Elle laughed again and looked at her cell phone for the time. “How ’bout we at least grab a bite to eat?”
Phyllis nodded. “Sounds good to me. Besides, I’d like to hear a little bit more about that one-day honeymoon.”
Elle started the car. “Not a chance,” she said, and waited for the windshield wipers to do their job before pulling out onto the slick street.
After a late dinner, Elle returned home and stepped quietly through the house. She checked the bedrooms. George, Evan and Lila were already asleep. After washing her face and throwing on a pair of flannel pajamas, she crawled into bed, trying her best not to disturb Hank. I remember well, she thought, looking at the back of her husband’s head. I remember how we both ended up here. Instinctively, she wrapped her arm around him.
Surprising her, Hank pulled her arm close to his chest and held on tight—like the very fate of their future depended on it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “and I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me too,” she whispered, and hugged him tight.
Evan had always dreamed of becoming a writer and spinning stories that might change the world. It was an old dream. Since he was young, every Sunday he sat at Grampa John’s feet and listened to the greatest storyteller at work. He knew early on what he wanted to be. Once, he even leaked his aspirations. The old man just smiled. “You wanna be a writer, then I reckon that’s what you’ll be,” he said. It was that easy to Grampa John and Evan believed him.
Evan took Grampa John’s advice about “finding a real job.” It didn’t take long for it to pay off. The first job he accepted, or begged for being back in Montana, came from Mr. Rick Austin, an old newspaperman. Rick was a veteran with a keen eye for difficult angles and the nose of a bloodhound when searching out the truth. This good-hearted soul, however, was more interested in wrestling with a vodka bottle than striking a keyboard. The years had tired him and by the time Evan landed on his doorstep, The Spectator had gone from a daily newspaper to a bi-weekly. In the meantime, Rick Austin had gone from an ambitious journalist to a compassionate drunk. Long ago, he’d lost his hungry edge. Life’s daily stories of pain and suffering were best reported twice a week rather than every morning. If for no other reason, it was for Rick’s soul this theory suited best.
Evan was assigned a position as The Spectator’s feature writer. Within this capacity, there were at least two bylines guaranteed per issue. Each piece generated a stipend of forty dollars. If a photo was used, an extra ten was thrown in for the effort. Though grateful, Evan learned that the struggles of a writer would become a war between the heart and mind; the mind forever arguing the blatant reality that there was more money to be made in the fast-food industry; the heart reasoning that the money had less to do with the future than the experience gained. A compromise was made. Evan’s days would be filled with interviews and edits, while his lunches would promise bologna sandwiches. But it’ll be worth it, he decided. The portfolio could grow and the dreams of a writer—no matter how poor—could start to come true. He detested poverty, always had, and vowed never to return to its filthy clutches. For the time being, however, he decided he could make do. Coming from so little, the sacrifices should hardly be noticeable, he reasoned.
Evan was always a dreamer, but it was the perseverance to hold on to such dreams that would become his greatest trait in achieving them.
One week after taking on the feature writer’s position, Evan handed a fresh copy of The Spectator to his father as a peace offering. “It’s my first published story in Montana, Pa,” he said, wearing the proudest smile. “And I figured you might want a copy.”
“Of course … of course!” Hank said, sitting up in his recliner and accepting the gift. “Ain’t this somethin’!” Hank said, scanning the front page while his blood turned to ice water. He looked up at his son. “I’ll read it when I turn in tonight. This way, I don’t have to rush through it and I can enjoy it.” Hank tried to slow his breathing and stop his hands from trembling.
Evan nodded, pleased with his father’s response.
When he was alone again, Hank directed his attention back to the newspaper and shook his head, thinking, My secret’s still safe.
That night, Elle lay beside her husband in bed and read Evan’s piece to Hank. “Kevin Aguiar wins election by a landslide,” she read, “by Evan McCarthy.”
When she had finished, Hank grabbed her arm and asked, “Can you read it again … just once more?” She laughed. His chest was swollen with pride and he wore a smile that he hadn’t put on in a long time. Elle read it twice more.
At Thanksgiving, the entire McCarthy family held hands at Grampa John’s table, everyone looking just a little bit happier than the turkey. The old man was all spruced up. His usual smells of peppermint and liniment were replaced with the sweet, lingering scent of Old Spice cologne. He only broke out the good stuff on holidays and special occasions.
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.
CHAPTER 14
The 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 wearin
g 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 …
The Rockin' Chair Page 15
