The Rockin' Chair (15 page)

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 walked 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.”

H
ank 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.”

Elle laughed again and looked at her cell phone for the time. “How 'bout we at least grab a bite to eat?”

Phyllis nodded. “Sounds good to me. Besides, I'd like to hear a little bit more about that one-day honeymoon.”

Elle started the car. “Not a chance,” she said, and waited for the windshield wipers to do their job before pulling out onto the slick street.

After a late dinner, Elle returned home and stepped quietly through the house. She checked the bedrooms. George, Evan and Lila were already asleep. After washing her face and throwing on a pair of flannel pajamas, she crawled into bed, trying her best not to disturb Hank.
I remember well
, she thought, looking at the back of her husband's head.
I remember how we both ended up here
. Instinctively, she wrapped her arm around him.

Surprising her, Hank pulled her arm close to his chest and held on tight—like the very fate of their future depended on it. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, “and I'm glad you're home.”

“Me too,” she whispered, and hugged him tight.

Evan had always dreamed of becoming a writer and spinning stories that might change the world. It was an old dream. Since he was young, every Sunday he sat at Grampa John's feet and listened to the greatest storyteller at work. He knew early on what he wanted to be. Once, he even leaked his aspirations. The old man just smiled. “You wanna be a writer, then I reckon that's what you'll be,” he said. It was that easy to Grampa John and Evan believed him.

Evan took Grampa John's advice about “finding a real job.” It didn't take long for it to pay off. The first job he accepted, or begged for being back in Montana, came from Mr. Rick Austin, an old newspaperman. Rick was a veteran with a keen eye for difficult angles and the nose of a bloodhound when searching out the truth. This good-hearted soul, however, was more interested in wrestling with a vodka bottle than striking a keyboard. The years had tired him and by the time Evan landed on his doorstep,
The Spectator
had gone from a daily newspaper to a bi-weekly. In the meantime, Rick Austin had gone from an ambitious journalist to a compassionate drunk. Long ago, he'd lost his hungry edge. Life's daily stories of pain and suffering were best reported twice a week rather than every morning. If for no other reason, it was for Rick's soul this theory suited best.

Evan was assigned a position as
The Spectator
's feature writer. Within this capacity, there were at least two bylines guaranteed per issue. Each piece generated a stipend of forty dollars. If a photo was used, an extra ten was thrown in for the effort. Though grateful, Evan learned that the struggles of a writer would become a war between the heart and mind; the mind forever arguing the blatant reality that there was more money to be made in the fast-food industry; the heart reasoning that the money had less to do with the future than the experience gained. A compromise was made. Evan's days would be filled with interviews and edits, while his lunches would promise bologna sandwiches.
But it'll be worth it,
he decided. The portfolio could grow and the dreams of a writer—no matter how poor—could start to come true. He detested poverty, always had, and vowed never to return to its filthy clutches. For the time being, however, he decided he could make do.
Coming from so little, the sacrifices should hardly be noticeable,
he reasoned.

Evan was always a dreamer, but it was the perseverance to hold on to such dreams that would become his greatest trait in achieving them.

One week after taking on the feature writer's position, Evan handed a fresh copy of
The Spectator
to his father as a peace offering. “It's my first published story in Montana, Pa,” he said, wearing the proudest smile. “And I figured you might want a copy.”

“Of course … of course!” Hank said, sitting up in his recliner and accepting the gift. “Ain't this somethin'!” Hank said, scanning the front page while his blood turned to ice water. He looked up at his son. “I'll read it when I turn in tonight. This way, I don't have to rush through it and I can enjoy it.” Hank tried to slow his breathing and stop his hands from trembling.

Evan nodded, pleased with his father's response.

When he was alone again, Hank directed his attention back to the newspaper and shook his head, thinking,
My secret's still safe
.

That night, Elle lay beside her husband in bed and read Evan's piece to Hank. “Kevin Aguiar wins election by a landslide,” she read, “by Evan McCarthy.”

When she had finished, Hank grabbed her arm and asked, “Can you read it again … just once more?” She laughed. His chest was swollen with pride and he wore a smile that he hadn't put on in a long time. Elle read it twice more.

At Thanksgiving, the entire McCarthy family held hands at Grampa John's table, everyone looking just a little bit happier than the turkey. The old man was all spruced up. His usual smells of peppermint and liniment were replaced with the sweet, lingering scent of Old Spice cologne. He only broke out the good stuff on holidays and special occasions.