Long Way Home(31)

“That isn’t far from here,” I said. “Just across the New York State border.”

“Told you I had a good memory.” Joe tapped his forehead with the empty highball glass he was holding.

“We could search for his name in the Danbury telephone book and—”

“Let’s go! We’ll take my motorcycle.” He rose to his feet, swaying slightly. Even if I had the courage to ride on the back of his motorcycle, I certainly wasn’t going to do it after he’d been drinking.

“How about tomorrow instead?” I asked. “We’ll get an early start.”

“What’s all this?” Pop mumbled. “Where’re you going?”

“Nowhere today, Pop.”

“Oh, go on, you two,” Donna said. “Why not take off and have a little fun?” She wore a sly smile and I realized what she was up to. If she could kindle a spark between Joe Fiore and me, he might take me off her hands.

“We’ll go tomorrow, Joe. Bright and early,” I said. And in my car. I went into my bedroom and closed the door.

I was up early the next day so I could do my chores at the clinic and explain to Mr. Barnett where I was going. Pop had let Joe sleep overnight in the office again, and waking him up at nine o’clock in the morning wasn’t something I relished doing. But it had to be done. I was much too shy with strangers to drive to Danbury, Connecticut, and talk to the chaplain by myself. Where on earth would I start? What would I say? Joe Fiore already knew the man, and besides, Joe was talkative and outgoing enough for both of us. I scrounged through my bedroom for all the spare change I could find for the pay telephone. Meanwhile, Joe got dressed and swallowed a fistful of aspirin and a cup of strong coffee. I talked him out of taking his motorcycle. “It will only make your headache worse. Maybe next time.” If there was a next time. Who knew when Joe would take off again?

We found two listings for William Ashburn in the Danbury telephone directory. The first was the chaplain’s father, who kindly gave us directions to Chaplain Bill’s parsonage. The former Army chaplain turned out to be older than I’d imagined, in his forties I guessed, with a worried-looking face, rounded shoulders, and thinning brown hair. He invited us into his kitchen for coffee. His wife apologized for the state of her house, blaming their three children. “Please don’t fuss,” I told her. “It’s our fault for showing up unannounced.”

He asked us to call him Bill, and he seemed to remember Joe, although Joe admitted he never attended any of the religious services that the chaplain led. I explained that I was an old friend of Jim Barnett and he said, “Oh yes! I remember Jim very well. We had a lot of interesting conversations. In fact, Jim was one of the few people who enjoyed talking about God with me.” His voice trailed off and he was quiet for a moment before adding, “He had a very mature faith for a man his age. I hope nothing has happened to him.”

“Well, he’s in the VA hospital, I’m sorry to say, suffering from battle fatigue and depression. He, um . . . he tried to end his life.”

The chaplain looked shaken. Coffee sloshed onto his hand as he returned his cup to its saucer. “Oh no . . . no, not Jim. I can’t believe that. He was one of the most courageous men I ever met. He would crawl around in the thick of battle, taking care of his wounded men even though mortar rounds were coming in and shrapnel and bullets were flying all over. I couldn’t have done what Jim did.”

“I guess it finally got to him, you know?” Joe said quietly.

“But that’s just it,” Bill said. “He didn’t let anything get to him. Not when I knew him, anyway. He was convinced that nothing could harm him unless God willed it. He used to quote that psalm to me . . . How does it go? Something about all our days being written in God’s big black book? No, I find it very hard to believe that Jim would try to take his own life.”

“That’s not the Jimmy I know, either,” I said. “That’s why I’m trying to piece his story together and figure out what happened to change him so much. Something must have.”

“The war was—” Bill stopped and I saw him swallow hard. “None of us are the same after what we saw. And did.”

“Hey, we did what we had to, you know?” Joe said. He was getting restless and fidgety, jiggling his foot and tapping his knuckles against the table. He probably wanted a beer, but it was much too early in the day to start drinking.

I turned back to Chaplain Bill. “Can you remember when you last saw Jimmy and if he seemed like himself?”

“Let me think. It must have been in the late fall of ’44. We were fighting our way toward the Rhine, and Jim and I worked together in the battalion aid stations. I offered comfort and he helped the overworked doctors.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I-I confess that I would freeze sometimes, if someone was badly hurt and was afraid of dying. Jim often did a better job of praying with them than I did, I’m ashamed to admit. I told him he should be the chaplain, not me.” Bill gave a nervous laugh, but I could see that the memories haunted him. He looked at me as if pleading with me to understand. “I mean, what do you say when someone asks, ‘Am I going to die?’ and you know they probably are. What do you say?”

“That must have been terrible,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry.” The words felt meaningless, even to me.