The Rockin' Chair

by Steven Manchester

  His pa laughed at his shock. “The sun’s lazy, boy, and if we waited on him to get started, we’d never get a lick of work done.”

  As Hank remembered, school left more questions than provided answers. One night, while fine-tuning his play on the harmonica, he began asking.

  Hank was just done matching his pa’s every note and even more so, quickening the rhythm with his own hard style. As the last note rang out, he caught his ma’s mischievous smile. She gestured with the slightest jerk of her head toward her husband, and then shot Hank a secret wink. I beat the old man again, Hank thought, and waited for praise that would never come.

  Leaning back in his chair, the old man wrinkled his brow and asked, “Not bad, but don’t you figure you could play better if you put in more time practicin’?”

  Hank answered with a half shrug of his shoulders, filing the comment away with the rest of them. Sitting at his pa’s feet he asked, “Pa, why do the other kids in school have brothers and sisters and I don’t?”

  Pa looked him straight in the eye and never candy-coated a word of it. “I suppose the Lord wanted it that way ’cause when you came into the world, we almost lost your ma.” Pa explained it all in detail. When he was through, Hank experienced a brand new feeling. He would learn later in life that it was called guilt and that it had no qualms about returning every once in a while.

  One Sunday night, Hank recalled waking from a dream. His pa was standing over his bed. With bear paws he reached down, tucked the blanket under Hank’s chin and kissed him on the cheek. In a muffled voice he said, “I love you,” and then disappeared from the room.

  Hank awoke for school, started to get dressed and stopped briefly at the foot of the bed to ponder the dream. It seemed so real, he thought. The flat voice was Pa’s and the kiss felt like it had actually touched his cheek. He thought on it for a minute longer but dismissed it as nothing more than a dream. It can’t be. Pa never kissed me and he definitely don’t ever say the words, I love you … not to me anyway. That dream played in Hank’s head for years. It really did seem so real.

  Throughout his childhood, Hank was always in trouble for one thing or another. Most times, Pa would have him fetch his own switch and take him behind one of the barns to beat him with it. He’d say, ‘Boy, this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you,’ but Hank always doubted it. The old man enjoyed handin’ out those beatin’s, Hank thought. He must have. He handed ’em out on a regular basis.

  Hank was eager to please back then and took the hands-on approach to learning the chores. But more times than not, Pa would be yelling, ‘Go easy … be gentle … not that way … you’re not listenin’ … and the complaints went on. Hank watched how things got done but, when it was his turn to tackle them, he could never do it the same way. He sensed right off that he was different and that the old man’s shoes were just too big.

  With everything inside of him, Hank tried to fill those shoes but he couldn’t. Instead, with his pa’s disappointment driving him, he figured he’d work hard. No matter what my old man thinks, at least he can’t ever accuse me of bein’ lazy, he thought. I’ll show him. Sometimes, Hank worked so hard it hurt. Even young, the physical pain was no match for realizing that no matter what he did or how good he did it, he was never going to meet up to Pa’s expectations.

  As time went on, Hank stumbled through all the learning he would need to run a farm—being a farmer, veterinarian, cowboy, mechanic, carpenter, butcher and other trades associated with the survival of a recluse. The years never changed the chemistry between Hank and his pa. Knowing that he paled in comparison, Hank would try different ways at getting better results and then ask, “How’d I do, Pa?”

  The old man usually attempted kindness, saying, “Not bad, but …” and there was always a but. He’d then add, “You don’t always have to go against the grain, boy.”

  Hank wandered the fields trying to figure that one out, but only when he started at the sawmill did the answer hit him. Pa never understood, Hank thought. My intentions was always good but the old man never saw it that way.

  Hank recalled one August afternoon. It was hotter than Haiti and remembering it still made him pull at his collar. He and George were twelve and though the old man forbade their association on the farm, Hank figured that the fairgrounds were outside of Pa’s jurisdiction. As usual, George was sitting on a pocket full of money, unwilling to part with a penny of it. Instead, he had an idea. Hank listened to the plan and right off, he knew it wasn’t right. It went against everything he’d been taught. But George could be persuasive. “Two minutes,” he promised. “It’ll take two minutes and we’ll be stuffing our gobs with sweets you ain’t ever tasted!”

  Hank folded to the pressure. Even as they shook hands, he could feel deep in his guts that it was a bad idea. Something told him, Just walk away! Outside his head, though, another voice called him “chicken.” Hank chose the wrong voice. He chose George’s.

  At first, everything looked good. It was going smooth like George had planned. The vendor was as stupid as a stump and George was talking up a storm. Ignoring the churning in his guts, Hank sneaked in, grabbed as much fudge as his hands would hold, and spun to meet George at their pre-determined rally point under the tractor pull bleachers. It didn’t happen that way, though.

  Hank didn’t think that death—even death—was going to erase that look in Pa’s eyes from his memory. There was anger and judgment but, for the first time, Hank witnessed a wrath far worse than either—disappointment. Pa was hurt deep and Hank could see it. Like an infectious disease, Hank’s heart ached with his father’s pain.

  The old man booted George in the behind and dragged Hank back to the vendor. In front of a growing crowd, he made him tell the man why he did it; why he was “a no-good, lazy thief who’d stolen food out of his children’s mouths.” Embarrassed and humiliated, it was the word “lazy” that cut to the bone. More than anything, Hank never wanted his pa to think him lazy. “Stupid” was one thing; “no-good” was another. But of all things, he wasn’t “lazy.” The injustice of such an insult stung worse than the angry bees storming from the many hives Hank had prodded.

  As usual, Ma snuck up the supper but Pa never even bothered to call for the switch that night. He was so disgusted, so disappointed, that he’d given up. Hank couldn’t believe it, but he actually came close to praying that he’d get the beating. It never came. He fell asleep thinking, I ain’t even worth the effort no more. Times got cold on both sides after that. Hank worked harder than ever and Pa spoke only when he needed to.

  Fortunately, adolescence came knocking loud and clear before long and Hank couldn’t wait to open the door. The first thing he did was put the whole school thing to sleep. He quit, leaving him with few options outside of farming. Pa has one more thing to add to his long list of disappointments, he thought. By then, Hank was used to the look.

  Hank emerged from his memories in a painful daze.

  “And that’s around the same time we met, right?” Elle said, trying to bring her husband all the way back.

  “Sure is,” Hank said, grinning. “And you remember what happened when I went to the old man to suggest some changes around the farm,” he said, his smile erased again.

  Elle shook her head. ““How could I ever forget?”

  “I know I won’t,” Hank said, and his eyes glassed over again.

  Hank and his father were out mending fences together. Through his few remaining teeth, Pa was whistling some Ernest Tubb tune when Hank dropped the bomb. “I’ve been thinkin’, Pa, and I figure it’s time we made a few changes around this old farm. We should expand, take on some farm hands and …”

  Pa’s condescending smirk stopped Hank from going further. As he recalled, that annoying grin also ushered in the beginning of their end. Talking to Pa was always like peeing in the wind. Each and every time, he walked away feeling like less than the man he was. The old man chuckled. “Nope. Things are just fine as they are, boy.” He shook his head. “If
it ain’t broken, then we don’t need to be fixin’ it. This farm’s done well by us … just the way it is.”

  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.

  CHAPTER 9

  All 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.”