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Jimmy closed his eyes, and he seemed to shrink back inside himself until it was as if he no longer heard us or was aware that we were even there. Buster had once found a land tortoise in our backyard, and when it retreated inside its shell, pulling its legs and head inside, it seemed impervious to Buster’s frantic barking and growling. I had lifted the tortoise with a shovel and carried it back into the weeds, afraid that Buster’s poking paws and nose would cause the tortoise to lash out and bite him. Now I sensed we all felt wary of Jimmy’s bite if we poked him again.
“I’m sorry,” Frank told us later as we walked back to the parking lot. Jimmy’s parents had arrived and we went outside so they could be alone with him. “I shouldn’t have brought up the war. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
I had been thinking that Jimmy’s reaction had been my fault and that my plan to contact more of Jimmy’s Army friends was a terrible one. But then Chaplain Bill spoke. “No, what you said was good, Frank, and exactly right. And Jim must have heard it because it provoked a reaction. Jim’s parents told me that he barely spoke to anyone after he came home. The doctors can’t get him to talk, either. But now we know that he’s listening and he’s aware of what’s going on around him. And that he remembers things. None of us mentioned Mitch O’Hara’s name, did we?”
We looked at each other and agreed that we hadn’t. Jimmy had conjured up Mitch’s name from the recesses of his memory in spite of all the attempts to erase it with insulin comas and electric shocks. And Jimmy still grieved for his friend. It made me even more determined to find out who Gisela was and what she meant to him.
Bill smoothed back his thinning hair, ruffled by a breeze from the river. “I think you’re on the right track with what you’re doing, Miss Serrano. Jim needs to face the memories that are causing him so much pain. If he hears from friends like Joe who were wounded, and finds out that they’re okay now, maybe he can let go of the load he’s been carrying. As for the friends like Mitch who are gone, I think Jim’s angry with God for taking them.”
I thought of how I had laid daisies on Mama’s grave this morning and said, “Maybe we could do something with Jimmy to honor Mitch and the others. A ceremony or celebration of some kind.”
“That’s a great idea,” Bill said. “Do any of you remember where Mitch was from and what work he did before the war?”
“I think he was from here in New York State, like Jim,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” Frank said. “He and Jim were college roommates. They enlisted together.”
“Good, good,” Bill said. “I’ll find out his address and talk to Mitch’s parents about having a little memorial service for him. Maybe we can take up a collection for a scholarship in his name or help his family in some way if they need it. I’ll look into it. But we should honor him and his life and make sure Jim has a part in it.”
As Joe and Frank were saying goodbye, Chaplain Bill pulled me aside. “Before you go, Miss Serrano, I have something for you in my car.”
“Please, call me Peggy.”
He unlocked his car and handed me a file folder. “I’ve been working on a letter to send to Jim’s fellow soldiers. My wife typed it up for me and I borrowed the church’s mimeograph machine to make copies. I hope it’s all right.” I read Bill’s letter and thought it was perfect:
Dear fellow soldiers,
I think you will be as shocked as I was to learn that our friend and brother-in-arms Corporal Jim Barnett is in the VA hospital, suffering from battle fatigue and depression. I’m writing to ask you to please send him a word of greeting and encouragement. Tell him how you’re doing, especially if you were wounded and he took care of you. Remind him of some of the good memories you shared with him.
If you have a picture of yourself and maybe one of your family, please send that, too. We need to remind him of the lives he saved and the good work that he did. He needs to know that his work during the war wasn’t in vain.
Peggy Serrano, a longtime friend from Jim’s hometown, is coordinating this project with Jim’s mother, and they will put all of your letters and photographs into an album to share with him. Please send your letters and pictures to Jim’s home address, below.
With my sincere thanks,
Chaplain Bill Ashburn
Bill also handed me a paper bag. “Here are some envelopes and stamps. And this is the list of addresses that I have so far. I’ll send more when I get them.”
I thanked him for his help and climbed onto Joe’s motorcycle for the ride home.
Joe left again after bringing me home that afternoon and didn’t return. Early Monday morning before Donna was out of bed, I went down to Pop’s office to type addresses onto the envelopes Bill had given me. I would mail the first batch today and wait for more addresses to come. I tensed when I heard footsteps outside the office. I would have to gather everything up quickly if it was Donna. This was her office now. But when the door opened, it was Pop. He stared as if surprised to see me.
“I hope it’s okay to use your typewriter,” I said. “I’ll scram if Donna wants to work.”
He picked up the stack of envelopes and ruffled the edges with his fingers. “What’s all this? What are you doing?”
“I’m contacting some of Jimmy Barnett’s Army buddies and asking them to write letters to him.”
Pop set down the envelopes and gestured to the cluttered desk. “So all this has nothing to do with getting a job?” I struggled not to let him see how much his question hurt. Pop had let me go my own way all these years with barely a word of advice or encouragement, and now he made me feel like a stray dog that he wanted to be rid of. I swallowed my sorrow and shook my head, waiting for him to speak again. “Donna says she hasn’t seen you make any effort at all to find a job.”
“I already have a job. In the clinic across the street.”
“Part-time, though.”
“Yes, part-time.”
He looked at the floor, shuffling his feet. “Donna told me about a Help Wanted sign in the grocery store in New Paltz. I told her I thought you could do better.”
