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“Hey, Jim. Joe Fiore. How’re you doing?” He didn’t wait for a reply but shook hands and then just kept talking in his cheerful, rambling way as he stood in front of Jimmy. “I need to thank you again for saving my life. And not just me, you know? Plenty of guys owe their lives to you. That’s why we want to help you get out of this place and back home again. I know we saw a lot of terrible things over there and our lives were on the line plenty of times. I was pretty messed up by it all, you know? And not just because of my leg. But you told me to hang on, that I was going to be okay, and that’s how I know you’re gonna be okay, too. You told me life will always have some rough spots, remember? But you said the good Lord was hanging on to me. I’ll never forget that. And you were right. I’m okay, now—well, most days, anyway.” He gave a shaky laugh. “I’m getting a little better every day, and you will, too. Just let me know what I can do for you and I’ll do it, you know? I mean it. Hey, I owe you my life.” Joe had stuffed his hands into his pockets to control their trembling. He was getting choked up and fidgety. I was scrambling for something to say when Joe looked away and said, “Hey, here’s another old pal you might remember—Chaplain Bill.”
Joe’s relief was apparent. Bill offered his hand and Jimmy shook it. I couldn’t tell if he remembered Bill or not, but as Bill sat down on the bench beside Jimmy and started talking, Joe got out his cigarettes and moved away to smoke one. I decided to let Bill and Jimmy speak in private, and I moved away, too. I stood beside Joe while he smoked, watching a ship on the river below us. Fifteen minutes later, the Barnetts arrived.
“It’s wonderful of you to come all this way to visit Jim,” Mr. Barnett said after I introduced him to Joe and Bill. “His mother and I appreciate your concern and I’m sure Jim does, too.”
“It’s the least we can do,” Bill said. Joe was restless and I could tell he wanted to leave.
“I can ride home with Jimmy’s parents if you want to go,” I told him.
He pulled me away from the others and said, “Yeah, sorry. It’s just that seeing those guys in the white coats and all the messed-up soldiers like Jimmy and me... it brings back some bad memories, you know? I escaped from a place just like this one. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I thought what you said to Jimmy was wonderful. I’m sure he’s grateful that you came. Do you know how to get back to our apartment?”
“Yeah, sure. See you later.” He strode off across the grass toward the parking lot.
Chaplain Bill was getting ready to leave too, and he looked so weary and sad that I just had to say something to him. I walked with him to the hospital doors, searching for words. “I-I know it’s not my place to say anything, and you don’t really know me at all, but I’ve been thinking about you all week, Chaplain Bill, and I just want to say, please don’t stop being a pastor. People need you.” Two orderlies pushing patients in wheelchairs were waiting to get through the doors, and we took a moment to hold them open for them. Then Bill gestured to some chairs just inside and we sat down.
“A pastor is supposed to speak for God,” he said. “And to God. I can’t seem to do either.”
“I can see how much the war affected you. You and Joe and Jimmy—it seems like your souls are filled with grief. I felt that way once, after my mama died. I was eleven years old and my pop started drinking a lot, and I felt all alone. I could have used somebody to talk to who understood my grief. I’ll bet there are kids in your church who’ve lost their fathers in the war. Maybe some wives who’ve lost their husbands, too. And parents like Jimmy’s who are all torn up inside. Everyone is hurting in big ways and small ways, and we need someone who understands and who will pray with us and cry with us. Please don’t desert them, Bill. They need you now more than ever.”
“But that’s the problem, Miss Serrano. People come to me every day asking how God could have allowed so much death and sorrow and destruction, and I don’t have any answers for them.”
“Maybe you don’t need to have answers. I mean, I’m no expert with things like this, but... maybe you could just listen to people and cry with them and admit that you’re hurting, too. That’s what Jimmy always did best—he just listened. And that helped me more than anything else.”
Bill was quiet for a long moment, staring at his shiny black shoes. “You’re right about Jim,” he finally said, his voice soft. “That’s why everyone always turned to him. He listened to them.”
I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and wiped my eyes. I missed Jimmy so much! If only I could talk to him about Donna and Pop and ask him to help me figure out what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life and where Buster and I were supposed to live. Jimmy was my best friend and I wanted him back. And more than anything else, I wanted to listen to him talk about what was tearing him up inside.
“I think I’m still really angry with God,” Bill said.
“Me, too.” It was the first time I admitted it. I cleared my throat. “But that’s okay. All the people who’ve lost loved ones are probably mad at Him, too, if they’re honest. I’ve been reading the Psalms at night when I can’t sleep, and it sounds like some of those writers were also pretty mad. But they had it out with God and shouted their heads off. Even Jesus felt like God had forsaken Him, remember?”
Bill took my hand and squeezed it for a moment, then stood. “Thank you. You’ve been an enormous help to me.”
The Barnetts and I stayed until visiting hours ended. When we hugged Jimmy goodbye, he embraced us in return. It seemed like a good sign. We were all encouraged when I told them on the way home how Jimmy had thanked me and said my name. But we had also noticed that Jimmy seemed confused and disconnected from us some of the time as if he were sleeping with his eyes open. When his mother talked about home, he’d gazed into the distance as if trying to remember a place he’d once visited a long time ago.
Joe’s motorcycle wasn’t in front of Pop’s garage when we arrived. I hoped he hadn’t gotten lost along the way. I trudged upstairs, my heart heavy with grief for Jimmy and Joe and Chaplain Bill. Donna was getting a beer out of the fridge, and the first thing she said to me was “Did you two have a fight or something?”
“What?” It took me a moment to figure out what she meant. “You mean Joe and me? No. He wanted to leave the hospital before I did, so I rode back with the Barnetts.”
“Well, it sure looks like a fight to me. He came tearing in here without you, packed his bags, said thanks for the beer and everything, then tore out of here before I could blink.”
“So Joe is gone?”
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Looks like you missed your chance, Peg.”
Maybe I had, but not in the way Donna meant. Joe seemed like a broken man to me, and I had hoped that by helping Jimmy, he would be able to heal, too. I took Buster into my room and closed the door. It was a long time before I could stop crying.
