As John broke the threshold, Elle placed the book on the nightstand and fumbled for her jacket hanging over the chair. “I thought you were going to stay out there all night until I noticed the windows getting frosted,” she said.
John half-shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … ”
She waved her hand, politely cutting him off. “I’m just teasing, Pa. I’m glad you took the time.” She kissed Alice on the cheek and assured her patient, “I’ll see you at first light, okay?” Alice stared straight through her. Walking to John, Elle stopped and planted the same kiss on his cheek. “I was thinking about treating you to my famous blueberry muffins in the morning.”
As she started for the door, John stopped her. “You hear from your young’uns lately?” he asked.
Elle shook her head and rolled her pretty green eyes all in one motion. “We got a letter from Georgey a few days ago,” she said, “but it was a little peculiar. It was from Afghanistan and it was postmarked three weeks ago. For this tour, he hasn’t been allowed to call or text or go online. I hope everything’s okay over there.” She shrugged. “Hank says not to worry.”
The old man nodded, erasing some of the fear in her eyes. “Hank’s right. George’ll be fine. He’s a survivor.”
“Sure,” Elle said, “a survivor who couldn’t hurt a fly. You remember how he felt when he ran that mutt over with the tractor?”
“I do,” John said, chuckling at the thought of it. “Old Three Speed got over it a lot quicker than Georgey did.” His face turned serious again. “Any word from the other two?”
“Evan hasn’t returned my calls for almost two weeks now, which is unusual, and Tara …” The eyes rolled again. “…you know that one. I tried calling her but her latest number has been disconnected. I guess she and the baby are doing fine, but I’ll have to wait until she decides to pick up a phone to know for sure.”
John smiled. “I’m sure they’re all fine … just finding their own way in that big world out there.”
She nodded once and then turned to leave.
Stopping her one last time, John gestured toward the bed. “Thank you, sweetheart. From the both of us … thank you for all you’ve done.”
His voice cracked just enough that Elle’s eyes welled up. For fear of her own voice breaking into pieces, she nodded her welcome and hurried out of the room.
John sat at the foot of the bed and sucked in a few deep breaths. Glancing down, he took notice of the quilt that secured Alice like a baby. At one time not so long ago, it was new and quite beautiful. Alice had prided herself on the long, tedious hours she put into it. Now that same cozy quilt was worn and tattered. Threadbare in some spots, it was actually starting to unravel at the seams. He tucked it under her chin, looked into her face and was shocked to find a faint glimmer of his wife somewhere in her tired eyes. For that one moment, he swore, It’s her! It’s Alice. Unwilling to waste this precious time with her, he leaned into her ear and spoke. “Squaw, we had a wonderful life together, you and me. I can see you’ve about had your fill of me, but before you set your mind on leavin’ for good, I need to thank you for …” He touched his forehead to hers and whispered, “Thank you for givin’ me such a good life, Alice.”
He pulled away just enough to catch her smile. Though it only lasted a moment, it was the same smile he had fallen in love with and spent every day of his adult life trying to catch. It started in the corners of her mouth and worked its way up to her eyes where a sparkle of mischief made him lose his breath. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished and Alice’s face was returned to the woman no one knew. She was gone, perhaps forever. He kissed her softly, whispered, “Good-bye, my love,” and silently prayed that the Lord would shroud her in His angels.
Turning out the lights, John lit a candle and placed it on the small table near the window. He was happy to remain a student of the old school, where there were no such things as cell phones or the Internet. He grabbed for a sharp pencil and searched his mind for the proper words to start. It’s time to call my three injuns home. Alice’s hourglass is about empty and Georgey, Evan and Tara should say their good-byes.
The purple hue of dusk had faded to black hours before. Hank could hear crushed stone crunch under the weight of car tires and knew that Elle was home. Meeting her out on the porch, he watched as her exhausted body strained to climb the stairs. “How is she?” he asked, giving her a pathetic hug so as not to spill his beer.
“She’s not good, Hank … but it’s not her I’m worried about.”
His brow rose in confusion. “How’s that?”
Elle shook her head with years of frustration, but smiled compassionately—as if trying to reach his heart one more time. “It’s your pa, babe. He really needs you now.” Ignoring his shaking head, she grabbed his shoulders and finished. “I think you should go to him, Hank. He looks so tired … and so old.”
Hank continued to shake his head but set his eyes on the face of the moon. For a second, his Adam’s apple bounced like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“Your pa is such a wonderful man,” she added. “How you can think the way you do about him is beyond me.”
With a pain Hank had always known, he pushed Elle away and mumbled, “That wonderful man never needed me, Elle … and he don’t need me now!” The last words sounded like they were sifted through cotton. He raised the beer to his lips and attempted to extinguish the wildfire that had been set years before.
Sighing heavily, Elle kissed him on the forehead and then turned to go in. Before the door hit her backside, she looked over her shoulder. “They won’t be around forever Hank,” she said. “I’m telling you right now that you’d better make your peace before it’s too late.”
Hank spun at the surprise of her tone. Elle never raised her voice and she’d never once spoken a word that could be construed as a threat. “You tryin’ to hurt me?” he asked through pursed lips.
Their eyes locked briefly and she returned his shaking head to him. “I’m going to bed,” she announced and vanished through the door.
Hank retrieved the rest of the six-pack from the fridge and returned to the broken-down porch. Taking a seat on the rough planks, he rested his aching back against the house and noticed a faint light glowing in his folks’ bedroom window. Curious as to what the old man was doing up so late, he cracked open another beer and drank half of it down in one gulp. It was going take a few more of those to numb the pain. He’d gone at it for years and still couldn’t tell how many it took. “He needs you …” he groaned in his gruff smoker’s voice. “What a crock! That woman has no idea what she’s sayin’.” He stared at the farmhouse window. “That old man never needed me.” Besides a love of racing pigeons together, they’d never really shared anything positive—at least as far as Hank could recall. Finishing off the beer, he decided that he’d already wasted too much time dwelling on his cold-hearted father. Instead, he concentrated on calling up fonder memories of his children.
It was funny—the small, seemingly insignificant things a mind remembered: breakfast on Sunday mornings; playing horseshoes until dark; lying in a hammock with the three of them; the animals they brought home to save from the weather; their report cards; the love that went into their hand-made Christmas gifts. The list went on and the memories made were priceless. Hank marveled at how three children who shared the same blood could be so different.
Georgey loved the land but never had the stomach for the heartlessness that made for a mountain man. Hank had taken him hunting once. Georgey had an eight-point buck in his sights and froze. Even when Hank’s whispers turned to screams, the boy never pulled the trigger. He couldn’t. Years later, Hank caught wind of an accident and had to laugh. Georgey ran over one of the farm’s mutts with his Grampa’s tractor. The dog lost a leg but Georgey was the one who suffered the trauma. He was all torn up over giving that mutt the new name, Three Speed.
Evan cried a lot. Hank couldn’t stomach it. He was a sweet boy but t
oo sweet for Hank’s liking. At first, he’d take him out whenever he could to toughen him up but Evan proved plenty tough. He had his fair share of fistfights and normally came out on top. Come to think of it, Hank couldn’t once recall the boy whimpering over physical pain. He was just very emotional and there was no changing him. Evan was Evan and he and Hank never clicked. Hank allowed him to find his own way.
Tara, well, that kid scared Hank out of his wits from the time she was born to the day she flew the coop. With vivid memories of his own youth and the desires that ached to be satisfied, he’d get sick imagining some boy putting his mitts all over her. The world had changed for the worse and boys were less patient. He was always at a loss when it came to Tara. Girls were different—inside and out—so he left Elle to take care of most of it. From where he sat, she did a real solid job. He insisted, though, that Tara finish her schooling. In fact, he demanded that they all graduate. I wasn’t gonna raise dummies like me, he thought.
The kids spent way too much time on the farm as far as Hank recalled. They loved their grandma but absolutely adored the old man—who’d demanded that they call him Grampa John; Grampa as a title of respect and John so they’d always be on a first-name basis and able to talk as such. It was like their grandfather walked on water for them. Knowing that he’d drowned in that same pool of righteousness years before, Hank couldn’t get over it. It don’t make no sense. As the years unfolded, the old man maintained his stubbornness, so Hank stayed clear. The kids would come home with stories that painted anything but an accurate picture of the strict, unforgiving mule. He was gentle and kind with them—like he’s livin’ long enough to make up for the pain he put me through. In a shameful way, Hank envied his kids for their loving stories of their grandpa.
Maybe with death gettin’ closer every day, the old man got scared, he wondered. Maybe the kids were Pa’s repentance.
Without asking Hank’s permission, the kids grew fast. It seemed like Elle was putting up a new calendar every couple of months. Hank awoke one morning to find the boys’ cowlicks flattened with some hair jelly, while Tara’s pigtails were replaced with a perm. It felt like he slept once more and awoke to find them gone. And that was exactly how it went. The house was filled with chaos one minute and the kids were all graduating from high school the next. Then sure enough, one by one they flew the coop to find whatever their hearts were searching. After they’d each made it over those looming mountains to discover the real world, silence blanketed the house. Thinking of all the laughter that had once spilled through the bunkhouse, Hank thought, I’d give anything to hear it again.
Still, he couldn’t have been more proud of each of them. No matter how their efforts turn out, Hank thought, they’re each tryin’ their best. Georgey went to serve Uncle Sam—God bless his soul. Evan’s feet couldn’t move fast enough out the door—off to college in the East to spite me and become a writer. Tara followed a shooting star that landed in New York. He cringed at the thought of his sweet, innocent girl in the big city and prayed, God be with her. There was nothing more he could do.
Life got real quiet after that. Elle found hobbies to replace the time she spent with the kids and his mother took ill. Ma just showed up on his porch one night and asked, “Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me if you’ve seen my pa?”
Hank was horrified and realized that when life was good, time got carried away on a hurricane wind—but when pain came knocking, the air went still. While Ma’s memories grew faint and foreign, her mind was slowly being removed from the world around her. It was terrible to watch. Hank couldn’t imagine a worst crime than for some disease to steal away the memories that an entire life spent collecting.
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.
CHAPTER 4
The 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 though
t. 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.
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