The Rockin' Chair (18 page)

It was almost ten o'clock before they came up for air. Exhausted and covered in sweat, Elle discovered that they had completely turned the blocks of ice back into windows. Giggling, she climbed over the front seat and tried to fix her hair in the rear-view mirror. It was no use. She laughed at her appearance. Hank struggled to climb out of the back seat and cursed under his breath. Elle looked back at him and teased, “You still have enough energy to be angry?”

He chuckled. “I guess I'm gettin' too old for this.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she said.

He finally unfolded his body and stepped out. He slammed the back door, opened the driver's side door and quickly jumped back into the car. “Don't be sorry about nothin',” he replied with a kiss on her mouth. “If it took me a week to get out of there, it would've still been worth it.”

She grabbed his face. It had been so long since he'd expressed his love for her so purely. “I love you,” she told him.

“And I love you, darlin'.” He pulled her into an embrace that said all that was left to be said. In time, he whispered in her ear. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted.

“How 'bout Almac's Diner?”

She jerked back and looked up at him. “Are you crazy? Just look at me. I can't be seen in public like this!”

He shrugged. “We could go home, get cleaned up and then head back out. It's not like we gotta be home by any certain time.” A grin overtook his face. “We can get somethin' to eat and then go back to the house to finish up what you started here.”

“Well, we do need to end this date
proper
, right?” she teased.

Nodding and grinning—all at the same time—he fired up the clunker and barreled out of the abandoned drive-in, while she laughed at his urgency.

On the way home, Hank turned to her. “Kiddin' aside, Elle,” he whispered, “that was real nice back there.”

Elle grabbed his arm. “Sure was,” she agreed. “I just hope …”

“Just hope?” he interrupted, concerned.

She squeezed his arm. “I just hope it's not the last time we wrestle in a back seat.”

“Can't see why it would be,” he said, and searched her eyes. “Unless you got other plans in mind.”

“Nope. No other plans.” She slid closer to him. “Through better or worse, Hank. In sickness and in health.” She kissed his cheek. “There's nothing that could ever change that.”

Hank's smile lit the car's interior all the way back to the house.

I
t was nippy, but the real sting of winter had already passed. Spring chose to arrive early and suffering from an acute case of cabin fever, George decided to explore the farm.

The pond had its share of seasonal ducks and a creek that ran down, through and out of the land. As he recalled, after church on Sundays was always a good time to fish for rainbow or speckled trout, throwing back the babies but keeping the big catch for Ma's cast-iron skillet. From there, his pa would order him off to the small orchard at the north side of the house. It was his and Evan's job to pick the apples for Ma's famous pies. And though his father insisted, “Sunday's the Lord's Day and no decent man should work,” George remembered feeling just as tired after all the fishing and apple picking.

Returning to the farmyard, George spotted Grampa John. “Would you mind if I borrowed the pick-up?” he asked. “I've been waiting to take Three Speed on a canoe trip for some time now.”

The old man flipped him the keys.

The sun had just stretched out when George and the dog slid the long canoe into the water. Drawing in a deep breath, George opened his eyes to inhale with the rest of his senses.

It was as if he and the dog sat at the end of the world. A steady rhythm of icy water marked time. Quietly bubbling and gurgling, the morning steam rose like a mysterious but calming fog. Birds squawked and sang, boldly calling out to each other. Groves of pine, peppered with birch, decorated the river's wide corridor. Blue sky, streaked white, mixed with the warming glow of the rising sun. Insects buzzed, seducing spawning trout. The water—one massive sheet of glass—was clear to the pebbled floor. But from time to time, it would ripple in the massaging breeze. The dried banks—high and lonely—waited to be quenched as the uneven horizon filled with ribbons of fringed earth stretched out to infinity. All at once, the sun's powerful rays bounced off of the shimmering waves, sparkling like a million rhinestones. After this first look, George dipped his oar into the water. The trip had begun.

Trees intertwined—much like all living things—holding the hands of each other. The thick wood line offered safety but could not conceal the thirst of those that dwelled within. Large and awkward moose trampled over rotted tree stumps while several deer daintily stepped through the thick greenery. For a moment, their white tails stood frozen—almost intrigued by a human presence—but they were frightened and rightly so. George didn't blame them.

Chipmunks scurried underground, wild rabbits zigzagged at play and one busy woodpecker labored away on his relentless jackhammer. The eyes of a red fox peered hungrily at several bathing ducks, each dunking their colorful, velvety heads under water. After Three Speed calmed down from his tantrum, there was silence; beautiful, uninterrupted silence.

Like a moody lass, the wondrous river could be soothing one minute, then rage out ferociously the next. She followed her own crooked course laid out by centuries of erosion. Within this watery avenue, dangerous obstacles of jagged stone punched out, cautioning George and his furry mate by the small tidal waves forced around them. Islands of green, bordered by tall, swaying grass, signaled the changing headwinds. With the strength of an age-old current and a hundred streams flowing in from each side, a smooth drift turned a sudden riptide into an instant rapid. Those white-capped roller coaster rides offered equal amounts of excitement and fear. Yet, after managing the choppy trip, the peace of drifting lazily revealed itself once again. For the first time in his life, George preferred the tranquility to the excitement.

After maneuvering through miles of twists and turns, he finally scouted a campsite in a logger's cozy knoll. With his tent erect and a fire blazing, whittling and skipping stones eventually gave way to more serenity.

On a bed of pine boughs, as if seen through the eyes of an infant, the night came alive. In a moonless sky, more stars than his entire life had beheld glimmered brightly. The earth's ceiling—seemingly close enough to touch—checked its brilliant reflection in the twinkling river below. In an awesome display of raw beauty, it both hypnotized and brought hope to a fool's cross-fingered wish. George pictured the face of the boy he'd killed and allowed himself to weep. He cried hard for a long time.

In the stillness, a tree—decayed from the frozen months—snapped and called attention to the land. George jumped and scanned the area. There was no enemy—at least not outside of himself. Searching within, he realized,
The fighting isn't over.
The tears continued to roll.

Within the fire, flames licked at the cool air—popping and cracking, illuminating the silver face of a happy mutt. As the outdoor furnace surrendered to red, glowing embers, it left behind the rugged scent of burnt hardwood. It also replaced comfort with an even stiffer chill. The song of the cricket became the lullaby, while George's sniffles and sobs were the echoes until morning.

At the first sign of dawn—as the rising sun melted away the river's fog—George and Three Speed stood together at a bend in the muddy bank, each alone in their mind. The river, the land—it was all alive. Everything was growing and progressing, not by leaps and bounds but by one precious second at a time. The truth was quite apparent—in Mother Nature's house, men were just passing through and no matter how long their stay, they were still only guests.

Crawling back into the canoe, eagerly preparing to conquer one last boulevard of rapids, the sun's warm hands held George's wind-burned face. Rowing easy, he watched as the sun touched the river again. It was as if someone spread magic dust everywhere. With one sky sitting upon another, it was breathtaking. George bent over the side of the canoe and gazed into the vast mirror. Catching his aged reflection in the water, the tears flowed freely from his anguished soul and dropped one by one into the water. As nature stripped some of the burden from him, his pain was part of the river now—and forever.

To a dog that would never tell a living soul, he confessed, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I did it but I had no choice. I never meant to kill that poor boy, but I can't live with this guilt any more … this pain. I just can't. I'm sorry.”

Three Speed's ears perked up and his head cocked sideways, yet he passed no judgment. George cried right up until the dog's comical reaction would not allow it; right up until the moment Three Speed licked his face.

The dog was under George's feet when he unloaded the canoe at the farm. Grampa John sauntered over from the barn. Staring into George's eyes, the biggest smile of relief spread across his wrinkled face. Pulling his grandson to him, he fought off the lump that swelled in his throat. “Welcome home,” he whispered in George's ear before placing a drab green box into his hand. “This is somethin' you earned a while back. I just been keepin' it safe for ya.” With a few pounds on the back, he told his grandson, “I gotta tell ya, when it's all said and done, though no one will ever envy you for it, standin' up to this with your head held high will be the toughest thing you ever do … but it'll also bring ya the most pride. It's already brought me a heap of pride for ya.” Grampa John nodded, sorrowfully. “Don't be a fool like your grampa and wait years to tackle what ails ya,” he said. “Get after it right away and face it like the man I'm proud you've become. Put it behind you, Georgey, so you can walk ahead without ever havin' to look back.”

For George, truer words had never been spoken.

As the old man walked away, George stood in awe and realized,
Grampa John isn't talking about any two-day canoe trip
. Until this very moment, he never noticed that the old man was the only one who hadn't welcomed him home. Grampa John had chosen to wait until all of him was home. George called out, “It's great to be home, Grampa John! Thank you.” The last words drifted on emotion.

The old man lifted his arm in acknowledgment, but he never looked back. “With the good Lord's help,” he whispered, “just one more to go.”

Upon entering the VA Hospital's massive complex, colorful wooden signs guided George's way; the same signs found on any U.S. military installation or base. George squirmed at the sight of them. His breathing became more shallow and rapid, as though he were being sent back into the mountains of Afghanistan.

A few lone souls, wearing slippers and government-issued robes, shuffled slowly along on their morning walk. George swallowed hard at the sight of them.

He pulled into the horseshoe drive in front of the main building. Identical to all the others, it was faced with red brick and contained rows of tall windows that concealed the pain of those who gazed out from behind them.

George parked and shut off the ignition. He sat for a few minutes, contemplating the difficult journey before him. The VA Hospital was a factory designed to repair, or in some cases merely conceal, the lethal machines that the government had built and then broken.
Grampa John's right
, he thought.
If I don't put this behind me, my mind'll be stuck in Afghanistan for the rest of my life.

George took a deep breath and then the long walk across a path of blue stone dust to the heavy front door; each step was forced, like he was heading straight to the lethal injection room.

At the front desk, he was greeted by the glum look of a heavy-set woman who could have as easily worked for the DMV. George removed a veteran's ID card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Dr. Swanson's expecting me,” he explained. “It's my first visit.”

Without any reaction, the woman scribbled something down onto her clipboard, handed back the ID and said, “Psychiatric intake, room 306.” There was no welcome, no thanks for coming—nothing more.

The linoleum tiles were buffed to a glossy shine and George tensed at another reminder of military life. Dull yellow tiles lined the bottom half of the walls, while the upper half was painted bright white. The entire environment was sanitized, obviously intended to create a state of calm. It was having the opposite effect.

Up the elevator to the third floor, no sooner did the doors open than low moans—screams that had long surrendered—could be heard. The smell of pine cleaner poorly masked the distinct smells of vomit and other bodily fluids. But it was the feeling in the air that permeated everything. It was a feeling of doom, of hopelessness and unrelenting despair—men in such great mental agony that only the strongest medications allowed them to escape from their horrific memories and successful suicide attempts.

George's mind flashed his greatest fear:
What if they don't let me leave?
He kept marching ahead, unsure of whether he was more afraid of being confined to the hospital than being left alone inside his own mind, where the same demonic pictures played over and over.

That night, Grampa John made his daily entry in the journal, turned off the oil lamp and went to bed. “One more to go,” he whispered again and closed his eyes.

I
t was well before dawn. As usual, John started into his chores before the birds awoke. He worked slowly and took his time with every task. By the grace of God—and his Irish will—he was still able to get it all done. All the while, his thoughts remained with Hank, as he struggled with how to bridge the rest of the gap between him and his son.
It's taken years to get us where we're at
, he thought.
I just hope there's enough time to get us back to where we belong … where we should be
. He looked up toward the sky and whispered a simple prayer, “I need help with this one, Father. Please send a sign that even a blind man like me could spot.”

Whistling for Three Speed, he started for the porch. Walking past the charred foundation, an eerie sensation passed through him—like a mountain spring replacing his blood. He immediately halted before the eyesore and stared at it. Three Speed circled a few times but finally lay down when he realized the old man wasn't budging. As if he were paying his respects, Grampa John removed his red cap. His eyes filled with tears.
What a damned fool I've been
, he told himself.
All these years wasted for nothin'.
He shook his sorrowful head a few times and then looked toward Hank and Elle's bunkhouse. “No more!” he vowed and pulled the cap back onto his head. “Not another minute.” With Three Speed on his heels, he marched off straight to the house. Before he hit the porch stairs, he looked back toward the sky. “Now that didn't take long, Father,” he said. “Much obliged.”

Before he even lit the stove's burner for a cup of coffee, he picked up the telephone and dialed. “Pat, it's John McCarthy,” he said after clearing his throat. “I need to place a good size order. How soon you figure you can get it to me?” He listened for a moment and grinned. “That'll work just fine,” he said, and placed his order. After hanging up the phone, he filled the kettle, placed it back on the stove and walked over to the kitchen window. “Just fine,” he repeated, while staring out toward the bunkhouse.

Hank finished his cup of coffee and tightened the lid on his silver thermos. He was making his way through the lumberyard when Patrick Barry, his foreman, stopped him. Pointing toward the loading dock, he delivered his instructions. “Hank, I need you to go help Tom fill an order. It's a lot of lumber and it needs to go out this afternoon.” He shrugged. “Customer says he can't wait. And with an order that size, we ain't gonna argue it.”

Hank nodded and headed over to the forklift. As he jumped up into the seat, Tom sauntered over. “What do we got, Tom?” Hank asked.

Yawning, Tom gestured over toward a giant pile of lumber. “All of it needs to get loaded on the flatbed.” He wiped his eyes and looked down at the invoice. “Seems that Kenny's gonna deliver it to your pa's place this afternoon.”

Hank's mouth dropped open in shock. “Kenny's what?” he asked, the words ending in a childish squeal.

Shrugging, Tom walked away. Hank fumbled for a cigarette in his shirt pocket and managed to light it. He started up the forklift but spent a few moments staring at the massive pile of wood before him. “I'll be a son-of-a …” he started to say, but the softball in his throat choked off the last word. “That's enough timber to build a damn horse barn.” The forklift roared to life and Hank went to work, all the while struggling with some old demons that clawed to be freed.

After the delivery was made, John signed the invoice and handed Kenny a ten-dollar bill for his trouble. “Go get yourself a pack of gum,” he said with a wink.

“Appreciate it, Big John,” Kenny said, and accepted the wrinkled bill.

As the truck drove away, the old man stood at the massive pile of lumber stacked alongside the charred foundation. “It's about time,” he muttered, disgusted with himself.

Late that afternoon, Hank stood on his front porch, two gulps into his second beer. He stared over at his pa, who was standing in the distance, surveying the mountain of lumber. Shaking his head, Hank downed the rest of the beer and placed the can onto the porch alongside the other empty. His eyes never left the old man. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Why now? After all these years, why now?” He took a deep breath and strapped on his tool belt. Sliding the hammer into its holster, he took another deep breath and stepped off the porch. With each step, he realized it wasn't all that difficult to cross the creek bridge and that every step was taking him closer to a feeling of being home.

As Hank marched over the old bridge, Grampa John spotted him. With a short stack of two-by-fours in the crook of his arms, the old man stopped to watch his son. A smile worked its way across his face. “My boy's comin' home,” he whispered to himself.

Hank approached his father and put away his stubborn pride to grab the boards from the old man.

“Alright then,” Grampa John muttered, his voice cracked.

Hank nodded again and visibly fought back the emotions that bubbled at the surface. “Alright then,” he said. There was another long pause. “You figure we should start by bumpin' out the foundation?” he asked.

The old-timer shrugged. “You tell me, son. It's your show … not mine.”

Hank grinned, nodded once more and then—like a man possessed—he went straight to work.

Father and son were lifting some long planks when they looked up to see Evan approaching. Rolling up his sleeves, Evan stopped at the woodpile and turned to his father. “Pa, where do you need me?” he asked, smiling.

Hank returned his son's smile; it was a smile filled with both pride and peace. He gestured toward the lumber pile. “You can start by separatin' the boards by length. We need to bump out the foundation some before we start framin'.”

Evan nodded. After the men worked for a while in silence, Tara approached with a tray of sweaty glasses filled with lemonade. “Just like Grandma used to make,” she promised.

The men took a break, wiped their brows and enjoyed the tart drink. In the distance, Three Speed approached with George trailing close behind. George called out from a distance. “Don't tell me you started without us?”

They all laughed.

“Don't you worry,” Hank teased. “There's plenty to go around for everyone. This barn's gonna take us a few solid weeks.” He looked toward his pa for confirmation.

Grampa John nodded. “All of that, anyway,” he confirmed with a nod. “But it looks like we got the right foreman and crew to pull it off.”

Hank grinned but never responded to the compliment.

As George approached the work site, he stripped down to his T-shirt. “Well, alright then. Count me in.”

Everyone went back to work and the sweet sounds of sawing and hammering filled the air. They weren't at it long before Grampa John took a break to take in the scene.
Thank you, Lord,
he thought.
Thank you for this
. With the widest smile he'd ever worn, he ignored his aching bones and—under the direction of his grinning son—went back to work.

The same work crew came together each day for three weeks. Halfway through the project, Hank realized that it was the exact same dimensions and look as the original horse barn. He finally asked his pa, “You're gettin' up there in age to be needin' a new barn, ain't ya?”

The old man never hesitated in his response. “This damn thing's haunted me my whole life. I ain't about to risk it hauntin' me in the next life, too.” He winked. “I'd rather spend the time dancin' with your ma.”

Hank only nodded. He understood exactly what was taking place. With each board nailed, his guilt over that tragic night all those years ago began to melt away. From the look in his pa's eyes, there was no need for it in the first place. At times, he'd work off in a corner by himself, just so he could purge his soul in private.

With every board cut and each hole drilled, they worked together as one unit. The nails that tightened the massive structure were doing the very same thing for their family. Even Elle got into the mix by working with Hank and handing him the materials he needed to finally build a happy memory.

As the front doors were hung in place and the final coat of paint was left to dry, everyone froze in place. Grampa John and Hank turned to face each other. Hank swallowed hard, expecting to get a pat on the back—just like he'd received as a boy when his pigeon had won the race. But his pa wasn't about to make that same mistake again. The old man extended both of his massive paws, grabbed Hank by the shoulders and pulled him in tight for a long hug. While everyone looked on in tears, both men silently wept into each other's shoulders, concealing years of anguish that were finally being washed away.

Before they broke apart, they wiped their faces on each other's sweaty shoulders. Grampa John kept his hands on Hank's strong shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Alright then,” he said with a nod, “looks like the barn's done.”

Hank peered back into his father's eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said, with great relief in his voice. “It's finally done.”

Everyone applauded—Elle the loudest—and not one of them gave a second look at the beautiful, new barn that stood before them.

That night, John made his daily entry in the journal and turned off the oil lamp. Just before turning in, he walked to the window and looked out onto the new barn. He nodded a few times, while a grin worked its way into the corners of his mouth. “It's finally done, squaw,” he whispered. “We did it.”

On Friday, Grampa John insisted on taking the family out to celebrate. They gladly accepted.

The old man was the first one through the Grange Hall's front door. Right away, a flurry of wonderful feelings ambushed him. He and Alice had spent most Friday nights at the hall. It was a grassroots organization for farmers to assemble and complain about the price of grain or heads of cattle. Although the McCarthys passed on the groaning sessions, they were normally the first couple through the door for the weekly dance.

Grampa John looked around. The band was setting up on the small stage. A large American flag hung over their heads, while tables were arranged on the dance floor for dinner—only to be removed after everyone was done eating.
I suppose some things never change
, he thought.

After filling their bellies with a vat of spaghetti and meatballs, Hank, George and Evan took their first dance steps toward the bar. Without Alice there to scold him, John thought about joining them and sneaking a quick snort. He looked at Tara and decided against it. Instead, he stayed behind with the ladies. From where he sat, he could see that the cola machine—where it had once cost him a whole nickel for one of those green, ten-ounce glass bottles—was no longer there. He ordered a pitcher of soda for the table.

While Hank, Elle and the kids laughed and celebrated, Grampa John sat back and took it all in. At one point, the whole family was on the floor, partnered up in a slow dance. Although he'd been asked, Grampa John decided to sit it out. He preferred to watch and reminisce about the days when he and his soul mate glided across that same dance floor.
We sure had a good run
, he told Alice in his mind. He looked at his family again and smiled.
But it's their time now.

The following afternoon, Elle stood in Grampa John's doorway, her infectious smile threatening to melt away the late day shadows. “Hank said he thought it would be a good idea for me to invite you over for supper,” she announced.

The old man returned the giant smile. “He's right. That is a swell idea.” He winked. “Bein' as partial as I am to your cookin', I wouldn't miss it!” He kissed his daughter-in-law on the cheek and then tipped his hat. “If you'll excuse me, then, I gotta get cleaned up. I got a hot date.”

Elle's overwhelming joy escaped in laughter.

It was dusk when John found Hank waiting for him at the bunkhouse door. He extended his hand for a shake. “Sorry I'm late, Hank,” the old man said, and meant those four words more than any he'd ever spoken.

Hank tightened his grip. “No worries, Pa. Better late than never, right?” he said, obviously trying to keep his feelings at bay. “It's real good to have ya.”

Shepherd's pie had always been one of John's favorites and he was already tearing into his second helping when Hank nudged Elle to spill the news. After leaning over to kiss her grinning husband, she announced, “When I first came to Montana, my goal was to become a teacher.” Looking over at George, Evan and Tara, she smiled. “But I never thought I'd have the same three pupils for so many years.” There was some laughter but most of it out of kindness. She went on. “Anyway, your father's suggested that I return to college and finish my degree. He's been telling me it's never too late and that I'd make a good teacher. I was wondering what everyone else …”

Before she could finish the speech, the whole family was standing in support. There were hugs, kisses and words of encouragement. Elle couldn't have looked happier. Hank couldn't have looked prouder. John shared his son's feelings.
Through the pain of losin' his mother, Hank's grown
, he thought. John beamed brighter than any of them.

It had been a long time coming. Late into the frozen night, the McCarthy family got caught up on some of the lost years. Experiences were shared. Stories were told. Jokes were exchanged. And there was laughter, plenty of laughter. To John, it was one of the few things in life that mattered at all. He made sure he laughed until it hurt.

While Hank went out to grab some more firewood, Grampa John admitted to his grandkids, “Even at my age, there's still things to learn. Truth is, I've finally learned that it's better to be kind than right.” He thought about it for a moment and added, “Much better.” He looked at George and winked. “Everybody's fightin' their own war.”

The clock struck midnight. John made reference to “the dangers of turnin' into a pumpkin” and bid his farewell. Elle offered her regular hug and kiss. And the night was complete when Hank grabbed his hand and shook it like he never wanted to let go. “Thanks for comin' by, Pa. It really was good to have ya.”