The Rockin' Chair (11 page)

Hank was furious. “You never listened to me!” he barked. “All these years, you never respected a single word I've said!”

“Now that's a fool thing to say, Hank, and it just ain't true.”

“Fool thing?” he repeated at a roar. “It's always a
fool thing
!” Hank could feel every major artery swell with blood. “Since I was a kid, you've boasted about how this farm is just as much mine as it is yours … but it's all been a crock!” Evidently, those words didn't include Hank's right to contribute ideas. He could feel his hands tremble—much like they did before a brawl—but he didn't dare raise them. It wasn't from fear so much as respect. Instead, he reached for his pocket, took out a pack of smokes, lit one and gave his notice. “That's it. I'm done,” he said. “I've had my fill.”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Pa asked.

“It means
I quit
 … right here, right now!” he squealed and, as he stormed off, he added, “It don't matter any more. I'm done with this farm … and with you.” Hank was finished searching for an approval that would never come. He was done trying to meet expectations that had always been out of reach. For the first time in his life, he cared less about Pa's praise than his own self-respect.

As he walked off into the distance, he left the old man shaking his head. Halfway back to the house, he turned back. The callous SOB was working away like nothing had just happened—and, to top it off, he was whistling again.
That's definitely it!
Hank decided.
I really am all done!

Hank returned to the house and explained what had just transpired. Ma was a wreck. With Elle's input, she tried convincing Hank that leaving was a grave mistake. “You're both as thickheaded as billy goats, you and your pa,” she whimpered, and went off to the kitchen to weep.

Elle started, “Hank, I think …” but his eyes stopped her.

Teary-eyed, Hank escorted her to the window and pointed out toward the charred horse foundation. “You see that?” he asked, his voice brimming over with raw pain. “For years, that foundation's been left to stand as a punishment for every wrong decision I've ever made. That punishment ends today!” He looked into her eyes and pled, “Please trust me, babe. If we don't leave now, we'll be stuck here forever.”

“But where will we go?” Elle asked.

“The old bunkhouse across the creek bridge. You'll see … in no time we'll fix it up and make it a real nice home.”

Elle kissed his cheek, packed the suitcases with clothes, knicknacks and pictures, and then headed off to the kitchen to comfort Ma.

Within hours, they relocated across the creek bridge to the bunkhouse. Suitcases in hand, Hank and Elle walked past John on the porch. Elle stopped to talk to Alice but Hank kept right on walking. At the creek bridge, Elle caught up with her young husband. Hank stopped and looked back once. John was no longer on the porch. Hank told Elle, “You mark my words, this bridge'll be impossible for Pa to cross.” He shook his head, a fire burning in his pupils. “And I'm never goin' back, either. I swear I ain't!”

Hank still gagged, thinking about the stink that welcomed them. The building had been vacant for years, and it had been even more years since anyone had bothered to clean the place. Hank thought,
I'm sure Pa won't object. He'll be happy to be rid of me,
and gestured for his wife to step in.

For more moons than he could count, Hank was furious. It wasn't like the world owed him a living or anything. It ran much deeper than that. He felt that what was coming to him could only be given by God. But it didn't appear that God was about to spare anything good on a bitter soul. As such, Hank remained alive in purgatory where there was no way for him to right his wrongs.

Hank returned to the present to discover that his memories had completely sobered him, and that his wife was still right there by his side—like she'd always been. They hugged each other tight; it was the first real hug they'd shared in a long while.

A
ll
night, Tara tossed and turned in her sleep. Her pores opened like faucets beneath her grandma's heavy quilts. The months of alcohol abuse were sweating out of her. There was one nightmare after the other waiting to straighten her hair and they all seemed so life-like. Each one took place in New York and most of the monsters had Bryce's grinning face plopped on some disfigured body. Tara bucked and fought to get away, but with the quilts pulled across her legs it was no use. In one of the nightmares, Bryce was three feet from her when she jumped out of her sleep.

“No more!” she screamed and sprang up, covered in sweat and panting like a dog. “Please stop …” It took a few minutes before the smell of burnt firewood soothed her fears. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she caught the sun filtering through streaked windows and realized,
I'm home.
Just before going back for another round with Bryce, she found the tray at the foot of the bed.

There was a pitcher of mountain water, its glass sweating from the ice floating inside. There was some fruit, a sleeve of crackers and a small block of cheese sitting alongside. She nearly cried when she saw the gift. It was a wild flower, one of the winter flowers Grampa John used to pick for Grandma. No one ever knew where he found them in all the snow but he always did. This time it had been plucked to make her smile. “Sweet Grampa John,” she whispered, and smiled.

Feeling a pair of eyes upon her, she turned to find Grampa John's giant silhouette standing in the doorway. He looked like the perfect picture of sainthood with the way the morning light framed him from head to toe.

“It ain't time to get up yet. Go back to sleep,” he ordered with kindness.

As she closed her eyes, she could feel his sandpaper hands tuck the quilts up under her chin. She smiled right up until Bryce began chasing her around the Polo Club.

Evan awoke to hear Tara screaming in her sleep. He jumped up to find Grampa John waiting for him at the foot of the bed. The old-timer was already dressed and had probably been working for hours. “Shhh,” he said. “It's her fight,” and then threw Evan's pants at him. “You're as lazy as the sun, boy,” he teased and disappeared from the room. Evan wiped his eyes and yawned. “It looks like I missed my first deadline in Montana,” he mumbled.

Grampa John was fiddling around in the old pigeon coop where the chickens now resided when Evan swallowed his last bite of buttered toast. Again, the old man said nothing and waited. Evan couldn't hold out for long. Their talk continued.

“Grampa John, I think the worst thing Carley did was take away my faith.”

For the first time since the cemetery, Grampa John snapped back around—angrily. “Ain't possible, Evan! A man gives up his faith. Ain't no one can take it away.”

Evan felt shame and bowed his head but Grampa John wouldn't have any of it. With a thick finger, he lifted Evan's chin and revealed the plain white egg he'd stolen from beneath a brooding hen. Pointing at his hand, he said, “Let's suppose this is the hand of God.” He then pointed at the egg. “And this is your life.” Without another word, he pulled his hand away. The egg fell to the ground and splattered. The yellow and white contents spilled slowly into the old floor boards. Evan looked down at the broken shells that stuck to his boots and watched as Three Speed wandered over and began lapping up the sticky remains of his life. The sight gave him chills.
Grampa John's right again
, he thought.
Life really is that fragile.

In silence, Evan followed Grampa John to the big barn where the lessons continued. For a while, the old man looked around the barn for something in particular. Kicking up some hay, he finally bent and picked up an old, heavy-glassed milk bottle. Taking a seat on his milk can, he sighed. “When times are tough … when you need it most, faith is the toughest thing to hold on to. The funny thing is if you lose it, then you ain't got nothin'.” Holding the bottle up to a single ray of light that streamed through a spiderweb in the dusty window, he turned it ever so slightly until the light divided into a stack of primary colors—until a rainbow poured out of the thick bottom. “Just 'cause you can't see it with your eyes, don't mean the rainbow ain't always there. It's the same with faith, Evan. It's always there. You just gotta believe. I promise ya, it ain't any harder than that.”

Evan remembered the rainbow he'd recently witnessed at the beach and believed. The old man turned the bottle back and the colors instantly disappeared. He stood and returned to his chores. Evan chuckled in delight.
It's true
, he thought.
There are rainbows hidden everywhere
. From then on, one single ray of light would shine as a reminder.
No one can ever take away my faith
.

They worked away the morning, feeding the animals and cleaning up after them once the new food had pushed out the old. Evan spent the time thinking about the invaluable lessons his grandfather had bestowed upon him. The simple wisdom was worth more than anything he'd ever learned in college. Ironically, Grampa John was the smartest man he'd ever known. The man's rudimentary vocabulary was merely a disguise.

They'd just finished a late lunch and were back in the barn when Evan reached for a bucket behind one of the cows. With a grunt, the black-and-white bucked and sent him reeling. Landing in a pile of hay and manure, he looked up dazed—only to find Grampa John holding his side in laughter. The old man was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. “Try not to wet yourself,” Evan joked. In spite of the God-awful stench, the humor was contagious. Evan burst into laughter. With the way Grampa John was snorting and carrying on, he couldn't help it.

Once he found enough air to speak, Grampa John said, “I recall the nights these animals used to squeal on you and your brother. You boys got a real charge out of throwin' a shoulder into these old girls and tippin' 'em ass over teakettles.”

Evan chuckled. “There were never any stool pigeons … at least not in the big barn,” he joked. “But you always had eyes behind your head. Even when you napped in your rockin' chair, you never missed a thing.”

Emerging from a fit of laughter, the old man managed, “I'm tellin' ya, Evan. You can't rightly help what others do to ya. You just gotta accept some things as they are and move on. God might nap now and again but He don't sleep for too long. It all comes around, my boy.” The pig-like snorts continued.

Some time elapsed before the laughs died down. Expecting an afternoon of blissful silence, out of nowhere Grampa John dropped the hammer. “I couldn't ever figure why young folks go off into the world to find themselves. It seems to me that they don't get lost 'til they're out there.”

Evan nodded but this time he was the one who held his tongue.

The master went on. “I reckon I got a pretty good picture of the course you traveled and I can't say I envy ya. But if your grandma was around today, she'd be pretty steamed at you right now.”

Evan shrugged. The old man maintained his stare. Whether he wanted to hear it or not, Evan asked, “Why?”

On cue, Grampa John explained, “Seems to me that you and your grandma lost your memories right around the same time.” Taking a seat, he sighed. “Evan, you came from folks who was dirt poor and not so schooled. Ever since you was young, you dreamt of runnin' from all of it. First chance you got, you did. And that's okay. But you forgot where you came from, boy. You forgot who you were and those that loved ya deep. I reckon just on principle that's what's caused a good heap of the pain in that big heart of yours.” The stare remained but he added a grin. “You see, even though you felt lonely … you was never alone.”

Evan blushed with embarrassment, thinking,
Grampa John's brutally right
. He'd done his best to bury his roots in Carley's family tree. It didn't work, though. McCarthy roots didn't just run over the surface; they ran deep—all the way back to a wise farmer in Montana.

The old man placed his arm around him. “It's downright wasteful worryin' over things that's already happened, though, so don't go cowerin' on me now.” He pointed to his head. “We can only store it away and pull it out later if we need it.” Standing, he added, “Just don't waste too much of the storage on the sorrowful things. When you get to my stretch of the road, you're gonna wanna recall the things that made you laugh. Every day that goes by, I learn everything else don't add up to a pile of beans.”

Almost as if he knew the time had come, Grampa John turned to find Hank standing in the barn's doorway. Drunk or sober—John was still unsure—his son's aggressive posture announced that he had come to fight. “Evan, why don't you leave me and your pa alone for a spell. Seems we need to discuss a few things.”

Evan nodded and started to leave. As he passed his father, Hank hissed, “You forget where your real home is, boy?”

“Sorry, Pa. I was just …”

“Don't go blamin' none of this on the boy,” Grampa John called out. “I insisted that he stay on.” The old man studied Hank and nodded. “Besides, we both know you ain't here about Evan.”

Evan hurried out the door.

Hank stepped into the barn like he was jumping into a boxing ring. “Now you're gonna try to take my kids from me, too?” he barked at his father.

“What? How much you been drinkin'?” Grampa John asked.

“There ain't enough booze in this world to ease the pain you've caused,” Hank yelled. “Trust me, I've tried.”

“I'm tryin' to help the kids, Hank, not hurt you. What on God's green earth would ever make you think that I'd wanna hurt you?”

Without hesitation, Hank spun on his heels and pointed at the blackened foundation of the old horse barn. “All the proof I'll ever need is right there … right smack in front of both of us … and it has been for years,” Hank yelled, recounting that unspeakable night all those years ago.

Hank was nearly twelve years old. As soon as he spotted his friend George sneaking onto the farm, he knew there'd be trouble. George easily made it past the security—Pa—and headed straight to the barn. Hank rushed in after him. “What are you doin'?” was cut off by George's face. Hank couldn't get over how big his eyes were.

George placed his fingers to his lips and whispered, “I got somethin',” and then grabbed him by the shirt, leading him up the ladder to the hay loft. Excited like he'd just discovered some hidden treasure, he finally revealed his stash. It was a crumpled pack of Pall Mall cigarettes. Hank wasn't even done shaking his head when George had one lit. “It's time to become men,” he coughed and passed the butt over.

Hank spent years trying to figure why he took it. He didn't want to. Yet, with the taste of wood stove ash on his tongue and a fire burning all the way to his lungs, he joined his friend in some ridiculous rite of passage into manhood. Three puffs later, he spied the very large and distinct shadow of his pa approaching. “Oh, no!” he whispered and panicked.

He flicked the cigarette into the air and scurried to the back of the loft with George in tow. Pa walked in, quickly looked around, and then left—scratching his head. The old man wasn't ten feet from the barn when Hank saw the smoke. “The hayloft's on fire,” he squealed. His heart beat out of his chest. He and George leaped to their feet and tried desperately to stomp out the growing sparks. But as if someone had dumped a can of gasoline over the hay, the tiny flames lifted straight to the ceiling and began gnawing away. Within seconds, the blaze engulfed the second story of the barn. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion from then on. The horses were screaming the most horrible shrills. The smoke became so thick it was impossible to see and even harder to breathe. Missing most of the rungs down the ladder, he and his accomplice somehow found their way out of the barn. As if his legs were anchored to the ground by invisible chains, Hank remembered freezing for a split second. It was just long enough to watch George running for home.

When Hank's legs finally permitted him to run to the well, he was met by Pa's snarling face. The look in the old man's eyes reached far beyond anything he'd ever seen. Years later he would define it as a combination of hatred and disgust.

No matter how hard they tried, the water from the well never could have saved those poor horses. Hank worked feverishly, running back and forth with buckets, while Ma shrieked at least twice. Pa remained silent. Neighbors eventually arrived, but by that time the horses were dead and the barn nearly buckled to its foundation. When there was nothing more to do but mourn, Hank drummed up the courage to approach the old man. It didn't matter. Pa was so sick with hate that he couldn't even hold his gaze. Hank said, “I'm so sorry, Pa. George had a cigarette and …” The old man turned and walked away, leaving him to think,
Pa's fed up and has finally had enough.

Hank could see it as plain as day. The barn incident was the last straw. There was nothing more that needed saying. The bitter tears that pelted Hank's cheeks that night would be the last his childhood would ever see. For the sake of self-preservation, it was time to change his mind-set.
No more cryin'
, he vowed.

In Hank's mind, that charred foundation had been left standing for years as some sort of bizarre monument to a childhood of wrong decisions.

Hank finished explaining the years of pain that this one mistake had cost him. Shaking his head, he pointed back toward the blackened foundation and screamed, “All these years, you let that foundation stand as a reminder of everything I ever done wrong … to let me know of the screw-up you think I am …” He wanted to go on but couldn't. Before he broke down, he turned and stormed off his father's land—again.

“That just ain't true, Hank,” the old man yelled after him. “That ain't true at all!”