Long Way Home(85)

“Maybe your sister—”

“But what if she isn’t, Jim? What if I am all alone?”

His arms tightened around me, holding me together. “You’ll never be alone, Gisela. I’m your friend. You know that, don’t you?”

I looked up at him and saw that his eyes were wet with tears. “Yes. I do know it,” I said. “And I’m very grateful.”





21


Peggy





AUGUST 1946

I wasn’t surprised when Joe went out drinking on Saturday night after we returned home from visiting Art Davis. Dredging up memories of the war was always hard on him, yet I also knew that Art’s words had touched him. Everything Joe and I had done for these past few weeks had been to help Jimmy, and now I longed to help Joe put his life back together, too. I knew nothing about his life in Ohio, only that he’d worked as a firefighter. I needed to learn more.

After Pop and Donna left the apartment to join Joe at a bar in Newburgh, I decided to sneak downstairs to the office and search through Joe’s saddlebags to see what I could find. Maybe there would be a home address and I could write to Joe’s family and tell them where he was and how he’d been helping me. I let myself into Pop’s office, where I’d worked for so many years. Buster halted at the door and wouldn’t come inside, as if afraid that Donna would jump out and yell at him. It was Donna’s office now and stank of her cigarettes and the unpleasant air freshener she used to try to cover up the smell. I looked around and could see that she had reorganized the office. I told myself I didn’t care.

Joe’s bags lay open on the floor. His things were already in disarray, so even with a little rummaging, he probably wouldn’t notice that I had riffled through them. Close to the top of his pack, I found something that surprised me—a packet of letters written by someone named Barbara Symanski. The mailing addresses and the dates on the postmarks told me that she’d sent the letters to Joe during the war. I remembered him mentioning a girlfriend who had traveled to Washington, DC, to visit him in the VA hospital. I couldn’t recall anything else except that they had broken up because of his drinking. The fact that Joe still kept her letters and even carried them on his travels told me that he still cared for her. I wondered if Barbara Symanski still loved him. I would be crossing a line if I read the letters, but I copied down her return address, determined to contact Barbara and find out more.

I woke up later that night when Joe had one of his nightmares. Buster and I hurried downstairs to wake him. We talked for a while until Joe stopped trembling, but I lacked the courage to ask him about Barbara. The stars were fading in the east when I finally returned upstairs to sleep for a few more hours before church.

I didn’t have to think of clever small talk when I saw Paul Dixon after the Sunday service. He was still gushing praise and thanking me for helping Persephone. “I hope you’ll come out and see her new little filly. She’s a real beauty. It was a shame that you and your boyfriend needed to hurry off again after all your hard work.”

My boyfriend? It took me a moment to remember that I had ridden out to the farm on Joe’s motorcycle. “Oh, you mean Joe? No, Joe isn’t my boyfriend. I-I just needed a ride because Donna, my stepmother—well, Donna isn’t really my stepmother—but she took my car and . . .” I stopped. I was babbling, still weary from being awake half the night. “Thank you. I would love to see Persephone’s filly. What’s her name?”

“Her owner named her Tyche after the Greek goddess of fortune. Her sire is named Best Chance and of course Persephone is a Greek goddess, too. It’s clever, don’t you think?” I nodded, afraid to open my mouth and babble nonsense again. “Tyche is as shy as her mother, so I may need your help with her, Peggy. You seem to speak their language.”

“That’s because I’m shy myself.”

“Not with me, I hope.”

“No.” I dared to meet his gaze and noticed for the first time that his eyes were as blue as the summer sky. Things got awkward after that, so I promised to visit Persephone and Tyche and wished Paul a good day. When I returned home, Joe’s motorcycle was gone. I went into Pop’s office to see if his saddlebags were there, but they were gone, too. He’d left a note for me on the daybed.

I don’t think I can go to the VA with you today, Peggy. Sorry for not saying goodbye, but I need to take off. I always wanted to see Niagara Falls. Maybe I’ll stop back in a week or so. Thanks for everything.

Joe

I rode to the VA hospital with Jimmy’s parents after lunch and told them about my trip to Vermont to see Art Davis. “From what I can gather, the change in Jimmy came between the winter of 1944 when Mitch O’Hara died, and the spring of 1945 when his Army unit liberated Buchenwald,” I said. “Art Davis didn’t remember Jimmy ever praying or talking about his faith in the concentration camp. And it seems to me that he would need to call on God more than ever and pray for those suffering people in order to work in a place like that. It’s almost like he got so overwhelmed or so mad at God that he stopped talking to Him.”

“You’re a very wise young lady, Peggy,” Mr. Barnett said. “I think you may be close to figuring out this mystery.”

“I’ve always loved your tender, compassionate heart,” Mrs. Barnett added. We were standing on the ferry deck as we crossed the river with the bright summer sun shining down on us. She linked her arm through mine and leaned against me. “I’ve seen your kind heart in the way that you care for the animals at the clinic but most of all in the way that you’ve been working so hard to help our son.”