The Rockin' Chair

America

Dedication

For my father’s grandchildren, and for Paula—my love

Acknowledgments

First and forever, Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior. With Him, all things are possible.

To Paula, my beautiful wife, for loving me and being the amazing woman that she is.

To my children—Evan, Jacob, Isabella and Carissa—for inspiring me.

To Mom, Dad, Billy, Randy, Darlene, Jeremy, Jenn, Jason, Philip, the DeSousa’s—my beloved family and foundation on which I stand.

To Lou Aronica and Peter Miller, for giving me another priceless opportunity to share my writing with the world. I cannot express my gratitude for Lou’s patience, generous mentoring, and belief in my work.

The truth has many perceptions, while attitude shall dictate the end of life’s memories.

– Evan McCarthy

Chapter 1

An angry wind whipped down from the mountains and tapped Alice on the shoulder. With chattering teeth, she drummed up the courage to open one eye. There was no one there. She shuddered. This time the horrible sensation was the product of fear. It’s gettin’ dark, she thought.

A tree branch snapped in the wood line. Mama! she squealed out in terror. But still she was alone. Simmer yourself, she thought. Ma’ll be along soon. While the wind wailed a haunting song, she forced herself to think about her friends.

She could envision them all nestled by a tribal fire, listening to one of the elders spin glorious tales of great hunts and courageous warriors. Memories of early winters flashed before her eyes—the beautiful sunsets, roasted chestnuts that led to snowball fights and kissing cute Bobby Simone full on the mouth. She looked up to find her ma grinning, while red-faced Bobby ran away.

Suddenly, in her mind’s eye she was a few years older—wearing her favorite peach polka dot dress. Beneath the whooshing of a weeping willow tree, she shared some nervous conversation with a tall, teenage boy named John. She rambled on and completely opened up, while he nodded his mop of dirty blond hair and hung onto every word.

When it was John’s turn, she recalled him trying to impress her. I was just about to save the calf from the icy pond … he was boasting when his animated talk caused him to stumble over tree roots that ran across the ground. John threw out his hands in hopes of bracing the inevitable fall. At first, he didn’t go down but his arms remained extended like a puppet master who had forgotten his toys. Red-faced, gravity quickly insured the rest of his embarrassment. She giggled at his awkwardness.

But that never happened, she thought, her heart racing from the strange experience that had just played out in her mind. While trying to catch her breath, she searched her childhood memories for confirmation. Never happened, she told herself again. Then, like a runaway locomotive threatening to derail, one vivid and unexpected picture after the next headed straight at her.

Alice watched herself—now somewhere in her mid-20s—sitting at an old kitchen table. The telephone rang. She picked it up. It was Mrs. Lecomte, a teacher from the elementary school. Alice listened for a few minutes before replying, No, Ma’am, I didn’t realize Hank’s had problems readin’. She listened more and stood. Well, I know it ain’t ’cause he’s stupid, she snapped defensively. And trust me, my boy’s anything but lazy. She tried to calm her nerves, allowing the woman to finish her spiel. Yes, Ma’am, I’ll do what I can to encourage him at home, she promised and hung up the phone. She flopped back down into her seat thinking, What are we ever gonna do with that boy?

The word boy echoed in another chamber of Alice’s mind. What boy? she wondered.

In the next scene, Alice could feel herself crawling out of her skin from excitement. Gray-haired and liver-spotted, she nearly burst through the screen door onto the front porch. With bent fingers, she snatched the swaddled newborn out of the old man’s lap—but not before stealing a kiss from him. This baby needs to be with his grandma, she teased, and started for the house with the plump little package nestled safely in her arms. Just inside the shadows, she paused to see the old man pulling a jackknife from his denim overalls. He’s gonna carve Georgey’s name into the seat of that rockin’ chair, she figured, and felt a charge of pure love rip through her body.

An icy wind yanked Alice back into the present. She shook her head, trying to clear it from all the jumbled thoughts that were making her dizzy. She peered down at her trembling hands. They look so old … and wrinkled from the cold, she thought.

In the distance, someone’s heavy breathing moved toward her. The footsteps were foreign and the breathing labored. It definitely ain’t Mama, she decided, and a rush of panic shot out from her chest to all four limbs. The footsteps grew louder. She shut her eyes as tight as she could and held her breath. Dear Lord, please let it be Mama, she prayed.

Oh God, Ma! the approaching woman said, panting. You had us all scared out of our wits!

Alice felt someone blocking the last sliver of sun and slowly opened one eye. A pretty, young stranger was looking down at her, smiling. Alice took a deep breath and opened the other eye.

Elle bent before Alice and extended her hand. Come on now. It’s time to go home, she said.

Alice shook her head and looked away.

Elle smiled, compassionately. It’s okay, Ma. I’m here to take you home, she said and kept her hand extended.

Ma? Alice thought and didn’t know what to do—or think. Reluctantly, she took the stranger’s hand. As she rose, her stiff bones creaked and complained. She felt wet and cold with the wind hitting her backside.

I think you took another year off Pa’s life. Elle chuckled and finished pulling Alice to her unsure feet. The stranger’s familiar touch surprised Alice but she didn’t question it. Instead, she followed her every step.

As they made their way through the frosted meadow, Alice stopped short.

What is it? Elle asked, startled by the sudden halt.

I ain’t supposed to … Alice began, but the thought of staying behind felt a lot scarier than following along. And then another thought hit her; a happier thought from a different place and time.

Alice was young again and holding hands with that lanky, blond-haired boy—John. They’d just arrived at a farmhouse and, except for the candle that burned brightly in one of the bedroom windows, they found it in complete darkness. John whispered to her, It’s my ma’s way of welcoming you home.

She smiled wide and then the truth hit her. Your ma knows we eloped? she asked.

John laughed. Just wait here. I’ll be right back. He snuck in, blew out the candle and then led her into the barn.

Once inside, he turned to her and extended his hand. May I have this dance, Mrs. McCarthy?

You’re as crazy as a June bug, Mr. McCarthy, she said. I don’t hear no music.

John pulled her to him. Well then, he said, you ain’t listenin’ hard enough are ya?

While the moon poured through the loft and illuminated their silhouettes, they began to sway in each other’s arms. The soft kisses turned passionate, while Alice helped John off with his shirt. He led her to a bed of hay where they lay together, naked. And for hours, they finally found out what it meant to be all grown up.

More confused than ever, Alice gasped for breath. She looked at Elle—who was still waiting patiently. Alice tried to speak but the words got stuck. It was all she could do to pat down the giant lump in her throat. I’m just not sure about anything, she finally admitted, while tears swelled in her eyes.

It’s going to be okay, Elle said, rubbing her back. We’ll get you home and get you all cleaned up. You’ll feel better after you rest … I’m sure of it.

While Elle resumed the escort, Alice began to weep. Somethin’ ain’t right, she thought, and then everything became hazy again.

By the time the darkness had completely crept in, they were in someone’s house. The friendly stranger gave Alice two pills and tucked her into bed. Alice was grateful but wondered, Why don’t she just take me home and put me in my own bed?

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.

Young Doc Schwartz had taken over for old man Duff and had only been in the county for ten years. Still, he was a caring soul who was always willing to go the extra mile—and walk it if need be. As such, most townsfolk took a shine to him right off. With wire-rimmed spectacles and a bronze tan, he had the look of one of those big-city doctors. But from the moment he opened his mouth, his words dismissed that notion. He was sincere and caring. In this case, however, though he’d never lied, he’d done his best to avoid the devastating truth.

Mornin’ Big John, he called out, as he retrieved his bag from the back seat. Alice had a rough night, did she?

Rough mornin’ too, doc. She’s gettin’ so that she’s scared to see my pretty face.

The doctor chuckled kindly. John’s attempt at masking the worst fears imaginable couldn’t fool anybody but every man was entitled to his pride. Walking past him, he patted the old man’s shoulder. With an equally false grin, Doc Schwartz sucked in a lung full of air and promised, I’ll look in after her and see if I can’t do something, knowing that he finally had to explain the merciless illness that was stealing away this gentle man’s wife—one small piece at a time.

John nodded his appreciation. Though a man could ask for nothing more, he prayed, I hope this young fella has some sort of miracle hidden away in that black bag of his … just one miracle to make everything right again. He refused to lose faith.