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11
Peggy
JULY 1946
The week stretching ahead of me, until I would be able to visit Jimmy again on Sunday, seemed very long. Donna didn’t want my help or advice in Pop’s office, so I spent a lot of time across the street with the animals or visiting with Jimmy’s mother or sometimes sitting alone in my room with Buster, talking to God the way Jimmy taught me to do. I told Him that it seemed like Jimmy would take tiny steps forward each week, responding to people and to Buster, but then he would forget all about us a week later after his shock treatments. I worried that the electric shocks were hurting him, not helping him. Dr. Morgan said he was no closer to coming home. Chaplain Bill had promised to send me the addresses of Jimmy’s friends, but I hadn’t heard from him. I had counted on Joe Fiore for help, but he’d vanished, and I was beginning to think that my crazy idea of writing to Jimmy’s friends was a dumb one. What made me think I could do any good if the doctors couldn’t? And on top of all that, I was no closer to figuring out my own future. “I could really use some help here, God,” I muttered aloud.
I decided to take Buster for a ride into the countryside to cool off on Wednesday afternoon. Maybe we’d stop by the bridge on the way home so he could splash in the river’s rocky shallows. I checked the mailbox one last time before leaving—and there was a letter from Chaplain Bill! I hurried around to the backyard, tearing open the envelope as I went, and sat down on the rickety chair to read it.
Dear Miss Serrano,
I’ve been thinking about your wise words to me when we spoke at the hospital last Sunday, and I was reminded of the book of Job in the Bible. Job suffered unimaginable losses, and the friends who came to visit him thought they had to have answers for him. They tried to explain why God had allowed Job to suffer, but all of their pious explanations were flat-out wrong. The best thing they could have done—the only thing they should have done—was sit with him and mourn with him. God’s reply to all of their wrong-minded reasoning was that we can’t possibly understand what God is doing. His ways are beyond understanding. But we do know that He loves us and that we can trust Him. I have a meeting with the church consistory this afternoon, and I’ve decided to rethink my resignation. Thank you for helping me reach this decision. You were a godsend.
Enclosed is the address for one of the men you mentioned, Frank Cishek, who lives in Milford, Pennsylvania. He gave his address to me right after we were discharged and said that since we didn’t live very far away from each other, we should get together sometime. We haven’t managed to do that yet, but maybe he and I can visit Jim together one of these days.
I’ve contacted the Army asking for the addresses you requested, and I’ll be in touch again as soon as they send them to me. I would like to help you write letters to all of these men, if you’ll allow me to. I think your idea is a wonderful one and that it will be a great encouragement to Jim. Perhaps we can also ask the men who live far away to send photographs to help jog Jim’s memory. Let me know what you think.
Thank you again, Miss Serrano, for helping me get back on track.
Sincerely,
Reverend Bill
I read Bill’s letter a second time and then a third, unable to stop smiling. I couldn’t decide which was the best news—that Chaplain Bill wasn’t quitting after all or that he thought my idea was wonderful and was going to help me or that Frank Cishek lived only fifty miles or so away from me. I was trying to decide when I heard the rumble of a motorcycle coming up the road. It stopped out front, revving the engine twice before shutting off. I leaped up and hurried around to the front of the garage with Buster. And there was Joe. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to hug him and tell him how happy I was to see him because now I wouldn’t have to visit Frank Cishek by myself, but Joe spoke first.
“Hey, sorry for taking off without saying goodbye, but I had to clear my head, you know? I hope your pop isn’t mad at me or anything.”
“I can’t speak for Pop, but I’m sure glad to see you! Chaplain Bill sent me Frank Cishek’s address, and guess what? He lives in Milford, Pennsylvania, just across the New York State border from here. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and we could easily drive over there together. You knew Frank, right?”
“He helped Jim carry me to the aid station. I owe him my life.”
I cooked spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and the four of us ate it together in our tiny, stifling kitchen. Every fan we owned was blowing, but they made little difference. “I’m glad you two made up,” Donna whispered as I was washing the dishes afterwards. “Don’t let him slip away this time.” She tried to talk me into joining them for a night out on the town, then got angry with me for refusing, slamming the door behind her on the way out.
Joe slept until one o’clock on Thursday afternoon, missing our village’s brief Fourth of July parade, comprised of kids on bicycles, the high school marching band, and lots of flags. I had hoped Joe would be too hungover to want to ride his noisy motorcycle, but he started it up and we rode up into the lovely Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. The sunny day made for a beautiful ride, and it felt good to get out of the rut of worry I’d been stuck in. We stopped on a mountaintop along the way for a spectacular view of the Delaware River valley.
“Look at that view!” Joe said. He turned in a circle with his arms outstretched.
“You can see three states from here,” I told him. “New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.”
“It’s great to be out on the open road, isn’t it? You should come with me next time I go. You’d love it.” When I didn’t reply, he added, “Donna says there’s nothing keeping you tied down back home.” My good mood vanished like the sun behind a cloud.
“Donna must have forgotten that I work at the veterinary clinic.”
“So? They’re friends of yours, aren’t they? They’d give you some time off.”
“Let’s get going, okay? We don’t want to ride home in the dark.”
The village of Milford was nestled in the river valley with views of mountains in every direction. Flags fluttered from nearly every public building and storefront and most of the houses. The aroma of charcoal grills and sizzling hamburgers filled the air. The address turned out to be Frank’s parents’ home. His mother, who was making potato salad, told us that Frank and his girlfriend were watching a baseball game over at the Milford ball field. “It’s just a few blocks away. You can easily walk there.”
The wooden stands were packed, the game in full swing with lots of enthusiastic cheering and shouting. It took Joe a minute or two to spot Frank. He had wavy reddish-blond hair that he wore slicked back from his high forehead, and ears that stuck out just a little too far. He was sitting a few rows up in the bleachers with his arm around a dark-haired girl. Beside them were two other men who resembled Frank and had to be his brothers. They were all cheering and laughing and drinking Coca-Cola. When the inning ended, Joe called up to him. “Hey, Frank! Remember me? Joe Fiore?”
It took a moment, but then a lopsided grin spread across Frank’s face. “Joe! Of course! How are you?”
“A lot better than last time you saw me, right?” When Frank’s grin faltered, Joe quickly added, “Hey, that’s okay. They fixed me up with a brand-new leg and I’m good as new. Hey, you got time to grab a beer and talk?”
“Well...” He turned to his girlfriend.
“This here is a friend of mine,” Joe said before she could respond. “Peggy...”
