The Rockin' Chair (10 page)

Grampa John inhaled deeply and returned to his shoveling.

“And believe it or not, that was it!” Evan said. “There were no excuses and no apologies … just a pathetic attempt to shift the blame from her betrayal to me not trusting her. As she headed for the bedroom she told me, ‘Why don't you just pack your things and leave. It's over.'

“I honestly felt like I was standing outside a window, watching some other poor fool get dumped. I hurried into the bedroom and screamed, ‘Please tell me you haven't been making a fool out of me all this time?' I can't tell you how bad I needed her to say that she'd been true to me. I would have given everything.”

Grampa John nodded again.

“But she didn't,” Evan said, the sorrow in his voice changing to rage. “She didn't even care enough to respond. Instead, she pulled the covers up under her chin and closed her eyes. In that one moment, I could have easily taken her life … and then my own.”

This time, it was Grampa John's head that flew up. He immediately stopped working and stared hard into his grandson's eyes.

“It's just a figure of speech,” Evan quickly admitted, softening his tone. “But I'm telling you … if Carley had cared any less, she would have already been sleeping.”

The old man nodded and rested his chin on the shovel handle.

Evan concluded, “I stormed out of the house, realizing that my friend Rob didn't have the slightest idea about what I'd just lost. There was no way he could know the love that Carley and I had once shared. No one could. The things she'd just thrown away were …” He couldn't finish the sentence.

While Evan rode a crashing wave of anguish and fury, Grampa John studied him. “So she never showed any signs of cheatin' before this?” he asked, wisely digging deeper. “Now that you can look back and see things more clearly.”

Evan calmed himself and gave the question some thought. It didn't take long for embarrassment to find its way into his face. “I … I … had my suspicions a few times,” he admitted, “but I was always afraid to lose her.” He looked up to accept the old man's judgment. There wasn't any. He thought for a while longer and shook his head. “I guess I couldn't wait for the wedding to come quick enough … as if that was going to change her.”

Grampa John nodded.

Evan's voice was suddenly reduced to that of a helpless child. “I feel like such a fool,” he confessed.

“Why?” Grampa John asked, his eyebrow on the rise. “Did you mess around on her?”

Evan thought the question was ludicrous, but swore, “I didn't.”

“Well then, I guess that makes her the fool. If you was true to her and treated her right, then that's all you could do. The rest was up to her and I ain't ever seen any man able to make the choices for another … especially a female.” The afterthought came with a grin.

Evan remained serious. “But maybe it was just a mistake? Maybe …”

Grampa John leaned on the shovel's handle again, his smile gone. “Boy, you put a quart of sour milk in the icebox today, I promise that tomorrow when you go and wet your whistle it'll make you lose whatever's in your belly.” He nodded. “It'll always be sour.”

Evan already knew that to be true. Coming from Grampa John, that truth only became more evident.
There really is no going back
, he realized.

Grampa John finished the sore subject with one last prediction. Pointing to his bald head, he joked, “Grass don't grow on a busy street and I've been around the block a time or two myself. As sure as that sun's goin' down tonight, she'll get hers. Whether you want it or not, she'll get what's comin' to her. That's just the way things were designed. It might sadden you to know you won't ever see it, but leave it to God to take care of this one.” He gave Evan a friendly squeeze at the nape of the neck, while his smile returned. “Let it go. Spite rusts the bucket it's kept in. Besides, she'd get off way too easy with you anyway.”

Evan chuckled, rubbed his neck and thought,
Grampa John doesn't know his own strength.
Looking at his grandfather's shiny head, the chuckle grew.
Grass doesn't grow on cement either
, he thought, but he would have never dared kid him about it. Grampa John would have chased him until morning.

For the rest of the afternoon, Evan bounced from topic to topic, catching his grandfather up on everything he'd experienced. He spoke about college, living in Fall River, Massachusetts and kicking off his writing career by hustling for the local newspapers. A few times, he reached for his cell phone but stopped himself.
She's never going to call
, he realized.
And it wouldn't change anything if she did.

The sun was just going down when Grampa John spoke again. “How 'bout you camp out with me for a spell. You know … give you some time and space to sort things out.” He smiled. “Give me someone to work like a mule.”

Evan laughed. “It's the best offer I've had in weeks,” he joked. Then thinking on Ma and Pa, he figured they'd understand.
There usually isn't enough room for two McCarthy men under the same roof anyway. But Grampa John's different.
Evan gladly accepted.

H
ank had been sitting on his porch for hours, watching—and seething. Given that it was dusk, Evan was clearly staying on with the old man at the farmhouse.
He and Tara both are
, Hank realized. His blood pumped hard in his veins, making his temples pound like dueling bass drums. He yanked another beer from the six-pack and started chugging. “So he's gonna take the kids from me now too, huh?” he hissed. “Oh, I don't think so!”

The recent time he'd spent with the old man—and any progress they'd made during it—was instantly erased.
Ain't no way in hell I'm gonna sit for it!
he told himself.

An hour later, Hank was nearly passed out in his worn recliner. Elle had tolerated the same scene a thousand times.
But this time something's different
, she thought. On her way to check on Lila, she'd recognized a deep pain in her husband's sapphire eyes. “What's wrong, Hank?” she asked.

At first, he just shook his head but she could tell he wanted to talk. She took a seat beside him and asked again. “Well, I can see that something's eating at you. What is it? Tell me.”

“How long those kids gonna stay on with the old man?” he barked, a primitive rage evident in his voice.

“Don't know,” she said, preparing to erect her own wall to defend against the anger. “Pa asked they stay on with him for a few days … said he wanted to clear up a few things. I think …”

Hank pounded the arm of his chair, kicking up a small cloud of dust and making Elle jump. “Damn him!” he hissed.

Elle sat there for a moment, deciding to leave her wall down for a bit longer, deciding she would give it another shot. “You know, Hank, I really don't understand why you men don't just talk it out. I mean it's been years, for God's sake! It seems so silly to let any more time pass.”

He shook his head violently. “You have no idea,” he hissed.

She ignored his comment. “The clock's ticking, Hank,” she added, frustrated. “Your mother should have at least taught you that.”

He looked up at her, his eyes betraying an equal mix of a man's rage and a little boy's fear. He shook his head again.

“My God, did you always hate him this much?” Elle asked.

His eyes filled. “You have no idea,” he repeated, this time with more hurt than anger.

“Then explain it to me,” she pleaded, never realizing that this simple statement was enough to finally get some answers.

Hank sighed heavily, closed his eyes and off he went—to reveal his skeletons of the past and reunite with the demons that had haunted his soul since childhood.

Hank was knee high to a beetle when he realized that he worshipped his father like no other. The old man was never around when the eye of heaven shined down, but Hank remembered how he'd be busting with anticipation for that eye to shut for the night. Throughout the day, he'd drive his ma from her own chores by climbing every windowsill in the house to catch a glimpse of Pa. He'd spot him on the tractor or tending to the animals and squeal with joy. There was no better feeling. Then, the big man would come in with the dark—smelling of mud and manure—take off his shirt and get cleaned up. He looked like a giant back then. His massive upper body was lily white, his skin burned red from the biceps down, giving him the look of a walking barbershop pole. He'd clean up in the washroom, walk over to the stove where Ma was cooking and kiss her on the nape of the neck. They'd sit together, Pa would say grace and there would be silence until every plate was clean.
And my plate had better be clean before I left the table.

While Ma washed the dishes, Hank would cling to Pa's big shoulders. Unless the weather was too bitter, they'd go straight to the rocking chair where Hank played copilot. When the spirit moved him, the old man spun tales of far-off lands and heroes dressed in white. He was the greatest storyteller when he chose to spare his breath. It wasn't often. Some nights, he'd play his harmonica, putting it into Hank's mouth to teach. Most nights though, under the shelter of the porch, Hank just sat in his lap, listened to the world and rocked. A twig snapping, an owl's hoot or the occasional howl of a coyote sometimes broke the silence, but normally it was Pa's heart that kept beat to the song of the crickets. Hank never remembered falling asleep. It just seemed to happen so easily back then in the safety and comfort of his father's lap. For the life of him, he couldn't recall when those lullabies ended—
or the last time I even sat in the rockin' chair.

Right from the beginning, Ma was different from Pa. She really listened when Hank had something to say. He made mention of it once and Ma explained, “Your pa has a lot on his mind these days. There's a lot of changes on the farm.” Giving him a loving spank as she often did she finished, “Your pa is doin' all of this for you. You're the most important thing in his life.”

Hank was young and had no good reason to question his mother's words.
Ma would never lie to me
, he decided, but he still recalled feeling some serious doubt. It certainly didn't appear like he was the most important thing to Pa.
Even the cows seem to come first
.

One night, the old man shook him from a sound sleep. “It's time to earn your keep, boy!” He was holding Hank's boots in his big paws.

Hank jumped out of bed like he'd just wet himself. He'd been waiting for this opportunity all seven years of his life. At his pa's side, he ran to keep up and recalled questioning, “Why do the chores get started in the middle of the night?”

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.”