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21
Peggy
AUGUST 1946
I wasn’t surprised when Joe went out drinking on Saturday night after we returned home from visiting Art Davis. Dredging up memories of the war was always hard on him, yet I also knew that Art’s words had touched him. Everything Joe and I had done for these past few weeks had been to help Jimmy, and now I longed to help Joe put his life back together, too. I knew nothing about his life in Ohio, only that he’d worked as a firefighter. I needed to learn more.
After Pop and Donna left the apartment to join Joe at a bar in Newburgh, I decided to sneak downstairs to the office and search through Joe’s saddlebags to see what I could find. Maybe there would be a home address and I could write to Joe’s family and tell them where he was and how he’d been helping me. I let myself into Pop’s office, where I’d worked for so many years. Buster halted at the door and wouldn’t come inside, as if afraid that Donna would jump out and yell at him. It was Donna’s office now and stank of her cigarettes and the unpleasant air freshener she used to try to cover up the smell. I looked around and could see that she had reorganized the office. I told myself I didn’t care.
Joe’s bags lay open on the floor. His things were already in disarray, so even with a little rummaging, he probably wouldn’t notice that I had riffled through them. Close to the top of his pack, I found something that surprised me—a packet of letters written by someone named Barbara Symanski. The mailing addresses and the dates on the postmarks told me that she’d sent the letters to Joe during the war. I remembered him mentioning a girlfriend who had traveled to Washington, DC, to visit him in the VA hospital. I couldn’t recall anything else except that they had broken up because of his drinking. The fact that Joe still kept her letters and even carried them on his travels told me that he still cared for her. I wondered if Barbara Symanski still loved him. I would be crossing a line if I read the letters, but I copied down her return address, determined to contact Barbara and find out more.
I woke up later that night when Joe had one of his nightmares. Buster and I hurried downstairs to wake him. We talked for a while until Joe stopped trembling, but I lacked the courage to ask him about Barbara. The stars were fading in the east when I finally returned upstairs to sleep for a few more hours before church.
I didn’t have to think of clever small talk when I saw Paul Dixon after the Sunday service. He was still gushing praise and thanking me for helping Persephone. “I hope you’ll come out and see her new little filly. She’s a real beauty. It was a shame that you and your boyfriend needed to hurry off again after all your hard work.”
My boyfriend? It took me a moment to remember that I had ridden out to the farm on Joe’s motorcycle. “Oh, you mean Joe? No, Joe isn’t my boyfriend. I-I just needed a ride because Donna, my stepmother—well, Donna isn’t really my stepmother—but she took my car and...” I stopped. I was babbling, still weary from being awake half the night. “Thank you. I would love to see Persephone’s filly. What’s her name?”
“Her owner named her Tyche after the Greek goddess of fortune. Her sire is named Best Chance and of course Persephone is a Greek goddess, too. It’s clever, don’t you think?” I nodded, afraid to open my mouth and babble nonsense again. “Tyche is as shy as her mother, so I may need your help with her, Peggy. You seem to speak their language.”
“That’s because I’m shy myself.”
“Not with me, I hope.”
“No.” I dared to meet his gaze and noticed for the first time that his eyes were as blue as the summer sky. Things got awkward after that, so I promised to visit Persephone and Tyche and wished Paul a good day. When I returned home, Joe’s motorcycle was gone. I went into Pop’s office to see if his saddlebags were there, but they were gone, too. He’d left a note for me on the daybed.
I don’t think I can go to the VA with you today, Peggy. Sorry for not saying goodbye, but I need to take off. I always wanted to see Niagara Falls. Maybe I’ll stop back in a week or so. Thanks for everything.
Joe
I rode to the VA hospital with Jimmy’s parents after lunch and told them about my trip to Vermont to see Art Davis. “From what I can gather, the change in Jimmy came between the winter of 1944 when Mitch O’Hara died, and the spring of 1945 when his Army unit liberated Buchenwald,” I said. “Art Davis didn’t remember Jimmy ever praying or talking about his faith in the concentration camp. And it seems to me that he would need to call on God more than ever and pray for those suffering people in order to work in a place like that. It’s almost like he got so overwhelmed or so mad at God that he stopped talking to Him.”
“You’re a very wise young lady, Peggy,” Mr. Barnett said. “I think you may be close to figuring out this mystery.”
“I’ve always loved your tender, compassionate heart,” Mrs. Barnett added. We were standing on the ferry deck as we crossed the river with the bright summer sun shining down on us. She linked her arm through mine and leaned against me. “I’ve seen your kind heart in the way that you care for the animals at the clinic but most of all in the way that you’ve been working so hard to help our son.”
“That’s what’s missing in the treatment he’s getting across the river,” Mr.B. said. “Compassion.”
“I know you haven’t had an easy life,” Mrs. Barnett continued. “You lost your mother at such a young age. But I’ve watched you grow in faith over the years and I’ve seen how you’ve allowed God to use your suffering to become a loving person. You’ve always been like a daughter to me.”
Her words felt like a blessing and they made me want to bawl my eyes out. I didn’t know what to say in return, so I hugged her tightly. Did she really think of me as her daughter? I had longed to have Mrs. Barnett for a mother ever since the day she gave me the bubble bath, but whenever I spent time with her, I would hear Pop’s voice in my mind, telling me not to be a pest. I rode the rest of the way to the hospital savoring her words and the warmth of her hug.
We found Jim slumped in a chair in the common room, and he seemed wearier than usual. I wondered if his nightmares were still keeping him from sleeping well. Joe was always afraid to go back to sleep after an especially bad nightmare. More letters from Jimmy’s Army buddies had arrived in the mail, so I showed him the photographs they’d sent and I read parts of their letters out loud. His mother sat beside him and talked about home as they looked at the album I’d made.
“You have so many friends, Jimmy, and we all miss you so much,” she said. “We hope you’ll be able to come home with us soon.”
We were encouraged when he actually talked to us a little bit, speaking in simple sentences, even though his voice was a dull monotone not at all like his own. The visit seemed to be going well until I took out Jimmy’s Bible and tried to read one of his underlined verses out loud. “Stop!” he said. He grabbed the book from my hands, closing it. His reaction shook me.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry.” I bent to pick up the braided straw bookmark, which had fluttered to the floor. Mr. Barnett suggested we all go outside and walk around the grounds, but I knew I had ruined the day. I tried to apologize to his parents on the ride home.
“No, I’m glad it happened,” Mr. Barnett said. “It shows that you were right, the root of Jim’s problem might be a crisis of faith.”
“But if Jimmy has lost his faith, what can we do about it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe Jim’s chaplain friend can help us out.”
I wanted to leave the sadness of the VA hospital behind me as we recrossed the river, but I couldn’t help carrying some of it with me to the other side.
We made a long-distance call to Chaplain Bill when we returned home and asked him to please find an address for Major Mike Cleveland, the man Art Davis had told us about. I quickly told Bill how Jimmy had reacted when I’d tried to read the Bible, and he promised to help us figure out what that meant. “I’ll try to get over for a visit one of these Sundays,” he promised. There was nothing more we could do except wait.
