By Steven Manchester
Published by The Story Plant
Publication Date: June 18, 2013
Memories are the ultimate contradiction. They can warm us on our coldest days – or they can freeze a loved one out of our lives forever. The McCarthy family has a trove of warm memories. Of innocent first kisses. Of sumptuous family meals. Of wondrous lessons learned at the foot of a rocking chair. But they also have had their share of icy ones. Of words that can never be unsaid. Of choices that can never be unmade. Of actions that can never be undone.
Following the death of his beloved wife, John McCarthy – Grandpa John – calls his family back home. It is time for them to face the memories they have made, both warm and cold. Only then can they move beyond them and into the future.
A rich portrait of a family at a crossroad, THE ROCKIN' CHAIR is Steven Manchester’s most heartfelt and emotionally engaging novel to date. If family matters to you, it is a story you must read.
Book Excerpt from THE ROCKIN' CHAIR
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 for 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, but 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 that 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 that his liquid
blue eyes had not found her. He returned to working slow, 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—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 worse.
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
swayed back and forth, humming louder with each movement. For what seemed 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 getting’ worse, he thought, and began humming a lullaby.
“Mama! Mama…help me!”
she screamed out, 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.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steven Manchester is the published author of the #1 best seller, Twelve Months, as well as A Christmas Wish (the holiday prequel to Goodnight, Brian) and Goodnight, Brian. He is also the Pressed Pennies, The Unexpected Storm: The Gulf War Legacy and Jacob Evans, as well as several books under the pseudonym, Steven Herberts. His work has appeared on NBC's Today Show, CBS's The Early Show, CNN’sAmerican Morning and BET’s Nightly News. Recently, three of his short stories were selected "101 Best" for Chicken Soup for the Soul series.
CONNECT WITH STEVEN MANCHESTER
No comments:
Post a Comment