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9
Peggy
JUNE 1946
It was past noon by the time Joe and I returned home from visiting Chaplain Bill in Connecticut. Joe had spent the first part of the drive talking nonstop about his favorite baseball team, the Cleveland Indians, comparing them to the New York Yankees, and the remainder of it asleep. I had hoped we could talk about Chaplain Bill. I wanted to ask Joe what he thought of our visit, but I was afraid he would become upset again. Bill’s comment about the war haunted me. “None of us are the same after what we saw. And did.” Clearly he and Joe Fiore and Jimmy Barnett had been deeply affected by their experiences, and I didn’t see how insulin comas and electrical shocks and jets of hot and cold water were going to erase four years of seeing the world burning and millions of innocent people suffering and dying, as Bill had described it. His faith had been shaken, and I wondered if Jimmy’s had, too.
I changed into my work clothes as soon as I got home and hurried across the road to the clinic. I was working in the dog kennels when Mr. Barnett found me. “I’m heading out to Blue Fence Farms, Peggy. Do you have time to come along?”
“Sure, I’d love to.” I was supposed to be teaching Donna how to take over Pop’s bookkeeping this afternoon, but I was feeling stubborn and a little sorry for myself. Donna had waited all these years to take an interest in Pop’s business, so she could just wait a few hours longer. As Mr. Barnett’s truck rattled down the country roads toward the thoroughbred ranch, I told him about my trip to Danbury to see Chaplain Bill. “He isn’t depressed like Jimmy is,” I said, “but his faith has been shaken and he’s questioning God. He’s going to resign from his church.”
“That’s a shame.”
“The chaplain remembered Jimmy as having a lot of faith for a young man. He said that Jimmy was courageous under fire, crawling around to take care of his wounded men while the bullets were flying. When the chaplain asked him why he was so fearless, Jimmy had quoted a Bible verse that said all of his days were written in God’s book.”
Mr. Barnett didn’t reply, and when I glanced at him, he was wiping his eyes. “We talked before Jim went overseas,” he finally said. “Jim was afraid of being afraid. That’s the verse I told him to remember. I reminded him that even the hairs of his head were numbered. And that God would never forsake him.”
“If Jimmy still believed those things, then it doesn’t make sense that he would try to kill himself, does it?”
“That’s true,” Mr. Barnett murmured. “I guess the question is, what happened that made Jim stop believing them?”
“I’m hoping I can talk with more of his Army buddies and try to find out. The chaplain promised to send me the addresses of some of the men who served with Jimmy so I can write letters to them. I just wish it didn’t take so long. I hate thinking of him getting electrical shocks to his brain.”
“I know,” Mr.B. said softly. “Let me know if I can do anything to help you, Peggy. I think you may be on the right track.”
We arrived at Blue Fence Farms, one of my favorite places to be, and parked the truck outside one of the stables. I loved the fragrant fields out here in the country, the green, gently rolling pastures dotted with graceful, long-legged horses. And always in the distance, the familiar mountains standing guard over our valley.
The farm manager had hired a new horse trainer named Paul Dixon, and Mr. Barnett wanted to meet him since they would be caring for the horses together. Mr. Dixon seemed young for such an important job, probably no more than thirty, and as long-legged as one of the thoroughbreds. He had worked with a renowned trainer in the horse-racing world before the war and came highly recommended. I could have guessed by the slow, easy way he stretched out his words that he’d grown up in the South even before he told us he was from Kentucky. As we walked through the stables with him, talking about each of the horses and their peculiarities, I saw his affection and admiration for the animals in his care. I liked him right away, and I could tell that Mr. Barnett did, too.
“Can you take a look at Persephone while you’re here, Mr. Barnett?” he asked. He removed his cap to wipe his brow, unleashing a mop of reddish-brown hair. “She isn’t used to me yet, and I don’t want to spook her.” The mare was expecting her first foal in a few weeks, sired by a famous thoroughbred named Best Chance. But today Persephone was skittish with Mr.B., too.
“Let me try,” I said. She was my favorite horse on the farm because she was shy, like me. I had worked hard to win her trust, which came slowly. I edged up beside her now, talking to her, then stroked her neck and her shoulder until she calmed down and allowed Mr. Barnett to examine her.
“Everything looks fine,” he said when he finished. “Thanks, Peggy.”
My afternoon at Blue Fence Farms gave me a welcome reprieve from worrying about Jimmy and all the other broken soldiers like Joe and Bill. I could forget, for a little while, that Donna was determined to push me out and send me off on my own. My heart felt lighter by the time we climbed into the truck again to head back to the clinic.
I was surprised to see Joe’s motorcycle still parked outside Pop’s garage when we arrived. I’d figured he would probably take off now that we’d visited Chaplain Bill. I was even more surprised to find Joe inside the garage, helping Pop work on a car. “So Pop has you working now?” I asked.
Joe looked up with a grin, his handsome face smudged with grease. “Hey, it’s about time I did something around here to pay for my beer, you know?”
I wanted to ask how long he planned to stay, but Pop tilted his head toward the office and said, “Donna’s waitin’ on you.”
She was already seated at my desk, smoking a cigarette and paging through a catalog of automotive parts. The ashtray she’d brought with her overflowed with butts, and the room stank of cigarette smoke in spite of the whirling fan and the open window. Joe’s saddlebags lay open on the floor, his clothes strewn all over, the blankets on the daybed in a rumpled heap. I resisted the urge to tidy up since it was no longer my office.
“Oh no you don’t,” Donna said when Buster tried to walk in behind me. “I don’t want that dog in here. He’ll stink up the place. Out!” Buster was my second shadow whenever I was home, and he had trotted into the office with me like he always did, ready to nap in his usual place beneath the desk with his head on my feet. He didn’t know that this was Donna’s office now. I knelt down to scratch his ears and give him a hug so I wouldn’t say something nasty to Donna, then gently pushed him out and closed the door.
“So Joe is on the payroll now?” I asked. “Whose idea was that?”
“I don’t know,” Donna said with a shrug. “All of ours, I guess. He’s going to be a great help to your father. We’ve been so busy lately.”
We’vebeen so busy. In her mind, Pop’s business was already hers. I pulled up a folding stool and sat down beside Donna to teach her my accounting system. I showed her how to write up invoices and fill out order forms. I gave her the stack of monthly bills that needed to be paid and showed her where to file them for tax purposes. I handed over the checkbook and banking information. Donna turned out to be good with numbers—a skill I supposed she’d learned by tallying patrons’ tabs in her head all these years. She was not the least bit apologetic about taking over my job, as if she assumed this was her right. At one point, when the sound of Joe’s laughter carried into the office from the garage, she said, “Your young man certainly is handsome, isn’t he?”
“He isn’t my young man.”
“I can tell he’s taken a shine to you.”
“What makes you say that?”
