Long Way Home(98)

“Not that I can recall. Listen, Doctor—”

“Your regular visits have likely prevented him from having a complete shutdown, which is good—”

“Then why not let us visit more often?” I asked.

The doctor exhaled smoke, then adopted an overly patient tone, as if forced to explain these things to children. “It has been two and a half months since his suicide attempt. Twelve weeks. Yet his depression persists. Unless we get to the root of it, I’m afraid we’re looking at long-term hospitalization.”

“Then we’ll take him home,” Mrs. Barnett said. “Let’s take him home, Gordon, please? We’ll hire a nurse to watch him and—”

“You’ll be risking a second suicide attempt if you discharge him. The alternative is to consent to psychosurgery.”

“Out of the question,” Mr. Barnett said. “I will never consent to a lobotomy.”

“I believe it’s your best option at this point,” the doctor said. “The surgery has been performed successfully in VA hospitals all across the country—”

“Not on my son.”

“As you wish. In the meantime, if you truly want to help him, I urge you to reexamine his childhood from his point of view and let me know what you discover.”

*

I was outside in the corral on Friday afternoon, exercising Pedro, who was recovering nicely from his shin splints, when I heard the familiar rumble of Joe’s motorcycle coming down the road. Buster must have heard it, too, because he rose from his shady spot on the Barnetts’ back porch and trotted to the driveway to stare across the road. I ducked out of the corral and hurried over. Sure enough, Joe was parking his motorcycle in front of Pop’s garage. Buster looked up at me and barked as if to ask, “What are we waiting for?” We jogged across the road to greet him. Buster gave Joe a full, doggy welcome, leaping against his chest and wagging his tail like a flag on the Fourth of July.

“Welcome back, Joe,” I said.

“Thanks. Hey, it looks like Tripod really missed me.”

“I did, too. How long can you stay?” My mind was already racing to think of a way to keep him here until Barbara arrived.

“Well, I was hoping I could work in the garage again, you know?” Joe looked sheepish. “I kinda got carried away a few nights ago and . . . Well, you don’t need to hear about all that. But anyway, I’m a little low on cash.”

Perfect! “You’ll have to ask Pop about working, but I hope you’ll at least stay through the weekend. Listen, I have to finish my chores, Joe, but I’ll leave Buster here with you until later.”

I was putting Pedro in his stall when I remembered that I didn’t live in Pop’s apartment anymore. I would have to go back and explain it to Joe. But first, I raced to the telephone booth in town and called Barbara Symanski.

“I have the bus schedule right here,” she said after my breathless explanation. “Let’s see. If I hop on the next bus . . . and change in New York City . . . I can arrive at the station in New Paltz tomorrow night at . . . it looks like 6:25. Will that work?”

I stifled a groan. I was supposed to pick up Paul for our picnic at six. Who knew if he would ever ask me out again if I canceled? Yet this might be my very last chance to help Joe. He had done so much to help Jimmy and me. “Yes, that will be great,” I said, wincing. “I’ll tell Joe that I have a surprise for him, and I’ll bring him with me to the bus station. I guess we’ll see you tomorrow.”

I pulled out the directory that was chained inside the booth and looked up the number for Blue Fence Farms. It rang and rang on the other end but no one answered. The office must have closed for the day. I would have to try to reach Paul tomorrow. In the meantime, I had to make sure Joe didn’t go anywhere. And that he stayed sober on Saturday. I raced back to the garage and found him laughing and already drinking a beer with Pop, who seemed quick to forgive Joe’s wanderings.

“May I have a word with you in private, Joe?” I asked. We stepped outside. “Listen, I don’t live here anymore, but I’m sure Pop will let you stay.”

“He already said he doesn’t mind. He told me you’re on your own now, hey?”

“I am—thanks to you for putting in a good word for me with Mr. Barnett. Listen, I could really use your help with an errand tomorrow night around six thirty. Do you think you’ll be free then?”

“Sure. What do you need me to do?”

“I have to pick something up in New Paltz.” He waited as if expecting to hear more. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Thanks, Joe.”

I arranged with Mrs. Jenkins for Barbara to stay in the guesthouse with me on Saturday night, and I was back at the phone booth first thing on Saturday morning, calling Blue Fence Farms. “Mr. Dixon left early this morning to take a horse up to the raceway in Saratoga,” the manager said.

“When do you expect him to return?”

“Not until later this afternoon. Maybe around four. You want him to call you back?”

Call me back? I was in a telephone booth. I lived in a rooming house. I couldn’t expect Donna to take a phone message for me, and I didn’t feel right about giving out the Barnetts’ telephone number. But that’s what I ended up doing. I had Saturdays off, but I went to the clinic in the afternoon and did a little paperwork, just so I would be near the telephone when Paul called. He didn’t.