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“What did you do before the war, Joe?” I was staring out at the weeds and junked cars when I asked the question, but Joe took so long to reply that I turned to him in alarm. “Did I ask the wrong thing? I’m sorry. It’s none of my business—”
“No, that’s okay,” he said quietly. Buster was leaning against Joe with his head in Joe’s lap. I waited, and when Joe finally replied, he spoke so softly I barely heard him. “I was a firefighter.”
Afirefighter. It took a moment for me to digest what losing his leg had meant to Joe. No wonder he hadn’t resumed his job. No wonder he was wandering aimlessly. He had every right in the world to be angry. “Oh, Joe. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all I ever wanted to be, you know?” He twisted the empty bottle in his hands and I wondered if he was going to hurl it as hard and as far as he could. “I was eight years old the first time I visited the fire station. I had an uncle who was a firefighter. He let me stand on the ladder truck for a second, and I knew that’s what I wanted to be. Hey, I know a lot of kids say that, but I really meant it. I signed on right after high school and served for nearly four years until I enlisted.”
I waited a moment, then asked, “What did you love about it, Joe?” I hoped it would help if he talked about it, yet I didn’t want to hurt him.
“The adrenaline rush, of course,” he said with a crooked grin. “The challenge of it. You never know what to expect. Each fire is different, no two are the same, and you never know what you’ll find when you get there. You learn as you go, until you finally get an instinct for what the fire is going to do and how to beat it.”
I struggled to say something comforting or to suggest a similar line of work and offer him hope, but I couldn’t think of a single job that would be the same.
“It was like being in the Army in a lot of ways, you know?” he continued. “The other men become your brothers, your family. You eat together, sleep, cook, and shoot the breeze, share the same quarters for a twelve-hour shift. You get to know them like you know yourself. You have to so you’ll be ready to work together and fight fires. You get so you trust these guys with your life, and they’re trusting you with theirs. You’d risk your life for any of them.”
He paused, still twisting the bottle. I waited the way Jimmy used to do when he listened to me, not wanting to intrude on Joe’s thoughts with worthless words. “I went from working at the fire station, straight into basic training, and bonded with the guys in my company, you know? Jim and Mitch and Frank and Dave.” He gave a little laugh. “All the way across the Atlantic on a troop transport, jammed into bunks... Then the day came when we landed in France. It was a shock, let me tell you, when the bullets started flying and you realize that someone is trying to kill you. As a firefighter, you always know that a fire flare or a collapsing building could kill you, too. But it’s the brotherhood that gives you the courage to keep going, you know? You don’t want to let them down.”
“And you’ve lost all of that,” I murmured. “The brotherhood of soldiers and firefighters.”
“Yeah.”
I could see that he wanted more beer but his was empty—as empty as his life must seem after the war. He had nothing to return home to. I wondered if he’d found a sense of purpose for a time by working with me and Chaplain Bill and the others to help Jimmy. Still, it must be hard to remember the camaraderie they’d shared and hear their advice about moving forward into the future. I remembered how upset Joe had become when I had talked to Jimmy about returning to the clinic and working as a veterinarian. Joe got drunk to erase the past that had taken away his future. No wonder he had nightmares of the moment he’d lost his leg. It was the moment he had lost himself.
“I’m so sorry, Joe,” I said again.
“When you’re good at something, and you enjoy it—like you with that horse the other day—you ought to be allowed to do it.” He pulled himself to his feet and sighed. “Guess I’ll get cleaned up and take off this evening.” He was going to go out drinking, and it was my fault for stirring his memories and his sorrow.
I stood as well. “May I come with you tonight? You offered to take me once before and—”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“That’s not why—”
“Yes, it is. Another time, maybe.” He walked back to the garage. An hour later I heard his motorcycle roar away. I shuddered to think that he would try to re-create the adrenaline rush of fighting fires by driving too fast on our curving mountain roads.
On Sunday, I rode to the veterans’ hospital with Mr. and Mrs. Barnett, but instead of visiting Jimmy, we checked him out of the hospital for Mitch O’Hara’s memorial service. Mr. Barnett had phoned ahead and told them to make sure Jimmy was dressed and ready to go. Jimmy seemed confused as we led him through the corridors and out the front door. He halted in the parking lot and looked around at the river and distant mountains as if he’d never seen them before. I heard him draw a deep breath. The air smelled of newly mown grass.
“I know this might be hard for you, Jim,” Mr. Barnett said as we drove. “But we’re taking you to a memorial service for your friend Mitch O’Hara.” Jimmy was riding in the front seat beside his father, so I couldn’t see his face when he learned where we were going. His father waited a moment before continuing. “It’s being held in his hometown, and Mitch’s family will be there. You went home with Mitch a couple of times when you were roommates at Cornell, remember?” Again, he left space for Jimmy to comment, but he didn’t. “Mitch is buried in Belgium, in the Ardennes American Cemetery. I’m told that many of the soldiers and airmen who are buried there also died in the Battle of the Bulge, like he did. Your company chaplain, Reverend Ashburn, made all of the arrangements for the service.”
“And your friends Joe Fiore and Frank Cishek are meeting us there, too,” I added, “along with some of your other Army buddies.”
We all stood outside on the ferry deck as we crossed the Hudson, the summer sun warm on our backs, a fish-scented breeze ruffling our hair. It would take a little over three hours to get to Mitch’s small hometown outside of Binghamton. Mr. Barnett offered Jimmy a road map and asked if he wanted to help navigate, but he shook his head. The mountain air was cool and we rolled down the car windows and inhaled the aroma of pine as we drove through the Catskill Mountains. I could never get enough of those glorious mountains.
Mr. Barnett talked about his work at the clinic to help pass the time and shared how I had delivered Persephone’s foal. “She did a great job, Jim. I was proud of her.” I had brought along the photo album and a few of the latest letters from Jimmy’s friends, and I read parts of them aloud to him. We talked about all manner of things as if Jimmy was part of the conversation, but he barely spoke a word. I missed the sound of his voice and his warm laughter. I bet his parents did, too.
Mitch’s family and boyhood friends filled the churchyard. Joe was chatting with a bunch of Army buddies when we arrived, and they came over to greet Jimmy with handshakes and good-natured thumps on his back. Some of them had driven a long way to come, and I was especially surprised to see Dr. Greenberg there from New Jersey. I was overjoyed when Jimmy began talking with them. It was exactly what I’d hoped for. I had brought my camera and extra rolls of film, so I snapped a lot of pictures of their reunion.
We went inside when the service began, sang a hymn that had been one of Mitch’s favorites. Chaplain Bill prayed. Several of the men, including Joe and Frank Cishek, gave eulogies and shared their memories of Mitch. I wished I could have watched Jimmy’s reaction, but he was sitting farther down the pew from me, and I didn’t want to lean forward to stare at him. Chaplain Bill spoke last, talking about Mitch and explaining to Mitch’s family how his Army friends had taken up a collection to fund a college scholarship in his name at his high school. I wondered if that was why Joe had been hanging around, working for Pop.
Chaplain Bill prayed again, then told us he wanted to say a few final words. “I know we’re all asking why Mitch O’Hara had to die. The simple answer—as a very wise friend of Mitch’s used to remind me—is that all of Mitch’s days were written in God’s book before one of them came to be. We can’t understand it now, but one day we’ll understand God’s reasons, and we’ll be amazed and comforted. In the meantime, I want to remind us all that death isn’t the end. This life on earth isn’t all that there is. We’ve been promised eternal life, resurrection life. We experience sorrow in parting for now, but the Bible says that one day the earth will be made new. This planet that we were created to inhabit will be a place without tears and without wars. We’ll exchange these broken bodies for brand-new ones, bodies that we’ll inhabit forever, bodies that will never grow old or die. People often ask me what I think this renewed earth will be like, and I tell them to imagine the very best moments they’ve experienced in this life, laughing with friends and loved ones like Mitch, enjoying the beauty of creation, eating the richest food. Moments like those will be ours for eternity. We’ll walk with God as Adam and Eve once did and be united with our Savior forever.” He paused to wipe his eyes, unashamed. “Until that day, yes, we mourn for Mitch. We miss him. But for now, we must go on our way, living all the days that God has numbered for us in His book. We must live in faith and hope, trusting the goodness of our heavenly Father’s plan.”
Chaplain Bill’s words stirred me. As we all made our way to the fellowship hall, where the church ladies had prepared a light meal, I wished I knew what plans God had written in His book for me.
We ate ham buns and strawberry Jell-O and homemade chocolate cake. Then it was time to head home. I wished Jimmy didn’t have to return to the hospital. Joe lingered to talk to his friends as if drawing life from them, but just as we were getting ready to leave, he pulled Mr. Barnett aside. They talked for a few minutes, and I saw them glance over at me. Or maybe they were looking at Jimmy, standing nearby with his mother, her arm linked through his. I wondered if Joe was telling him about his own experiences at the veterans’ hospital.
Mr. Barnett surprised me when he asked Jimmy to sit in the back seat with his mother on the way home and asked me to sit up front with him. The afternoon sun was behind us but it wouldn’t set until late on these long, summer days. Tomorrow was Monday. I couldn’t put off applying for the job at the pharmacy any longer. I needed to ask Mr. Barnett if I could give his name as a reference. I had to tell him that if I got the job, I could no longer work for him. I was gathering up my courage to do that when he said, “So, Peggy. Your friend Joe tells me you’re looking for a job. I was wondering if you would you like to work for me full-time.” I looked over at Mr. Barnett in surprise, my mouth hanging open. I didn’t want to burst into tears but I couldn’t help it. He chuckled in his gentle way and patted my knee. “I’ll take that as a yes. I would have asked you to work full-time for me ages ago, but I knew you also managed your father’s office and I didn’t want to steal you away from him.”
“I don’t work for Pop anymore,” I said, wiping my eyes. “His girlfriend, Donna, quit her job at the Crow Bar, and she’s doing his books now.”
