Time went by. There were more auditions, more rejections and more disappointments. It was always a close call and never a curtain call. Tara became even more comfortable at the club, a place that provided a cheap and continuous sedation.
Constantly bouncing between bouts of anxiety and a state of depression, Bryce invited her worries to sleep with marijuana. Reluctantly, she indulged him. She felt submerged, as if placed in a thick pool of warm pudding. Her worries slowed to a creep. It relaxed her and made her concentrate on the present. That was Bryce’s theory anyway. “Who knows if there’ll be a tomorrow,” he claimed, and lived religiously by his motto. The more Tara smoked, the more she liked it. There were no more hangovers and no more bed spins.
It was tough to remember when the transformation from marijuana to cocaine took place, but it had to have been at one of Bryce’s rich parties. Everyone was doing it and everyone was happy. Tara took her first snort and waited. Within seconds, she’d taken the northbound express straight to heaven. Using cocaine was like experiencing full-body euphoria. She not only felt on top of the world, she felt like she owned it—with the right to destroy it all if she chose to. It was a feeling of utter suspension. Nothing can touch me, she thought. I’m a star. Cocaine provided the sensation of everything she ever dreamed of feeling and suddenly the dreams of being on stage seemed childish. Who needs the constant disappointment when I can shine in a different light? she thought.
Life went along. Tara worked the club for a couple hundred dollars a night, while Bryce paid all the bills at their apartment and supplied mounds of white powder—that is, until she announced, “We’re pregnant!”
Whether it was the morning sickness or the look on Bryce’s face, she actually dry heaved. He said they’d talk about it but they never did. Instead, on his way out of their apartment he shot her a look that could only have been described as hatred.
Tara wept for days, tears shed more for their unborn child than anything. What could be more horrible than to start out life unwanted? she wondered, and mourned the thought of it.
Depression took its strong hold, as Tara struggled to push the drugs away for the love of her unborn baby. On some days, it was a losing battle. Bryce wasted no time throwing her out of the apartment and the nightclub. Tara was in trouble. I haven’t done anything but serve drinks for a man who knows everyone in the business, she thought. Besides, no one wants a cocktail waitress with a swollen belly. Adding insult to injury, she hadn’t set foot on one stage and had no real skills to fall back on. In more than one way, she was in big trouble.
Left at the mercy of welfare and other humiliating means of struggling to make ends meet, Tara swallowed her pride and knocked on Nancy’s door again. Without a word, her only true friend in New York offered a hug and a roof to keep the rain off Tara’s aching head.
Tara eventually picked up work waiting tables at a breakfast nook. If it weren’t for Nancy, she probably would have been working the streets as a prostitute. Bryce had trained her well. Tara had hit bottom with a greedy addiction, the fears of bringing a child into Bryce Badley’s self-centered world and the realization that she was unsure whether she could take care of herself—never mind a baby. It was terrifying and to her shame, it caused her to seek an escape. She knew only one—alcohol.
The miracle of life was overshadowed by the guilt of drinking while pregnant and Tara fell into an abysmal depression. She steered clear of the weed and coke and the baby was born perfectly healthy. In fact, Lila was a beautiful girl. Still, Tara had compromised her child to feed her own destructive urges. The very thought made her turn to harder narcotics again. Right around then, she ceased all correspondence with Montana. There’s nothing good to report back to the family, she decided. Thank God for Nancy. The woman nearly adopted baby Lila, while Tara all but committed suicide the slow way.
The remaining months in New York drifted by like big puffy clouds, each forming a very different picture until her sky became so overcast that the entire world grew dark. The rest was a fog, time lost to unbridled fears, a weakness in willpower and the strength of America’s fiercest enemy—drugs. That was it. A year and a half back, Tara’s recorder had been stuck on pause. As she searched for more, the look in her eyes said it all.
Tara’s body convulsed like she was suffering a seizure. It was pouring out of her—the fear, the shame, the guilt, the anger—all of it. She managed to find the courage to look into Evan’s eyes. Between gasping breaths, she confessed, “Dear God, I can’t tell you when Lila took her first steps or the first word she ever spoke.” Almost at a scream, she finished. “I’m such a horrible person. How could I?”
Evan dropped the fork into his plate and reached for her hand. Grabbing it tightly, he raised his voice. “No you’re not, T. You’ve just been surrounded by the wrong people for too long. You’ve forgotten who you are.” He shook his head. “And you’re not the only one.”
Either she never caught the last comment or didn’t have the energy to look deeper, but it was clear. Between the depression and addictions, she’d missed a solid eighteen months of her life. It was gone with no way to ever retrieve it.
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.
CHAPTER 5
Unwilling 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.”
The Rockin' Chair Page 6