Long Way Home(13)

“Thanks anyway.” I needed to finish feeding the horses, but I didn’t want to leave Joe alone when he was still so shaken up. “Where are you headed next, Joe? Back home?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, not for a while. I need to get out on the open road and clear my head.” He sipped his beer and scratched Buster, who lay at his feet like an adoring servant. I let the silence linger until he broke it. “There was this girl back home I was gonna marry. Barbara wrote to me all through the war. She even took the train to the VA hospital in DC when I was there and said she didn’t mind at all about my leg being gone, she was just glad I was alive. But when I finally got home, everything was different. She complained that I spent too much time at the bar and nagged on and on about me not looking for a job. We started arguing all the time. Barb said I’d changed. Maybe it’s true, I don’t know. Probably is. But I finally said we were through, and I spent my Army pay on a motorcycle and got out of there. I got a whole list of Army buddies I’m planning to visit.”

Joe’s words sparked an idea. He had provided a glimpse of the war and Jimmy’s part in it, so maybe some of Jimmy’s other friends could supply a few more pieces of the puzzle. Maybe one of them knew who Gisela was and could tell me why Jimmy carried her picture. “How long are you planning to stay here in town?” I asked. “I would love to talk with you some more, but I have to finish feeding the animals over at the clinic first.”

“Hey, I’m not in a hurry. Is there a park around here someplace where I can sleep tonight?”

“You don’t have to sleep in a park. Why don’t you have dinner with Pop and me—and Buster, of course.” The dog smiled up at Joe as if he’d understood and was endorsing the invitation. “There’s a daybed in Pop’s office that you’re welcome to sleep on. There’s a bathroom in there, too.” Pop used both whenever Donna got mad at him or he was too drunk to climb the apartment steps.

“Well, hey. That’s very nice of you, Penny.”

“It’s Peggy. I’m going to head back to work now, but you’re welcome to visit with Buster while I’m gone. Pop’s repairing a car in his garage if you want someone to talk to. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Can you get me another beer before you go?”

“Sure.”

I was surprised by how quickly Pop warmed to Joe over dinner. He listened as Joe shared more of his war stories, and didn’t seem to mind that Joe drank all his beer. The two of them set off for the Crow Bar after dinner that evening like old pals. I didn’t know what time they finally got home, but I was startled out of bed at five in the morning by a bloodcurdling scream, coming from Pop’s office below my bedroom.

It took me a moment to remember that I’d told Joe Fiore, the stranger on the motorcycle, that he could sleep down there. And hadn’t he said he used to have nightmares? I leaped out of bed and grabbed my robe. Buster, who was barking loud enough to wake the whole world, scrambled toward the door ahead of me. I passed Pop, who stood swaying in his bedroom doorway looking woozy and red-eyed. “What’s all the racket?”

“I think Joe might be having a bad dream.”

“Well, somebody shut him up!” Donna called out from inside their bedroom. “And that blasted dog, too! I’m trying to sleep.”

I flew down the stairs and into Pop’s office. It was dark, but I knew my way around the junk-filled space. Joe lay writhing on the bed, eyes closed tight, wailing and moaning. Sweat covered his face and dampened his hair as he thrashed in the twisted bedcovers. He wore only his undershirt and boxers, and I glimpsed the red stump of his leg that ended at his knee. I should have let Pop come down.

Buster whined as I called Joe’s name and shook his shoulder. “Joe! Wake up, Joe. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.” He gave a startled gasp and opened his eyes. Then Buster licked his face and Joe seemed to relax.

“Hey . . . hey, there. Sorry about that, Tripod. Thanks, boy.” I was starting to see that even though Joe smiled and laughed a lot and seemed easygoing, he was still hurting inside just like Jimmy. Joe’s pain was understandable since he had endured the trauma of losing his leg. Jimmy had no visible wounds, but maybe they were all on the inside where we couldn’t see them. He finished scratching Buster’s head as his breathing returned to normal, then looked up at me. “Sorry I woke you up. You can go back to bed now. I won’t be sleeping anymore tonight.” He slurred his words a little, as if still feeling the effects of all the alcohol he’d drunk.

I pulled out the wooden desk chair and sat down, my heart rate finally slowing. “I’ll stay up with you for a while.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. He sat with his back against the wall, the blanket wrapped around himself. He patted the bed, inviting Buster to jump up beside him. Buster glanced at me before leaping onto the daybed. He knew he wasn’t allowed on the furniture, but I decided to make an exception tonight. Joe’s hands slowly stopped their violent trembling as he stroked the dog.

“Would it help if you talked about your nightmare?” I asked.

“Nah, I can never remember what they’re about. Just the feeling they leave.”

“Which is . . . ?” I prompted.

He shrugged again. “I don’t know. The same feeling I had after I’d been hit and I realized that my leg was gone and I thought I was going to die. I was scared and mad at the entire universe. And the pain was like nothing I’d ever . . .” He paused, swallowing. “I saw what was left of my buddy Hank . . . His head was gone and—” Joe must have seen me shudder. He stopped. “Sorry . . . sorry.”