Long Way Home(12)

“Well, it’s kind of funny. Some of us had lost an arm or a leg, you know? And that was a pretty big thing. Hard to get used to, right? Felt like our life was over and done with. Jim said there was this dog back home that had gotten run over by a car, and his dad, who was a veterinarian, didn’t think it would live. But he did the surgery anyway, and now that dog was leading a happy life just like any other dog, except with only three legs.” I was very surprised when Buster finally sniffed Joe’s hand, then let him scratch behind his ears. “Jim said the pretty, young gal who owned that dog loved him just the same as before, when he had four legs. The story gave us all hope, you know?”

His words startled me. Had Jimmy really called me pretty?

“We laughed and made a lot of jokes about it. Someone said the dog’s name should be ‘Tripod,’ so we all started calling him that. Jim would tell stories about all the crazy things that dog could do—save damsels in distress, catch bank robbers, save drowning kids—like he was Lassie. Jim even had the three-legged dog saving the world from Hitler. Made us laugh, hey? And now I get to meet the real Tripod in person.”

I watched in amazement as Buster cozied up to this stranger as if he were an old friend. “You should be honored, Joe. Buster usually doesn’t make friends with strangers so quickly.”

“We understand each other, don’t we, boy? See? My leg is gone, too.” Joe lifted his pant leg and let Buster sniff his prosthetic leg. I’d seen prosthetic limbs on soldiers before, but the sight of one on this young, gregarious man shocked me.

“I’m so sorry, Joe. I had no idea.”

“Hey! We should take Tripod with us when we visit Jim. I think he’d get a kick out of seeing him.”

It was a great idea. I started imagining ways I could sneak Buster onto the hospital grounds on visiting day. I would need help, though. I hadn’t even been able to sneak in a little Bible.

“Hey, how about that beer you promised?” Joe said.

“Oh, sorry.” I led him around to our backyard, which grew smaller every year because of all the junk cars Pop parked there for spare parts. “Come on, we live upstairs.”

Joe halted when he saw the steep wooden steps leading up to our apartment. How could I have forgotten about his leg so quickly? I was about to apologize when he said, “How about if I wait here and you bring it down. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all. Have a seat.” I gestured to the rickety wooden chair I had dragged outside to escape from Donna’s cigarettes. I hurried up the steps and went straight to the refrigerator for the beer. I was about to race downstairs again when I remembered the photograph of Gisela and fetched it from my bedroom.

“Ah! That’s what I’m talking about!” Joe said when I handed him the beer. I noticed a tremor in his hand as he reached for it, just like the one Jimmy had. I watched him guzzle the beer, wondering if he always drank beer so early on a weekday afternoon.

“Joe, how long ago was it that Jimmy was joking around about Buster? How close to the end of the war?” In Joe’s story, Jimmy had sounded so much like the man I once knew, trying to cheer everybody up and encourage them. It would help me to know how long ago he’d begun to change.

“Well, let’s see . . . I was wounded over in France, trying to take back one of those little towns—Saint Something or Other—from the Jerries. One minute we were on the move and the next thing I knew, kaboom! The whole world exploded. When I came to, I was ten feet from where I’d been walking, and there was a giant hole in the street. I was covered with so much dirt and dust I had to spit it from my mouth and wipe it out of my eyes. All my buddies had disappeared. I yelled for them but I couldn’t even hear myself yelling because my hearing was gone. I tried to sit up and the first thing I saw was that my leg had been blown off. You can’t imagine what it’s like to see part of yourself laying there, no longer attached to the rest of you. I had the crazy thought that I could just reach down and stick my leg back on.” His hand trembled harder now, and when he lifted the bottle to his mouth to drain it, he spilled beer on himself.

I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea if it helped Joe to talk about his experiences or made them worse. He didn’t give me time to decide. “Then the pain kicked in,” he said. “But our man Jim showed up right about then and wrapped a tourniquet around what was left of my leg and gave me a shot of morphine. I was never so happy to see a living person in my life. Bullets and bombs were still flying everywhere, and here’s Jim, crawling around through all the rubble and bricks saving people . . . Hey, you got another one of these?” he asked, lifting the empty beer bottle.

“Sure. I’ll go get it.” I took my time climbing the stairs, shaken by his story. I felt like we both needed time to recover. I gave him the second beer and watched him take a few swallows. “Can I show you something?” I asked after Joe paused and smacked his lips. I handed him the picture of Gisela. “Do you know who this woman is? The name Gisela is written on the back.”

“Hey, she’s a real looker!”

“We found the picture in Jimmy’s rucksack. I was hoping you might know who she is. It looks like she’s wearing a nurse’s cap, so I wondered if she might be one of the Army nurses.”

“Sorry. I don’t remember her.” He handed back the picture.