The Rockin' Chair

by Steven Manchester

  Emerging from a fit of laughter, the old man managed, “I’m tellin’ ya, Evan. You can’t rightly help what others do to ya. You just gotta accept some things as they are and move on. God might nap now and again but He don’t sleep for too long. It all comes around, my boy.” The pig-like snorts continued.

  Some time elapsed before the laughs died down. Expecting an afternoon of blissful silence, out of nowhere Grampa John dropped the hammer. “I couldn’t ever figure why young folks go off into the world to find themselves. It seems to me that they don’t get lost ’til they’re out there.”

  Evan nodded but this time he was the one who held his tongue.

  The master went on. “I reckon I got a pretty good picture of the course you traveled and I can’t say I envy ya. But if your grandma was around today, she’d be pretty steamed at you right now.”

  Evan shrugged. The old man maintained his stare. Whether he wanted to hear it or not, Evan asked, “Why?”

  On cue, Grampa John explained, “Seems to me that you and your grandma lost your memories right around the same time.” Taking a seat, he sighed. “Evan, you came from folks who was dirt poor and not so schooled. Ever since you was young, you dreamt of runnin’ from all of it. First chance you got, you did. And that’s okay. But you forgot where you came from, boy. You forgot who you were and those that loved ya deep. I reckon just on principle that’s what’s caused a good heap of the pain in that big heart of yours.” The stare remained but he added a grin. “You see, even though you felt lonely … you was never alone.”

  Evan blushed with embarrassment, thinking, Grampa John’s brutally right. He’d done his best to bury his roots in Carley’s family tree. It didn’t work, though. McCarthy roots didn’t just run over the surface; they ran deep—all the way back to a wise farmer in Montana.

  The old man placed his arm around him. “It’s downright wasteful worryin’ over things that’s already happened, though, so don’t go cowerin’ on me now.” He pointed to his head. “We can only store it away and pull it out later if we need it.” Standing, he added, “Just don’t waste too much of the storage on the sorrowful things. When you get to my stretch of the road, you’re gonna wanna recall the things that made you laugh. Every day that goes by, I learn everything else don’t add up to a pile of beans.”

  Almost as if he knew the time had come, Grampa John turned to find Hank standing in the barn’s doorway. Drunk or sober—John was still unsure—his son’s aggressive posture announced that he had come to fight. “Evan, why don’t you leave me and your pa alone for a spell. Seems we need to discuss a few things.”

  Evan nodded and started to leave. As he passed his father, Hank hissed, “You forget where your real home is, boy?”

  “Sorry, Pa. I was just …”

  “Don’t go blamin’ none of this on the boy,” Grampa John called out. “I insisted that he stay on.” The old man studied Hank and nodded. “Besides, we both know you ain’t here about Evan.”

  Evan hurried out the door.

  Hank stepped into the barn like he was jumping into a boxing ring. “Now you’re gonna try to take my kids from me, too?” he barked at his father.

  “What? How much you been drinkin’?” Grampa John asked.

  “There ain’t enough booze in this world to ease the pain you’ve caused,” Hank yelled. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

  “I’m tryin’ to help the kids, Hank, not hurt you. What on God’s green earth would ever make you think that I’d wanna hurt you?”

  Without hesitation, Hank spun on his heels and pointed at the blackened foundation of the old horse barn. “All the proof I’ll ever need is right there … right smack in front of both of us … and it has been for years,” Hank yelled, recounting that unspeakable night all those years ago.

  Hank was nearly twelve years old. As soon as he spotted his friend George sneaking onto the farm, he knew there’d be trouble. George easily made it past the security—Pa—and headed straight to the barn. Hank rushed in after him. “What are you doin’?” was cut off by George’s face. Hank couldn’t get over how big his eyes were.

  George placed his fingers to his lips and whispered, “I got somethin’,” and then grabbed him by the shirt, leading him up the ladder to the hay loft. Excited like he’d just discovered some hidden treasure, he finally revealed his stash. It was a crumpled pack of Pall Mall cigarettes. Hank wasn’t even done shaking his head when George had one lit. “It’s time to become men,” he coughed and passed the butt over.

  Hank spent years trying to figure why he took it. He didn’t want to. Yet, with the taste of wood stove ash on his tongue and a fire burning all the way to his lungs, he joined his friend in some ridiculous rite of passage into manhood. Three puffs later, he spied the very large and distinct shadow of his pa approaching. “Oh, no!” he whispered and panicked.

  He flicked the cigarette into the air and scurried to the back of the loft with George in tow. Pa walked in, quickly looked around, and then left—scratching his head. The old man wasn’t ten feet from the barn when Hank saw the smoke. “The hayloft’s on fire,” he squealed. His heart beat out of his chest. He and George leaped to their feet and tried desperately to stomp out the growing sparks. But as if someone had dumped a can of gasoline over the hay, the tiny flames lifted straight to the ceiling and began gnawing away. Within seconds, the blaze engulfed the second story of the barn. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion from then on. The horses were screaming the most horrible shrills. The smoke became so thick it was impossible to see and even harder to breathe. Missing most of the rungs down the ladder, he and his accomplice somehow found their way out of the barn. As if his legs were anchored to the ground by invisible chains, Hank remembered freezing for a split second. It was just long enough to watch George running for home.

  When Hank’s legs finally permitted him to run to the well, he was met by Pa’s snarling face. The look in the old man’s eyes reached far beyond anything he’d ever seen. Years later he would define it as a combination of hatred and disgust.

  No matter how hard they tried, the water from the well never could have saved those poor horses. Hank worked feverishly, running back and forth with buckets, while Ma shrieked at least twice. Pa remained silent. Neighbors eventually arrived, but by that time the horses were dead and the barn nearly buckled to its foundation. When there was nothing more to do but mourn, Hank drummed up the courage to approach the old man. It didn’t matter. Pa was so sick with hate that he couldn’t even hold his gaze. Hank said, “I’m so sorry, Pa. George had a cigarette and …” The old man turned and walked away, leaving him to think, Pa’s fed up and has finally had enough.

  Hank could see it as plain as day. The barn incident was the last straw. There was nothing more that needed saying. The bitter tears that pelted Hank’s cheeks that night would be the last his childhood would ever see. For the sake of self-preservation, it was time to change his mind-set. No more cryin’, he vowed.

  In Hank’s mind, that charred foundation had been left standing for years as some sort of bizarre monument to a childhood of wrong decisions.

  Hank finished explaining the years of pain that this one mistake had cost him. Shaking his head, he pointed back toward the blackened foundation and screamed, “All these years, you let that foundation stand as a reminder of everything I ever done wrong … to let me know of the screw-up you think I am …” He wanted to go on but couldn’t. Before he broke down, he turned and stormed off his father’s land—again.

  “That just ain’t true, Hank,” the old man yelled after him. “That ain’t true at all!”

  Hank kept marching and never looked back. He wasn’t about to show any more emotion and break the promise he’d made to himself all those years ago.

  John walked out onto the farmyard and stared at the charred eyesore. “It just ain’t true,” he repeated in a whisper, and his mind immediately raced back to recall his own version of that terrible night.

  It wasn’t like Hank cou
ldn’t find his own share of problems all by his lonesome. He had shaken more than one hive in his day, leaving the bees more scared than him. Alice had also drawn a few tomato juice baths when the boy set his mind on investigating skunks. He loved tipping cows and once, he even cursed at Alice at the supper table. John remembered the boy’s face when he landed flat on his back in the pig trough. “You wanna talk like one, then you can eat with’em,” the old man barked, leaving Hank to ponder the consequences of his loose tongue. Still, no trouble imaginable could compare to the mountains of manure Hank and his buddy George stepped into together. Outside of school, John didn’t want Hank around the deviant. But on one horrible night, Hank would defy his wishes once again. The boys’ reunion would prove deadly and the very memory brought a queasy feeling to John’s insides.

  The sun had just gone in for the night when John remembered checking whether they had enough feed to last out the month. It was a quiet night, very still. For a second, he recalled feeling disturbed—as if he’d forgotten something important. Eventually shaking it off as nothing, he started for the house to steal a kiss from his squaw. Again, something stopped him in mid-stride. Turning back, he checked the coops and both barns. Everything seems fine, he decided, and went in for his supper and that kiss.

  No sooner had he washed behind his ears than the faint cry of horses had him at the window. Like something straight from a nightmare, he could see the orange glow pulsate from the horse barn’s loft. “No!” he screamed and fetched his boots. As he hit the porch running, he saw two boys doing the same. Hank was running for the well, while George was high-tailing it home.

  It took no more than minutes before the hay-packed barn was engulfed in flames. “Please Lord … no!” John yelled again. Though he tried several times, with the intense heat he couldn’t get close enough to free the screaming animals. Through the thick, heavy smoke, he witnessed the cruelest sight his eyes had ever beheld. The horses were kicking up dirt so high that it looked like black rain, while they sent shrills that would haunt his soul for life. Insane with seeing their own destructive end, the animals bounced off the walls. John swore he could hear their bones breaking. As he recalled the brutal chaos, he felt chills travel his spine. Alice, Hank and he did all they could to contain the hypnotizing inferno. As if they were sent from the bowels of hell, those starving flames lashed out at the smoke-filled sky, wanting nothing more than to feed off of the other barn. By some small miracle, that never happened. But by another cruel curse, the horse barn burned completely to the ground.

  John did what he could to tuck away the rest of the horrid memory, but not before he pictured Hank’s young face one last time. It was the perfect picture of pain. The boy was guilt-stricken, petrified, ashamed and every other emotion that dwells in the dark. As neighbors saturated nothing but charred foundation, Hank approached his father and sobbed something about “a cigarette.” John could barely look at the boy, never mind talk to him. He turned and walked away—never listening to his apology, never granting forgiveness for his sin. I couldn’t listen or talk. John thought, I just couldn’t do it. The shrill of dying animals was still ringing in his ears, while the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Besides, if Hank had listened for once, George would not have been anywhere near the farm. John just walked away and never spoke on the tragedy again. Hank did the same.

  That night, John kneeled on quivering knees and spoke to the Lord. “I reckon I could never thank you proper for allowin’ those foolish boys to make it out of that barn alive. Ain’t no less than a miracle, Father.”

  An eerie silence replaced any laughter that had once echoed through the farm. Though there were no funds to replace the livestock, George’s stout father brought over two horses from his own barn—a stallion and a mare. John refused at first, saying, “I’m much obliged but it ain’t necessary.”

  “Please John, take ’em,” the man pleaded, a cigar dangling from his thick lips. “My boy won’t sit for a month, I swear it, but I still need to set things right. Take the horses, please.” He shrugged. “It’s either here or the glue factory.”

  John laughed.

  He peered hard into John’s eyes and insisted, “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  With a nod, John reluctantly took the reins. In the end, the offer was accepted, but only because it was intended to redeem his son’s sin more than anything else. The horses found their new home in the cow barn.

  Not a full month went by when John and Alice were sharing a moment alone out on the porch. Alice stared at the horse barn’s charred foundation, which sat right smack in the middle of the land. “I wish we had the money to rebuild, John,” she confessed. “It’s a terrible eyesore.”

  “It ain’t easy workin’ around it every day, I can tell ya that,” he said. “Truth is, I hate the constant reminder of that awful night. But as long as that foundation stands, there’s always hope of rebuildin’.”

  Alice nodded and jumped into his lap for a kiss.

  John emerged from the vivid nightmare and walked out to face the old foundation “Stupid bastard,” he muttered, studying the monstrosity. “What the hell did I do?”

  Shaking his head, he marched straight back to the farmhouse to find Evan sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup and looking at his cell phone. “Evan, your pa’s right. I’ve been selfish with your time. Your folks need some of it too.”

  “But Grampa John, it’s my choice whether …”

  “Please go home, Evan … for me.”

  Evan nodded. “Okay. But what about T?”

  “Tara will have to stay on for a bit longer. Ain’t got no choice on that one.” He shook his head. “I’ll go clear it with your pa tonight.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was a Saturday afternoon and Montana was gearing up for one of its reckless snowstorms. Hunched against the cold, John and his old friend Herbert sat on the front porch playing checkers. John was drinking coffee. Herbert was enjoying a beer.

  “Hank gave me a real piece of his mind a few days back,” John said, as he scanned the board. “Truth be told, it was like gettin’ kicked in the head by a mule.”

  Herbert grinned. “What’s the problem … Hank been buyin’ the same pigeons over and over?”

  Despite his heavy heart, John joined his friend with a grin of his own.

  Years ago, when John and Hank raced pigeons together, Hank was purchasing all the birds he could afford from different breeders. Most of the birds would escape, never returning, sending him back out to buy more. John witnessed the naive boy buy the same bird several times before he secretly visited Herbert about the confusion. “Seems that the birds my boy bought from you have flown the coop, sendin’ him back to buy more,” he told his friend Herb. “And from what I can tell, he’s bought the same bird from you three times.”

  Herb slapped his knee in laughter before offering a cold bottle of Miller High Life, along with a sealed envelope containing all the money Hank had spent. “Your boy’s good with the birds,” Herb joked, “but not so good with the dollar, huh?”

  John shrugged. “Oh, I don’t rightly know about that. From where I sit, all the money he’s made, he won from beatin’ your best flyers.” He took a sip of beer. “If you ask me, I’d say he’s done alright for himself,” he added proudly.

  Herbert raised his beer in agreement and they had a laugh. Although John shared in his neighbor’s good-hearted fun, he never leaked it to Hank. The pigeons were the best thing that ever happened to John and his boy. It finally gave them something positive to share.

  John jumped two of Herbert’s checkers. “King me,” he told his friend.

  As Herb did, he attempted to lighten John’s solemn mood. “Well, it ain’t any fun bein’ kicked in the head by a mule. I can attest to that.” He grinned. “But at least you and your boy are talkin’ again … ’cause we both know that ain’t always been the case.”

  “We’re talkin’, alright,” John muttered sarcastically and shook h
is head.

  “I just don’t get it,” Herb said.

  John looked up from the board. “How’s that?”

  Herb shrugged and, after thinking on it for a minute, he asked, “How old’s Hank now, anyway? It ain’t like …”

  “What’s that got to do with it, Herb?” John interrupted, quickly going to his son’s defense. “Truth is, age don’t make no difference here.” He shook his head. “With me and Hank, it’s always been like two bulls buttin’ heads … always.”

  Herbert nodded as if he understood, though there was no way he could. He never uttered another word and they sat in silence for a while, playing. John had just asked to be “kinged” again when he saw a soldier making his way toward the house. The man displayed no medals nor did he wear a uniform, but from the walk, he was clearly a soldier. “It’s Georgey,” John announced.

  He looked at Herbert and they both stood to greet him. With the exception of a shorter haircut and older eyes, George looked no different from the day he’d left. His faded blue jeans and flannel jacket were John’s first clue. Somethin’ ain’t right with him either.

  “Welcome home,” Herbert roared. The green duffel bag fell to the ground with a thump. Without checking its contents, John could already tell that the bag was stuffed with some heavy experiences. He started his search with a hug.

  George broke the silence. “Grampa John, I just got your letter. I’m so sorry …”

  The old man raised his hand. “Sorry for what? You’re just in time.” He scanned his grandson’s face. Something painful winced in Georgey’s eyes. Turning to Herbert, John said, “Herb, if you don’t mind gettin’ a chair for George, here, I’d be obliged.”

  Herbert nodded. “I’ll go fetch it,” he confirmed and turned to George. “Don’t you dare go nowhere. I’ll be right back. I don’t wanna miss none of your stories.”