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Authors: Steven Manchester

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The Rockin' Chair (2 page)

BOOK: The Rockin' Chair
11.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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CHAPTER 2

I
love you son,” the old man murmured in his sleep, “I tried to show you …”

Grampa John's trusty alarm clock had already started in on its second crow before the old-timer's feet hit the hardwood floor. Feeling for his boots in the dark, he drew in a deep breath, exhaling the end of another restless night in a long, moaning yawn. Turning back, he looked compassionately at his lifelong love—Alice. In the faintest light that was offered through a crack in the dark heavy drapes, she looked peaceful.
She looks too peaceful
, he thought. Leaning in to get a closer look, he stared hard until the subtle rise and fall of her chest made him catch his breath.
Thank the Lord
. Pushing her long locks of gray hair away from her face, he gently kissed her wrinkled cheek.
Alice, you're a good woman, the perfect wife
, he thought. Since the illness, his worry for her consumed most of his thinking. As of late, he seldom thought about how much he adored her.

Quietly pulling back the drapes, he glanced out the frost-covered window and then looked back—waiting until Alice was no longer a faceless shadow. It had become a morning ritual for some time now. Alice needed to wake up with the sun on her face or else she would panic in the darkness. John started for the door but as he reached the threshold, his wife stirred slightly and mumbled something incoherent before falling back into her dreams. The brief scenario made him smile.
After all these years,
he thought,
my squaw can still start my day with a smile.

With his green woolen jacket buttoned up to the neck, the old man pulled a red flannel cap onto his bald head and started out of the mudroom.

From the porch, the farm looked no different from any other day. But after seven decades, the rugged, sprawling landscape still had a way of stopping him in his tracks. In the brisk morning air, he took the precious time he needed to feed his soul.

It was a wondrous world, with Montana's hulking mountains guarding the valley below. Low clouds hung like a fog, causing the rising sun to cast long, mysterious shadows on everything it touched. The trees, decorated in the leaves that refused to fall, stood rigid—as if bracing themselves against the shock of an early snow. It was late autumn but winter seemed a bit impatient. Feeling a familiar brush on his leg, John glanced down to see his old mutt, Three Speed, waiting to be acknowledged. He bent slowly and rubbed the dog's head. “Well, ol' boy,” he whispered, “I reckon it's time we get to work.” While the words drifted away in a billowy puff of steam, the dog accepted his master's nod. He hobbled off the porch, trotting across a worn path of brown clay that led to the big, red barn.

For the second time that morning, John smiled. He couldn't remember how old the mutt was nor did he have the time and patience to figure it out. For years, it did nothing but get under his feet. But if anyone had a soft spot for the elderly, it was Grampa John. At seventy-two years old, he couldn't get out of his own way most of the time. With a chuckle, he joined his loyal companion in their morning chores.

The barn offered an inviting warmth, with the sweet stink of hay and manure filling the air. A flock of swallows too stubborn to head south swooped from the rafters in a screeching rush and made their escape before the doors closed. Annoyed by the sudden commotion, a row of milking cows—a dozen in all—settled back down to wait patiently for their breakfast. In a stall all her own, a champagne-colored Palomino known as Ginger whinnied her daily greeting. John reached in and raked his fingers through her thick, white mane. She was an old mare who, much like Three Speed, was only kept around for sentimental reasons.

John went straight to the milking and, after getting all the animals fed and watered, he headed for the coops out back. With Three Speed leading the way, he passed the charred foundation of the old horse barn, taking in the picturesque horizon beyond his staggering guide.

The sun had finally made its grand entrance, melting off the clouds of night. Like a giant frosted sheet cake, the fields were still white, while the distant mountains with their snow-dripped peaks jutted out like a double scoop of vanilla ice cream. It looked good enough to eat and the very thought made John's belly groan for a stack of flapjacks. With that in mind, he quickly tended to his rabbits and collected eggs from a band of brooding hens that now took up residence in the abandoned pigeon coop.

As John made his rounds back toward the farmhouse he figured,
Alice will have to be up by now.
Recently she slept in, but that seemed the least of their worries. John had taken over the cooking and though he'd spent years happily devouring every dish set before him, he hadn't paid much mind as to how they'd gotten there.
The only thing worse than my breakfast is every meal that follows,
he decided. Shaking his head at reality, he released a nervous laugh. “My God,” he said to no one, “if it was only the meals that changed.”

Alice could feel the sun on her eyelids before she dared opening them. Beginning with a squint, she was blinded by the light that engulfed the room. Taking a second to adjust, she shook off the two quilts that restrained her and then grabbed her flowered housecoat at the foot of the massive bed. Throwing it on, she steadied her tiny feet into a pair of worn moccasins, all the while wondering,
Why didn't Ma let me sleep in? It don't make no sense. It's Saturday … with no responsibilities to school or church.
She felt tired, more exhausted than usual, and waking to a fire burning into her pupils was certainly not the way to start such a pretty day. Making the mental note,
I'll have to talk to Ma about the rude awakening
, she stumbled and had to brace herself at the doorway. Her mind had sent some message that her body could not interpret. Brushing it off as fatigue, she started again toward the kitchen thinking,
Maybe Ma will let me help with breakfast
.

Grabbing the dented copper kettle off the stove, she turned to the sink and let the water flow like one of the fresh mountain springs that ran out in the backyard. She lit all four burners, placed the kettle back on the stove and began humming a childish tune. The last embers in the wood stove made her nostrils flare at the distinct scent of burnt oak.
Smells like the remnants of a late night's chill,
she thought,
one of my chores to remove
. But she couldn't recall bringing in the wood or lighting a fire. Shrugging it off, she snugged down on the robe's cotton belt, folded her arms across her chest and continued to hum.

She wandered toward the kitchen window and, though she could not have fought it off nor even detected it, her mind was suddenly exposed to a different reality. Like a child discovering a new world through ancient eyes, she peered out the window and her jaw went slack.

A stranger was busy at work and the sight of him made Alice's mouth go dry. Her heart began to race and her breathing became shallow. Yet, though the man's presence absolutely terrified her, his every movement was hypnotizing. Trembling, she stood paralyzed and watched.

He was a large fellow, maybe six feet or better, with shoulders as broad as his smile. In his fists, he held cracked corn, scattering it in a pattern so that every chicken had its fair chance. He was an old-timer, his face wrinkled and weathered like his callused hands. In the middle of that chiseled face sat the biggest nose. Curiously, as if she'd thought it a million times before, she decided it showed great character. For a cruel second he turned toward the window, making her squirm with anxiety. She relaxed, though, when she was sure his liquid blue eyes had not found her. He returned to working slowly, his every move filled with purpose and kindness.

But that moment of peace only lasted one single sigh of relief. As if caught in an inescapable nightmare, she watched the man's three-legged dog limp straight to the window, glance up and tilt his head—almost cynically. Though she could not manage the words from her constricted throat, her eyes begged for the animal's silence.
Please don't
, she pleaded in her mind.
Please … please … please …
But it was not to be. The crippled mutt barked out his wailing alarm, calling his master's attention to her. In an instant, she felt her knees buckle, as the room spun slowly—in a cruel sort of way. She tried desperately to hold on, but the last thing she saw was a red cap and green overcoat rushing for the house.

“Oh God … no!” she screamed, but the stranger kept coming.
He's comin' to get me,
she feared, and though her mind pleaded for her legs to flee, they would not budge. She collapsed to the cold linoleum floor and awaited the worst.

With no more than a stern look, Three Speed lay down on the porch, the storm door slamming in his silver-haired face. John raced through the parlor and could hear the teakettle screaming for help. Breaking the kitchen threshold, his worried eyes caught Alice lying near the bottom cupboard. Her frail body was rolled up in the fetal position and her thumb was stuck in her mouth. As if he were approaching a wounded bird, he slowly kneeled down beside her and held out his hand. She hummed louder. For what seemed like a lifetime, she avoided his stare. And then finally, courageously, she glanced into his eyes. For a moment, she looked as if she was going to accept his hand but, in the last glimmer of such a hope, she pulled back, retreating deeper into her tortured mind.

“It's me, darlin',” John whispered. “It's John … your husband.”

“You do look some familiar,” she mumbled. But still, her eyes betrayed her lack of trust.

Again he whispered, “Come on, Alice. I'm not gonna hurt ya. You're just sick, ol' girl.” He opened his hand even wider and watched as her horrified eyes gradually registered his words as truth.

Like an abandoned child who had lost all hope only to find that her parents had not meant to leave her behind, Alice raised her arms and began to weep mournfully. “I'm sorry …” she whimpered.

In one easy motion, John scooped his tiny wife into his arms and kissed her frightened face. Turning off all four burners—the majority that did nothing but lick at air—he carried Alice like an infant to their bedroom. All the way, he could taste the salt of her tears on his tongue. It was a bitter taste and he hated it, yet he knew all too well that it was only a small taste of what was still to come.

On the way up the stairs Alice sobbed, “I'm so stupid now … so dumb.”

“You shoosh now,” John whispered. “That just ain't true.”

He placed her back into their four-poster bed and, conforming to their daily ritual, gave her the two white pills and a small glass of water to wash them down. He talked slow and gentle to her, trying to remove her fears and keep her mind in the present. “Time to rest, Alice,” he whispered. “You just need to get some rest is all.”

For a moment, she smiled—as if she believed him. But in the next moment, her eyes filled with panic and she pushed herself toward the headboard, scrambling desperately to create a safe distance between them. “Don't you touch me, mister!” she screamed. “Don't you dare lay a finger on me!”

She's gettin' worse
, he thought, and began humming a lullaby.

“Mama! Mama … help me!” she screamed but, as she called out in a panic for her mother, the pills began to take effect. He stroked her hair until her mind eventually removed itself from the harsh reality of now and found a more pleasant place to dwell. When John was sure that Alice would need nothing more, he kissed her and returned the cap back onto his throbbing head.

Finishing the cup of tea that Alice had started, John made two quick phone calls and then returned to the porch with the hot mug in hand. Grabbing a red handkerchief from the back pocket of his denim overalls, he wiped off the crusted dew that covered his faded-gray rocking chair.

Before easing into it, he took notice of the four names carved into the seat, each telling a story all its own. The first—
Hank—
was carved for the only child born to him and Alice. The three listed beneath it—
George, Evan
and
Tara
—announced the two boys and one girl that Hank and his wife Elle had offered as grandchildren. The chair was the McCarthy roll call, a legacy that would live long after each of their brief lives.
If only this chair could talk
, he thought.

John sat back, sipped the strong tea and rocked. Three Speed never moved an inch. The wise dog could see the painful truth in his best friend's eyes. There was much thinking to do and, whenever thinking was involved, the old man did it in his chair. It was a sacred place to either celebrate or grieve, and from the long look on his master's face this was no time for a pint of spirits.

As John waited for his cavalry to arrive, he closed his tired eyes and listened to the stillness of the late autumn morning. The creek, which usually babbled joyfully, was quiet—as if frozen for the season. There were no birds to give their song and weeks before, most of the woodland animals had gathered all the food they would need, wisely electing to settle into early hibernation. There was a soft breeze that shook the trees, but other than that the only sound to be heard was John's shallow breathing.

This silence brought a feeling that John could not remember or even define. Rocking back and forth, he thought hard until the answer ambushed his mind like some unseen enemy. The strange, horrible feeling that had been covering him like a wet blanket—
is loneliness
, he decided.
It has to be.
Although Alice slept behind a window not ten yards from where he now rocked, for the first time in his long, labored life John McCarthy felt alone.

This new solitude was mercifully interrupted by the honk of a car horn. Slowly, John looked up to find Doc Schwartz's fancy car barreling up the long dirt drive, disturbing the still air behind it. Pushing to his feet, John stood and leaned on one of the porch banisters, the stained tea mug still cradled in his giant hands. He watched the young doctor pull right up to the stairs and desperately hoped that the answers to his questions had arrived. With great torment, though, he equally wished they hadn't.

BOOK: The Rockin' Chair
11.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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