The Rockin' Chair

by Steven Manchester

  Day after day, Tara prayed hard, attended her AA meetings and managed to get sober. She fought with the strength of a mother’s love.

  CHAPTER 15

  Just when Evan thought he grasped the true meaning of life; the complex ways of the world and how each intricate part worked in synch, life threw him a curve. He was expecting a change-up.

  He’d just made the deadline on a beauty pageant story, some real breaking news, and was a few minutes late for his shift at the Saint Francis’ Home. Cottage Three at the St. Francis Home was reputed to be the toughest stop on the grounds but to Evan it didn’t matter. After only the first few weeks he realized, Every cottage is just as depressing as the next.

  Saint Francis’ was a residential treatment facility for unwanted children. Arriving from broken homes and shattered dreams, the angry kids who lived there were the neglected, abused and abandoned. Snagged from the twisted grip of trusted predators, most had endured sexual sins, physical atrocities, psychological tortures and spiritual deaths. By-products of substance abuse, domestic violence, prostitution and even satanic worship, their little feet eventually carried them right to the front door step of this dreary reality. In their hands, each held a trash bag containing their every worldly possession. Yet, it was within their eyes that Evan saw the true weight. Ranging from ages three to eighteen, these wards of the state had each failed miserably in foster care and now kneeled at the mercy of a smoke screen called charity. Evan’s heart went out to them. From his perspective, Saint Francis’ is no more than a lucrative business capitalizing on horrendous amounts of pain.

  The organization received state funding of eighty thousand a year per child and paid just over minimum wage to their direct caregivers. Clearly, they weren’t very concerned with attracting the most qualified personnel to watch over their golden cows. The community donated the bulk of the food, clothing and health care, while medication was covered by the state in full. It seemed that the only people benefiting from the whole scheme were the program director, his Mercedes dealer and the religious leaders he reported to. Evan detested their agenda.

  But like everyone else who worked with the kids, Evan took employment at Saint Francis’ to make ends meet. What he received, instead, was a hard smack of reality. Every minute spent with the lost souls, he could feel the sting.

  Residential treatment was the end of the line for people just years from adult incarceration and the clock was ticking fast. It was the last stop where hope had to be found in the hopeless, worth discovered in the worthless and where love had to be shown to those who never knew it. It was no easy task. These poor children refused to display anything resembling respect. The closer a counselor got, the more they pushed away. And why not? Evan thought. Those they trusted most have already betrayed them in the most inconceivable ways. He could relate.

  Through their own individual behavior, they were all troubled, violent and impulsive. Surrounded by abnormality, many strove to experience a normal existence and Evan’s heart broke witnessing their long roads out of the abyss. Consumed by fear and rage, many of these once powerless victims took control of their lives by becoming powerful predators and they were absolutely brutal in doing so. All acted out against authority, bringing them the attention they’d always yearned for. Most preyed upon weaker peers, which provided them the strength and security they searched for. Yet, some even acted upon a tiny inner-voice, harming their own bodies in one last desperate cry for love. It was one of those silent cries that changed Evan’s life forever.

  Evan hadn’t been in Cottage Three for five minutes when one of the residents had to be restrained. Evan dreaded the scenario but quickly responded to the scene. He hated man-handling the children. But often times, for their own safety it was necessary.

  The boy in distress was Wesley. He had started his first day of life addicted to crack cocaine, while things only went down hill from there. His mother was both neglectful and abusive, the man believed to be his father was incarcerated for violent crimes and whatever people he could call family abandoned any hope for him long ago. Since the age of three, he was in and out of different residential settings. At age twelve, he was yet to find a place called home.

  Wesley’s biggest dilemma was dealing with his boggled emotions. Most of the time, only guilt would surface and he always responded in the same painful manner; he mutilated his body.

  Upon approaching the room, Evan could see the fresh blood spread across the boy’s walls. From the initial report, young Wes was doing his homework like any normal twelve year old but could not come to the correct answer on two of the math problems. Unable to think of another option, he jammed the pencil straight into his forearm and repeatedly punctured an old patch of scar tissue until one of the counselors was able to stop the insanity.

  Evan looked down at the wild-haired boy. He was pinned to the floor, covered in blood and shrieking, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know the answer.”

  Evan spoke in the most soothing voice he could muster, but before he could make things worse another voice arrived out of nowhere. From Maryann Santos’ first word, even Evan felt the healing process begin.

  She bent and stroked Wesley’s hair, reducing his screams to sobs. As though no one else was in the room, she took over and asked the other counselors, “Can you please free him?” Everyone did as they were asked—even Wesley. Not five minutes from her arrival, the boy sat up, wiped his puffy eyes and was peacefully escorted into the rear of an ambulance. He looked back once—the horror in his eyes no longer there—and smiled at Maryann.

  She smiled back and shot him a wink. Before the ambulance doors completely closed, Evan saw Wesley’s face beam. I don’t blame him, Evan thought.

  Evan turned to face the angel. Maryann was captivating with a gorgeous face. Suddenly, he realized that the living doll was asking his name and he blushed from being caught in his own daze. Thinking more than he needed to on the question he finally choked out, “Evan.”

  She smiled the most wonderful smile, but as she walked away Evan realized he hadn’t been looking at her mouth. It’s those eyes, he thought. Her dark eyes had smiled at him and, to his surprise, released butterflies into his stomach.

  Maryann erased the smile and returned to work. She kept close watch on a wolf named Adam a registered sex offender no more than fourteen years old, while Evan did his best to conceal his stare. He couldn’t help it and tried to stop. Maryann looked back several times, confirming through a grin that she could read his thoughts. Once, as the grin widened, Evan wondered if she didn’t share them. The last four hours of the shift lasted five minutes. As they punched out, Evan approached her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I forgot to ask you your name.”

  She smiled again and then looked straight into his soul. “Maryann,” she answered and ran out the door.

  As she sprinted toward the parking lot, Evan’s wobbly knees nearly embarrassed him. It’s those eyes. They were already haunting him.

  On the drive home, Evan was amazed that he could even think about another woman so soon after Carley—but he could. In fact, he couldn’t get Maryann’s eyes out of his head. It was a welcome change.

  The weekend dragged by and with God’s mercy, Evan was assigned to Cottage Three once again. Though he was spiffed up in new clothes, Maryann barely acknowledged his presence. She didn’t even seem to notice him. What a disappointment, he thought, and moped around at the truth of it. But as his tour of duty came to a close, he could actually feel those eyes upon him. Slowly, he looked up. Maryann’s smile made him search for oxygen. She’s a mysterious creature, he thought, who’s either extremely conceited or very shy. Whatever the reason, I’d sure like to find out.

  They talked for a few minutes after work, where he learned that Maryann was the product of first-generation Portuguese in America. He quickly decided that the nationality produced some striking features. “So do you go to school?” he asked her.

  She sighed. “I’m finishing my Bachelor’s degree in
social work,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “And I’m thinking about torturing myself for a few more years and going for my master’s.”

  “Good for you,” Evan said. “You should.”

  “How about you?” she asked.

  “I just got my BA in English from the University of Massachusetts.”

  “Oh, a well-traveled man,” she teased.

  He shook his head. “Not yet,” he admitted. “But someday, I hope.”

  “I’d love to travel too,” she agreed with a smile.

  He swallowed hard and then continued his excited line of questioning. As Maryann answered each one of them, Evan felt like he was conducting an interview for the newspaper but he had to know about her. He had to know everything. They talked long enough for him to discover that she was, indeed, only bashful. He felt so relieved.

  As the conversation came to an end, Maryann confessed, “I’m going out with Scott Collura.”

  Evan could feel the breeze of a heavy door slam shut in his face.

  As if she sensed his queasy feeling, she quickly added, “Things aren’t going well, though. Scott loves himself so much that it leaves little room for me. Besides, he doesn’t want to have a family.” She smiled wide. “And I do.”

  The door flew back open and they exchanged cell phone numbers. “Text me,” she told him.

  After suffering Carley’s betrayal, Evan had somehow thought he might be immune to heartache. But life didn’t work that way. Unless you weren’t willing to truly live again and take a shot at love or joy, the risk was always there. He could feel that risk every time his eyes met Maryann’s. He smiled to himself, thinking, Like I have a choice.

  Saint Francis’ continued to take up forty hours each week and every minute was time spent in disgust. Nothing shy of a miracle is going to help these kids, Evan decided. At the very least, it’s going to take more than an organization that profits from their unresolved problems to do it. Evan did a lot of thinking on the whole nightmare and it was the obscurity of the children’s lives that ate at him most. The outcasts living within Saint Francis’ walls were hanging on the fringe of society where they were seldom seen, heard from or thought of by the real world. They were carefully placed out of sight. In turn, they were kept out of mind, while a non-profit organization hiding behind the church’s flag raked in a bundle. Evan silently vowed, On the day I make my mark as a writer, I’ll be their voice and they’ll no longer be silenced. He dreamed of being part of their miracle and swore, Someday, I’ll tell the world about their dark and dirty secrets. Then and only then, when others know about their difficult plight, will these children be able to find help.

  It was Saturday morning and Evan was helping Grampa John wrap up his chores in the barn.

  “So how’s that home you’re workin’ at?” the old man asked.

  “I swear it’s the most horrible place on earth,” Evan said disgustedly. “There’s a kid there no more than ten and I guess he’s like all the others. His parents don’t want him and the rest of the world wants him even less. Anyway, he was having trouble with one of his ears, so they sent him off to the hospital for surgery. Not three days later, he gets back to the home, his ear all stitched up from front to back. I was just finishing a head count when I noticed him eating something. When I approached him, it took a few moments before I realized that he’d torn out his stitches, peeled off some of the raw flesh and was eating it.” Swallowing hard at the mental pictures, Evan shrugged. “What do you say to a kid who eats his own flesh? I mean, how do you help someone like that?”

  Grampa John mirrored his grandson’s shrug. “I don’t figure it. What do you do?” he asked.

  For a moment, Evan forgot who he was speaking with. “How in God’s name should I know?” he barked, angry at the memory. “A problem like that’s a little too big for me to tackle!”

  Grampa John dragged out two milk cans and gestured for Evan to sit with him. He did. “What is it you want, Evan?” the old man asked, finally cutting to the chase.

  “To be happy,” he answered honestly.

  Grampa John shook his head. The answer obviously wasn’t good enough. He explained, “I reckon bein’ happy is just the way someone decides on feelin’. I’ve known people who had nothin’ but they were always smilin’. It’s a decision, Evan.” Again, he spoke firmly. “I asked you what you wanted.”

  “To make a difference,” Evan admitted, “to help the kids … to write …”

  The old man slapped his knee and stood. “There it is then!” he roared. “We can only do the best with the gifts the good Lord gives us. You’re hell bent on helpin’ some messed-up kids that the world’s got no use for … you claim the world don’t even know about. And … you write stories.” He chuckled. “Sounds like a perfect fit to me.” He shot Evan a wink. “The good Lord knows what He’s doin’, for sure,” the old man concluded, and started to walk away.

  Evan called out, “But I don’t have the experience or the connections to …”

  “Excuses,” Grampa John blurted. He stopped and turned. “And there ain’t no use in wastin’ time on the reasons you can’t do somethin’,” he added. “I think your best bet is to put the effort into the reasons you can do somethin’.” With that, he went on his business.

  Evan sat speechless. Grampa John had not only suggested that he write a book about the plight of the children; he implied that it was meant to happen. The old fortuneteller laughed as if it were nothing more than an obvious case of fate. Grampa John undoubtedly knew. Evan now wondered.

  As if he knew the time had come, Grampa John turned to find Tara running her fingers through Ginger’s thick mane. The recovering alcoholic already looked a hundred percent better. Before he could speak, Sleeping Beauty said, “I think it’s been too long, Gramps. I don’t think Ginger remembers who I am.”

  The old-timer let out a hearty chuckle. “I don’t doubt that her mind might’ve slipped a few rungs.” He pointed to his broad chest. “But it’s right in here that never forgets. She knows ya, alright.”

  Tara was contemplating whether he was referring to the horse or his late wife when the old man blind-sided her with a haymaker.

  “Tell me somethin’, girl. You reckon you hate yourself more than you love that daughter of yours?”

  Tara stood with her mouth hung open. There was no answer to her grandfather’s question. Judging from the fire in Grampa John’s eyes, there was no answer that would have been good enough anyway. She couldn’t speak. It didn’t matter. Grampa John was the one with the answers.

  Removing the red cap from his head, he took a load off and got started. “Now that you’re sober,” he told her, “the real healin’ can begin.” Three Speed, the impatient old mutt, whimpered and collapsed to the barn floor.

  Tara repeated everything she’d told her brother in New York, careful not to leave out any details. There was no hiding the truth. And anything worth knowing, Grampa John knew already anyway. He listened attentively. At the conclusion of her sad tale, she announced, “The worst part is that I’ve come home a failure.” Grampa John’s eyebrows danced in confusion over the statement. “Because I never fulfilled my dream,” she explained.

  The look of anger in Grampa John returned and, at first, Tara felt scared. But he spoke softly. “Little girl, the worst thing that happened to you was that they took your sight.” He smiled. “You traveled beyond the dream, Tara. And you ask me, she’s got the same eyes as your grandma.”

  “Oh, Grampa John,” Tara whimpered, and began to cry. She felt so much guilt and love—all at the same time.

  Grampa John sighed in relief. Even Three Speed got his second wind; the dog stood and nearly grinned.

  Grampa John went on. “Life’s not only about what we want. One of the tricks is to be happy with what the good Lord gives us. Seems to me, He thought quite a bit of you to put you in charge of such a precious, little creature.”

  Tara’s sobs played on like hiccups, her heart overflowing with love for her
child. The only thing left standing in the way was guilt. “You don’t understand, Grampa John,” she said. “I’m gonna burn in hell for what I’ve done.”

  The old man shook his head. “It’s amazin’,” he said, “but no matter what the circumstances are, the real issue always comes down to a question of faith.” He grinned, clearly feeling up to the task. “I’ve known your pa since his first breath. Far as I can recall, he’s always been a sinner. We’ve all done our share, believe me.” He wrapped his strong arms around her and peered hard through her tears. “Tara, your own pa … the sinner he is … wouldn’t cast you into an eternal lake of fire. What makes you think your real Father would?”

  Tara convulsed in his arms. The confession was complete and she could already feel the relief. As she wept in repentance, the old man said, “It’s time for you to go home and raise your daughter.”

  Tara wasn’t all the way to the bunkhouse when she heard a tiny, familiar voice calling, “Mommy … Mommy!” It was Lila.

  Elle and the baby were standing in the doorway when Tara dropped to her knees. The small child pumped her legs as fast as they would go. “I miss you, Mommy,” Lila cried and jumped for Tara’s neck.

  Tara couldn’t speak. For a long while, she just held her baby girl. When the little one began squirming to escape her clutches, she grabbed Lila’s angelic face. “I’ve missed you too, baby. And Mommy’s not going anywhere, anymore! I promise.” Tara hugged her child again, smothering her in kisses. “I love you so much, Lila,” she cried.

  CHAPTER 16

  Christmas Eve was one of beauty, with its trees all dipped in white and, like folds within a sheet, the land stretched out forever. The moon showed off its halo, while a million wishes sparkled in the frost. Arriving at Grampa John’s farmhouse, everyone fumbled with their packages as they hurried for the door. The mercury was slipping off the charts. As the door slammed shut, an icicle fell to the porch and nearly skewered Three Speed. Though he had no presents to exchange, the dog made it just in time for the festivities.