The Rockin' Chair (14 page)

The old man kissed his index finger and placed it to Alice's headstone. “I ain't sure how I'm gonna fix this mess with Hank, but trust that I'll do everything I can 'fore you and me have our next dance.” He wiped his eyes. “Everything I can, squaw,” he promised.

As John turned to walk away, he stopped at his father's headstone. Like it was yesterday, he remembered the pain—and love—he'd felt on the morning the man was buried beneath his dream.

It had been a bitterly cold afternoon when John's father was laid to rest. John looked down at his pa's casket and fought back the tears. His heart ached, but he did his best not to show it. He'd come from a long line of men who wore masks. McCarthy men didn't show their feelings.
I ain't sure if it's strength or weakness
, he pondered.
It's just the way it is.

Throwing a handful of dirt over the rickety pine casket, he was heading for the wood line where nobody could witness his grief when his mother pulled his big arm to her. “I know he never said it,” she whispered, “but he always loved you, ya know.”

John nodded. He'd known since he was twelve and though the words had never been said, each day that his pa broke his back he'd shown it.

John shook off the ancient pictures and looked toward the bunkhouse where his son had banished himself all those years ago.
On the day I get planted in this field,
he thought,
I hope to God Hank comes to that same understandin'
. He doubted it—
if things stand as they are.

As John walked back to the farmhouse, he took in his father's vision of their family's future. He scanned the hills, the sky—all that enveloped their existence. To his left, the land stretched out to infinity, while the awesome mountain range that brought safety and comfort stood on his right.
This farm's always been about family and sharin' in each other's lives … at least that's what it should have been.

He then looked toward the bunkhouse again.
Anything I ever accomplished in this world ain't worth spit if I can't pass it down,
he realized. With only one son, who had disowned him long before he was able to put it into words, there was no one to inherit the fruits of his labor. He felt like a failure and it gnawed at his guts worse than the strongest moonshine he'd ever swallowed.

S
earching desperately for peace—even for just a moment—George sat in his childhood bedroom, reading through a pile of old letters.

Even though they were forced to correspond through letters, Ma still took the time and kept him up on everything. Most of her letters were positive, though she reported that Grandma's “wits were getting numb” and that she “looked in after her every now and then.” George thought,
Ma is such an intelligent person, with the potential to do anything she ever wanted
.
Instead, she devoted her entire existence to raising the children of a bitter man.

After getting used to being away from instant messaging, George loved exchanging letters with her. Once, he even wrote her, “Anything that I have ever accomplished—all that I am—is because the Lord blessed me with your love.” Weeks later, he received an envelope containing two tissues. They were stained with Ma's tears.
She's such a beautiful person,
he thought.

Grampa John wrote too. He never once spoke of Grandma's illness, so George never made mention of it. His letters were the simplest a man could send. They contained very little in content but were still incredibly powerful in their own right. Though he'd never left his tiny farm in Montana, Grampa John seemed to understand everything through his own backwoods wisdom. Once, he even wrote, “With all that ruff schoolin' of yours, I suppose you'd take down that buck now, right?”

George spent a long time pondering that one. One thing he did know was that Grampa John wasn't talking about the life of any deer. He was always questioning what made people tick—especially those he loved so generously.

While George continued to hibernate in their bedroom, Evan finished his dinner and stood to clear his plate.

“Where you off to?” Hank asked, digging in his mouth with a toothpick.

“Not sure,” Evan answered with a shrug.

“You better not be sneakin' off to the old man's house again,” Hank hissed.

Evan turned from the kitchen sink and snickered. “I think I'm a little too old to be sneaking off anywhere, aren't I?” Evan snapped back. “And I don't need your permission to …”

Instinctively, Hank stood and took an aggressive step toward his son.

For the first time in his life, Evan never flinched. “Let me tell you right now,” Evan warned through gritted teeth, “you ever put your hands on me again, I'll …” His hands began trembling but it wasn't from fear. It was from rage.

“You'll what?” Hank asked, his voice elevated three octaves.

Evan shook his head. “I'll walk out of this house and you'll never be part of my life again, that's what!” He never looked away from his father's stare. “I swear it, Pa.”

Hank's mouth fell open, dropping the toothpick onto the worn linoleum floor.

“I've been raised with more respect than to ever raise my hand to you, Pa. But I'm never taking another beating from you again … ever!”

“Beatin'?” Hank repeated, acting like maybe his son was now suffering from the onset of Alzheimer's.

“That's right …
beatings
! Those things you used to like to give me when you were hung over and I made too much noise in the house or when I questioned anything you said.”

Hank was at a loss. “What the hell are you talkin' about?” He thought for a moment. “What … when I spanked you after you got caught stealin' candy from the convenience store? Or when you were actin' the punk and tore up your mother's flower garden?”

Evan stared hard at his father, too upset to speak.

Hank's eyes swelled with tears. “Evan, I was only tryin' to teach you right from wrong. That's all that was.” His voice was choked with emotion. “I didn't realize you hated me so.”

“I don't hate you, Pa,” Evan said. “I'm just done playing your punching bag.”

“Don't say that,” Hank said, fighting back his emotions. “I … I … never meant to hurt you, son. The only thing I ever wanted … was to make you a man.” He turned to conceal his tears. “And I taught you the only way I knew how.” He shook his head. “I did the best I could by you and your brother and sister, I swear I did.”

Evan half-nodded. “I know you did, Pa. In your own way, I know you were doing what you thought was best for me … most of the time.”

Hank turned back and searched his son's face for forgiveness.

“But isn't that what Grampa John did for you?” Evan asked, and walked out of the kitchen to leave his father alone with that thought.

As the front door slammed shut, Hank tried to break up the demons that wrestled in his head. As he recalled, on occasion he'd been forced to use the belt on the kids but preferred not to.
But they weren't gonna make my mistakes
, he thought. It was a tough job being a father—having to teach what was needed, while trying to remain friends. To Hank, it had proven nearly impossible. He always loved his children but he dared not show it. It always seemed more important that they respected him. For whatever reason, the two didn't mix—at least not from where he stood.

On the front porch, Evan took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. As he took the cold air into his lungs, he thought about the sincerity in his father's explanation.
I'm going to Grampa John's
, he quickly decided.

Grampa John was sitting alone at the kitchen table when Evan stepped into the room. “Well, look what the wind just blew in,” the old man teased, pointing toward the half-empty coffee pot. “Pour yourself a cup and join me.” He chuckled. “But I'm warnin' ya … it tastes like hell.”

Evan nodded and grabbed a mug.

“What's goin' on?” Grampa John asked, surprised that Evan hadn't laughed.

“Just exchanged a few heated words with Pa.” He shrugged. “Same old story I guess.”

“Oh boy,” the old man muttered.

Evan added milk and sugar to his coffee and remained silent.

“Maybe it's time to write a new story between you and your pa,” Grampa John suggested.

Evan spun around and leaned against the kitchen counter. He took a sip and shook his head before adding more sugar to the coffee.

“How'd it start this time?” the old man asked.

“We had words and then he took a step toward me like he was going to put his hands on me,” Evan said, his anger still evident. “And I'm never letting that happen again!”

Grampa John shook his head. “Evan, I'm pretty sure your pa …”

“Please, Grampa John!” Evan said, louder than anyone expected. “He used to beat me like it was a sport!”

The old man cleared his throat. “Evan, if you've ever believed a word I've told ya, believe this … your pa did the best he could for ya. He loves you deep and …”

Evan shook his head in disbelief and sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, Ma either loved Pa more than she did us or feared him something terrible. Either way, she never stopped him from abusing us.” He shook his resentful head again.

Grampa John slapped the kitchen table, trying to break Evan out of his trance of self-pity. “Listen here, boy! You got it all wrong,” he barked. “Your pa taught you the only way he knew how.” He shook his head. “…the same way I taught him.” He thought for a few tense moments. “Evan, a man who don't punish his young can't rightly say that he cares for them. How else will they learn?” He shrugged. “It may not have been the best way, but it helped to make you who you are didn't it?” His eyes softened and a grin nearly broke through. “And it kept ya out of jail.”

Evan couldn't help himself and smiled. He took another sip of the bitter coffee.

“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.