The Rockin' Chair (13 page)

In the final weeks of their tour of duty, George, Danny, Brad, Cooch and Brady celebrated their many successes on some unknown point in the middle of a crumpled map. They smoked cigars and drank two cups of coffee each. There was great pride in blazing a path for others to follow. There was even greater satisfaction knowing that they'd helped to spare American lives. Breaking down the makeshift camp, they were quickly on their way again. Their mission was not yet complete.

George came up for air and sighed. “And that's enough war stories for now,” he said, stopping just before he'd gotten to the worst night of his life.

“Oh, come on,” Hank said, seated at the very edge of his chair.

“I'm tired, Pa,” George yawned, stretching out.

Hank stared at George and finally nodded. “Okay, then. We'll pick it up again later.”

After Ma's blueberry pie, Hank fiddled with a toothpick, his tongue sucking any remaining debris from his perfect teeth. Suddenly, as if he'd just thought up the greatest idea ever, he insisted, “Georgey, how 'bout you throw on that camouflaged uniform of yours? I think it's about time we shared a drink, you and me.”

George was reluctant but the pleading in his pa's eyes made him accept.

With Ma's displeased look to take with them, they headed out to the bar.

Hank and George walked into the V.F.W. where Hank immediately announced, “Set up the house. First round's on me!”

The bartender asked George, “Can I see your I.D.?”

Hank nearly scaled the bar after him. “Jimmy,” he hollered, “old enough to serve, old enough to be served! Got it?”

The man nodded passively and put a head on another cold brew. He knew Pa well and had, no doubt, endorsed a few of his paychecks. That night, though the family could hardly afford it, they drank away another week's pay. Pa said, “Don't you worry about it, son. It ain't every day we celebrate success in this family.” He beamed with pride, making sure that anyone who drank on him hadn't missed a gander at his son, the war hero.

Instead of feeling good about himself, George began feeling bad for Pa. He sensed that his Army experiences now made him different than his old man—no better, just different. At their closest point, George felt some serious distance between them. In an eerie sort-of way, Pa looked up to him now.
That wasn't supposed to be part of the deal
, George thought.

For the rest of the night, George watched his father live inside his Army tales. With every round ordered, Pa asked the same questions about the same experiences. But just when it became more frightening than flattering, the bartender summoned the courage to shut them off. George couldn't have been happier. He dragged his belligerent father out of the bar and drove him home. They weren't on the road for two minutes when the old man passed out and began snoring. It was the most welcome sound George had heard in a long while.

A
fter
a brief search, Tara discovered an old bottle of Wild Turkey in the cupboard under Grampa John's kitchen sink. She studied the dusty bottle and snickered.
Grandma never drank
, she thought,
and as far as I know, Grampa John never touched the hard stuff.
She looked behind her to ensure that she was still alone.
He won't miss it
, she thought, and unscrewed the cap. She began opening the top cupboard for a glass when she abandoned the thought and put the bottle straight to her quivering lips. As though she were nursing from a baby bottle, she drank greedily, ignoring the inferno that ignited her throat and belly. Although she swung the bottle down, it didn't stay down for long. She quickly hoisted it back up and guzzled more. Four gulps later, the bottle was empty. She placed it into the kitchen trash, careful to bury it deep beneath the other refuse.

Tara awoke from her nap three hours later. When she opened her eyes, she spotted the empty whiskey bottle sitting on the oak dresser. “Oh, no,” she muttered.

The old man was standing at the stove, stirring a giant pot of soup. Tara took a deep breath, stepped into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Quench your thirst?” he asked, without bothering to turn around.

“I … I … had one drink,” she stuttered.

“Nope. You had half a bottle.” He shrugged. “Besides, there ain't no such thing as just one drink,” he said, while turning around to face her. “…not when you're an alcoholic.”

The word stung her face like an angry wasp. She searched her grandfather's eyes for mercy.

He took a seat at the table and placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of her. “That's right, sweetheart. You have a disease and the sooner you get help for that disease, the better off you and your little one'll be.” He pushed the bowl closer to her. “If you had diabetes, you'd go see the doc, right?” Without awaiting her answer, he added, “This ain't no different, Tara. It's a disease.”

Tara grabbed her spoon and dove into the soup, doing her best to avoid his penetrating gaze.

The old man grabbed her other hand. “And the next time you want somethin' in this house, be sure you ask. I know for certain your parents didn't raise no thieves.”

This second sting closed her eyes shut. “I'm sorry, Grampa John,” she mumbled.

He squeezed her hand hard enough to throw her eyes open. “Already forgiven … and forgotten,” he said with a wink and got to his feet. As he walked back to the stove, he added, “But given that you're gonna have to face more moments of weakness, just know that I emptied this house of any booze.” He nodded, placing his back to her again. “There ain't one drop left in the whole place.”

She nodded too and quickly returned to her soup. The rest of the meal was spent in silent reflection.

Across the creek bridge, Evan was heading out of the house when he grabbed his jacket and threw it on. As he reached the front door, he felt something bulging from the inside pocket. He reached in and pulled it out, knowing what was on the yellow lined paper before he unfolded it. His breathing became shallow and his heart raced at the anticipation of reading it again.

He stepped onto the front porch and slowly unfolded it. He wasn't surprised that his eyes filled with tears. It was a poem he had written for Carley not so long ago. From the opening line, he realized that the wound wasn't only fresh; it was still gaping and raw. He read:

     
Everything

     
Into the night, I cast a wish

     
that my life I might share.

     
And when I least expected love,

     
you answered every prayer.

     
I found my heart inside your eyes;

     
my future, in your smile.

     
And from the day I took your hand,

     
I've cherished every mile.

     
This path shall lead us to the end

     
through sun and freezing rain.

     
Without conditions, I am here

     
in joy and every pain.

     
Our love is proof that dreams come true,

     
I vow in life and death,

     
That all I am I give to you

     
with each and every breath.

     
From the darkness came a light

     
that only God could bring.

     
For you are not just whom I love,

     
to me, you're everything.

He crumpled the paper up and threw it into a bucket of kindling that Pa left near the door. “You
were
my everything,” he whispered, and stepped off the porch to stumble through another day.

Grampa John jumped in his pick-up truck and went for a ride. Even though the air was bitterly cold, he rolled down the window and turned up the country music. The combination always helped to clear his head.

Too many miles and just as many sappy ballads later, as if being drawn by a magnet, the truck made a u-turn and headed back toward the farm; toward where Alice peacefully slept.

With three walls of stone as borders, Alice now rested on the prettiest patch of land. In the spring, flowers grew wild and perfumed the air—just the way she always loved it. Today, though, the ground was frozen solid.

Ignoring the cold on his knees, John offered his usual prayers. After blessing himself, he scanned the sacred patch of land and pondered the permanence of death. The only way to get into this cemetery and relax was to never come out. But knowing that Alice was resting with kin and not the remains of strangers, he felt some comfort. He wiped his eyes and whispered, “I miss you somethin' terrible, squaw.”

John struggled to his feet and then for the words he needed for a proper confession. As though she were standing right there in front of him, he told Alice, “I messed up more than I ever imagined, squaw.” He shook his head. “All these years you were right. While I thought it was our boy who was bein' pig-headed … it was me.” He turned and looked toward the bunkhouse. “Seems I'm the one who caused Hank most of the pain he's felt all these years.” His eyes filled. “And I just don't know how to make it right.”

Although he wasn't looking forward to the trip, his mind raced back to some of the times he went wrong.

A short spell after the great fudge heist at the county fair, John took a shot at something he and Hank might enjoy sharing—raising pigeons. As fate would have it, an old-timer stopped by the farm looking to trade a crate full of the birds for some rabbits and chickens.
I suppose my boy might enjoy racin' 'em
, he thought. Missing the days when money was seldom exchanged, John jumped at the chance to barter with the man. Throwing in a half bushel of apples, for old times' sake, the man left the McCarthy farm as most did—with the better end of the deal. Still, John thought it fair and took off to convert one of the old sheds into a pigeon coop. He immediately discovered his instincts to be correct.

Hank wouldn't stay out of the makeshift coop. Together they built pigeonholes, ten inches by ten inches, fifty in all, as the birds refused to share. The coop was cleaned and hay stuffed into each nest, with wood shavings and cracked corn scattered across the floor. Within two days, the McCarthy racing school was born, with Hank put in charge.

Right off, Hank took his roles as head breeder and trainer quite seriously. Through trial and error—his preferred method of learning—he quickly discovered that without an incubator, only the strong survived. He became consumed by the birds and soon the sport of racing them. John, on the other hand, took a back seat, content with watching the different splashes, band-tails and blues leave their mothers after only six weeks to take to the Montana sky. They were gentle, monogamous birds, symbolic of peace and very loving with their secret language of soft cooing calls. His favorites were the tumblers, the acrobats of the skies. They'd fly straight off the coop's roof, ascend hundreds of feet into the air, pause for a split second, and then turn backward somersaults until nearly hitting the ground. John spent hours in his rocking chair, thoroughly entertained by the McCarthy flying circus. Hank seemed less impressed.

The boy had finally found his niche. Swollen with pride, he took the baby pintails a quarter mile out and let them go. Being timed, they flew straight up and circled a few times. Then, as if possessing radar, they flew straight back to the coop. That was the thing with pigeons. They always returned to the nest where they were born. No matter the obstacles or weather, they always went home. John loved them for that.

From a quarter mile to several miles, Hank continued the weekly, progressive training. One at a time, John watched them tuck in their wings and fire like bullets straight into the coop. They trained at intervals of every five minutes. Hank never wanted any one bird to follow the other, so when he was sure he had all strong flyers the competition began.

It was a Saturday morning when John introduced his son to the flyers at the V.F.W. Hank brought along four of his best and John put up two dollars per head. The birds were crated and placed into the back of a tractor-trailer heading east. They would be released by the driver when he reached his destination, eighty miles out. John and Hank rushed home to await the results of their intensive training.

Hank paced in front of that coop like an expectant father until the first pigeon, a chocolate red, arrived home safely. He pulled the exhausted bird out of the box and placed its leg band into a punch clock. John would never forget it. The ribbon read a time of
4:30
, leaving them in strong contention for the win. Hank's eyes filled with tears. He kissed the bird on the head and then turned to his father. For a moment, they almost hugged but, feeling equally uncomfortable, John broke the tension by slapping the boy on the back.

For years, John regretted that day.
I should have hugged Hank. Awkward or not, I just should've.
As it turned out, Hank and his bird won. “Beginner's luck,” the other racers grumbled, but John proudly advised them to pay his boy in full, never accepting a penny for himself.

On the ride home, he advised Hank, “It's your money; you earned it but if you ask me, a slick businessman would put the profit back into the business.” For once, Hank took his old man's advice.

Also back in those early years, Hank's true pride was playing a better harmonica than John. Real young, the boy would belt out tunes with a hard, rock-a-billy beat, while John and Alice danced that rocking chair halfway across the porch. John never let on, but he took great pride that the boy played better too. But instead of praising him, he'd challenge him. “Don't ya think if you practiced more, you might play better?” The McCarthy men always had a strange way of holding back on approvals.

After Hank ran away from home with Elle, the farm became hauntingly lonely. It took two hired hands to do the work that Hank had put out, but it wasn't the money that gnawed at John's guts. Mercifully, as God would only allow for a certain amount of suffering, Elle proved to be as fertile as the land they lived on. Alice laughed as John waited for the offspring to arrive like they were his own. To him they were.

Elle hadn't been home for more than an hour before he spotted her crossing the bridge to the farm. Rocking in his chair, he squirmed as she carried the bundle straight into his lap. John recalled that sickening smell of hospital all over her. “His name is George McCarthy,” she announced. She gave John a kiss and then went into the house, allowing the men time to get acquainted.

What a little package baby George was. Ever so gingerly, John unwrapped the cocoon to get a better look at his face.
He's a mixture for sure,
John thought,
with light hair and Alice's dark eyes.
He even sighed when he confirmed that the boy had not inherited his grandfather's massive nose. He took the boy's tiny hands into his own and, for what seemed like time spent in heaven, he inspected them. This went way beyond counting fingers. As if he were a palm reader, he actually studied every line, wondering what those tiny hands might create, whom they might touch, the lives they might change. Rocking back and forth, more content than he'd ever remembered, he just sat and played with George's hands.

Crawling out of her skin from excitement, Alice finally burst through the screen door and stole the child from him—but not before stealing a kiss from the newborn's Grampa. As she headed for the house, she paused. “John, you should go see your son and congratulate him,” she said.

John's eyes immediately filled. “He could've come here with Elle,” he whispered, “but he chose not to.”

Alice shook her head and disappeared into the house. John sat back, took out his knife and began carving.
Of all names, who would've guessed the one beneath Hank would be George?
He chuckled at the irony of it.

John emerged from his memories with his face glazed in tears. He returned his attention to Alice's headstone. “Squaw, pride or no pride, Hank's place has always been on this damned farm!” he said. “Everything we built was for him and I always figured the sooner he realized it, the sooner we'd all be better off.” He shook his head. “But so many years have passed and he ain't realized nothin'.”

Over the years, whenever John and Hank's paths did cross—such as Christmas and the like—the air dropped twenty degrees. Nothing made John feel worse. “How cruel to love a child who's always made it clear that the feelings ain't mutual,” he told Alice. “I tried my best and my intentions was always true but Hank never saw it that way.” John would have given his son the world. He did in fact—at least the only world he ever knew. Hank, however, preferred any world but John McCarthy's. John could not have imagined a harsher reality.