The Rockin' Chair

by Steven Manchester

  “And from where I sat, there were times when you was itchin’, even beggin’ for a good whoopin’, but your pa held back,” the old man added.

  Evan choked on the coffee and nearly spit it out. “What?”

  “That’s right … like that time when you was around twelve, I guess it was. You and your scrawny buddy Jacob packed the gas tank on your pa’s tractor with dirt.” Grampa John grinned. “You swore on your own soul that it wasn’t you, leavin’ Jacob to take the blame for it.”

  Evan was speechless. “How did you know?” he finally asked, his eyes still filled with guilt over the unsolved crime.

  “It was in your eyes. I could tell you felt real bad after you did it, so I kept it to myself.” He shrugged. “But that was one of many that I know you got away with.”

  Evan nodded in silent agreement.

  Grampa John said, “Listen, Evan, don’t let this drag on between you and your pa. Do yourself a favor and make peace as soon as you can. Anything else is just plain foolish. Trust me on this.”

  Evan nodded again, confirming that he would.

  After a comfortable silence, the old man asked, “So what you been doin’ with your time?”

  Evan laughed. “Trying to recover from the hard labor you’ve forced on me,” he joked.

  Grampa John carried his empty mug to the sink. “Whatever you do, just stay busy. You know what they say about idle hands, right?”

  Evan nodded, finishing his coffee with a wince.

  “Well, that ain’t nothin’ compared to what the devil can do to an idle mind.” He smiled. “Have you decided yet whether you’re headin’ back?”

  “Heading back?” Evan repeated.

  “To Massachusetts.” The old man shrugged. “I realize there’s a lot of bad memories for you there, but you had a good job writin’ for the paper didn’t ya?”

  Evan nodded. “It’s funny you ask, Grampa John, because I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it the past couple days.”

  “Care to share?” the old man asked.

  “I’ve actually decided there’s really nothing to go back to. I finished my college degree and Carley … well, there isn’t much more to say about how that turned out.” He shrugged. “As far as the newspaper job, there’s no reason I can’t find the same gig right here.”

  Grampa John smiled wide. “I can’t tell ya how glad I am to hear that.”

  Evan returned the smile and shrugged again. “In the four years I’ve been away, I learned that Montana’s as good a place as anywhere to build a life, so I might as well stay. But I can’t …” He stopped.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Even if we could learn to get along, I can’t live with Pa.”

  Grampa John nodded. “I wouldn’t suspect no different. At your age, you should be out on your own anyway.” He chuckled. “There must be places to rent in Montana, right?”

  Evan laughed.

  The old man yawned. “So when you gonna get started lookin’ for that newspaper job?” He put his massive hand on Evan’s shoulder. “You don’t think I’m gonna let you mope around this farm forever, do ya?”

  Evan laughed. He was ten pounds lighter, his hands were now callused and he hadn’t slept so deeply in years. “This week,” he answered.

  “Good.” Grampa John pulled Evan in for a hug. “I’m goin’ to bed,” he announced. “And you need to go talk to your pa ’fore you do the same, right?” He pushed away to look into his grandson’s eyes. “Right?”

  Evan nodded. “I’m heading back there now.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  It was late; everyone had turned in for the night. Tip-toeing across the hall, Tara peeked in on Grampa John. The old man was snoring so loud that it sounded like a chain saw competition. She smiled and then took a deep breath. Should I? she wondered, but the unquenchable thirst deep inside her left no doubt about her next move.

  The keys to the old man’s pick-up truck were hanging on a rusty nail in the mudroom. Quickly throwing on her jacket, she grabbed her purse and sneaked out of the house. As she started the truck, she held her breath—realizing there was no guarantee for an undetected getaway. The motor fired right up and she pulled away from the house. A few hundreds yards from the farm, she turned on the headlights and began breathing again.

  There were only two dives in town and both stayed open for as long as folks were paying for drinks. She pulled into the front of The Corn Crib—the green and yellow neon buzzing and pulsating against the dark night. It was the very place that her mother and father had met. She parked the truck, turned off the ignition and nearly sprinted for the front door. The thirst was completely in charge now.

  It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. There were two local boys shooting pool, while a girl a few years younger than them played pinball. With one look, Tara could tell that the girl was stoned. Other than an old man nursing a draft beer at the bar, the rest of the place was empty. Tara threw her pocketbook on the bar and smiled when the barmaid approached. “Jim Beam, straight up,” Tara ordered. “And make it a double.”

  “Double Jim Beam?” the woman asked, trying to confirm the curious order.

  “Please,” Tara confirmed. Besides the bells of the pinball machine and the occasional smack of pool balls, the bar was quiet. Tara looked down at her hands. They were trembling.

  The woman placed Tara’s whiskey on the bar.

  Tara grabbed the glass, lifted it to her dry lips and drank it down in one gulp. As the familiar burn ignited her throat and belly, she placed the empty glass onto the bar. “I’ll have another,” she said, and threw a twenty dollar bill onto the bar.

  With a nod, the barmaid turned to retrieve the amber-colored bottle. Within seconds, she returned, poured another shot and wisely left the bottle on the bar.

  Tara picked up the glass, paused for a second and thought about the trip she was about to take. “To hell with it,” she said aloud, and tossed the second double down her throat.

  One of the scruffy pool players stepped up beside her and grinned. “Looks like you could use somethin’ a little stronger than whiskey,” he said, pointing toward her empty glass.

  “What do you have?” she blurted.

  His grin grew wider. “Anything you want, darlin’.”

  At that very moment, the jukebox began belting out an old Ernest Tubb tune, “Walk Across Texas.” Tara smiled to herself. It was Grandma and Grampa John’s song; the one they danced to every chance they could.

  The barmaid had just finished filling Tara’s glass and was walking away with the bottle when Tara looked up and spotted—in the mirror behind the bar—a familiar silhouette standing right behind her. Her heart dropped and she instinctively pushed the drink away. “Oh hell,” she said.

  The drug dealer glanced behind him to see a large, old man hovering over them. He slipped a card into Tara’s hand. “Give me a call when you need a fix,” he whispered, and slithered back to his pool game.

  As Tara slid the card into her purse, Grampa John took a seat beside her. “Mind if I join ya?” he asked. “It’s been a while since I tied one on, myself.”

  Tara shook her head, tears starting to blur her vision. “I’m sorry, Grampa John. I shouldn’t have …”

  Shaking his head, he grabbed her glass and slid it toward her. “Don’t apologize to me,” he said. “It’s not my life you’re screwin’ up.”

  Drumming up all the courage she possessed, she turned to face him. As always, there was anything but judgment in his eyes.

  “Go on,” he said, pointing toward the whiskey. “Drink it down. You paid good money for it.”

  She shook her head, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “No,” she said, and pushed the glass away from her—spilling half of it onto the bar.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  She picked up her purse. “Let’s go home,” she said, and hurried for the door, avoiding eye contact with the two boys shooting pool.

  As they walke
d out of the bar, Tara spotted her mother’s clunker parked beside Grampa John’s truck and cringed. Grampa John went to Ma and Pa’s to borrow their car, she realized. She started for the pick-up when the old man asked, “Where ya think you’re goin’?”

  She lifted the keys and pointed toward the truck.

  He glared at her. “Ain’t you been drinkin’, girl?”

  She threw him the keys and headed for the passenger side of the car.

  “We’ll come back first light to get the truck,” he explained. “Right after ya finish your chores.”

  The first mile back was driven in silence. Tara couldn’t take it and finally broke the tension. “I really am sorry for this, Grampa John,” she said. “I … I made a bad mistake.”

  He looked over at her and shook his head. “Like I said, there ain’t no need to apologize to me. But you do need to apologize to your daughter.” There was silence for another mile before he added, “And I expect to hear that apology sometime real soon.” He wasn’t yelling, but he wasn’t asking, either.

  Tara nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Hank was an hour into another monotonous shift at the mill, when an old Ford pickup pulled into the lumberyard. The man behind the wheel was even older than the truck. Hank approached and extended his hand to accept the purchase order. “What can we do you for today?” he asked.

  “Gonna build me a new pigeon coop,” the old-timer said, pulling a corncob pipe from his mouth and flashing a toothless smile. As he handed over the slip, Hank cringed at the mention of pigeons. He turned to mount his idling forklift when the old man called out to him. “Hey, you’re a McCarthy, ain’t ya? Big John’s boy, right?”

  Hank turned around. “That’s right,” he said.

  The man grinned wide. “You and your pa beat some of my best flyers a long while back. I remember your old man braggin’ on you for the longest time.”

  “You must have me mistaken for another fella,” Hank said.

  The old man shook his head and searched Hank’s face. “Nope. I got it right. Big John talked you up like you was the next Charles Lindberg.”

  “Can’t be …” Hank muttered under his breath before heading for the forklift. “…you crazy old coot.”

  Hank was out of sorts for the rest of the day and, as usual, brought the bitterness home with his lunch pail.

  Elle was at the stove when she turned to watch her husband stomping through the kitchen. “What’s the matter now?” she asked.

  “Ain’t none of your concern!” he barked, and shot her a look that would have killed most women.

  Elle shook her head and returned to the cooking. “You’d better change your hateful ways, Hank,” she warned, “or you’ll lose everyone … not just the kids.” When she turned to face him, he was already drinking a beer at the kitchen table. “Thanksgiving’s on Thursday,” she announced. “And we’re going to Pa’s … like your ma would have wanted.” She spooned out his dinner.

  Hank bit his tongue and then looked at the table. “You ain’t eatin’?” he asked.

  She sighed. “I already told you. I’m going to the movies with Phyllis.” She shook her head. “I swear, you never listen to me.”

  Hank stared at her. “Phyllis,” he snickered. “It’s always Phyllis.”

  “Always Phyllis?” Elle repeated, sharply. “We’re lucky if we get together once a month now.”

  “It’s still too much,” he mumbled, as he started tearing into his dinner.

  Elle threw on her coat and grabbed her purse. “You should be happy, Hank,” she said. “Consider it therapy that we don’t have to pay for.”

  He looked up from his plate but couldn’t muster a reply.

  “Georgey’s watching Lila. I’ll be home after the movie. Call my cell if you need me.” Without another word, she left him to eat his dinner alone.

  This time, he nearly chewed his tongue off.

  While Elle drove slow and vented to her friend, Phyllis shook her head. “I’m still amazed how someone as sweet and gentle as you could end up with such an angry man,” she said.

  Elle thought about it and said, “You know, Phyllis, Hank wasn’t always so angry.” She parked in front of the Main Street Cinema and turned off the ignition. A few snowflakes floated from the gray sky and stuck to the windshield.

  “He wasn’t, huh?” Phyllis said. “Well, he’s been pissed off at the world for as long as I’ve known him.”

  Elle shrugged. “I’m telling you … he was different when I met him.”

  Phyllis looked at Elle with disbelief in her eyes, but she was also waiting to hear more.

  Elle looked at the cinema. “The movie starts in a few minutes,” she reminded her friend.

  Phyllis shrugged and then grinned. “How often do we actually make it into the theater?”

  Elle laughed and then eased back into the seat. “You never saw Hank when he was young, but … he was a sight. He had his father’s build and his mother’s jet-black hair. And those blue eyes! I didn’t have a chance from the moment I looked into them.” She nodded. “He was a sight, for sure, but he was also as charming as a seventeen-year-old boy could be.”

  “You met at a bar, right?” Phyllis asked, teasing.

  Elle smirked. “I was at the Corn Crib with a girlfriend, when he approached me with the lamest pickup line I’d ever heard.” She laughed at the memory. “‘Hey,’ he said in his raspiest voice. ‘You look just like my first wife.’ I sized him up and asked, ‘So how many times you been married?’ He actually got nervous and began stuttering. ‘I … I … haven’t … yet,’ he said. Although I walked away, I knew right then and there that we’d be together.”

  Phyllis laughed.

  “We saw each other three more times before I finally agreed to go on a date with him.” She shrugged. “He eventually got me by saying ‘Hi,’ and leaving it at that.”

  “Good for you,” Phyllis said. “You started training him early.”

  Elle laughed. “We courted for a few months and on Sundays, we’d always steal a kiss after church.” Her eyes sparkled with love. “One Sunday, he handed me a bunch of wild flowers that he’d picked on the way. He looked so tired and sweaty but I didn’t care. I pulled him in close for a kiss. I remember asking him, ‘Hank McCarthy, did you run three whole miles just for a little kiss?’ He nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said, grinning, ‘and I’ve got another three miles before I make it back home.’ I kissed him again. This time, the preacher caught us from the window and shook his head.”

  “Hank picked you wild flowers and walked six miles for a kiss?” Phyllis asked, surprised.

  Elle nodded. “I’m telling you, Phyllis, he was very romantic back then.” She nodded. “And it didn’t take him long to rent every room in my head and leave even less space in my heart.”

  Phyllis smiled. “How long before you guys eloped?”

  “About a year later. When we woke up the next morning, Hank led me to the breakfast table and said, ‘Ma, meet your new daughter-in-law. We got hitched yesterday.’ I remember that Pa dropped his fork and shook Hank’s hand. Ma jumped up and down, hugging us both until finally yanking something from her hand. It was her wedding ring.”

  “Really?” Phyllis blurted, caught up in the tale.

  “Yup. She handed it to Hank and said, ‘This was your grandma’s. Now give it to your wife.’” Elle looked down at the gold band on her finger and shook her head. “It never ceases to amaze me how folks who have so little share everything they have.”

  Phyllis nodded. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Anyway, I know Hank felt bad to accept it but Pa stood and insisted, ‘Go on and take it. It’s only right.’ So Hank slid the ring onto my finger and gave me a kiss.” Elle smiled. “To my surprise, Ma and Pa started clapping.” Elle’s eyes began watering, picturing the warm memory. “I swear, it felt like me and Hank got married right there in Ma’s kitchen. Hank always said the same.” She chuckled. “And then Pa told Hank
to take the whole day off … that everyone deserved a honeymoon.”

  “Wow … a whole day,” Phyllis teased.

  Elle grinned. “With Hank, it was enough,” she said, blushing.

  “Good for you,” Phyllis teased.

  Elle’s eyes grew distant. “Life was so good back then, so innocent. Hank’s Ma treated me like the daughter she never had and taught me everything I needed to know about the domestic side of dairy farming. It’s still amazing to me that I enjoyed it ’cause we worked from sun up until sundown. But I did. I loved it.” She nodded. “We did everything from churn butter to knit sweaters and hats for the winter. We canned vegetables, slopped pigs, plucked chickens and baked the best huckleberry pies in the county,” she added, proudly.

  “Well, you can keep all of that,” Phyllis said.

  Elle laughed. “I remember when I first started at the McCarthy school of hard labor. I’d be stumbling at the woodpile, while Hank’s ma piled log after log into the crook of my arms. I’d catch Hank watching me, grinning. I’d roll my eyes or stick out my tongue at him so as not to get caught by the old lady.” She nodded. “But I caught on quick to all of it. As Hank and his pa tended to the animals, bailed hay, mended fences or saw to any one of the thousand chores on the farm, me and Ma worked just as hard.”

  “That hard work stuff’s not for me,” Phyllis repeated.

  “But it was for me,” Elle replied. “And still is.” Her eyes drifted away one last time and she smiled. “I can still picture the love in Hank’s eyes every time he stole a look at me.”

  They sat for a moment in silence, with Phyllis nodding the whole time. “I understand now,” she finally admitted.

  Elle smiled.

  Phyllis pointed toward the snow-covered windshield and joked, “Elle, that’s the best movie I’ve seen in a while.”

  Elle laughed along with her. “Even though I’m sure you’ve already heard a lot of this before, thanks for letting me share it with you. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear it, myself.”

  “No worries,” Phyllis said. “You’ll get my bill in the mail.”