Long Way Home(71)

My hands were still shaking when I got home. I fixed myself a glass of Kool-Aid and sat in the backyard with Buster to read through the application. They wanted to know about my education and my work experience, and I was supposed to list three people as references. I had gotten no further than filling in my name and birth date when Joe came around from the garage in his coveralls, a bottle of beer in his hand.

“I’m taking a little break,” he said, lifting the bottle. He tapped it against my glass of Kool-Aid as if we were toasting and sat down on the apartment steps. He purchased his own six-packs of beer now and drank it warm rather than trying to limp up and down the steps to our refrigerator every time he wanted one. “Hey, they drink their beer warm over in Europe,” he had explained. “You get used to it.” Joe still worked in the garage with Pop even though he must have enough money for gas by now. Every day I wondered when he would take off and if I would ever see him again.

“Hey, what you got there?” he asked.

“It’s an application for the job at the pharmacy.”

“You don’t sound too excited about it.”

“I’m not. I’m no good around people, Joe. I’ve been alone too long. And I hate the idea of being cooped up inside that lousy store all day.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“I need a job. A full-time one. Donna wants me to move out so she can have the apartment and Pop all to herself.”

He shook his head, staring down at his feet. “She doesn’t treat you right.”

“Pop is on her side. He says it’s time I moved out on my own, and I know he’s right. I’m not a kid anymore.” I needed to change the subject before I got teary. I didn’t want Joe’s pity. “By the way, you’re still planning to go to Mitch O’Hara’s memorial service on Sunday, right? Jimmy’s father is getting him out of the hospital for the day. Frank Cishek and Chaplain Bill will be there, and I think a few more of your old buddies, too.”

“Yeah, sure.” Joe didn’t sound very enthusiastic. I watched him drain the bottle in two more gulps.

“You knew Mitch, didn’t you?”

“Heck of a nice guy. He didn’t deserve what he got.”

“I’m really hoping that honoring him and taking time to grieve for him will help Jimmy somehow. Maybe he’ll start responding to people again or at least tell us what’s causing his nightmares. When we talked with Jimmy’s doctor at the VA the other day, he told us they’re doing surgery on veterans’ brains now, supposedly to cure their battle fatigue—”

Joe sprang to his feet, interrupting me. “Don’t let them do that to Jim! I’ve seen some of those guys who had their brains cut in half.”

“A lobotomy?”

“Yeah. The guys who had it done shuffled around as if they were sleepwalking! I didn’t know any of them before the war, but it seemed pretty clear to me that there was nothing left of them now. Jim would be better off dead! Don’t let them do it!”

The idea that Jimmy would be in a daze for the rest of his life made me shiver. My heart went out to the men who’d had the surgery. And to their families. “Jimmy’s father spoke right up and told the doctor that he’d never allow it. But Dr. Morgan seemed to think it was the only way Jimmy would ever be able to come home again. I know how much you hated it there in the hospital and I can’t stand the thought of him—”

“Hey, it’s time to get him out of there. If I can get better on my own, Jim can, too.”

But was Joe really getting better? He drank too much, he still had nightmares, he rode around the country aimlessly on his motorcycle, and his future seemed as pointless as mine. I remembered Dr. Greenberg saying that his job and his family kept him moving forward, and I realized that I’d never asked Joe about his family or what he’d done before the war. Did he have any dreams for his future back then?

“What did you do before the war, Joe?” I was staring out at the weeds and junked cars when I asked the question, but Joe took so long to reply that I turned to him in alarm. “Did I ask the wrong thing? I’m sorry. It’s none of my business—”

“No, that’s okay,” he said quietly. Buster was leaning against Joe with his head in Joe’s lap. I waited, and when Joe finally replied, he spoke so softly I barely heard him. “I was a firefighter.”

A firefighter. It took a moment for me to digest what losing his leg had meant to Joe. No wonder he hadn’t resumed his job. No wonder he was wandering aimlessly. He had every right in the world to be angry. “Oh, Joe. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all I ever wanted to be, you know?” He twisted the empty bottle in his hands and I wondered if he was going to hurl it as hard and as far as he could. “I was eight years old the first time I visited the fire station. I had an uncle who was a firefighter. He let me stand on the ladder truck for a second, and I knew that’s what I wanted to be. Hey, I know a lot of kids say that, but I really meant it. I signed on right after high school and served for nearly four years until I enlisted.”

I waited a moment, then asked, “What did you love about it, Joe?” I hoped it would help if he talked about it, yet I didn’t want to hurt him.

“The adrenaline rush, of course,” he said with a crooked grin. “The challenge of it. You never know what to expect. Each fire is different, no two are the same, and you never know what you’ll find when you get there. You learn as you go, until you finally get an instinct for what the fire is going to do and how to beat it.”