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“Serrano,” I supplied.
“Peggy is a good friend of Jim Barnett’s. I know you remember Jim.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, he’s in the VA hospital, and Peggy and I are trying to get him out of there. We could use your help.”
“What? In the hospital? Jim?”
“Go ahead, Frankie. I don’t mind,” his girlfriend said. “Bring me a hot dog on your way back.”
“Okay. Sure. I have plenty of time for a friend of Jim’s.” Frank stood, then carefully stepped down between the other spectators. There was a concession stand and some picnic tables behind the bleachers. The smell of hot grease, french fries, and popcorn filled the air. “Want to grab a hot dog or a Coke or something?” Frank asked. “There’s a picnic table over here where we can sit.”
“Do they sell beer?” Joe asked.
“Nah, it’s a kid’s ball game. So how do you know Jim?” he asked me as we sat down at the weathered table.
“I’ve lived across the street from Jimmy all my life. I work in his father’s veterinary clinic part-time.”
Frank’s face lit up with recognition. “Say, are you the girl who owns the three-legged dog?”
“Yes, I—”
Frank clapped his hands and burst out laughing. Joe joined in.
“Jim told us all about that dog, right, Joe?”
“Yeah, we called him Tripod, remember?”
“I sure do!”
“Hey, I met that three-legged dog, Frank. He’s real! Jim didn’t make him up after all—although I haven’t seen him save any orphans yet.” They both had a good laugh about Buster before getting serious again, and I caught a glimpse of the close friendship Jimmy and his pals must have shared during the long, harrowing years of the war.
“So you say Jim’s in the VA hospital? What happened?”
“He’s been very depressed ever since he got home,” I replied. “Then, a little over a month ago, he tried to kill himself.”
Frank’s head jerked back in shock. “What! Not Jim! That’s... that’s hard to believe!”
“He won’t tell anyone what’s wrong, so I’m trying to talk to some of his friends from the Army. If we can figure out what happened and when he started getting depressed, I’m hoping we can help him. Joe says he seemed fine the last time he saw him in France, after he was wounded. And we talked with Chaplain Bill, who said Jimmy’s faith in God made him seem fearless.”
“That’s true. Jim was fearless. Not in a reckless way, but he would put the needs of the wounded men ahead of his fears.”
“I’ve read the letters Jimmy sent home to his parents, and he spoke a lot about you and another friend, Mitch O’Hara. I know that the three of you were friends ever since basic training, so I’m hoping you and Mitch can tell me more. I’d like to figure out when Jimmy changed and why.”
“Um, Mitch is gone,” Frank said quietly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Mitch died in Belgium, four months before the war ended.”
“Was Jimmy there? Does he know?”
Frank nodded. “Jim knows. He was there.” I wondered why Jimmy hadn’t said anything in his letters home about losing Mitch. Frank looked away for a moment before turning to us again. “I-I never talk about the war. It’s better for me that way. I’ve never told my parents or my girlfriend or anyone else what we saw and did. Nobody. You understand that, right, Joe?”
“Yeah.”
Frank drew a deep breath. “But if you think it will help Jim, I’ll try to answer your questions.” The occasional pop of fireworks cracked in the distance as we’d talked, but a sudden burst of firecrackers nearby echoed like machine-gun fire, startling both men. Frank ducked as if about to take cover beneath the picnic table before catching himself. Joe, who had been standing, hit the ground, his arms raised to shield his head until the explosions stopped. When he stood again, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes, I feared he would be embarrassed. Instead, he was furious.
“Stupid fools! They ought to know better! We’ve heard enough fireworks to last a lifetime!”
“It bothers me too, Joe.” I could see that both men were shaken.
