Long Way Home(72)

I struggled to say something comforting or to suggest a similar line of work and offer him hope, but I couldn’t think of a single job that would be the same.

“It was like being in the Army in a lot of ways, you know?” he continued. “The other men become your brothers, your family. You eat together, sleep, cook, and shoot the breeze, share the same quarters for a twelve-hour shift. You get to know them like you know yourself. You have to so you’ll be ready to work together and fight fires. You get so you trust these guys with your life, and they’re trusting you with theirs. You’d risk your life for any of them.”

He paused, still twisting the bottle. I waited the way Jimmy used to do when he listened to me, not wanting to intrude on Joe’s thoughts with worthless words. “I went from working at the fire station, straight into basic training, and bonded with the guys in my company, you know? Jim and Mitch and Frank and Dave.” He gave a little laugh. “All the way across the Atlantic on a troop transport, jammed into bunks . . . Then the day came when we landed in France. It was a shock, let me tell you, when the bullets started flying and you realize that someone is trying to kill you. As a firefighter, you always know that a fire flare or a collapsing building could kill you, too. But it’s the brotherhood that gives you the courage to keep going, you know? You don’t want to let them down.”

“And you’ve lost all of that,” I murmured. “The brotherhood of soldiers and firefighters.”

“Yeah.”

I could see that he wanted more beer but his was empty—as empty as his life must seem after the war. He had nothing to return home to. I wondered if he’d found a sense of purpose for a time by working with me and Chaplain Bill and the others to help Jimmy. Still, it must be hard to remember the camaraderie they’d shared and hear their advice about moving forward into the future. I remembered how upset Joe had become when I had talked to Jimmy about returning to the clinic and working as a veterinarian. Joe got drunk to erase the past that had taken away his future. No wonder he had nightmares of the moment he’d lost his leg. It was the moment he had lost himself.

“I’m so sorry, Joe,” I said again.

“When you’re good at something, and you enjoy it—like you with that horse the other day—you ought to be allowed to do it.” He pulled himself to his feet and sighed. “Guess I’ll get cleaned up and take off this evening.” He was going to go out drinking, and it was my fault for stirring his memories and his sorrow.

I stood as well. “May I come with you tonight? You offered to take me once before and—”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“That’s not why—”

“Yes, it is. Another time, maybe.” He walked back to the garage. An hour later I heard his motorcycle roar away. I shuddered to think that he would try to re-create the adrenaline rush of fighting fires by driving too fast on our curving mountain roads.

On Sunday, I rode to the veterans’ hospital with Mr. and Mrs. Barnett, but instead of visiting Jimmy, we checked him out of the hospital for Mitch O’Hara’s memorial service. Mr. Barnett had phoned ahead and told them to make sure Jimmy was dressed and ready to go. Jimmy seemed confused as we led him through the corridors and out the front door. He halted in the parking lot and looked around at the river and distant mountains as if he’d never seen them before. I heard him draw a deep breath. The air smelled of newly mown grass.

“I know this might be hard for you, Jim,” Mr. Barnett said as we drove. “But we’re taking you to a memorial service for your friend Mitch O’Hara.” Jimmy was riding in the front seat beside his father, so I couldn’t see his face when he learned where we were going. His father waited a moment before continuing. “It’s being held in his hometown, and Mitch’s family will be there. You went home with Mitch a couple of times when you were roommates at Cornell, remember?” Again, he left space for Jimmy to comment, but he didn’t. “Mitch is buried in Belgium, in the Ardennes American Cemetery. I’m told that many of the soldiers and airmen who are buried there also died in the Battle of the Bulge, like he did. Your company chaplain, Reverend Ashburn, made all of the arrangements for the service.”

“And your friends Joe Fiore and Frank Cishek are meeting us there, too,” I added, “along with some of your other Army buddies.”

We all stood outside on the ferry deck as we crossed the Hudson, the summer sun warm on our backs, a fish-scented breeze ruffling our hair. It would take a little over three hours to get to Mitch’s small hometown outside of Binghamton. Mr. Barnett offered Jimmy a road map and asked if he wanted to help navigate, but he shook his head. The mountain air was cool and we rolled down the car windows and inhaled the aroma of pine as we drove through the Catskill Mountains. I could never get enough of those glorious mountains.

Mr. Barnett talked about his work at the clinic to help pass the time and shared how I had delivered Persephone’s foal. “She did a great job, Jim. I was proud of her.” I had brought along the photo album and a few of the latest letters from Jimmy’s friends, and I read parts of them aloud to him. We talked about all manner of things as if Jimmy was part of the conversation, but he barely spoke a word. I missed the sound of his voice and his warm laughter. I bet his parents did, too.

Mitch’s family and boyhood friends filled the churchyard. Joe was chatting with a bunch of Army buddies when we arrived, and they came over to greet Jimmy with handshakes and good-natured thumps on his back. Some of them had driven a long way to come, and I was especially surprised to see Dr. Greenberg there from New Jersey. I was overjoyed when Jimmy began talking with them. It was exactly what I’d hoped for. I had brought my camera and extra rolls of film, so I snapped a lot of pictures of their reunion.