promised to go home with you, but you’re at the
bottom of Battleship Row. You aren’t even home with your folks,” David shouted to the room. If Kenny really was trying to talk to him, he wanted to clear his conscience.

Silence was all that came back to him. Kenny was dead. There were no voices outside the guilty accusations and disappointed suggestions in his own head. Even in this, his final act of life, David was again failing his good friend.

He thought of how important family and home had been to Kenny. He thought of Kenny’s love of God and how special Christmas was to this tall, lanky man with an infectious joy of life. When David had been around Kenny, he could almost believe that life could be good. That something positive could happen and that David could be something other than the loser he’d always been.

I can kill myself in Longview just the same as San Francisco
, he reasoned.
I can go and meet Kenny’s folks, tell them I was a friend, and then go on my way. What’s a few more days of pain, if it means that I keep my promise to Kenny? It’s the only promise I’ll ever be able to keep
.

He looked at the gun, then replaced it on the table. “It’s not because I’m chicken,” he told the revolver. “You’ll get your chance at me. Just like everybody else.”

The Christmas season helped to take the edge off the worry and concern caused by the country being at war. Longview’s citizens were no different than those anywhere else. Their sons and fathers, brothers and uncles, friends and acquaintances, were off fighting a war that had rapidly spread to engulf the entire world. And while their loved ones were away, those left behind rationed supplies, took up jobs in defense plants, and longed for the days when the world would once again make sense.

Longview itself wasn’t all that old, as towns went. Positioned along the Columbia River in Washington state, the tiny town had thrived because of the dream its citizens had for success. Birthed in the prosperity of the twenties, the thirties had dealt Longview a difficult blow—as it had most of the country. Wages declined, jobs were lost, and businesses closed down, but the spirit of the people lived on in strength.

Ruth Bennett had witnessed it for herself. Having lived in the area all of her life, Ruth knew well the fighting drive of its people. Neighbors cared about one another and looked in from time to time to make sure things were all right. Doors were seldom locked and children played in the streets until well after dark.

Faith Church, where Ruth and her family attended, had kept faithful watch over its little flock. Through famine or fortune, the church family had grown at a steady, if not miraculous, rate. People were drawn in by the love and genuine concern they found within the doors of the church. But not only that, people were amazed to find that this love and concern followed people home after Sunday and Wednesday night worship services. These were more than “Sunday-go-meeting” Christians. These were people who practiced what they preached and saw to it that they cared not only for their own but for
their community as well. More than one “food pounding” had kept a family from going hungry, and weekly potlucks throughout the tumultuous thirties had allowed every family to have at least one decent meal a week.

Now the forties stretched before them in an ominous shroud of suffering and death. Life had picked up its pace, almost to a maddening speed, but Longview would do its part for its boys in uniform. Nothing was too much if it meant bringing them home alive. And if they couldn’t bring them home alive, as was often painfully the case, they mourned them alongside the families.

At forty-four, Ruth Bennett was very much an active woman. She’d given birth to five children and had buried three. The most recent, her eldest, was the reason for the gold star in her window. Funny, she could remember as a child working hard for a gold star in memory class at school. Ruth had thought there to be nothing more grand than a gold star, but now she wished she had anything but that emblem in her window.

Gold meant death. Her Kenny was dead.

She glanced up at the living room window from the front porch steps. The banner reminded her that Kenny would never come home again. The star might have said, “Well done, you have given your best,” but in her heart Ruth felt only pain where Kenny’s memories lived.

“Ruthie! Yoo-hoo!”

Ruth looked up and smiled tolerantly. Mrs. Mendelson was making her way toward the Bennetts’ front gate. “Hello, Mrs. Mendelson. How are you today?”

“Oh, I’m doing quite well, deary. I just wanted to bring you this fruitcake and wish you merry for the holidays. I’m going to Seattle tomorrow,” she said cheerily, “and I couldn’t go without making sure you had some holiday treats from me.”

“How kind of you. A fine treat indeed,” Ruth declared with a smile. Mrs. Mendelson made the worst fruitcake of anyone in the entire community, but the woman was nearly eighty years old and it brought her such delight that Ruth would never have said otherwise.

“My daughter sent me money for the bus!” Mrs. Mendelson proudly declared. “She wants me to spend Christmas and New Year’s up there.”

Ruth nodded. “I think that’s wonderful, Mrs. Mendelson. Of course, we shall miss you while you’re gone. I know you’ll be missed at church, especially in the choir.”

The old woman beamed. “Well, I was once the most sought-after soprano in Westfield, where I grew up.”

Ruth had heard these stories a thousand times if she’d heard them once. It was the reason she mentioned the choir in the first place. The old woman had few laurels to live on, but the choir, her fruitcake, and her beloved family were her crowning jewels.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Mendelson said, hearing the four o’clock whistle blow down at the river dock. “I must hurry. I’ll talk to you when I get back.” She pulled her coat tight with one hand and gave a little wave with the other. “You have a merry Christmas, Ruthie!”

“I will, Mrs. Mendelson. You do the same.”

Ruth watched as the old woman toddled off to her small two-story house. Such a sweet old woman! Shaking her head, Ruth glanced down at the fruitcake and made her way into her own house. She could already imagine the comments from her family.

As if on cue, Helen, the baby of the family at thirteen, stuck her head out of the kitchen as Ruthie came through the front door. “I saw you with Mrs. Mendelson. That can only mean she’s given you another fruitcake.”

“What are you complaining about?” Rachel declared. The eldest Bennett daughter pulled on an apron as their mother entered the kitchen. “You’ve only had to eat them for thirteen years. I’ve been suffering through them for nineteen.”

“Now, girls,” Ruth said, smiling, “she means well and it gives her pleasure.”

“I remember Pop said that even Joe Bloom’s pigs wouldn’t touch the stuff,” Helen declared with a giggle.

“Nevertheless, we shall honor the kindness,” Ruth replied. She placed the cake on the counter and hurried out of her coat.

Rachel Bennett watched her mother with a deep sense of admiration. There was no other woman in the world Rachel respected as much as she did her mother. Leaving the kitchen, Rachel pulled a hanger from the closet. “Here, let me,” she said. “You should warm up by the stove.”

Ruth kissed her daughter on the cheek, then turned to see what Helen was up to. Rachel put the coat in the closet and quietly joined the others in the kitchen. She listened as Helen gave an animated speech about her desire to obtain her very own radio.

“It would make the perfect Christmas gift,” Helen hinted.

Rachel turned away, smiling. Helen had been trying to talk her parents into buying her a radio for the past year. Drawing a large yellow glass bowl from the cupboard, Rachel began sifting flour while Helen continued her plea. Christmas gifts were the last thing on Rachel’s mind, however. Instead, she thought of the war and of Kenny and how lonely it was without him. Of course, he’d been gone from the house for some time, but there were always the letters. And those, coupled with a strong bond of sibling love—a bond even miles of ocean couldn’t break—had given Rachel and Kenny an ongoing relationship that only strengthened. With Kenny’s death, the letters had come to an end, but not the bond of love between them.

“Is that the front door?” Ruth questioned.