The Rockin' Chair

by Steven Manchester

  Their eyes locked. But rather than anger, Schwartz was only shown the forgiveness that took decades to understand—and grant.

  For the last time that morning, the old man spoke. “As long as I’m drawin’ breath, Alice stays on the farm. You can bet my life on it.” As if betraying an age-old secret, he grinned. “Got no choice, anyways. That sly squaw made me promise her that if the good Lord took her first, she’d be able leave from this house.” The grin disappeared and he shrugged. “Never owned anything more valuable than my word, so Elle will help tend to Alice and I’ll send word to my three injuns that it’s time to come home.”

  After several words of heartfelt gratitude, the good doctor suggested that John go into town for a complete checkup. John—a man who thought of surgery as nothing more than a clean jackknife and a pint of homemade sour mash—just smiled and offered a tired wink.

  “Okay then,” Schwartz said, “I’ll be along in a few days to check on her.”

  John stood to shake the doctor’s hand and see him off.

  As Doc Schwartz drove off, he caught one last glimpse of the old-timer in his rearview mirror. Big John—as many people called him—was not the largest man in the county. In fact, there were a few men who dwarfed him in size. “The nickname was probably given to describe his heart,” Schwartz said aloud. Now, this tortured soul rocked slow and easy to the beat of that big, broken heart. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” Schwartz said into the rearview mirror before pressing down on the accelerator.

  Back on the porch, John eased into his rocking chair. It only complained a little with one long creak. Stretching out his legs, John folded both hands behind his head. He rocked slowly, pondering his and Alice’s situation for a good, long while. Finally, he stopped rocking, looked down at Three Speed and nodded. “Well, the way I see it,” he said, “Alice has been cheated life’s greatest gift … her memories.” A wave of determination suddenly replaced the fear and anger—if only for a moment. “Looks like I’ll just have to remember for us both,” he declared, and with one last nod he closed his eyes and began rocking again.

  CHAPTER 3

  John sat undisturbed, rocking straight into the afternoon. Giving his eyes a rest, his weary mind danced between the past and present, fighting fiercely to avoid the unknowns of tomorrow. Each thought carried him closer to the same stinging realization: For all the memory Alice has lost, I’ve seemed to gain. He despised it. His dainty flower was withering away inside. For the most part, it was nothing that could be seen by the eye, which only seemed to make it worse. She had become an apparition in the flesh, a ghost locked within the familiar frame that had once instilled security. Always the strong one—the solid foundation on which the entire McCarthy family was built—Alice was now becoming nothing more than a shadow of the past. The person closest to John was no longer a person he even vaguely knew and he pitied her for her sickness. The whole thing made his chest burn with anger and frustration. He closed his eyes even tighter.

  Surrendering to some strange sense of peace, John finally decided that although he felt the pain, he could also remember the good—and that’s a better deal by far. Starting as far back as his mind would go, he did what all fortunate souls do in the midst of their twilight hour. He recalled the days back when and returned to a past time where he could play the narrator. He’d learned that the older someone got, their memories could sometimes prove more vivid than the day they were experienced.

  The first mental pictures he could muster were not of his own sagging diapers or warm bottles but of a large man bent over a screeching calf, leaving behind his smoking brand. In a short time, he adored his father—a master in the art of hard labor and one who was anxious to pass down his skills.

  The stubborn, old codger had come to rugged Montana from Dublin, Ireland. With nothing but a good wife and a trunk full of rags as clothes, he pursued a dream of owning his own land. For years, he worked as a ranch hand, sweating blood in fields he dreamed would someday be his own.

  For John there was some formal schooling, but most of life’s lessons were taught on the ranch right by his father’s side—and there was no better place.

  By the time he was twelve, John watched the old man’s eyes change from spirited to tired, but the look of determination never swayed. His pa worked hard, prayed harder and when the time was right, offered every penny he’d saved for a parcel of the land he had slaved over—along with the small, white farmhouse in which John had been raised. As part of the deal, there were two large barns with adjoining corrals, several coops, an outhouse and the old bunkhouse that sat across the creek bridge.

  The house wasn’t much more than an old pile of shingles. It had a parlor, a pantry and a kitchen that John’s mother cherished. There were two small bedrooms upstairs, their ceilings pitched with the roof. And there was a tiny mudroom leading to the porch that covered the entire front of the house. It was no castle but to the McCarthys it was home.

  Life rolled along as usual until the old man realized he could not compete with the larger ranches in the area. They eventually traded in driving cattle and breaking broncs for milking cows.

  When it seemed there was nothing more to life than dairy farming, John was saved by the bell, a church bell of all things. The pastor, a man who loved to watch the pretty girls just as well as offer a heartfelt sermon, called for a square dance. All the girls in the county were going to be there. At sixteen years old, John wasn’t about to let the pastor have them all.

  It was a perfect night, as John recalled, a warm spring night filled with the smell of honeysuckle and the song of crickets. Duded up in clothes that didn’t need mending, he showed up stained with an hour’s walk of sweat.

  From the door, he could see that the barn had been cleaned up pretty good. There weren’t many older folks there, except the boys in the band and the pastor who, of course, was smiling from ear to ear. After taking a belt from the half-empty Mason jar being passed around, John matted down his mop of blond hair and went in. In no time, the moonshine was kicking in, giving him the courage to ask the hand of the prettiest girl.

  He searched the crowd and eyed her sitting in the corner. For a second, the sight stole his breath away. She’s beautiful in her peach polka dot dress, he thought. A closer look made his mouth go dry. She had high cheekbones, jet-black hair and eyes as black as coal, with equal amounts of the devil and heaven shining through. He couldn’t remember asking, but at some point they were on the floor—twirling, laughing and dancing in each other’s eyes. Through the clamor of dueling banjos, he learned that her name was Alice; the daughter of a drunken French trapper who’d left her and her mother as outcasts in their Sioux tribe.

  Under a magical moon—and after tripping over the roots of a weeping willow tree—a beautiful courtship began on that very night.

  John and Alice waited for the end of the autumn harvest before exchanging vows in the same white church that had witnessed their every stolen kiss. With chores that needed finishing, John showed up late, his suit disheveled from the frantic trip. As he ran for the altar, he vowed, I’ll never enter the Lord’s house again without wearin’ my best. And he never did. His young bride, however, was waiting patiently and never once complained about his tardiness. She smelled of lilac and beamed with love. The ring—a last-minute gift from John’s mother’s own hand—fit her finger perfectly. The sullen pastor, who was forced to witness another beauty get away, made the nuptials quick. Their kiss, in fact, lasted twice as long as the ceremony. But it didn’t matter. They were finally hitched and John had taken the hand of the woman he not only loved, but also needed. Even at seventeen years old, he knew the difference.

  After a brief honeymoon in the barn, they went right back to work—and they worked hard all week. As a reward, each Friday night they kicked up their heels down at the Grange Hall and wore out the linoleum floor with the Texas two-step or the Tennessee waltz—with John preferring the latter. God, how I loved dancin’ with Alice. She giggled like a child
in his arms, while her body moved with his like water over rock. When they got home, they’d slip out of their proper dress. The dancing continued horizontally under the sheets—both of them completely comfortable and unashamed of each other’s moves. They became such good dance partners, in fact, that Alice awoke one morning with a surprise announcement. “John McCarthy, you’re gonna be a pa.”

  Those nine months whipped by and before he knew it, John was sitting in a hospital waiting room feeling like a cowboy at the opera. What a terrible place, he thought. The strong scent of alcohol and other sanitary smells were worse than sitting in a dung-infested chicken coop. He waited and waited. Hours dragged on until old Doc Duff came out, his white smock stained crimson red. Panting, the geezer announced, “Congratulations, John. You have a boy.” John’s eyes welled up.

  John cringed, as he vividly recalled the rest of the medicine man’s news. “But it wasn’t an easy delivery. In fact, if you didn’t have such a strong wife, she wouldn’t be with us right now … that I can assure you.” The doctor went on to explain how the baby had wreaked such havoc on Alice’s insides that there was no choice but to perform a full hysterectomy. “Your boy came into the world kickin’ and screamin’, makin’ sure he’d be the last to exit his mother’s womb,” Doc Duff said, adding, “Born with the devil in him, I tell ya!”

  But when John saw his son Hank for the first time, he saw nothing but an angel. There was no greater gift than for a man to have a son carry on his name. John instantly fell in love. No matter how much kicking, screaming or havoc this boy was sure to cause, Hank was his son and John was going to love him—without conditions. In the McCarthy family, love was a given, while respect and everything else had to be earned.

  One night, Alice took the baby from John’s lap to tuck him into bed. “I’ll be in soon,” John told her before removing a jackknife from his pocket. It was almost an hour before he had carved the name HANK deep into the chair’s seat. Satisfied with his workmanship, he sneaked off to the boy’s room to kiss Hank’s cheek. “I love you, son,” he whispered.

  Without fail—each night, and so as not to be heard—he vowed his love to his son. But like his father before him, words felt like weakness and John didn’t want Hank to grow up soft.

  As John wiped a forgotten teardrop from his eyes, a gentle hand rested upon his shoulder, bringing him back to a time that was less kind. Gazing up, he caught Elle’s smile peeking out from behind the storm door.

  “Supper’s on, Pa, and I won’t take no for an answer. You’ve been sitting in this chair for hours. I think you could both use a break.” She smiled.

  “I’ll be right along,” he promised with a smile. The wind slammed the door shut behind her. John yawned and looked down at Three Speed. The dog hadn’t lasted the entire trip down memory lane; his eyelids were twitching to the mercy of his own dreams.

  With a deep breath, John decided right then, Anyone who pities the elderly is a damned fool! After only one afternoon of daydreaming, it was obvious to him that if anything it should be the opposite. The elderly should be envied, he decided. John and Alice didn’t have the opportunities or possibilities that younger folks had for the future, but they had something much more precious. They had realities of the past, which nothing or no one could ever take away. Even Alice … though she can’t recall a minute of it, that ol’ girl’s loves are still loved, her dreams realized, deeds done, sufferings endured and meanings of life fulfilled, John thought. Disease or no disease, her life’s like money in the bank.

  From where John sat, the future was foggier than ever but the past was as clear as the memories that proved it. There was no question about who he and Alice were and how their lives had turned out. Wearing a proud smile, he stood. Every muscle and bone in his tired body snapped, crackled or popped—waking Three Speed from his dreams.

  John stretched out and walked toward the rail with the mutt shadowing him. They stood together, watching a watercolor sky grow faint of light, the great orange ball disappearing and sending off colors of pink, purple and red.

  It really is a beautiful place that Pa chose as home, John thought. Everything was so vast and glorious. Turning back toward the house, he asked Three Speed to step aside. “Even though you played hooky from work today,” he whispered, “I’ll still see if I can’t fetch you somethin’ from my plate.”

  Everything from the tongue to the tail started wagging. John patted the mutt on the head and headed for the washroom. Dirt or no dirt, he thought, a man cleans up for supper.

  Alice was already propped at the table when John took his respected seat at the head of it. Hunched in her own chair, she noticed John with indifference. She was too distracted, her fingers fumbling for her long, gray locks of hair. Twirling long strands into curls, she’d stop momentarily, play with her place setting and then go back to her hair. John took notice of the tiny wrinkles in the corners of her mouth; permanent tattoos of a life of happiness when her smile would dance across her beautiful little face. From there, he worked up to those dark eyes that always shined with life, only to find an empty, stoic glare. Alice’s entire face was set like granite and the sight of it made him feel like he was sucking air through a straw.

  Elle put the last of the meal on the table, offered a brief prayer of thanks and asked Alice, “Do you want some salad?”

  Before she could even process the question and muster a reply, Elle answered with action and dished some out.

  John watched as Alice concentrated on the slow, awkward path that her fork took from the plate to her mouth. Before long, she was wearing more food than tasting it. When she had finally abandoned the futile task, without so much as a thought Elle slid her chair over and began spoon-feeding her mother-in-law. John looked on in horror, his eyes locked on his wife’s blotchy hands, the skin now as fragile and thin as crepe paper. He remembered how she had once been, hovering over the kitchen table like an orchestra conductor, a dozen steps ahead of any guest that sat. The things those hands could once do, he thought. They never rested. Now, they were gnarled and twisted—like curled-up maple leaves—incapable of working so much as a spoon. To think she has no idea what those hands were ever used for or all the people they touched. His stomach kicked up something that left the slow burn of whiskey in his throat. Time can be so unfair, he thought.

  John recalled thinking—not so long ago—that life was supposed to return to the way it had once been when it was just him and Alice. Though they’d each lost a little bounce in their step, he was looking forward to showing the folks down at the Grange Hall that they still had it. We might even sneak a roll in the hay when we get back to the house, he hoped. It never happened that way, though. Her body was tired and the gears in her mind had slipped into reverse. Life had hardly returned to the way it had once been. Instead, it had become more a matter of surviving the days rather than living them.

  Though John normally didn’t come up for air until his plate was clean, he fiddled with his fork while Alice continued to audition for no one. In her common gibberish of late, her lips twitched and out of the babble a complete sentence finally arose. “I know. I know. Churn the butter, churn the butter, then feed the wood stove. Churn the butter, churn the butter, then feed the wood stove. I know. I know. But I ain’t takin’ a bath … not until Pa says I have to and Pa ain’t been around for quite a spell now.”

  In between episodes of belly laughter and cries of things that go bump in the night, Elle continued to feed Alice—just as she was sure to bathe her, brush out her hair and even clean her bottom when Mother Nature called. And all of it would be done with love, patience and dignity. It was clear that Elle would keep her vigil and watch over Alice until her final hour. John wondered again, What did my bitter son ever do to deserve this amazin’ woman?

  Excusing himself from the table, John hugged both women; Elle because he was grateful and Alice because of all the memories she had given him. Elle returned the embrace. But Alice just sat there like a lifeless doll, acting su
rprised that this stranger would touch her so personally.

  John grabbed his promise to Three-Speed. “I need to head out for one last check on the animals,” he told Elle.

  She nodded her approval. “Take your time, Pa.”

  No matter what the reason, Three Speed couldn’t have been happier for the old man’s unusual lack of appetite. As for John, well, he was just happy that Elle was looking after Alice, giving him some more time to sort out each path that led to this shaky present.

  After completing his final chores, John flipped up the collar on his jacket. There was a wolves’ bite in the air. Looking down, he noticed that Three Speed was matching his every step back to the house. “It’s gettin’ some nippy ol’ boy,” he whispered, a billow of smoke rising slowly into the night. “If you can keep it to yourself, you can catch your shut-eye in the mudroom tonight.”

  The dog yawned and hurried on ahead to the door where he stood, waiting.

  The moon was full and lit up the earth with a soft light. John stopped. It’s been a long trip but the nicest trip any man could ever hope for. He smiled at the truth of it. As he reached the porch, he turned to see the lights burning at Hank and Elle’s place across the creek bridge. Hank’s probably still waitin’ on his supper. It’s time for the changin’ of the guard.

  Alice was already in bed, with Elle by her side reading a bedtime story. John paused at the door and stole a peek at the two women he loved. Alice’s hair was now braided like a little girl’s. A quilt covered most of her. She listened as Elle read, but the distant glare in her eyes told John that she had no clue about anything being said. It was the soft way Elle spoke that soothed her.