Long Way Home(4)

Mrs. Barnett handed me the box of letters she had fetched and we sat down on Jimmy’s bed again. He had enlisted in 1942, and his letters filled a shoebox that once held a pair of Mr. Barnett’s work boots. We only had time to skim the most recent letters, sent from Germany in flimsy airmail envelopes. We didn’t find Gisela’s name in any of them. “You can take the letters home to read, if you’d like,” Mrs. B. said, but I shook my head. Jimmy’s letters belonged here, with his parents. His words were precious to them, especially since he no longer spoke to anyone.

“But may I take this?” I held up the small New Testament and Psalms we’d found in his pack. I wanted to read the verses Jimmy had underlined, thinking they might have been important to him.

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Barnett replied. She drew me into her soft arms for a hug before I left, something we probably both needed.

I hurried across the road and ducked into Pop’s garage before going upstairs to change out of my work clothes. “You need me for anything, Pop? Before I get changed?”

He was bent over a car engine and didn’t even look up. “It’s not like you’re around if I did need you,” he muttered. I handled all of Pop’s paperwork and wrote up invoices for him. He was busy with a lot of car and tractor repairs these days and could have used more help, but I had returned to work at the veterinary clinic after my wartime job at the factory ended. I knew how to replace spark plugs and do oil changes, things I’d helped Pop do since I was a kid. He could have taught me more, but I enjoyed working with dogs and horses and even cows and pigs more than cars and trucks. There was nothing more amazing than watching a baby calf or a foal being born—that miracle of new life emerging into the world after a painful struggle. I never grew tired of it.

Over the years that I’d been working at Mr. Barnett’s clinic, I not only cleaned the dog kennels and horse stalls, but Mr. Barnett showed me how to feed the animals and keep watch over the sick ones until they’d recovered enough to go home. The clinic also boarded animals for their owners, so there was always a dog or two to walk or a horse to groom. A month after Buster’s surgery, I was feeding a newly spayed dog when Mr. Barnett asked, “How old are you, Peggy?”

“Eleven.”

“So tell me. Do you like working here?”

“Oh yes, sir! It’s the best part of my whole day.”

“Well, then. I think it’s time I started paying you for all the work you do around here.” My heart did a little dance. I loved working in the clinic. I hoped he really meant it.

“But . . . aren’t I still paying you for Buster’s operation?”

“You’ve already paid that debt,” he said with a wave of his hand. “If it’s okay with your father, I’d like to pay you to continue helping me after school. You have a nice way with the animals. They like you.”

I had nearly burst out bawling from his kind words. I had to swallow my tears and blink my eyes real fast. “I-I’ll ask Pop when I go home. But I’m sure he won’t mind.” And he hadn’t minded. The Great Depression still cast a shadow over the country, and many people were desperate to earn a little extra money. But I could tell that Pop was disappointed in me for not taking more interest in the garage that was his livelihood.

“I’ll get to work and write up that invoice for you after I get changed,” I told Pop now. “And let me know what parts you want me to order.” Buster was waiting for me outside at the bottom of the steps to our apartment, his tail wagging in greeting. Pop’s girlfriend, Donna, wouldn’t let him come inside unless I was home, complaining that he stank up the place. I took a minute to greet him and let him know I was happy to see him, too, then told him to wait outside while I flew up the stairs to our apartment to change out of my barn clothes.

“You sound like a herd of elephants coming up those stairs!” Donna griped from her usual place on our sagging sofa. She was still in her housecoat and a haze of cigarette smoke hovered around her.

“Sorry. I’m wearing my work boots.” I kicked them off near the door and opened one of the living room windows. It was nearly suppertime, but a quick peek into the kitchen told me she hadn’t started anything for our dinner. My pop loved Donna, so I tried very hard to love her, too. But I suspected that Donna would be happier if I moved out and she could have Pop all to herself. He’d been lonely after Mama died and had started drinking every night at the Crow Bar, where Donna worked as a barmaid. By the time I was in high school, she had moved in with us. The whole town knew that she lived here and that they weren’t married. And I’d been old enough to be embarrassed and ashamed about it.

Yet I understood Pop’s loneliness and how he’d needed someone to talk to. Mama had been the one who would rub his shoulders after a long day of work and make sure there was a hot meal on our table, even when money was tight after paying the mortgage on his garage. Mama was the one who sewed clothes for me out of hand-me-downs and sent me off to school with my hair brushed and braided. But she had felt very tired on the last morning I saw her, too tired to fix my hair or my lunch. She sat in an armchair in our living room, her swollen ankles propped up on the footstool. “Can you pack your own lunch today like a big girl?” she’d asked.

“Okay, Mama.” I smeared jelly on a leftover biscuit and added an apple to my lunch sack. Before I left for school, Mama took my hand and laid it on her stomach to let me feel our baby kicking inside her.