The Rockin' Chair (5 page)

The coldest wind whipped down the mountain and back-handed Hank across the face. Opening his eyes, he reached for his pocket and lit another cigarette. “A few more Marlboro miles and I'll be able to order that iron lung,” he coughed.

The air must have dropped ten degrees since his mind took a jog down memory lane.
It's gonna be another winter of endurance for sure
, he thought, and then glanced toward the farmhouse.
Pa's light's out.
Gazing up, he stared into a majestic sky. The moon was ripe and there were a million stars; it looked as if someone had freed every firefly Hank had ever trapped in a Mason jar and placed them on a black velvet canvas. Hunched in his jacket, he collected the empty beer cans around him and struggled to stand. His back ached. He stretched out and realized the throb in his head felt worse.
After all the years and all the memories,
he thought,
the only thing left to show is pain.
His whole life had been one long, bumpy ride. Walking into the house he thought,
Poor Elle … she deserved more. When she climbed aboard with me, she never realized the ticket she punched
.

Hank relieved his swollen bladder and stepped to the bathroom sink to rinse his hands. He got a good lather going when he caught his face in the mirror. As if seeing himself for the first time in years, he swallowed hard. His jet-black hair was now peppered with streaks of gray and crawling up his forehead. He could see the start of a second chin and the wrinkles that were scattered across his cheeks looked like a road map heading nowhere. But it was his eyes that bothered him most. As usual, they were bloodshot, holding up the bags beneath—but Hank cringed when he braved a deeper look.
I look so tired now, so worn down
. His blue eyes actually looked dead. Instantly, they filled with tears.
To think of what my pride's cost me … of all the blame and bitterness it's left behind.
His heart ached. Shutting the light, he coughed up the tar that coated his lungs when another truth hit him—
I look just like Pa now.

A wind whistled down the chimney and brought a chill to Hank's bones. He fed the wood stove and crawled into bed. Lying quietly for a moment, he turned to steal a much-needed hug from Elle. With her back to him, he decided against it.
She's snorin' quietly
, he thought.
Besides, she's tired too … tired of the drinkin' and the anger and all the bullshit that goes along with bein' Mrs. Hank McCarthy
. The kids were gone and he was certain she only stayed out of habit. The fire between them had been stomped out long ago. “What the hell have I done?” he asked in a broken whisper. Letting the tears stream freely down his cheeks, his thoughts shifted to his children once again. With a lump in his throat and sorrow in his heart, he thought about how they were. For the first time in a long while, he truly wondered how they were doing and what they had found beyond the mountains that had always served as his prison walls.
Whatever it is
, he decided,
it's time they return to the homestead
.

T
he Army's C-130 aircraft touched down at Fort Benning, Georgia and Sergeant George McCarthy could hear a buzz from the cheering crowd that awaited them. Before the doors opened, he approached the four gallant men of his squad and shook their hands. “You boys are true American heroes and I want to be the first to congratulate you.” Squaring away his uniform, he took his first step in more than a year onto American soil, thinking,
Thank God we made it home
.

As the band played a marching tune, a war of emotion raged inside George while his broken heart begged it to stop. In lock-step, he and the boys followed a bright red carpet straight to the decorated platform. Unlike Vietnam, the Army wasn't wasting one minute handing out its accolades. George stood at attention and fought to contain the sea of mixed emotions that crashed against his soul. He was proud of the job he and his squad had performed in Afghanistan, but he was also drowning in the guilt of killing an innocent boy.

A swollen-chest colonel commenced the medal-pinning ceremony and brought everyone's attention to Sergeant McCarthy. For a second, George's rigid stance was rocked by the surprise. Revealing a bronze star, the colonel—an old warhorse—played to the crowd. “Under extremely grave conditions, Sergeant George McCarthy displayed great courage and saved the lives of his men from the enemy.” He rambled on, but George's disbelief blocked out every misleading word. His mind was spinning in confusion, while his heart ached with sorrow and guilt.
This man's actually awarding me for murdering an unarmed boy
, George thought.
There's no honor in this
.

The colonel finished pinning the star on him and saluted. George returned the salute, slowly turned toward his cheering men and displayed the best camouflage he'd ever used; he shot them the fake McCarthy smile. Every pat on the back made George feel like vomiting.

The squad headed out to celebrate, but to their surprise, George told them, “Sorry, boys, but I'm going to have to pass on this one.” Instead, he requested an urgent meeting with his company commander. As the Army's newest recipient of the bronze star, it was immediately granted.

Standing at attention, George explained every bitter detail of the incident that haunted his sleep. When finished, he unpinned the bronze star and dropped it onto the man's desk. The commander jumped up and barked, “No ranger refuses the recognition of valor!”

George calmly replied, “I agree, sir. This ranger is recognizing that while the Army wishes to sweep the incident under its big, bureaucratic carpet, I still wish to live by the truth. What I did was not out of courage and …” He shook his head “…that boy was not the enemy.”

The commander's mouth remained open without another word escaping. Even when George requested to take all his earned leave on an extended vacation from the Army, the colonel could only nod.

George saluted, did an about-face and wondered if he'd ever see his commander again.

Tragically, among innocence and other things lost in Afghanistan, George no longer felt that the military provided the same meaning for his life.
The purpose I once cherished is gone. I still love my country. It's just that those who run it have more faces than the Pentagon.
He was confused and needed to do some soul searching.

Returning to his old barracks felt like coming home. There was a pile of letters on his bunk—support from home that had finally caught up to him. Some of the envelopes dated back weeks. George took a seat on the floor and got comfortable. He read them all.

Most were from Ma. She spoke of the same things she always did, but his eyes filled nonetheless. Grampa John had a few in the pile. He asked more questions than anything. Then there was one last letter; it had been stamped in Massachusetts.

George bathed in the articulate words of his younger brother, the aspiring writer. After poking fun about having to exchange letters instead of texts, Evan went on about finishing his college degree and was equally detailed about his new job at the newspaper. Yet, it was the way in which he wrote about his fiancée Carley that made George smile. From the letter, Evan's life couldn't have been any happier. It finally gave the suffering soldier something real to smile about. He stood and began packing his duffel bags. Remembering what his baby brother's heart was like, he thought,
God willing, every word in this letter is true
.

Sergeant George McCarthy, the combat veteran, paused at the barracks door and gave the place one last look. Scanning over the bunks of Cooch, Brad, Danny and Brady, he whispered, “I'm going to miss all of it.” After going over the short list in his throbbing head, he hit the lights, confident he hadn't forgotten a thing. Anxious not to waste another minute, he ventured off to find his soul.

Many miles north in Massachusetts, it was nearly five o'clock the next morning when Evan stumbled home. He'd been out all night, wandering aimlessly through the abandoned streets of Fall River. What a lonely time it was. While some people were just getting home to put their addictions to sleep and others—committed to the rat race—were awakening to face another morning of bad coffee and traffic jams, Evan was torturing himself with his fears of the future.
Without Carley, I have nothing
, he thought, and could feel the world tumbling down around him—one concrete domino after another.

Days before, his fiancée had been caught cheating and he was still trying to process the cruel finality of it all. But while he searched for any way to avoid the inevitable, his mind circled back to the same truth each time.
It's over!
Carley had betrayed him and, in doing so, had turned their relationship—past, present and future—into nothing more than some cruel joke. It was the permanence of it that hurt most. As Grampa John would say, “Once a dog gets a taste of chicken blood, you gotta get rid of it 'cause it'll surely kill again.”
For Carley and me,
he thought,
there's no going back … or forward.
It was that truth that cut the deepest. Evan couldn't imagine a greater anguish.

He sat in his car a block away from their apartment, waiting to pack up his life into trash bags. Each second lasted an eternity. He hadn't been able to eat, sleep or function as a normal human being. Analyzing his pathetic existence, he finally concluded,
Carley Mendoza is my life. The jobs, the future, the dreams … it all means nothing without her
. He'd even forgotten his own heritage and accepted the Mendozas as his new family.
But they aren't my family,
he realized.
They're Carley's
.
Without her, they're gone, too
.

Once Carley left for work, Evan stepped into their apartment. During his final tour of the home he loved, to his surprise all the material objects, which he once believed had brought him so much joy, now meant nothing. Ashamed at the truth of it, he packed his clothes, grabbed his writing portfolio and then stopped at the maple rocking chair he'd finished with his own hands. Sitting in its lap for one final ride, he wept like a child.
My kids were supposed to be rocked in this chair … not Paul Smith's.
He picked up the rocker, smashed it into pieces and then cried until there were no tears left.

He grabbed his mail off the kitchen counter, looked back once and burned the picture into his memory. Opening the door, he stepped out of his life. He was on his own again, with no future to strive for. He didn't have the heart to write his sentimental stories any longer.
Nothing matters any more,
he decided.
It's over
. He'd trusted Carley with his most valuable possessions—his heart and soul. In payment, she handed them back in pieces. What he never expected, though, was that she would destroy his dreams. But she had. When their love died, so did Evan's dreams. He couldn't imagine ever being able to get them back.

Not knowing how he even got there, Evan pulled into his favorite spot in Massachusetts—Horseneck Beach. It was a rocky stretch of coastline located in Westport, a quaint bedroom town. He and Carley used to enjoy their picnics in its dunes and then roll up in a blanket to sleep under a canopy of stars. It didn't have the same sense of magic any more.

Feeling the anxious need to leave and keep moving, he forced himself to climb up on the car's hood, sit back for a minute and ponder the meaning of his life. As he did, he immediately realized that Carley hadn't taken his sight. He still had the eyes of a poet and thought,
God, how I wish I could share this with her
.

It was dusk, with low tide creeping in. Encased in a liquid-blue sky, the sun flawlessly marked time. Cotton-candy clouds crawled by, while beams of orange and red discovered their final escape and raced to the icy water. The sleeping sea—like a patient old man—hummed a soothing tune. Rocking in, then farther outward, it cleansed itself, depositing its filth on the surf's foamy edge. Rancid smells of dead fish and crabs lured flocks of seagulls in for a bountiful feast. Above broken shells, they lazily spread their wings and enjoyed a free ride on the ruffling winds. Landing on a carpet of bleached-white sand, they foraged at the sea's outer reach. Rocks blanketed in seaweed jutted out, as long blades of razor-sharp grass swayed in unison. At this foundation of the world—this cornerstone of eternity—a salty mist was cast, creating a rainbow before a burst of sunlight. In the distance, that sun grew weary. Evan understood its plight. Slowly falling off, the stiff horizon produced mystical shadows, mere stains of the past, while the moon was summoned to quell the fears of the dark.

Not knowing how long he'd been there, Evan jumped off the car's hood and wiped his eyes.
Things are bad
, he thought,
but my fate hasn't been sealed yet
. That hope alone was enough to keep him breathing.

As Evan opened the car door, he caught a miraculous sign. It was a shooting star, the type he'd spent hours looking for as a kid. When he'd finally catch one, he'd spend even more time making his wish. The memory made him gasp for air. At that very instant, he decided,
I can't take my own life. God gave it to me, so God's the only One who can take it back.

Turning the ignition, he wondered where to go first. Then, for the second time that night, another miracle arrived. Atop the pile of mail sitting on his passenger-side seat, a letter addressed in Grampa John's chicken scratch jumped right out at him.
The old man's still writing letters
, he thought, and tore open the envelope. He quickly deciphered the blurry words. In short, Grandma was preparing to venture into the Promised Land. In an urgent tone, the old man finished
, If it suits you to get a hold of that sister of yours, I'd be much obliged. There ain't much time, Evan
.

The initial thought of going home made his stomach flop. He'd spent his entire childhood and adolescence trying to escape from Montana, along with the beatings that his father enjoyed handing out.
Most kids fear monsters when they're growing up,
he thought,
but I never did. I had Pa and he never hid under my bed.

Evan looked back down at his grandfather's letter and sighed heavily.
But I have to go back,
he thought.
I need to find Tara … and fast.
He checked his cell phone for a text or a missed call from Carley.
Nothing
. He pointed the car south toward New York City and hit the gas.

Barreling down the coast, Evan thought about the distance he'd allowed between him and Tara and felt the guilt for it. They'd played together for years until finally having to play tag over the phone. Then, one day she didn't feel like playing any more. She was no longer online and her cell phone number had been disconnected. Time took care of the rest.

He knew she'd given birth to Lila and was sure she was still chasing her shooting star in the Big Apple, but he'd been so wrapped up in his own life that he didn't know much else. The guilt turned to shame.

If she's still in New York, I'll find her
, he thought.
We're twins
.
Distance or time could never completely separate us.
The unspoken bond they shared was like a homing device and knowing this, he pressed down hard on the accelerator. Carley had left him no choice. It was time to grab his sister and fly back to the nest.

Two days and a half dozen New York addresses later, Evan happened upon a sight that—if only for a minute—made him forget his own pain.

The vulgar sounds of the bustling metropolis drowned out the silent cries of the needy. At first glance, it would have been less painful to look away, but with a hint of courage and the grace of a newfound compassion, Evan's journalistic look detailed the brutal story of a cold and uncaring society.

Alone on a stoop, a poor, disabled soul sat amid a flowing river of pedestrians. Dressed in tattered clothing and worn shoes, one trembling hand held a sign—his desperate plea for help—while the other extended an empty cup. His weary eyes betrayed a tormenting despair, yet there was still a sparkle of sincerity. Shifting to get a better look, an eerie chill traveled the length of Evan's spine. Unfortunately, the temperature was not the cause of the horrible sensation and, at that instant, he felt guilty for wallowing in self-pity.

As if the handicapped man were invisible, most walked around him and proceeded on to their blessed lives of good health and prosperity. Those who did take notice merely peered down their noses at him, quickly turning away to avoid any eye contact. The all-too-familiar sight made Evan's heart ache with sorrow.

It was obviously easier to assume the panhandler was a con artist than to find the truth within his tortured eyes. The snickering and mumbled insults were carried through the frigid air, causing those very eyes to slam shut. Fifteen endless minutes elapsed and although the cup remained empty, Evan witnessed one human being suffer more embarrassment and humiliation than anyone deserved in an entire lifetime.