Long Way Home(54)

“I already have a job. In the clinic across the street.”

“Part-time, though.”

“Yes, part-time.”

He looked at the floor, shuffling his feet. “Donna told me about a Help Wanted sign in the grocery store in New Paltz. I told her I thought you could do better.”

“Thanks for sticking up for me, Pop.” I heard the sarcasm in my voice and wondered if he did.

“Listen, Donna wants the apartment all to herself. You can understand that, right? She says it’s hard for two women to live in such a small space.”

“It was my home first, Pop. She’s the one who moved in with us. But I won’t stay where I’m obviously not wanted. I just need a little more time.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.”

“And even when I do find a job, it’s going to be hard to find a place to live where they’ll let me keep Buster. I know he can’t stay here. Donna hates him.”

“Can’t your friends across the street find a new home for him?” His question stunned me. Give away Buster? After all these years and all that he meant to me? How could Pop even think about coldly giving him away? Buster was my shadow, my friend, my closest companion. I loved him and he loved me. As I stood and gathered up the letters and envelopes, preparing to leave, Buster emerged from beneath the desk and scrambled to his feet, making his tags jingle as he shook himself.

“I would rather sleep in the park than give up Buster,” I told my father with cold fury.

He put his hand on my arm to keep me from brushing past him. “I know you think I’m being mean and that Donna and I are pushing you out—”

“Yes! Because that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I want a better life for you, Peg. I’ve been stuck in this dump all my life, but you don’t have to be. And you shouldn’t let a stray dog hold you back from moving on.”

It was the longest conversation I’d had with my father in years. I hadn’t known that he could talk in whole paragraphs. But his heartlessness in wanting to give away Buster and push me out nearly broke my heart.

Pop stopped me again as I reached the door. “Let me know if you need my help with anything.”

I had never heard those words before, either. I was about to shake my head, my thoughts reeling with anger and sorrow, when I did think of something. “I’ll need a good used car. I have some money saved up from working at IBM during the war.”

“Okay, okay.” He nodded, staring at the floor, not at me. “I’ll keep my eye out for one.” I left him there.

Joe’s screams woke me up again that night. He must have returned after I went to bed. Buster and I hurried downstairs to awaken him from his nightmare. Buster jumped onto the bed beside him, and Joe stroked his fur as he struggled to calm down. “I’m so sorry, Joe,” I said. “I’m trying to help Jimmy, but I know I’m bringing back terrible memories for you, too.”

“You’re not bringing them back. They never left. Every little thing reminds me of the war.”

How horrible that must be. To never leave the war behind? To relive it every day? I swallowed and asked, “Would it help to try to do what Frank does? Turn the page and remember the good?”

“I wasn’t there for the liberation. I didn’t get to see the parades.” He stopped stroking Buster and clenched his fists. His expression changed from sleepy confusion after his nightmare to rage. “I hate my weakness! Hate that you have to see it! It makes me so furious—and it’s never going to change! Only when I get drunk enough.”

“Tell me what makes you angry, Joe. Losing your leg?”

“What do you think? I’ll never be the same!” Buster lifted his head at Joe’s shouts, then rested his head on his lap as Joe began petting him again. “The truth is, I was angry long before that happened.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because you have no choice and no control over your life when you’re in the Army. They order you to march into battle and you have to do it. You go into danger with bombs falling—and they don’t care. Our lives weren’t our own. We were just troops to them. They could move us around the way a kid plays with tin soldiers. They know a bunch of us are going to die in order to take some ‘military objective,’ but they just throw us at the enemy, and whichever side still has men standing when the shooting stops, that’s who wins. They didn’t know me or care about my life. I was just a number to them.”

I could see the truth in what he was saying and didn’t know how to reply. I remembered the drawings in the newspapers with our advancing men represented by arrows and shaded rectangles. I waited quietly for Joe to continue.

“After every battle, more of my friends would be lying dead and wounded all around me. Ever see what’s left of a deer along the road after it’s been hit by a car? The mangled, bloody mess of bones and hair? Imagine if that was someone you knew. Imagine wondering every morning if it was going to be you today. That’s what we lived with. And if we complained, they told us to shut up and keep fighting. It was almost a relief when I was hit, except for the pain and thinking I was going to die. They told me I almost did die.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, Joe. And I’m glad we won the war. Remember what Frank talked about the other day? How your sacrifice brought freedom to the world? Suppose Hitler or Emperor Hirohito ruled over us?”