The Rockin' Chair (7 page)

Evan wondered whether her memory was being selective and kind, or the brain cells that stored the information had been chemically assassinated. He decided it didn't matter; it was better that she blocked it out. There was enough guilt and shame to deal with. She didn't need more. He stood. “Let's go meet that niece of mine. I've been waiting almost two years.”

Tara's frown was wiped away. “Lila's so beautiful, Ev, and she's been waiting a long time for her mommy to get well.”

Evan grabbed her hand. “Well then, I think she's waited long enough.”

As they walked out of the restaurant, Tara stopped her brother and apologized. “I'm sorry, Ev. I forgot to ask how you've been doing.”

With only a fistful of credit card bills and a couple dozen published stories to his name, Evan smiled. He realized that while he listened to his sister's problems and concentrated on the possible solutions, he'd forgotten to miss Carley. “It's a long story, T, and maybe not as colorful as yours but trust me … you're not alone.” He smiled. “We're in the same boat, sis, and I'm getting tired of rowing alone. I'll fill you in on the plane.”

For the first time, she actually smiled. She wrapped both her arms around his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “I was just thinking about Georgey. It's been so long since I've seen him. I hope he's doing better than we are.”

Evan grinned. “You know George. He's out there somewhere, saving the world. Wherever he is, I'm sure he's having the time of his life.” He kissed her cheek. “Now let's go home.”

As they continued down the sidewalk, Evan checked his cell phone for a text or a missed call from Carley.
Nothing
.

U
nwilling to wait another minute, a steel-gray sky opened up, covering Montana with six inches of downy flake. John stepped out onto the porch and noticed that the light had been left on all night. He shook his head.
Turning out the lights was always Alice's job.

As if the Lord decided to give His little globe a shake, everything was white. John watched as the intricately detailed snowflakes danced briefly beneath the porch's light. Gently falling to the knotty, wooden planks, they selflessly gathered as one, covering the years of filth that had accumulated. Looking out onto the land, dark shadows were replaced by white linen, bringing warmth to a frigid world. For a moment, John felt the untouched purity, the virtual rebirth, but he knew that men must stir from their sleep.

People ignorantly trod over the morning, never realizing that the night had offered another beginning. In time, this new blanket would be worn and tattered, again exposing the dirt of the past. But through it all, for the McCarthys, one dim porch light would generate enough light to reveal the truth.

John whistled for Three Speed to start their chores when he saw her. It was Alice, standing in their bedroom window. Her thumb was stuck in her mouth. As amazement swam in her eyes, she watched the snowflakes fall like it was the first time she'd ever seen them. John felt both happy and sorrowful at her display of innocence. “Oh, darlin',” he muttered. His mind immediately rushed back to the year that he and Alice were married and that winter's first snowfall.

A gray sky, touched with a pink hue, opened up and covered the land with a baby's blanket of white. The air had a healthy bite to it and each breath was a reminder that life was worth living. The world always went still during the first snowfall but that year proved best of all. John was preparing to turn in for the night, figuring that Alice was wrapping up her own chores in the kitchen. Looking out the window for one last glance at the eve's beauty, he laughed unexpectedly.

On the ground, just beneath their bedroom window, Alice lay on the fresh, icy linen, flapping her arms and legs at the same time. She mustn't have thought anyone was watching because she was laughing and carrying on like a child, making the most perfect snow angel Montana had ever seen. John secretly giggled with her, feeling a warmth that could have thawed the entire farm.
Lord, how I love this woman
, he thought. It was the innocence and fun in Alice that John adored most. Fortunately, no matter how many years unfolded, the child in Alice never died. Each winter, during the first snow, John hid in the shadows of their bedroom to watch Alice frolic. And each year, without fail, the snow angel would appear and leave her mark.

John's focus returned to the present and he noticed that Alice's eyes had cast their attention upon him. With love in his heart and embarrassment dismissed from his mind, he fell backward to the ground in one heavy thud. While Alice curiously looked on, he began flapping his arms and legs, making the impression of the snow angel he desperately missed. Three Speed whined at the strange spectacle. Giggling, Alice removed her thumb from her mouth and began applauding at the conclusion of the show. For a while, John just lay in the cold powder, crying.
I should have done this a long time ago.

While Elle babysat his infantile wife, John did what was necessary to keep the animals alive. Before the sun had completely risen, the mountains sent down an Arctic blast. Like white-stained glass, it was kind to the eyes, but to the thin flesh of an old man the air had the bite of a bear. John pulled the flaps of his red flannel cap down over his ears and got started. With each step, his back begged him to take things slow. He had no objections. His back had been good to him, allowing him to provide for his family all these years. In return, he did what it asked of him. He took his time.

John tended to the chickens and rabbits, breaking the ice in each water bowl. Everything was frozen solid. At an even slower gait than Three Speed, his next stop was the big barn. Just inside the door, he paused gratefully to receive its warmth. It was only ten degrees warmer, but the walls broke the wind, removing a chill that cut like straight-edge razors. Spoiling Ginger with a few extra minutes of his time, he turned toward his row of milking cows. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a man; it was the distinct swagger of his long-lost son. Through a spiderweb covering the barn's dirty window, he squinted to get a better look.

Hank was dressed in new blue jeans and his Sunday jacket. He stopped briefly on the porch before disappearing into the house. The sight took John aback. With the exception of Christmas and other almost-mandatory holidays, Hank hadn't been over to the house in years. The reason for this made John's skin crawl. He could still picture that dark day in spring when he'd caught sight of the first road sign on the family's way to hell.

John and young Hank were out mending fences along the south border when a heated spat took place. For the life of him, John couldn't recall how it started or most of the words exchanged, but it had something to do with a silly notion of “making changes around the farm.” Before the ignorance had ceased, his pig-headed son lit a cigarette and stormed off saying that he had taken his fill. John was disappointed with the cigarette but let it go. For reasons unknown to him, the boy was boiling in his own rage and vowed that he'd quit the farm forever. John almost thought it funny at first. They were words spoken in anger, with little thought put behind them. Come to find out, it was anything but a joke.

That weekend, Hank and his new bride, Elle, moved their every belonging—which fit into two suitcases—across the creek bridge into the old bunkhouse. Alice told Hank, “Don't be foolish. You and your pa need to work this out.”

Hank just shook his head and kept right on marching. Alice glared over at John in disgust.

“I didn't tell him to leave,” John swore. “That's his own stubbornness. He don't need to go nowhere.”

Heartbroken, Alice turned to Elle. “How will you two get along?” she asked.

Elle was overwhelmed with emotion and could hardly speak. “Hank went to see the foreman at the sawmill. He starts on Monday.” She wiped her eyes and hugged her mother-in-law. “I'll talk to him and do what I can, okay?”

Catching this, John slammed his fist on the chair, got up and stormed into the house. From the window, he studied his son's face in the distance and thought,
From the look on Hank's face, that bridge might be the only thing left on this land that needs burnin'.

On Monday, Hank began work at the sawmill where he chose the stink of wood pulp over cow manure. The whole thing made John's head spin. He couldn't understand it or even believe it happened. Time and again, he tried reasoning with him, but the spite in Hank had nothing more to say. That was it. Elle kept saying that she'd talk to him and do what she could.
She must have spent years tryin'
, John figured.

John looked back toward the barn window and thought about all the years that had been lost between them. He shook his head at the foolishness of it all.
Hank's all cleaned up. He obviously has no intentions on goin' to work.
John thought more about it and figured,
My son's finally wised up. He's payin' his mother the visit he should have paid months ago.
Reality whacked John upside the head and nearly knocked him over.
Hank's visit is a sign,
he thought.
Alice's hours are numbered.
John found the closest milk can and took a seat. His head felt as light as a pigeon feather.

Maybe two hours wasted away before John finished the milking by hand. He liked to do things the old way sometimes. It kept him in practice and also reminded him of a time when everything seemed so simple and right. Rubbing out the complaints of his back, he turned to find Hank's shadow standing in the barn's door. It was like seeing a ghost from a different life.
Hank ain't stepped foot in this barn in years
, John thought, and pulled out his handkerchief. He spat the start of a cold into it and then sat back down. For a while, he pretended he wasn't done milking.

Hank grabbed another milk can and set it on the side of his pa. For a while, he stared straight ahead. From the look on his face, John could tell he'd been crying.
I haven't seen that look since Hank and his buddy George nearly killed themselves that night in the horse barn,
John thought. The memory made his heart sink. Looking back at his boy, he felt sorry for all of it. There was no need to question why the look had returned. For a time, there was silence, a strange but comfortable silence. It didn't matter to either of them. It was nice just to share the same air.

Hank finally grabbed the cow's utters before him and began pulling. The old girl bucked at his touch. She was dry and John quickly spoke up to save her. “I reckon you won't get nothin' but powdered milk out of that one.”

In spite of himself, Hank chuckled. A moment later, his face turned serious. “Elle said you sent word to the kids to get home?”

“I did. Evan, Tara and the baby should be on their way.”

“That's good.” Hank thought for a moment. “Georgey?”

“He's on leave. I called The Red Cross and they're out lookin' for him as we speak.”

Hank nodded, the worry for his eldest son obvious on his face.

John took off his cap, folded it in his hands and shocked Hank with some candid thoughts. “It don't matter how old children get. A father never stops worryin', does he?”

Hank's mouth hung open wide enough to allow the wind to whistle through his teeth.

“Ain't life queer?” John continued. “It seems just yesterday you was scarin' the life out of me.”

Instinctively, Hank cut him off. “Scarin' the life out of
you
? What are you talkin' about? You ain't never been afraid of nothin'!”

The old man grinned. “Don't tell me you ain't got it figured by now, Hank?” John peered into his son's sad eyes. “From the time you was in diapers, you had me all shook up. I watched you like a hawk, scared that you'd kill yourself 'fore you ever got a shot at livin'.” He laughed. “And a few times, you nearly did.”

Hank chuckled again. He'd been as wild as the wind back in his day.

“Shoot. Plenty of things scared me,” John admitted, “but we both know a man ain't allowed to show it. There's too many folks countin' on us.”

Hank nodded. “That's the truth. It ain't easy bein' the breadwinner of the house. Some days, it's down right frightenin',” he muttered.

With a nod, the old man continued. “I suppose I was also afraid of the day I'd wake up and not have the back to fend for you and your ma. To tell ya the truth, I never asked the good Lord for anything more than that.” Nodding in confirmation, he returned to his original train of thought. “But you're the one who riled me up most. I know there was some nights I was tough on your backside but it ain't easy raisin' young. You want the world for'em, but you can't rightly give it. They gotta grab it for themselves or it ain't worth spit.” He looked into his son's eyes. “From where I sat, you and Elle did a real bang-up job.”

Hank shrugged. “We never had much but Elle made do alright. The one thing I did insist on, though, was that they all finish their schoolin'. I wasn't gonna raise any dummies.” Although it had never been labeled, Hank had been cursed with dyslexia, leaving him a virtual illiterate. It was a disease that loomed over him like the mountains that had imprisoned him his entire life.

“I didn't raise no dummy neither,” the old man countered.

With a raised eyebrow, Hank accepted the unexpected compliment. “It's true,” he agreed. “It's nearly impossible to give 'em everything they need and still remain their friend.” Innocently, his thoughts formed an accusation before he could stop them. “But you was so different with my young.”

John grinned at the onslaught of memories. “Sure I was. And why not? Some say it's one of the few rewards for growin' old.” The grin widened. “Truth is, I got after'em time and again, but it was your job to keep'em in line, not mine. When you hightailed it off the farm, my days of hollerin' and ringin' necks was through.”

John patted his son on the shoulder, while Hank turned to catch the wink. It was the kind that meant an elder's secret was coming. “You just wait 'til you spend some time with your granddaughter. It's a blessed thing, I tell ya. You can spoil the heck out of her and there ain't no guilt. You just wait and see, Hank. Take away the responsibility of makin' kids do the right thing and it's a real hoot, all of it.” John's laughter revealed that he wasn't through remembering the fun he and his grandchildren had shared.

The old man stood slowly and cleared his throat. He grabbed two shovels and handed one to Hank. “You check in on your ma?” he asked, changing the conversation from reminiscent to reality.

“Yes, sir, I did,” Hank replied, his eyes welling up.

“That's my boy,” John finished, and placed the cap back onto his head. It had been years—back when they raced pigeons together—since they'd shared more than a half dozen words between them. Despite the circumstances, John was thrilled.

With a single nod, Hank rolled up his sleeves and tore into cleaning the barn. Neither man spoke another word.

They spent most of the day out on the farm, getting a leg up on chores that had been overlooked. Hank put in four times the work the old man did. John didn't mind. On the contrary, he was grateful—and so was his back.

Once the hayloft was rearranged to make it easier over the winter, Hank headed for the house to grab Elle.

It wasn't long before John caught Elle and Hank climbing into the cab of Hank's truck. He stuck his head into the passenger side window. Smelling like a pine-scented air freshener, Elle leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Ma's resting easy now, Pa. I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning.”