Long Way Home(44)

“I can’t speak for Pop, but I’m sure glad to see you! Chaplain Bill sent me Frank Cishek’s address, and guess what? He lives in Milford, Pennsylvania, just across the New York State border from here. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and we could easily drive over there together. You knew Frank, right?”

“He helped Jim carry me to the aid station. I owe him my life.”

I cooked spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and the four of us ate it together in our tiny, stifling kitchen. Every fan we owned was blowing, but they made little difference. “I’m glad you two made up,” Donna whispered as I was washing the dishes afterwards. “Don’t let him slip away this time.” She tried to talk me into joining them for a night out on the town, then got angry with me for refusing, slamming the door behind her on the way out.

Joe slept until one o’clock on Thursday afternoon, missing our village’s brief Fourth of July parade, comprised of kids on bicycles, the high school marching band, and lots of flags. I had hoped Joe would be too hungover to want to ride his noisy motorcycle, but he started it up and we rode up into the lovely Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. The sunny day made for a beautiful ride, and it felt good to get out of the rut of worry I’d been stuck in. We stopped on a mountaintop along the way for a spectacular view of the Delaware River valley.

“Look at that view!” Joe said. He turned in a circle with his arms outstretched.

“You can see three states from here,” I told him. “New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.”

“It’s great to be out on the open road, isn’t it? You should come with me next time I go. You’d love it.” When I didn’t reply, he added, “Donna says there’s nothing keeping you tied down back home.” My good mood vanished like the sun behind a cloud.

“Donna must have forgotten that I work at the veterinary clinic.”

“So? They’re friends of yours, aren’t they? They’d give you some time off.”

“Let’s get going, okay? We don’t want to ride home in the dark.”

The village of Milford was nestled in the river valley with views of mountains in every direction. Flags fluttered from nearly every public building and storefront and most of the houses. The aroma of charcoal grills and sizzling hamburgers filled the air. The address turned out to be Frank’s parents’ home. His mother, who was making potato salad, told us that Frank and his girlfriend were watching a baseball game over at the Milford ball field. “It’s just a few blocks away. You can easily walk there.”

The wooden stands were packed, the game in full swing with lots of enthusiastic cheering and shouting. It took Joe a minute or two to spot Frank. He had wavy reddish-blond hair that he wore slicked back from his high forehead, and ears that stuck out just a little too far. He was sitting a few rows up in the bleachers with his arm around a dark-haired girl. Beside them were two other men who resembled Frank and had to be his brothers. They were all cheering and laughing and drinking Coca-Cola. When the inning ended, Joe called up to him. “Hey, Frank! Remember me? Joe Fiore?”

It took a moment, but then a lopsided grin spread across Frank’s face. “Joe! Of course! How are you?”

“A lot better than last time you saw me, right?” When Frank’s grin faltered, Joe quickly added, “Hey, that’s okay. They fixed me up with a brand-new leg and I’m good as new. Hey, you got time to grab a beer and talk?”

“Well . . .” He turned to his girlfriend.

“This here is a friend of mine,” Joe said before she could respond. “Peggy . . .”

“Serrano,” I supplied.

“Peggy is a good friend of Jim Barnett’s. I know you remember Jim.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, he’s in the VA hospital, and Peggy and I are trying to get him out of there. We could use your help.”

“What? In the hospital? Jim?”

“Go ahead, Frankie. I don’t mind,” his girlfriend said. “Bring me a hot dog on your way back.”

“Okay. Sure. I have plenty of time for a friend of Jim’s.” Frank stood, then carefully stepped down between the other spectators. There was a concession stand and some picnic tables behind the bleachers. The smell of hot grease, french fries, and popcorn filled the air. “Want to grab a hot dog or a Coke or something?” Frank asked. “There’s a picnic table over here where we can sit.”

“Do they sell beer?” Joe asked.

“Nah, it’s a kid’s ball game. So how do you know Jim?” he asked me as we sat down at the weathered table.

“I’ve lived across the street from Jimmy all my life. I work in his father’s veterinary clinic part-time.”

Frank’s face lit up with recognition. “Say, are you the girl who owns the three-legged dog?”

“Yes, I—”

Frank clapped his hands and burst out laughing. Joe joined in.

“Jim told us all about that dog, right, Joe?”

“Yeah, we called him Tripod, remember?”

“I sure do!”

“Hey, I met that three-legged dog, Frank. He’s real! Jim didn’t make him up after all—although I haven’t seen him save any orphans yet.” They both had a good laugh about Buster before getting serious again, and I caught a glimpse of the close friendship Jimmy and his pals must have shared during the long, harrowing years of the war.