Lonely Are the Brave

By Larry Zuckerman

When Rollie Birch returns home from the Great War in 1919 with a cluster of medals, he feels as if he's landed in the wrong country. His wife has died, leaving behind an infant daughter born while he was overseas. His small logging town of Lumberton, Washington, has grown but still runs on gossip. Almost overnight, Rollie the hero becomes a pariah for his scandalous decision to raise his daughter by himself—a child rumored not to be his—and for refusing to talk about his wartime exploits.

 

The past two years have changed Kay Sorensen as well. Daughter of the Lumberton timber baron, Kay spent the war working for her father, organizing patriotic and charitable efforts, and discovering her love for politics and business. But when her husband—Rollie's former platoon commander—returns, Kay expects, correctly, that he'll make her quit her job. She's dreamed of marriage as an equal partnership; now, she chafes under her husband's cold tyranny. Did the war change him?

 

Rollie might know, and Kay steels herself to beg information from a man her husband has publicly insulted. But neither Kay nor Rollie can anticipate how secrets, lies, and horrifying revelations may destroy them. Do two lonely, passionate rebels have the moral courage to stand up to gossip, defy cultural boundaries, and dare reinvent themselves in a world forever changed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cennan Books of Cynren Press
• Release date: Apr 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781947976405

Larry Zuckerman

Larry Zuckerman is a freelance editor and writer. He lives in Seattle with his wife and young son.

Book preview

LONELY_ARE_THE_BRAVE_cover.jpgLonely Are the Brave, a Novel, by Larry Zuckerman, published by Kennan Books of Kinren Press

Published by Cennan Books

an imprint of Cynren Press

5 Great Valley Parkway, Suite 322

Malvern, PA 19355 USA

http://www.cynren.com/

Copyright 2023 by Larry Zuckerman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

First published 2023

ISBN-13: 978–1-947976-39-9 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978–1-947976-40-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022942665

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Kevin Kane

For R., who knows the dark wood

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Questions for Discussion

One

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Grinning to beat all, dreaming for the thousandth time about his infant daughter and whom she took after, Rollie Birch exited the Lumberton train and slipped on the last step. As he fell, he thought, Survived war, broke my neck coming home; his fingers dropped his baggage, grabbed, found only late April twilight. Landing on one heel, he flung his arms out to plead with gravity, somehow swung his other foot under him just in time. He straightened gingerly, gulped air, heard his pulse pound. Battling still, in 1919, five months after the Armistice.

Mister, you all right? a man called, twenty feet up the station plaza.

I’m fine, thanks. Rollie smiled, waved, watched by two other passengers farther up, who’d turned to stare. Behind him, the train clanked into motion.

The man who’d hailed him came a few steps closer. You okay?

Rollie gathered his fedora, duffel bag, and brown-paper bundle. Yes, thanks. He waved again, more like a signal to halt. A memory hurtled at him like a meteorite across seven years—high school, junior year, road game, leading off, second inning. He shook his head, startled.

The man loped up, faced him, hands on hips. Say, aren’t you Rollie Birch?

Yes. Rollie started walking, wished again he’d paid attention on that stair.

The guy, a chubby fellow who smelled of cigar, kept pace. I read about you, Sergeant Birch. Taught those Huns a thing or two, didn’t you?

Kind of you. He quickened his step. The guy beside him puffed breath but stayed even. Probably too old to fight and thought he’d missed the chance of a lifetime.

I heard about your loss.

Rollie stiffened, threw him a glance asking for the clemency of silence.

My condolences.

Very kind of you. By now, he was double-timing it.

Say, the guy said, inhaling hard. Are you just home from the army? Just now?

Rollie glanced over his shoulder, nodded. Lucky the others had gone.

Welcome home. We’re all pulling for you.

Thanks. See you around. Rollie, almost running toward solitude, hurtled up Sixth Street. He noted the streetlamps, as yet unlit, new since his last leave almost exactly a year ago. His suit, musty from storage, hung loosely, and his street shoes rubbed his feet.

Bowers. Cody Bowers. The lefty pitcher in that game junior year.

Rollie slowed, turned the corner, his eye lighting on sidewalks and sewer drains, also new. Fine drizzle pinpricked his hat brim and shoulders, the mist that cocooned Lumberton much of the year. The damp breeze carried the woody, floral scent that proclaimed new life. He filled his lungs, and a sweet shudder rose within. He whispered, Genevieve Marie Birch.

Speak up, there. Give the password. More loudly, he offered, Genevieve Marie, drawing out the syllables, testing his right to them. He resumed his march.

Bowers. His first at-bat that game, Rollie had settled into the box, and they’d traded nods, like each was saying I’ve heard about you. He’d taken two practice swings, waited, and the first pitch sent him sprawling.

The breeze shifted, and Chalmers’s sawmill near the river tainted the air, a stink that Lumberton shrugged off as the price of prosperity. A block over, two women in cylindrical, wide-brimmed hats stared. One called, Mr. Birch, is that you? He kept his head down.

Two streets over, one forward, and a dash around a corner brought him home. On the pebbled front walk, he trembled, surveyed the three-bedroom ranch he’d built for Tess. The roof still drained the rain, the window frames looked square, wisteria overflowed the arbor ten feet from the door. Everything solid, yet a black wreath hung below the knocker. A widower at twenty-three, Rollie bowed his head, trembled again. Fate, and the goddamn army, had decided he wouldn’t get to comfort Tess on her deathbed. Had she cursed him for his absence?

He looked right, to his workshop. The rain gurgled sleepily in the downspouts.

Next door to his left, a curtain moved in a two-story brick colonial. The McLeans hadn’t changed. Past his workshop, the clapboard two-bedroom ranch that housed the Nelsens cast a dim light from behind drawn shades.

He removed his fedora and knocked on his front door, couldn’t have counted to two before Bonnie opened it, wearing a light blue dress, eyes moist in the foyer light. His sister’s gaze registered that he’d come home whole, like she’d worried since the Armistice, disbelieving his letters. Her full lips quivered, tireless in expression like their late mother’s. Rollie beamed at her and Genevieve, asleep with her head tucked just beneath her aunt’s chin. His breath caught.

In a yellow union suit, his daughter’s little body expanded and let out air in a blessedly audible way. He now understood why Mom had sometimes looked in on him at night, just to know he still breathed. How daunting, to give life, only to risk it ending. But Genevieve breathed spectacularly. And what fine, dark hair, tiny fingers curling as she dreamed. She shared the bold Birch forehead, Tess’s gently rounded ears, a familiar face, yet unique, a wonder.

He heard, again, Bowers’s heat smack the catcher’s glove. The Lewisville crowd went ooh, and Cory Henderson, the Lumberton starting pitcher, bellowed from the dugout, "Wait ’til you come up to bat!" Rollie, lying supine, grasped the dirt with both hands, as if to prove he still inhabited earth, and got up. He took his time shaking out his cap and placing it on his head, hefting his bat, and assuming his stance, while his heart beat fit to flee his chest. He sensed his teammates’ gaze, asking if he’d bail on the next inside pitch, flail at a curve outside. But Rollie, though his knees might have wobbled, tipped his cap to Bowers and dug his spikes into the dirt.

After the season ended, Coach Dawson told him that was the moment he became a ballplayer. Even though he’d hit .347 going into that game, combined average over two years, and counting. Even though he’d struck out that at-bat and must have looked silly doing it.

With Bonnie and Genevieve, he might strike out now too, and look silly. But he didn’t know what to fear about fatherhood, only that he mustn’t reveal any, or Bonnie would doubt him, just as the soldiers in his squad would have doubted his leadership—and themselves—had Rollie ever shown his nerves. So he told himself that life had chosen him for this adventure, special. He dropped his hat, duffel, and bundle and folded his loved ones in his arms.

You’re home, safe and sound. I’m so glad. Bonnie cried softly.

He held her close. Thrilled to see you too, Bon, and that you’re okay. You’re the best. When he let his girls go, finally, and closed the door, he said, She’s beautiful, Bon. And you’ve taken such good care of her. Bless you, bless you. The half-light revealed the caverns of her eyes. She’s been keeping you up nights.

No. Not really.

His sister never complained. You’re swaying like a tree in the wind. Here. He held his hands out, and Bonnie gave him Genevieve. When he rested the baby against his chest, she fussed, and he almost panicked, like that fastball would get him, this time.

But he drew a deep breath, held it, like that would avert trouble, and smiled confidently, as if he’d never imagined that Genevieve would protest, or that he wouldn’t find his way with her. And when she quieted, sliding her saliva-wet, clammy fingers against his neck, warmth zipped through his arms, like he’d triumphed. A first step.

Oh, Rollie, don’t you look sweet together. Mom would’ve been so proud.

What other people exacted a price for, Bonnie gave freely. A cord had always bound them together.

I don’t want to rush you, she said, but we should leave soon. We’re having supper at Dad’s, and I—she giggled nervously—haven’t started cooking.

The old man might have brewed a storm, with himself as the vortex. But maybe she exaggerated, and anyway, Rollie wasn’t going anywhere. Let’s talk a while first, Bon.

She nodded, but he’d set her on edge. The bind tightened.

As a boy, he’d read an Alexandre Dumas adventure story, The Corsican Brothers, about conjoined twins separated at birth who shared the other’s feelings and knew instinctively if danger threatened their sibling. The story had swallowed him whole, and he’d spun elaborate fantasies that brought the Corsican countryside to Lumberton. He’d portrayed himself fighting duels for Bonnie, all victories, or deterring enemies by his rapier wit or sterling character. Like a true knight, he never told her.

He looked toward his bedroom, like he somehow expected Tess to come greet him.

Bonnie noticed. I’m sorry, Rollie. About Tess. I did the best I could.

Of course you did, Bon. Like always. It was the influenza. She blamed herself for everything short of bad weather, and nothing he said ever changed that.

Moving left past the coatrack, he paused by the low oak chest of drawers near the front window. Bonnie flicked on a lamp, which confirmed a guess. A photo in a silver frame stood atop the chest, bordered in black: Tess, dark hair piled high, smirking, head cocked, a familiar pose. What had amused her? Tears started to his eyes. He’d have turned to hide, except Bonnie touched his elbow. That connecting cord. When? He pointed his chin at the photo.

A week after Genevieve was born. Just before Tess got sick.

Rollie nodded, his mouth working like an old man’s trying not to lose his false teeth. His daughter’s heartbeat tapped his chest, like she was trying to send him a message, and he closed his eyes, taking her in. He kissed her head, smelled her skin, which had a scent unlike anything. Not talc, which he might have expected, if he’d thought about it, but something sweet, indefinable. Baby. Tess looks . . . proud and happy.

Bonnie nodded eagerly. She was.

She wanted him to think so, but he still believed her—and that comforted him, gave him a handhold to climb toward the hope that Tess had taken pleasure toward the end.

Rollie approached the sofa, noting the well-dusted, white living room walls, the gently coved ceiling Tess had wanted for its romantic associations, the bookshelf that stood largely vacant—and stiffened.

Bonnie’s eye followed his toward a cabinet against the rear wall. She said, Tess must have spent a little money, here and there, and went pink.

That’s okay. What kind of husband did Bonnie think he’d been? Nothing wrong with a phonograph, but good ones cost about fifty dollars, and that front panel, walnut or maple, carved like the grille on a fancy car, had caught his eye. He sat and patted the sofa, prompting, did a mild double take. Bonnie’s dress, a pinstripe ruffed at the sleeves and overskirt, looked familiar—yet unlike the calf-length, tubular jobs other women wore, candy bar wrappers.

She sat. Genevieve’s comfortable with you. Surprise inflected her voice upward.

He smiled, like her doubt didn’t bother him. So tell me, Bonnie, how are you?

Really, I’m fine. I stay busy.

Well, that’s new. Instead of lying in bed all day and getting breadcrumbs in the sheets.

She laughed and nudged him playfully. Like him, Bonnie had deep brown hair, but wavier, dressed atop the crown, parted and pinned so that it just covered her ears. Flattering. Brother and sister shared Mom’s dark eyes, but Bonnie’s lashes were long and delicate, and whenever her mouth forgot to regret taking up space on the planet, she shone with a beauty that made him proud. She also dressed well, sewing her own clothes, because Dad only spent money on himself—and now Rollie solved the mystery. He’d seen similar dresses in France. Had she copied styles in newspaper photos? He threw her a sideways glance, lips curling up in wonder; Bonnie drew back, studying him. No praise allowed.

I hope, he began, and stopped. He had to ask. I hope taking care of . . . I hope you didn’t ignore your own life.

Bonnie shook her head, like he was incorrigible. I have friends, Rollie. I’m not a slave.

He pictured social outings when she had his child to look after. The cord tugged at a sore spot. Friends?

She dipped her head, having understood his inflection. Stuart Marron.

He started, jolting Genevieve, who bleated once.

Bonnie held out her hands, but Rollie shook his head. It seemed a late hour for Genevieve to nap in arms, but what did he know yet? Do you like Stuart?

She watched her left foot tap the oval rug, as if to make sure it worked. He’s okay.

Rollie gave her a soft, cajoling smile. Does Dad have a stake in this?

Now, Rollie. Don’t say that. He’s leaving it up to me.

Marron was a feeb who happened to own Lumberton’s largest hardware store, made money he hadn’t even folded yet, as Dad would have said. Was the old man pushing her at Marron? Or was it her idea? Rollie, skeptical, wished he knew.

Speaking of Dad, she said, shouldn’t we go over there?

I don’t want to, Bon. I’m sorry. Not tonight.

But that means I . . . Her eyes assumed a hunted look, and her head shrank into her neck like a turtle’s.

Rollie rested two fingers on her forearm. I’ll fix my own dinner, thanks. Just teach me what I need to know about Genevieve.

She stared, lips parted. There’s no food here, Rollie.

He’d bet his mustering-out pay she’d stocked the icebox and the cupboards. But he said, I’ll hightail it to Olson’s. They still stay open ’til six, don’t they?

Bonnie’s eyes pinched, like her insides pained her, and her fingers twisted each other in her lap. We have to go. Dad sprained his knee a few days ago.

Rollie pretended she made sense. Oh, that’s too bad. I’ll visit him tomorrow.

She swallowed, nodded. Her thumb fussed at a sleeve. You know how he gets.

Yeah, I know. But please, Bon, just tell me what I need to know, and I’ll be fine. Would he, though? Or was she hiding trouble with Genevieve? His chest tightened.

It’ll be . . . you’ll need help with her.

Not if you teach me. And you’re a good teacher. He watched her for clues.

How . . . Bonnie sighed. There are eggs. Potatoes. And a few other things.

I’ll make eggs and hash browns. He waved a hand. Perfect.

Cook and hold Genevieve? she asked. At the same time?

I’ll put her down. Does she have a cradle? If not, he’d make one.

Well, no—you can use a bureau drawer—but that won’t work. Not with her.

So that was it. His stomach twisted. Why not?

She cries if you lay her down for even a minute. And she doesn’t stop.

You mean you’ve been holding her? He pursed his lips. Since . . . February?

Not for all that time, but it’s been a little while, yes.

Is she sick?

Bonnie touched his hand. Doc Christopher says no. Some babies are just like that.

Well, Bon. He smiled, drawing full breaths again. "And they gave me medals."

Bonnie shook with laughter, which he watched fondly for the four seconds she allowed herself. I had help with Tess, she said, like she’d exaggerated before.

Not Dad?

Your face looks so funny! No, not Dad. Kay Sorensen. Who makes the wheels turn at her father’s office, it seems.

He hadn’t expected that name or his sister’s admiration. Well, I’ll be, he replied. Odd, too, that Kay would want a job, but she did like making wheels turn.

She’s civic-minded, Rollie.

Yeah. But when your father owns the sawmill, the timber company, and damn near all the woodlands, and you hold yourself apart, civic-minded sounds like self-interest. Even so, he owed her thanks, and didn’t that sting. Rollie stood up. I bet you can tell me a lot.

Again, her lips parted, eyes pleaded. Why . . . why can’t you come with me? I can . . . teach you another time.

Well, I could. He hesitated, hunting the softest phrases. I didn’t want to have to tell you yet, Bon. But you . . . well. I’m not working with Dad anymore.

His sister slapped a hand over her mouth.

It’ll be okay. Trust me. But tonight isn’t—I just got home, and—

What will you do, then?

Rollie gave her his best just between us look. Make furniture and sell it.

Bonnie’s eyes widened, like he planned to spin straw into gold. You can do that?

He laughed. Ever been here before? He gestured at the coffee table.

She nudged him. I get the making part. But . . . what about Genevieve?

What about her? He kissed the top of his daughter’s head.

Tonight. How will you manage? Her foot tapped again.

Rollie grinned amiably. That’s why I need you, Bon. To teach me.

She studied him. You really mean . . . ?

His smile turned knowing. She hadn’t wanted to show her doubts, yet had anyway. Sure. Give it a try. And, he added, "Genevieve is my child. So what’s wrong with it?"

Bonnie shook her head, like he was incorrigible again, and jumped up. Just a sec. From the small table beside the sofa, she grabbed a white cloth with pink stitching, a sling. She hung it over his shoulder and helped position Genevieve inside so deftly—supporting her head, he noticed—that the little girl never woke.

You made this, didn’t you, Bon?

She nodded shyly. But she said, Let me show you stuff. In the kitchen.

He rose, looking around at the house he’d built for Tess and himself to live in ’til they grew old together, raising their children, sanding down one another’s rough edges, taking pleasure and richness from their common grain.

Did I keep the place right for you? Bonnie asked.

Oh, Bon, it’s . . . heaven. What he’d dreamed of coming home to, where each breath filled him with domesticity, rather than that, the decay and poison and stench of war. Just what I needed. And Genevieve too.

Bonnie lit up, like he’d given her a gift, and left for the kitchen. Rollie lingered and closed his eyes, running his fingertips over the plaster he’d troweled onto the wall, sensing the occasional rough amid the smoothness, savoring his chance to appreciate both. He was home.

Two

Decorative element, three dots inside two calligraphic lines

At dusk, Kay Chalmers Sorensen drove the Hupmobile to the station, as the lyrics to There’s a Long, Long Trail wound through her head: Nights are growing very lonely / Days are very long. She hummed the melody, reveling in Harry’s phone call from Camp Lewis that afternoon. Can’t wait to see you, kid, he’d said, nearly crooning.

Even the misting rain had let up, just in time. Things would be different between Harry and her, a fresh start. I’m a-growing weary only / List’ning for your song, she sang.

When she parked, though, activity drew her eye, and the song in her heart died. A crowd had gathered beneath the platform roof, which included Dad, of all people.

Normally, Kay would have taken pride that he outshone everyone there, with his thoughtful mien and graying chestnut hair cropped close, like Caesar. But right then, she doubted both his thoughtfulness and the company he kept. Mayor Henderson, glassy smooth, like the expensive silk ties he favored, puffed a cigarette as though he’d invented tobacco. The mayor had long arms and loved expansive gestures; his free hand sketched a midair mural. Beside him, leaning forward like he’d found a conversation to invade, George Reynolds cocked his head, which resembled a lumpy, half-peeled potato. A banker, he wore his patriotism on his sleeve; many people quailed before him, including his daughter Clarissa, Kay’s close friend.

Harry must have made more than one telephone call. The Lumberton Bugle had even sent its top reporter, a sandy-haired, bow-tied braggart whom wise Lumbertonians avoided, and a reedy, twitchy photographer who lugged a camera and tripod.

The worst part? Dad had known, yet hadn’t thought to tell her.

Kay bowed her head over the steering wheel, asking for strength. After a few seconds’ privacy, she emerged, smiling, from the Hupmobile, glad for the wide running board, which allowed a graceful entrance.

Ronald Gustaffson, the reporter, doffed his hat and held out his hand, like she had Mount Rainier to climb, not a six-inch platform. With another smile, she declined and tried to pass by, but Mr. Gustaffson blocked her. How rude. She cut him a puzzled glance, but he’d readied his pad and pencil.

Good evening, Mrs. Sorensen. I was hoping you’d care to make a statement about your husband’s return.

What did he want her to say, how tickled she was that Harry had survived the war? Honestly, Lumberton deserved a better newspaper than the Bugle, and a smarter scribe than Ron Gustaffson. Naturally, I’m delighted, Mr. Gustaffson, and I’m glad Harry played his part in our country’s victory.

The reporter waited but, when she remained silent, said, Thank you, Mrs. Sorensen. Does his homecoming mean you’ll stop working for Chalmers Timber?

The lights in the platform roof made her blink; she lowered her gaze. That’s a personal question, Mr. Gustaffson, between my husband and me. And she moved past him, or tried to. But again, he blocked her, and this time, he couldn’t have missed her annoyed expression. Let me by, please. I would like to speak to my father.

The reporter hesitated, but no Lumbertonian ignored Martin Chalmers, so Mr. Gustaffson yielded. Only after Kay walked past did she grimace at having borrowed Dad’s power, like her own voice didn’t work just fine.

Before she could reach him, the train’s approach set the delegation scurrying. Dad, Clare Henderson, and Mr. Reynolds stood to one side, while the photographer, settling his tripod, took up the other. Ron Gustaffson got in his way. Where did that leave Kay, the hero’s wife?

No choice but to walk between the two groups, ignore her father’s and Mayor Henderson’s belated invitations to join them, and advance toward the incoming train. Since she now impeded the photographer, he pleaded with her to move, which she also ignored. Harry stepped off the train, dashing in his crisp lieutenant’s uniform, buttons and belt agleam. He flashed his electric grin, and his emerald eyes, which she’d first fallen for as a University of Washington sophomore, fixed on her in the near dark. Two other passengers, a man and a woman, gawked, but Kay didn’t care. She flung herself into Harry’s arms, earning a cheer.

She tensed; what if he didn’t respond? But she’d banked on Harry’s sense of drama, which he vindicated, shielding her face with his hat and kissing her, if quickly. Kay squeezed him and stepped back. I’m so proud of you, she said. He smiled but, though his lips moved, he didn’t reply. Kay rested her hand on his arm to reassure him. But he looked away, and she disengaged.

The couple watching never moved, like they’d bought tickets to a show.

Mrs. Sorensen, would you please stand next to your husband? the photographer asked. Kay complied. Hold it, please. A flash exploded, blinding her. Now, one of the hero by himself, the photographer said, and Kay retreated. The train rattled away, emitting coal smoke. This time, Kay turned her head and closed her eyes just before the flash. The welcoming committee swept past her like retreating waves marooning a rock on a beach.

Now, the spectators left.

Welcome home, Lieutenant Sorensen, declared Mayor Henderson. You’ve done Lumberton—and our country—proud. He shook Harry’s hand. As the others took their turns, the reporter fired questions at him:

Lieutenant Sorensen, what do you think our greatest task is in reconstruction?

"What role do returning veterans have in our society?

What do you think of the un-Americanism in our country?

To these and more, Harry answered fluidly, as if he’d prepared. That struck Kay as odd, but so did the questions. Harry held no elected office, nor did he even hail from Lumberton. He practiced law in Seattle, his birthplace, and had moved to Lumberton on their marriage. Yet he sounded as if he’d brought a soapbox home from France.

Lieutenant Sorensen, what are your plans?

"For us to leave so that he can become reacquainted with his lovely bride, said Mr. Reynolds. The mayor, photographer, and reporter chuckled. Kay’s face flamed, and Dad said sharply, George," which only underlined the crude remark. Harry just stood there, grinning.

It hit her: Harry was running for office. The men greeting him, leading Lumberton Republicans, planned to endorse him. Lieutenant Sorensen, what do you think about the key problems facing us today? And isn’t it a coincidence that we’re all here to meet your train?

God knew, Harry was born for politics—looks, charm, a legal practice, the gift of gab. But if he ran for office, Mrs. Sorensen couldn’t keep the job she’d talked her father into giving her when his previous secretary had left to get married, and which had sparked Kay’s dreams of a business career. Sit on civic-minded committees or run clothing drives, as she’d done during the war—anything to reflect well on her candidate husband. Harry hadn’t even bothered to share his ambitions with her, yet tomorrow’s Bugle would carry the story.

She caught herself wishing he hadn’t come home yet, and her face warmed again. What a disloyal wife she was. Yet the scene underlined a notion she’d wrestled with ever since penciling Harry’s homecoming on her calendar. Men made war and money and received parades and praise—some even got statues. Women made homes and children and got pats on the head, if that. Kay’s heart raced, as if a steel door were swinging shut on her and she’d never escape.

One more question, please, Lieutenant Sorensen, Ron Gustaffson pleaded.

Kay stopped breathing.

Sure, Harry said. He enjoyed the attention, and why not? Kay bit her lip; she’d have denied him his sunshine, for selfish purposes. Disloyal, indeed.

Wasn’t Sergeant Roland Birch in your regiment? the reporter asked.

Kay perked up. Trouble dodged.

Not just that. He led a squad in my platoon. Capable soldier.

Capable? No one but Kay noticed Dad’s puzzlement.

He wasn’t on the train, Gustaffson said. Do you know if he left Camp Lewis?

I’m sorry, Ron, I don’t.

Harry barely knew Gustaffson, if at all. Unless Kay had come late to that party too.

Any comment regarding his war record? the reporter asked.

Extraordinary. Harry smiled.

Kay thought he’d recovered, and the men chuckled. But Harry went on, If a bit hot-tempered. From time to time, I had to counsel him about that. But no man was more courageous.

Thank you, Lieutenant. Gustaffson scribbled away.

Harry held out a hand for Kay. She went to him quickly, smiling, but her husband had just committed his first political gaffe. Whatever Rollie Birch had done, declaring superiority over a subordinate—and a celebrated one—broke a rule Dad had taught her. If you lead, he’d said, never disparage people who follow; you demean them and sound like you’re building yourself up at their expense. Harry should have known better.

At last, the dignitaries shook hands all around and departed, except Dad, who lingered. Maybe now, he’d speak to