John struggled to his feet and then for the words he needed for a proper confession. As though she were standing right there in front of him, he told Alice, “I messed up more than I ever imagined, squaw.” He shook his head. “All these years you were right. While I thought it was our boy who was bein’ pig-headed … it was me.” He turned and looked toward the bunkhouse. “Seems I’m the one who caused Hank most of the pain he’s felt all these years.” His eyes filled. “And I just don’t know how to make it right.”
Although he wasn’t looking forward to the trip, his mind raced back to some of the times he went wrong.
A short spell after the great fudge heist at the county fair, John took a shot at something he and Hank might enjoy sharing—raising pigeons. As fate would have it, an old-timer stopped by the farm looking to trade a crate full of the birds for some rabbits and chickens. I suppose my boy might enjoy racin’ ’em, he thought. Missing the days when money was seldom exchanged, John jumped at the chance to barter with the man. Throwing in a half bushel of apples, for old times’ sake, the man left the McCarthy farm as most did—with the better end of the deal. Still, John thought it fair and took off to convert one of the old sheds into a pigeon coop. He immediately discovered his instincts to be correct.
Hank wouldn’t stay out of the makeshift coop. Together they built pigeonholes, ten inches by ten inches, fifty in all, as the birds refused to share. The coop was cleaned and hay stuffed into each nest, with wood shavings and cracked corn scattered across the floor. Within two days, the McCarthy racing school was born, with Hank put in charge.
Right off, Hank took his roles as head breeder and trainer quite seriously. Through trial and error—his preferred method of learning—he quickly discovered that without an incubator, only the strong survived. He became consumed by the birds and soon the sport of racing them. John, on the other hand, took a back seat, content with watching the different splashes, band-tails and blues leave their mothers after only six weeks to take to the Montana sky. They were gentle, monogamous birds, symbolic of peace and very loving with their secret language of soft cooing calls. His favorites were the tumblers, the acrobats of the skies. They’d fly straight off the coop’s roof, ascend hundreds of feet into the air, pause for a split second, and then turn backward somersaults until nearly hitting the ground. John spent hours in his rocking chair, thoroughly entertained by the McCarthy flying circus. Hank seemed less impressed.
The boy had finally found his niche. Swollen with pride, he took the baby pintails a quarter mile out and let them go. Being timed, they flew straight up and circled a few times. Then, as if possessing radar, they flew straight back to the coop. That was the thing with pigeons. They always returned to the nest where they were born. No matter the obstacles or weather, they always went home. John loved them for that.
From a quarter mile to several miles, Hank continued the weekly, progressive training. One at a time, John watched them tuck in their wings and fire like bullets straight into the coop. They trained at intervals of every five minutes. Hank never wanted any one bird to follow the other, so when he was sure he had all strong flyers the competition began.
It was a Saturday morning when John introduced his son to the flyers at the V.F.W. Hank brought along four of his best and John put up two dollars per head. The birds were crated and placed into the back of a tractor-trailer heading east. They would be released by the driver when he reached his destination, eighty miles out. John and Hank rushed home to await the results of their intensive training.
Hank paced in front of that coop like an expectant father until the first pigeon, a chocolate red, arrived home safely. He pulled the exhausted bird out of the box and placed its leg band into a punch clock. John would never forget it. The ribbon read a time of 4:30, leaving them in strong contention for the win. Hank’s eyes filled with tears. He kissed the bird on the head and then turned to his father. For a moment, they almost hugged but, feeling equally uncomfortable, John broke the tension by slapping the boy on the back.
For years, John regretted that day. I should have hugged Hank. Awkward or not, I just should’ve. As it turned out, Hank and his bird won. “Beginner’s luck,” the other racers grumbled, but John proudly advised them to pay his boy in full, never accepting a penny for himself.
On the ride home, he advised Hank, “It’s your money; you earned it but if you ask me, a slick businessman would put the profit back into the business.” For once, Hank took his old man’s advice.
Also back in those early years, Hank’s true pride was playing a better harmonica than John. Real young, the boy would belt out tunes with a hard, rock-a-billy beat, while John and Alice danced that rocking chair halfway across the porch. John never let on, but he took great pride that the boy played better too. But instead of praising him, he’d challenge him. “Don’t ya think if you practiced more, you might play better?” The McCarthy men always had a strange way of holding back on approvals.
After Hank ran away from home with Elle, the farm became hauntingly lonely. It took two hired hands to do the work that Hank had put out, but it wasn’t the money that gnawed at John’s guts. Mercifully, as God would only allow for a certain amount of suffering, Elle proved to be as fertile as the land they lived on. Alice laughed as John waited for the offspring to arrive like they were his own. To him they were.
Elle hadn’t been home for more than an hour before he spotted her crossing the bridge to the farm. Rocking in his chair, he squirmed as she carried the bundle straight into his lap. John recalled that sickening smell of hospital all over her. “His name is George McCarthy,” she announced. She gave John a kiss and then went into the house, allowing the men time to get acquainted.
What a little package baby George was. Ever so gingerly, John unwrapped the cocoon to get a better look at his face. He’s a mixture for sure, John thought, with light hair and Alice’s dark eyes. He even sighed when he confirmed that the boy had not inherited his grandfather’s massive nose. He took the boy’s tiny hands into his own and, for what seemed like time spent in heaven, he inspected them. This went way beyond counting fingers. As if he were a palm reader, he actually studied every line, wondering what those tiny hands might create, whom they might touch, the lives they might change. Rocking back and forth, more content than he’d ever remembered, he just sat and played with George’s hands.
Crawling out of her skin from excitement, Alice finally burst through the screen door and stole the child from him—but not before stealing a kiss from the newborn’s Grampa. As she headed for the house, she paused. “John, you should go see your son and congratulate him,” she said.
John’s eyes immediately filled. “He could’ve come here with Elle,” he whispered, “but he chose not to.”
Alice shook her head and disappeared into the house. John sat back, took out his knife and began carving. Of all names, who would’ve guessed the one beneath Hank would be George? He chuckled at the irony of it.
John emerged from his memories with his face glazed in tears. He returned his attention to Alice’s headstone. “Squaw, pride or no pride, Hank’s place has always been on this damned farm!” he said. “Everything we built was for him and I always figured the sooner he realized it, the sooner we’d all be better off.” He shook his head. “But so many years have passed and he ain’t realized nothin’.”
Over the years, whenever John and Hank’s paths did cross—such as Christmas and the like—the air dropped twenty degrees. Nothing made John feel worse. “How cruel to love a child who’s always made it clear that the feelings ain’t mutual,” he told Alice. “I tried my best and my intentions was always true but Hank never saw it that way.” John would have given his son the world. He did in fact—at least the only world he ever knew. Hank, however, preferred any world but John McCarthy’s. John could not have imagined a harsher reality.
The old man kissed his index finger and placed it to Alice’s headstone. “I ain’t sure how I’m gonna fix this mess with Hank, bu
t trust that I’ll do everything I can ’fore you and me have our next dance.” He wiped his eyes. “Everything I can, squaw,” he promised.
As John turned to walk away, he stopped at his father’s headstone. Like it was yesterday, he remembered the pain—and love—he’d felt on the morning the man was buried beneath his dream.
It had been a bitterly cold afternoon when John’s father was laid to rest. John looked down at his pa’s casket and fought back the tears. His heart ached, but he did his best not to show it. He’d come from a long line of men who wore masks. McCarthy men didn’t show their feelings. I ain’t sure if it’s strength or weakness, he pondered. It’s just the way it is.
Throwing a handful of dirt over the rickety pine casket, he was heading for the wood line where nobody could witness his grief when his mother pulled his big arm to her. “I know he never said it,” she whispered, “but he always loved you, ya know.”
John nodded. He’d known since he was twelve and though the words had never been said, each day that his pa broke his back he’d shown it.
John shook off the ancient pictures and looked toward the bunkhouse where his son had banished himself all those years ago. On the day I get planted in this field, he thought, I hope to God Hank comes to that same understandin’. He doubted it—if things stand as they are.
As John walked back to the farmhouse, he took in his father’s vision of their family’s future. He scanned the hills, the sky—all that enveloped their existence. To his left, the land stretched out to infinity, while the awesome mountain range that brought safety and comfort stood on his right. This farm’s always been about family and sharin’ in each other’s lives … at least that’s what it should have been.
He then looked toward the bunkhouse again. Anything I ever accomplished in this world ain’t worth spit if I can’t pass it down, he realized. With only one son, who had disowned him long before he was able to put it into words, there was no one to inherit the fruits of his labor. He felt like a failure and it gnawed at his guts worse than the strongest moonshine he’d ever swallowed.
CHAPTER 12
Searching desperately for peace—even for just a moment—George sat in his childhood bedroom, reading through a pile of old letters.
Even though they were forced to correspond through letters, Ma still took the time and kept him up on everything. Most of her letters were positive, though she reported that Grandma’s “wits were getting numb” and that she “looked in after her every now and then.” George thought, Ma is such an intelligent person, with the potential to do anything she ever wanted. Instead, she devoted her entire existence to raising the children of a bitter man.
After getting used to being away from instant messaging, George loved exchanging letters with her. Once, he even wrote her, “Anything that I have ever accomplished—all that I am—is because the Lord blessed me with your love.” Weeks later, he received an envelope containing two tissues. They were stained with Ma’s tears. She’s such a beautiful person, he thought.
Grampa John wrote too. He never once spoke of Grandma’s illness, so George never made mention of it. His letters were the simplest a man could send. They contained very little in content but were still incredibly powerful in their own right. Though he’d never left his tiny farm in Montana, Grampa John seemed to understand everything through his own backwoods wisdom. Once, he even wrote, “With all that ruff schoolin’ of yours, I suppose you’d take down that buck now, right?”
George spent a long time pondering that one. One thing he did know was that Grampa John wasn’t talking about the life of any deer. He was always questioning what made people tick—especially those he loved so generously.
While George continued to hibernate in their bedroom, Evan finished his dinner and stood to clear his plate.
“Where you off to?” Hank asked, digging in his mouth with a toothpick.
“Not sure,” Evan answered with a shrug.
“You better not be sneakin’ off to the old man’s house again,” Hank hissed.
Evan turned from the kitchen sink and snickered. “I think I’m a little too old to be sneaking off anywhere, aren’t I?” Evan snapped back. “And I don’t need your permission to …”
Instinctively, Hank stood and took an aggressive step toward his son.
For the first time in his life, Evan never flinched. “Let me tell you right now,” Evan warned through gritted teeth, “you ever put your hands on me again, I’ll …” His hands began trembling but it wasn’t from fear. It was from rage.
“You’ll what?” Hank asked, his voice elevated three octaves.
Evan shook his head. “I’ll walk out of this house and you’ll never be part of my life again, that’s what!” He never looked away from his father’s stare. “I swear it, Pa.”
Hank’s mouth fell open, dropping the toothpick onto the worn linoleum floor.
“I’ve been raised with more respect than to ever raise my hand to you, Pa. But I’m never taking another beating from you again … ever!”
“Beatin’?” Hank repeated, acting like maybe his son was now suffering from the onset of Alzheimer’s.
“That’s right … beatings! Those things you used to like to give me when you were hung over and I made too much noise in the house or when I questioned anything you said.”
Hank was at a loss. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” He thought for a moment. “What … when I spanked you after you got caught stealin’ candy from the convenience store? Or when you were actin’ the punk and tore up your mother’s flower garden?”
Evan stared hard at his father, too upset to speak.
Hank’s eyes swelled with tears. “Evan, I was only tryin’ to teach you right from wrong. That’s all that was.” His voice was choked with emotion. “I didn’t realize you hated me so.”
“I don’t hate you, Pa,” Evan said. “I’m just done playing your punching bag.”
“Don’t say that,” Hank said, fighting back his emotions. “I … I … never meant to hurt you, son. The only thing I ever wanted … was to make you a man.” He turned to conceal his tears. “And I taught you the only way I knew how.” He shook his head. “I did the best I could by you and your brother and sister, I swear I did.”
Evan half-nodded. “I know you did, Pa. In your own way, I know you were doing what you thought was best for me … most of the time.”
Hank turned back and searched his son’s face for forgiveness.
“But isn’t that what Grampa John did for you?” Evan asked, and walked out of the kitchen to leave his father alone with that thought.
As the front door slammed shut, Hank tried to break up the demons that wrestled in his head. As he recalled, on occasion he’d been forced to use the belt on the kids but preferred not to. But they weren’t gonna make my mistakes, he thought. It was a tough job being a father—having to teach what was needed, while trying to remain friends. To Hank, it had proven nearly impossible. He always loved his children but he dared not show it. It always seemed more important that they respected him. For whatever reason, the two didn’t mix—at least not from where he stood.
On the front porch, Evan took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. As he took the cold air into his lungs, he thought about the sincerity in his father’s explanation. I’m going to Grampa John’s, he quickly decided.
Grampa John was sitting alone at the kitchen table when Evan stepped into the room. “Well, look what the wind just blew in,” the old man teased, pointing toward the half-empty coffee pot. “Pour yourself a cup and join me.” He chuckled. “But I’m warnin’ ya … it tastes like hell.”
Evan nodded and grabbed a mug.
“What’s goin’ on?” Grampa John asked, surprised that Evan hadn’t laughed.
“Just exchanged a few heated words with Pa.” He shrugged. “Same old story I guess.”
“Oh boy,” the old man muttered.
Evan added milk and sugar to his coffee and remained silent.
&
nbsp; “Maybe it’s time to write a new story between you and your pa,” Grampa John suggested.
Evan spun around and leaned against the kitchen counter. He took a sip and shook his head before adding more sugar to the coffee.
“How’d it start this time?” the old man asked.
“We had words and then he took a step toward me like he was going to put his hands on me,” Evan said, his anger still evident. “And I’m never letting that happen again!”
Grampa John shook his head. “Evan, I’m pretty sure your pa …”
“Please, Grampa John!” Evan said, louder than anyone expected. “He used to beat me like it was a sport!”
The old man cleared his throat. “Evan, if you’ve ever believed a word I’ve told ya, believe this … your pa did the best he could for ya. He loves you deep and …”
Evan shook his head in disbelief and sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, Ma either loved Pa more than she did us or feared him something terrible. Either way, she never stopped him from abusing us.” He shook his resentful head again.
Grampa John slapped the kitchen table, trying to break Evan out of his trance of self-pity. “Listen here, boy! You got it all wrong,” he barked. “Your pa taught you the only way he knew how.” He shook his head. “…the same way I taught him.” He thought for a few tense moments. “Evan, a man who don’t punish his young can’t rightly say that he cares for them. How else will they learn?” He shrugged. “It may not have been the best way, but it helped to make you who you are didn’t it?” His eyes softened and a grin nearly broke through. “And it kept ya out of jail.”
Evan couldn’t help himself and smiled. He took another sip of the bitter coffee.
The Rockin' Chair Page 13
