The Rockin' Chair Read Online Free PDF Page A

said aloud. Now, this tortured soul rocked slow and easy to the beat of that big, broken heart. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” Schwartz said into the rearview mirror before pressing down on the accelerator.
    Back on the porch, John eased into his rocking chair. It only complained a little with one long creak. Stretching out his legs, John folded both hands behind his head. He rocked slowly, pondering his and Alice’s situation for a good, long while. Finally, he stopped rocking, looked down at Three Speed and nodded. “Well, the way I see it,” he said, “Alice has been cheated life’s greatest gift … her memories.” A wave of determination suddenly replaced the fear and anger—if only for a moment. “Looks like I’ll just have to remember for us both,” he declared, and with one last nod he closed his eyes and began rocking again.

CHAPTER 3
    J ohn sat undisturbed, rocking straight into the afternoon. Giving his eyes a rest, his weary mind danced between the past and present, fighting fiercely to avoid the unknowns of tomorrow. Each thought carried him closer to the same stinging realization: For all the memory Alice has lost, I’ve seemed to gain . He despised it. His dainty flower was withering away inside. For the most part, it was nothing that could be seen by the eye, which only seemed to make it worse. She had become an apparition in the flesh, a ghost locked within the familiar frame that had once instilled security. Always the strong one—the solid foundation on which the entire McCarthy family was built—Alice was now becoming nothing more than a shadow of the past. The person closest to John was no longer a person he even vaguely knew and he pitied her for her sickness. The whole thing made his chest burn with anger and frustration. He closed his eyes even tighter.
    Surrendering to some strange sense of peace, John finally decided that although he felt the pain, he could also remember the good— and that’s a better deal by far . Starting as far back as his mind would go, he did what all fortunate souls do in the midst of their twilight hour. He recalled the days back when and returned to a past time where he could play the narrator. He’d learned that the older someone got, their memories could sometimes prove more vivid than the day they were experienced.
    The first mental pictures he could muster were not of his own sagging diapers or warm bottles but of a large man bent over a screeching calf, leaving behind his smoking brand. In a short time, he adored his father—a master in the art of hard labor and one who was anxious to pass down his skills.
    The stubborn, old codger had come to rugged Montana from Dublin, Ireland. With nothing but a good wife and a trunk full of rags as clothes, he pursued a dream of owning his own land. For years, he worked as a ranch hand, sweating blood in fields he dreamed would someday be his own.
    For John there was some formal schooling, but most of life’s lessons were taught on the ranch right by his father’s side—and there was no better place.
    By the time he was twelve, John watched the old man’s eyes change from spirited to tired, but the look of determination never swayed. His pa worked hard, prayed harder and when the time was right, offered every penny he’d saved for a parcel of the land he had slaved over—along with the small, white farmhouse in which John had been raised. As part of the deal, there were two large barns with adjoining corrals, several coops, an outhouse and the old bunkhouse that sat across the creek bridge.
    The house wasn’t much more than an old pile of shingles. It had a parlor, a pantry and a kitchen that John’s mother cherished. There were two small bedrooms upstairs, their ceilings pitched with the roof. And there was a tiny mudroom leading to the porch that covered the entire front of the house. It was no castle but to the