The Rockin' Chair (16 page)

Clearing his throat, he asked for silence. It was time to say grace. He prayed, “Lord, thank you for the safe return of my grandchildren, for the precious gift of Lila and for watchin' after the family durin' our trials and sufferin'.” Then he waited. He waited for each of them to give thanks to the Lord for whatever they were grateful for.

Elle added, “Lord, thank you for comforting us during our recent loss. Please watch over Alice.”

Again, there was silence. Grampa John couldn't believe it. The rise in his blood pressure made him feel like his head was going to pop off. He cleared his throat again and turned up the volume. “Lord, forgive us for our doubts and for the ways we take the small things for granted. Forgive us for bein' blind and not seein' the love that surrounds us at this table. Forgive us for holdin' grudges, while holdin' hands. Forgive us for not givin' You thanks for everything You've givin' us. Lord, please forgive this ungrateful family!” Followed by a heavy sigh of disappointment, he lowered his tone. “And again, Lord, thank you for lookin' after Alice. I know she's with us today.”

The silence was deafening during the entire meal. This had become anything but a day of thanks. Grampa John was disgusted. For most of the dinner, the family hung their heads in shame, while the old man's eyes scanned back and forth like a prison searchlight. He was enraged and just waiting for someone to challenge his gaze. No one did—not even Three Speed.

Throughout the quiet meal, Grampa John watched George, who was clearly suffering terribly.
Whether George is ready or not, we need to deal with his demons,
he decided.
It's time to meet 'em face-to-face … just me and the boy.

After devouring a full pan of Elle's apple crisp, Hank and the old man exchange a few cordial words, but no matter how hard the wood stove worked it still couldn't remove the chill from the house.

As everyone headed for the mudroom to fetch their coats, Evan told Grampa John, “I think I'm going to subsidize the writing and get a job in the city.”

“Any leads?”

“St. Francis'. It's a home for wayward children.”

The old man grinned. “Good for you. My pa used to say that when you dig someone out of their troubles, you'll always find a place to bury your own.”

“Let's hope,” Evan said.

Giving his family back to the angry wind, Grampa John grabbed George. “You mind comin' by tomorrow? I could use a strong set of hands for a few hours.”

George nodded. “Sure, Grampa John. I'll be back in the morning.”

“So around four o'clock, then?”

George grinned. “Or a few minutes after.”

It was still dark when George met Grampa John in the big barn. “Good afternoon,” the old man teased.

“Mornin',” Gorge replied, and grabbed the pitchfork that was waiting on him.

For a few minutes, neither man spoke but it was understood. The invisible curtain had been drawn on Grampa John's confessional and the old-timer was waiting. Hesitantly, George began to speak. He talked about his training and his love of the army. He spoke about the friends he missed and his service in Afghanistan. And then he shared the truth, along with the agony he harbored in his heart because of it.

Entering an area previously infested with Taliban fighters, George and his lethal crew began sweeping caves just north of Kandahar to further ensure the safety of their American comrades. Most of the caves were booby-trapped with poorly rigged demolitions. Danny and Brady set charges in each. It was easy work and life almost felt comfortable. This proved to be George's first and only mistake in Afghanistan.

It was dusk and a great orange ball sat on the horizon, sending off colors of pink, purple and red. With the temperature dropping just as fast as the sun, George threw on his parka and called for Cooch and Brad to cover one of the caves from each side. Checking the selector switch on his rifle, he turned it down one click to semi-automatic. As he looked up, he was shocked by what he saw and felt his legs go limp. Straight from a nightmare, a tiny man stood smiling in the entrance of the cave. George dropped to one knee and screamed toward the man. “Get down! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!”

For a second, the foreigner appeared to wave and then he revealed his weapon.

Instinctively, George fired two rounds. Unlike the drama portrayed in movies, the enemy did not stumble or grab for his chest. He just collapsed like a bag of rocks. As he hit the ground, his weapon fell upon him and George gasped at the sight of it. It was a stick. “Oh God, nfo!” George screamed. Running toward the bunker, he could hear his heart pumping hard in his ears. Approaching the convulsing body, he saw the rest of the truth. His feared adversary was no more than twelve years old and from the boy's outfit, he was a goat herder. The stick had been his staff.
I shot a farmer
, George realized. “Oh, God,” he cried. “What did I do?”

Danny patted him on the shoulder before disappearing into the cave to look for more Afghanis.

With horror, the young boy's eyes glassed over but a sick smile remained. As he fought for air, George held him down. He rifled through his pack and searched frantically for pressure dressings. Finally finding one, he tore open the boy's brown robe and immediately spotted where both bullets had smashed into his thin, frail body. Rolling him slightly, he found the exit wound from one of them.

Covered in crimson, George fumbled with the radio. “Bucky Thirteen. Bucky Thirteen. This is Pigeon Claw, seven, one, niner.” He quickly gave coordinates and explained the emergency, adding, “The boy's dying. We need a medivac NOW!”

The pilot came back with some of the worst news George had ever heard. “Pigeon Claw. This is Bucky Thirteen. We got a real bad storm brewing just south of you. It's gonna be a few mikes.” The radio squelched once, then went dead.

In desperation, George began working on the boy. Cooch dove in to help but it was no use and they knew it.

Though his eyes slammed shut, the young farmer struggled to speak. He babbled something in his native tongue, smiled, and then said, “Americo.” Two breaths later, he was on his way to Allah.

George lifted the warm corpse into his trembling arms and howled at the setting sun. “No!” he screamed and, at that very moment, Sergeant George McCarthy's mind was shoved into a thick, cruel fog. He held the lifeless body long after the spirit had departed.
This is no deer carcass
, he thought.
It's the shell of a victim who never asked for war.
To the shock of his hardened men, George wept freely.

For the remaining two months of their stay in Afghanistan, George was buried in a haze of grief. He reported the deadly mistake to command but surprisingly they responded with two words. “Appropriate action.” He continued to give his men orders and followed those that trickled down from above, but his enthusiasm was long gone. The squad cleared caves and reconned areas that had been home to the enemy. Then, one last order was handed down: “Pack it up and go home.” No one questioned it.

After time spent in silence, Grampa John cleared his throat. “I knew you was hurtin' bad, Georgey,” he said, “and I'm sure some folks say don't let it bother ya. But to tell ya the truth, I'm real glad it does.”

George's brow creased in confusion. “What?” he asked. This wasn't what he wanted to hear from the most compassionate soul he knew.

The old man explained, “At least you ain't lost yourself, Georgey. That's the best foundation to start from. You still got the same heart.”

George nodded.

“I reckon those same folks tell ya all different ways to forget about it.” Grampa John shook his head. “But I never knew that to work. Time's what's gonna do it for you. Time's gonna take that pain away and really the only thing I figure you need knowin' right now is this … forgiveness is like respect, George. You can't expect on enjoyin' it 'til you're willin' to give it away.” He stood. “And sometimes that means givin' it to yourself.”

He patted George on the shoulder. “I need to check in on your sister,” he said, “then I'm gonna take a quick nap. You know where to find me if ya need me.”

George spent a good part of that day sitting in his grandfather's parlor. The same question circled through his mind:
How does someone give himself forgiveness?
When he finally decided to question Grampa John about it, he stepped into the old man's bedroom to find his grandfather kneeling by his bed, his eyes closed.
Grampa John's been praying the whole time
, George realized, and quietly slipped out of the room.

T
he world spun painfully slow since Tara had taken a drink, or anything to quiet the panic she was suffering in every cell of her being. Her body was convulsing inside; her cold, sweaty skin crawling like a pit of thirsty snakes. As she sat in bed trembling, her knees drawn to her chest, she suddenly remembered the card that the dealer had given her at the bar. She scurried to her purse and fished around for a moment until she found it. A flash of excitement replaced the panic until she looked up to see Lila staring back at her; a framed photo of her daughter's smiling face was sitting on the bedroom dresser—right where Grampa John had placed it.

Clutching the card in her shaky hand, she jumped back into bed and embarked on a decision of sheer torment; her mind alternated between the drug dealer's promise and the needs of her innocent child. Just when she thought her body's desperation to get high had finally won out, her maternal will launched an offensive and regained some ground. Back and forth it went, while she wailed and screamed and wondered why Grampa John would not come to her rescue. She doubted that George—even George—had ever fought such a ferocious battle. She felt like her entire existence was circling the drain.

When there were no tears left and her trembling body had turned into a rubber band, she gathered enough strength to walk downstairs.

The old man was sitting on a kitchen chair at the bottom of the stairs, where he'd been patiently waiting.

“I need help,” she confessed, while hurrying the rest of the way to him. “I can't fight this alone anymore.”

He stood, pulled her into his chest and squeezed just hard enough so that she could still breathe. “Well, alright then,” he whispered. “Let's go find you some backup.”

As she convulsed in his arms, she handed him the drug dealer's card. He glanced down at it, crumpled it in his massive hand and thrust it into his pocket. “Go get your coat on,” he said. “There ain't no time to waste.”

Grampa John insisted on waiting for Tara in the truck outside. “You don't need to be leanin' on any crutch for this. It's time to stand up and face it, sweetheart.” He stared into the windows of her soul. “And you can do it, Tara. I know it as much as I've ever known anything my whole life.”

She kissed his cheek and tried to fill herself with his belief in her. She stepped out of the pickup and ascended the daunting stairs to The First Baptist Church's hall.

Once inside, each footstep echoed off the walls, as she approached the circle of chairs located in the center of the massive room. Eleven people of different ages, colors and genders looked up as she approached—all of them wearing the same smile that Grampa John wore. She couldn't figure it.

“Is this AA?” she asked, her constricted throat barely allowing her voice to escape.

An older woman stood and extended her hand. “Yes, it is, dear. Welcome.”

Tara shook the woman's hand and was about to take a seat when she stopped.
If I don't do it now, I may never
, she thought, a wave of anxiety begging her legs to run.

“Is there something you want to say?” the woman asked.

“I … I'm Tara … and I'm …” She paused, trying to breathe away the dizziness. “I'm … an alcoholic.”

“Hi Tara,” the group sang out in unison.

Tears streamed down her face. “And a drug addict,” she added shamefully. The weight of the moment pulled her down into her seat, where she scanned the circle. Everyone was still wearing that same smile. She thought for a moment before it hit her.
There's no judgment
, she realized.
I'm not being judged
. She let her tears flow freely.

In the brutal days that followed, Tara paid for all the sins she had committed—and then some. Physically, she was as sick as she'd ever been, suffering flu-like symptoms that dropped her to the bathroom floor where she thanked God for the feel of the cold linoleum on her face. Her skin crawled and itched. Her mind throbbed and spiraled out of control. But she fought valiantly; she fought for Lila and for a future she hoped they would share.

From one hour to the next, her body ached for alcohol, drugs—any fix; hours spent in mental hell until finally collapsing from sheer exhaustion. But the night sweats were the worst, always accompanying the nightmares; horrid dreams that bullied her from her sleep, leaving her panting and filled with panic. Each time, for the first few moments, she struggled to understand where she was. And then it hit her.
It's gonna start again
, she realized, terrified.
Oh, dear God …

Day after day, Tara prayed hard, attended her AA meetings and managed to get sober. She fought with the strength of a mother's love.

J
ust when Evan thought he grasped the true meaning of life; the complex ways of the world and how each intricate part worked in synch, life threw him a curve. He was expecting a change-up.

He'd just made the deadline on a beauty pageant story, some real breaking news, and was a few minutes late for his shift at the Saint Francis' Home. Cottage Three at the St. Francis Home was reputed to be the toughest stop on the grounds but to Evan it didn't matter. After only the first few weeks he realized,
Every cottage is just as depressing as the next
.

Saint Francis' was a residential treatment facility for unwanted children. Arriving from broken homes and shattered dreams, the angry kids who lived there were the neglected, abused and abandoned. Snagged from the twisted grip of trusted predators, most had endured sexual sins, physical atrocities, psychological tortures and spiritual deaths. By-products of substance abuse, domestic violence, prostitution and even satanic worship, their little feet eventually carried them right to the front door step of this dreary reality. In their hands, each held a trash bag containing their every worldly possession. Yet, it was within their eyes that Evan saw the true weight. Ranging from ages three to eighteen, these wards of the state had each failed miserably in foster care and now kneeled at the mercy of a smoke screen called charity. Evan's heart went out to them. From his perspective,
Saint Francis' is no more than a lucrative business capitalizing on horrendous amounts of pain.

The organization received state funding of eighty thousand a year per child and paid just over minimum wage to their direct caregivers. Clearly, they weren't very concerned with attracting the most qualified personnel to watch over their golden cows. The community donated the bulk of the food, clothing and health care, while medication was covered by the state in full. It seemed that the only people benefiting from the whole scheme were the program director, his Mercedes dealer and the religious leaders he reported to. Evan detested their agenda.

But like everyone else who worked with the kids, Evan took employment at Saint Francis' to make ends meet. What he received, instead, was a hard smack of reality. Every minute spent with the lost souls, he could feel the sting.

Residential treatment was the end of the line for people just years from adult incarceration and the clock was ticking fast. It was the last stop where hope had to be found in the hopeless, worth discovered in the worthless and where love had to be shown to those who never knew it. It was no easy task. These poor children refused to display anything resembling respect. The closer a counselor got, the more they pushed away.
And why not?
Evan thought.
Those they trusted most have already betrayed them in the most inconceivable ways.
He could relate.

Through their own individual behavior, they were all troubled, violent and impulsive. Surrounded by abnormality, many strove to experience a normal existence and Evan's heart broke witnessing their long roads out of the abyss. Consumed by fear and rage, many of these once powerless victims took control of their lives by becoming powerful predators and they were absolutely brutal in doing so. All acted out against authority, bringing them the attention they'd always yearned for. Most preyed upon weaker peers, which provided them the strength and security they searched for. Yet, some even acted upon a tiny inner-voice, harming their own bodies in one last desperate cry for love. It was one of those silent cries that changed Evan's life forever.

Evan hadn't been in Cottage Three for five minutes when one of the residents had to be restrained. Evan dreaded the scenario but quickly responded to the scene. He hated man-handling the children. But often times, for their own safety it was necessary.

The boy in distress was Wesley. He had started his first day of life addicted to crack cocaine, while things only went down hill from there. His mother was both neglectful and abusive, the man believed to be his father was incarcerated for violent crimes and whatever people he could call family abandoned any hope for him long ago. Since the age of three, he was in and out of different residential settings. At age twelve, he was yet to find a place called home.

Wesley's biggest dilemma was dealing with his boggled emotions. Most of the time, only guilt would surface and he always responded in the same painful manner; he mutilated his body.

Upon approaching the room, Evan could see the fresh blood spread across the boy's walls. From the initial report, young Wes was doing his homework like any normal twelve year old but could not come to the correct answer on two of the math problems. Unable to think of another option, he jammed the pencil straight into his forearm and repeatedly punctured an old patch of scar tissue until one of the counselors was able to stop the insanity.

Evan looked down at the wild-haired boy. He was pinned to the floor, covered in blood and shrieking, “I'm sorry, but I didn't know the answer.”

Evan spoke in the most soothing voice he could muster, but before he could make things worse another voice arrived out of nowhere. From Maryann Santos' first word, even Evan felt the healing process begin.

She bent and stroked Wesley's hair, reducing his screams to sobs. As though no one else was in the room, she took over and asked the other counselors, “Can you please free him?” Everyone did as they were asked—even Wesley. Not five minutes from her arrival, the boy sat up, wiped his puffy eyes and was peacefully escorted into the rear of an ambulance. He looked back once—the horror in his eyes no longer there—and smiled at Maryann.

She smiled back and shot him a wink. Before the ambulance doors completely closed, Evan saw Wesley's face beam.
I don't blame him,
Evan thought.

Evan turned to face the angel. Maryann was captivating with a gorgeous face. Suddenly, he realized that the living doll was asking his name and he blushed from being caught in his own daze. Thinking more than he needed to on the question he finally choked out, “Evan.”

She smiled the most wonderful smile, but as she walked away Evan realized he hadn't been looking at her mouth.
It's those eyes,
he thought. Her dark eyes had smiled at him and, to his surprise, released butterflies into his stomach.

Maryann erased the smile and returned to work. She kept close watch on a wolf named Adam a registered sex offender no more than fourteen years old, while Evan did his best to conceal his stare. He couldn't help it and tried to stop. Maryann looked back several times, confirming through a grin that she could read his thoughts. Once, as the grin widened, Evan wondered if she didn't share them. The last four hours of the shift lasted five minutes. As they punched out, Evan approached her. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but I forgot to ask you your name.”

She smiled again and then looked straight into his soul. “Maryann,” she answered and ran out the door.

As she sprinted toward the parking lot, Evan's wobbly knees nearly embarrassed him.
It's those eyes.
They were already haunting him.

On the drive home, Evan was amazed that he could even think about another woman so soon after Carley—but he could. In fact, he couldn't get Maryann's eyes out of his head. It was a welcome change.

The weekend dragged by and with God's mercy, Evan was assigned to Cottage Three once again. Though he was spiffed up in new clothes, Maryann barely acknowledged his presence. She didn't even seem to notice him.
What a disappointment
, he thought, and moped around at the truth of it. But as his tour of duty came to a close, he could actually feel those eyes upon him. Slowly, he looked up. Maryann's smile made him search for oxygen.
She's a mysterious creature,
he thought,
who's either extremely conceited or very shy. Whatever the reason, I'd sure like to find out.

They talked for a few minutes after work, where he learned that Maryann was the product of first-generation Portuguese in America. He quickly decided that the nationality produced some striking features. “So do you go to school?” he asked her.

She sighed. “I'm finishing my Bachelor's degree in social work,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “And I'm thinking about torturing myself for a few more years and going for my master's.”

“Good for you,” Evan said. “You should.”

“How about you?” she asked.

“I just got my BA in English from the University of Massachusetts.”

“Oh, a well-traveled man,” she teased.

He shook his head. “Not yet,” he admitted. “But someday, I hope.”

“I'd love to travel too,” she agreed with a smile.

He swallowed hard and then continued his excited line of questioning. As Maryann answered each one of them, Evan felt like he was conducting an interview for the newspaper but he had to know about her. He had to know everything. They talked long enough for him to discover that she was, indeed, only bashful. He felt so relieved.

As the conversation came to an end, Maryann confessed, “I'm going out with Scott Collura.”

Evan could feel the breeze of a heavy door slam shut in his face.

As if she sensed his queasy feeling, she quickly added, “Things aren't going well, though. Scott loves himself so much that it leaves little room for me. Besides, he doesn't want to have a family.” She smiled wide. “And I do.”

The door flew back open and they exchanged cell phone numbers. “Text me,” she told him.

After suffering Carley's betrayal, Evan had somehow thought he might be immune to heartache. But life didn't work that way. Unless you weren't willing to truly live again and take a shot at love or joy, the risk was always there. He could feel that risk every time his eyes met Maryann's. He smiled to himself, thinking,
Like I have a choice.

Saint Francis' continued to take up forty hours each week and every minute was time spent in disgust. Nothing shy of a miracle is going to help these kids, Evan decided. At the very least, it's going to take more than an organization that profits from their unresolved problems to do it. Evan did a lot of thinking on the whole nightmare and it was the obscurity of the children's lives that ate at him most. The outcasts living within Saint Francis' walls were hanging on the fringe of society where they were seldom seen, heard from or thought of by the real world. They were carefully placed out of sight. In turn, they were kept out of mind, while a non-profit organization hiding behind the church's flag raked in a bundle. Evan silently vowed,
On the day I make my mark as a writer, I'll be their voice and they'll no longer be silenced
. He dreamed of being part of their miracle and swore,
Someday, I'll tell the world about their dark and dirty secrets. Then and only then, when others know about their difficult plight, will these children be able to find help.

It was Saturday morning and Evan was helping Grampa John wrap up his chores in the barn.

“So how's that home you're workin' at?” the old man asked.

“I swear it's the most horrible place on earth,” Evan said disgustedly. “There's a kid there no more than ten and I guess he's like all the others. His parents don't want him and the rest of the world wants him even less. Anyway, he was having trouble with one of his ears, so they sent him off to the hospital for surgery. Not three days later, he gets back to the home, his ear all stitched up from front to back. I was just finishing a head count when I noticed him eating something. When I approached him, it took a few moments before I realized that he'd torn out his stitches, peeled off some of the raw flesh and was eating it.” Swallowing hard at the mental pictures, Evan shrugged. “What do you say to a kid who eats his own flesh? I mean, how do you help someone like that?”

Grampa John mirrored his grandson's shrug. “I don't figure it. What do you do?” he asked.

For a moment, Evan forgot who he was speaking with. “How in God's name should I know?” he barked, angry at the memory. “A problem like that's a little too big for me to tackle!”

Grampa John dragged out two milk cans and gestured for Evan to sit with him. He did. “What is it you want, Evan?” the old man asked, finally cutting to the chase.

“To be happy,” he answered honestly.

Grampa John shook his head. The answer obviously wasn't good enough. He explained, “I reckon bein' happy is just the way someone decides on feelin'. I've known people who had nothin' but they were always smilin'. It's a decision, Evan.” Again, he spoke firmly. “I asked you what you wanted.”

“To make a difference,” Evan admitted, “to help the kids … to write …”

The old man slapped his knee and stood. “There it is then!” he roared. “We can only do the best with the gifts the good Lord gives us. You're hell bent on helpin' some messed-up kids that the world's got no use for … you claim the world don't even know about. And … you write stories.” He chuckled. “Sounds like a perfect fit to me.” He shot Evan a wink. “The good Lord knows what He's doin', for sure,” the old man concluded, and started to walk away.

Evan called out, “But I don't have the experience or the connections to …”

“Excuses,” Grampa John blurted. He stopped and turned. “And there ain't no use in wastin' time on the reasons you
can't
do somethin',” he added. “I think your best bet is to put the effort into the reasons you
can
do somethin'.” With that, he went on his business.

Evan sat speechless. Grampa John had not only suggested that he write a book about the plight of the children; he implied that it was meant to happen. The old fortuneteller laughed as if it were nothing more than an obvious case of fate. Grampa John undoubtedly knew. Evan now wondered.

As if he knew the time had come, Grampa John turned to find Tara running her fingers through Ginger's thick mane. The recovering alcoholic already looked a hundred percent better. Before he could speak, Sleeping Beauty said, “I think it's been too long, Gramps. I don't think Ginger remembers who I am.”