The Rockin' Chair (19 page)

John applied an equal amount of pressure from his end. “The pleasure was all mine, son.” He looked into Hank's misty eyes. “Lord knows, this supper was a long time comin'.”

Hank squeezed harder. There had never been so much love exchanged in one handshake. Awkward or not, John pulled his son's hand toward him until they had no choice but to embrace.

John felt tired, but good. Even though he'd recently lost the love of his life, he felt good.
Thank God for family,
he thought, and released Hank from his grip.
And thank goodness for their problems.

He turned to George, Evan and Tara, “Can ya'll walk me out?”

The four of them stepped onto the porch into the stinging air. Both brothers wrapped their arms around their sister. John knew it was cold—
but it ain't that cold,
he thought. It made him smile. With one last idea to take into their dreams, he spoke above the wind. “It's always been my feelin' that this life is a one-shot deal. On the day you sit in your own rockin' chairs and start rememberin', believe me, nights like tonight will be the only thing you'll see.” Descending the stairs, he turned back and finished his lecture. “The three of you … when you shut your eyes tonight, I want you to picture that today was your last. If you're happy with what you see, then I wouldn't change a thing.” Shrugging, he turned and stepped over the porch. “But if you're not …” The last comment was carried back with the wind where it stayed.

George, Evan and Tara quickly found each other's eyes. The old man wasn't trying to clarify happiness. His gifts were greater. He was confirming their very purposes for living. Grampa John's simple wisdom and unconditional love were their second chance at life.

H
ank was stacking two-by-fours when a familiar Ford pick-up truck drove into the lumber yard. The old-timer pulled a blackened corncob pipe out of his mouth and offered his toothless smile. “McCarthy, right?”

“That's me,” Hank said. “What can I do you for?”

The man handed Hank his purchase order. “Just need one last sheet of plywood to finish off that damn coop,” he said, re-lighting his pipe.

Hank grabbed the order form. “A pigeon coop, ain't that right?”

“You got it,” the old man confirmed, the smell of apple tobacco filling the air.

Hank nodded once and started off for the plywood when he stopped and turned back. “Been thinkin' about flyin' some pigeons again myself. Any idea where I can buy some pin tails?”

“Herb Manchester might still …”

“Nope,” Hank interrupted, shaking his head. “Anyone else?”

The old-timer grinned. “I can let a few go, I suppose.” He shrugged. “But I'd have to get a couple bucks each.”

“Of course,” Hank agreed.

“Come out to the house this afternoon after you finish up work and we'll get the deal done.”

“Much obliged,” Hank said. “Where's your place?”

“When you get to the end of Frazier Lane, I'm on the left.”

“Frazier Lane?” Hank repeated. “That dirt road stretches out to the county line.”

“That's right. I'm at the end on the left.”

Hank grinned. “I'll see you around sundown then,” he said, and headed off for that sheet of plywood—thankful he wasn't too late to share this with his pa again.

As if he were on a mission, Hank patched up the old chicken coop, transferring the hens into their new palace. Once done, he began repairs on the pigeon coop, while buying even more birds.
I'll start trainin' em next week
, he decided. By rebuilding the horse barn, the old man had more than met him halfway. He figured this was the least he could do. Besides, his fondest memories with his pa were when they raced pigeons together. He could still picture it like it was yesterday.

It was not long after he'd gotten caught stealing fudge at the fair when a strange occurrence took place. As if being rewarded for his crime, Hank remembered returning from the west pasture when he caught Pa stepping out of one of the sheds. The old man peered into the sun, removed his cap and wiped his brow with the nasty yellow handkerchief that cleaned noses and pulled teeth—sometimes one right after the other. Catching sight of Hank's avoidance, he waved him over.
That's odd
, Hank thought. Pa had a smile spread clean across his face and without saying a word, he pointed to the interior of the shed.

Hank stepped in to find a crate stuffed with pigeons. From the bands on their legs, it was obvious they were racers. Hovering over him, Pa said, “These are breeders. I was thinkin' you might wanna race their young.”

Hank did all he could to contain his excitement. He simply answered, “Yep” and began helping with the shed's renovations.

Pa passed on his knowledge of the birds but Hank disagreed with the man's agenda. He wasn't concerned with caring for pets.
If we're gonna race, then we're gonna win,
he decided.
There ain't gonna be no coddlin'.

And so it went. When a hen laid two eggs, Hank stole one and destroyed it so the mother would pay more attention to the survivor. He hoped this would produce stronger birds. Later when the training began, he monitored closely to see which ones didn't fly straight back to the coop. For those that diverted from their route, it meant certain death. He'd catch them perched on a wire or the house and, when Pa had turned his head long enough, he'd either snap their neck or poison them with the lead of a B.B. One wrong decision like that, one hesitation during competition could easily spell defeat. He wouldn't have it.
As long as Pa don't catch wind of the harsh trainin', we'll all be happy,
he thought.
Well, maybe not the birds.

After months of training, the old man finally decided it was time to race. They went off to a bar where Hank figured his pa had sneaked a few belts now and again. There were all grown men there and Hank felt intimidated. Pa put those worries to rest, though, when he put up a couple dollars per head. The wager was accepted, along with laughter from the more experienced racers. Hank was too big to sit in Pa's lap and take the wheel like he used to, but he still recalled sitting on the edge of the passenger seat all the way home.

For what seemed a lifetime, they waited. And then it came—the chocolate red. Hank pulled the bird from the coop and dipped its leg into the punch clock. From the look on Pa's face, he knew right then they had a decent chance at taking the pot. He kissed that stupid bird on the head and looked up. For one deciding moment, he wanted to do the same to Pa—at least a hug—but the old man looked so uncomfortable. It was weird. In one way, he felt closer to his father than he'd ever felt. Yet, he could still sense the great distance that stood between them. The old man finally belted him on the back and mumbled something that might have passed as a compliment. “That's a strong bird you trained, right there,” he said. Hank wasn't sure if he was complimenting the bird or the training. For defensive purposes, he allowed the pigeon to take the credit.

They returned to the bar. Along with a shot and a beer from the bartender, Pa collected the money from each of his shocked friends. On the way home, he handed over every dollar along with instructions on how to spend it.

That very day, Hank set off to buy out his neighbors. One of them, Mr. Manchester, sold him more than ten of his young at a fair price. Before too long, though, he realized that he'd bought the same one twice. Enraged, he clipped the wings on one of his own and set the decoy on the roof, luring in three of Manchester's best flyers. As Pa stayed out of the coop most of the time, he kept them as captives; a role he knew only too well himself. After breeding even stronger birds from their blood, he eventually snapped the necks on two of them and buried the evidence.
The thieving, deceitful old coot deserves it,
he figured. And as misery loves company, the last pigeon remained Hank's prisoner for years.

Hank returned to the present realizing that although it was his fondest memory with his father, it wasn't a perfect one.
Maybe there ain't no such thing?
he wondered. Still, he wanted to re-live the experience with his father.

The sun had set a few times when the old man finally caught Hank messing around in the pigeon coop. He stuck his head in and teased, “You ain't buyin' the same bird from old Herb Manchester are ya?”

Hank laughed. “No, sir. Those days are done, believe me.”

John studied his son's face. “They are, ain't they?” he asked.

Hank nodded and the truth of it made him smile. “They sure are, Pa,” he said, knowing that neither one of them was talking about pigeons.

“Thank the good Lord,” John said, and stepped out of the coop.

Hank followed his father into the farmyard and watched as the old-timer walked away.
If I didn't know better, I'd swear Pa's been cryin'
, he thought. From the last look in his eyes, it wasn't from sorrow or joy, though. It actually looked like relief.
Pa looks like he's just finished a long, hard day of chores
.

~~~~~

The air was sweet with lilac, as the sun hid behind a newly fallen drizzle. John stood on the front porch, looking out onto the farm. It was spring and the land swelled with new life.
The circle's complete
, he thought, and sucked in a lung full of air.
It's a great day to be alive!

He could hear its rumble before seeing the grill. From a cloud of dust, Hank's truck appeared. There was laughter seeping from within the bottled cab. Hank just about brought the iron beast to a halt when the family piled out like a trained circus act. Everyone was smiling. John searched their eyes and sighed. Looking back at Hank, he thought,
I just wish there was more time.
John met the kids with hugs. From their excited greetings, he gathered that they were on their way to church and stopped by to collect him.

As if he began to pray, John clasped his hands together. “That's mighty neighborly, but the good Lord's gonna have to forgive me for playin' hooky today. I ain't felt up to snuff the past few days.”

Everyone's face betrayed surprise. Grampa John never missed an opportunity to visit his Lord. Elle was the first to voice the family's concerns. “Everything okay, Pa?” she asked.

His eyes made their way down the line. “As good as it's ever been, I reckon,” he said, and smiled. “I just need to rest my eyes for a spell.”

“You sure?” Hank asked, concerned.

“Stop your worryin',” the old man said. “There ain't no need for it. Besides, worryin's like sittin' in a rockin' chair.” He smirked. “It gives you somethin' to do but it don't accomplish a whole lot.”

Followed by another onslaught of hugs and kisses, the happy family climbed back into the truck. “So long,” John called out after them. Hank looked back uncomfortably but the truck's tires kept rolling. Slowly swallowed up by the mist that delivered them, one second they were there and the next they were gone. John sighed heavily.
Those kids proved to be the toughest chores I ever tackled.
The smile widened even more.
And I ain't ever finished a more rewardin' job.

Before easing into it, John took notice of the roll call carved into the seat of his faded rocking chair. There was one missing—
Lila
. Thinking on it, he shook his head.
It's Hank's place to add the name,
he decided.
I've done my part.

With a heavy sigh, John took a seat. His bottom fit into the pilot's seat like a glove. Three Speed looked up from his nap and began whining. “Be still,” he told the dog. “I don't holler when you're tryin' to get some shut-eye.”

The dog tilted his head. As if he understood, he placed his snout back across his front paws and shut his eyes. The mutt understood the strains of growing old.

John shifted until he found his comfort zone. It didn't take long. Drawing in a long even breath, he exhaled slowly and felt the peace. On this day, there was no need to go to church to find serenity. He was surrounded by it sitting right in the chair. He could feel God's presence. His body was tired, his mind was weary, but his heart was at peace. Thinking about the wife he sorely missed, he was just about to close his eyes and daydream when he saw it. It was a pigeon.

It must be one of Hank's pintails,
he figured. The young bird had lost its way and lit right on the porch rail. John laughed. The bird was staring straight through him. It was a chocolate red and the colors brought back a wave of warm memories. Even if he tried, John couldn't have wiped the smile from his face. He closed his eyes and remembered it all.

It was spring, 1959 on the McCarthy Farm. John was pushing Alice on a tree swing, a checkered blanket spread out in front of them. She had prepared a picnic for a king and it was waiting to be devoured. Alice giggled with each push. John laughed along with her until he couldn't take anymore. He caught her from behind, held her suspended in the air and kissed her—passionately.

It was the winter of 1970. John was huffing and puffing, dragging ten-year-old Hank on a home-rigged sled to the top of the hill. “Ready?” he asked his son, tying to catch his breath.

“Oh yeah, Pa,” the boy squealed. “I'm ready alright!”

He laughed and gave Hank a big push. The boy screamed all the way to the bottom, making John laugh out loud and inspiring him to drag the boy back to the top.

It was the summer of 1991 on the farm. John was driving his old tractor, pulling young George, Evan and Tara behind him in an oversized hay trailer. Like chicks sitting in the middle of a fluffy nest, the kids were all singing and laughing—having the time of their lives. He'd be hard pressed to recall a happier day.

John opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He remembered enough to know that he'd lived as more than a lucky man.
I've been blessed
, he thought.
I had a real good life.
As the chocolate red pigeon took off into the sky and headed north, John inhaled the mist and closed his eyes again.
I suppose there's just one more decision to make.

The family was laughing about some silly joke Georgey had told when they pulled up to Grampa John's front porch. Hank had squirmed through every word of the sermon and kept checking his wristwatch. For whatever reason, he was concerned about the old man and was anxious to check on him. The kids thought it was funny. Grampa John never needed anything. Elle didn't sing a note. A few times, she even shifted uneasily in the pew.

Hank turned off the ignition but paused before getting out. The hesitation was long enough to replace the laughter with an eerie silence. The scene looked no different from a thousand other lazy afternoons. Grampa John was sitting in his chair. His body was still and, without a doubt, he was sawing enough wood to beat a chain saw.

Climbing out of the truck, everyone took on Hank's wide-eyed stare. There were no snores. They walked closer and still, there was silence. As if they knew, everyone stood back a few feet, while Hank approached his napping father. “Pa,” he said, shaking him. “PA!” The word got louder and the shaking more violent. The old man refused to open his eyes. Just then, the wind chimes sang out in the still air. “He's gone,” Hank whimpered. “He's gone to be with Ma.”

“No!” Tara squealed.

In one loud bang, Hank dropped to his knees and wept like a child. As he hyperventilated, he kept repeating, “I'm sorry, Pa. I'm so sorry for what I done.” Except for Hank, no one could have possibly fathomed the many reasons for the heartfelt apology. Hank's chest felt constricted, as though he'd just smoked a sheep.