The Rockin' Chair by Steven Manchester Read Free Book Online Page B

After all the years and all the memories, he thought, the only thing left to show is pain. His whole life had been one long, bumpy ride. Walking into the house he thought, Poor Elle … she deserved more. When she climbed aboard with me, she never realized the ticket she punched .
    Hank relieved his swollen bladder and stepped to the bathroom sink to rinse his hands. He got a good lather going when he caught his face in the mirror. As if seeing himself for the first time in years, he swallowed hard. His jet-black hair was now peppered with streaks of gray and crawling up his forehead. He could see the start of a second chin and the wrinkles that were scattered across his cheeks looked like a road map heading nowhere. But it was his eyes that bothered him most. As usual, they were bloodshot, holding up the bags beneath—but Hank cringed when he braved a deeper look. I look so tired now, so worn down . His blue eyes actually looked dead. Instantly, they filled with tears. To think of what my pride’s cost me … of all the blame and bitterness it’s left behind. His heart ached. Shutting the light, he coughed up the tar that coated his lungs when another truth hit him— I look just like Pa now.
    A wind whistled down the chimney and brought a chill to Hank’s bones. He fed the wood stove and crawled into bed. Lying quietly for a moment, he turned to steal a much-needed hug from Elle. With her back to him, he decided against it. She’s snorin’ quietly , he thought. Besides, she’s tired too … tired of the drinkin’ and the anger and all the bullshit that goes along with bein’ Mrs. Hank McCarthy . The kids were gone and he was certain she only stayed out of habit. The fire between them had been stomped out long ago. “What the hell have I done?” he asked in a broken whisper. Letting the tears stream freely down his cheeks, his thoughts shifted to his children once again. With a lump in his throat and sorrow in his heart, he thought about how they were. For the first time in a long while, he truly wondered how they were doing and what they had found beyond the mountains that had always served as his prison walls. Whatever it is , he decided, it’s time they return to the homestead .

CHAPTER 4
    T he Army’s C-130 aircraft touched down at Fort Benning, Georgia and Sergeant George McCarthy could hear a buzz from the cheering crowd that awaited them. Before the doors opened, he approached the four gallant men of his squad and shook their hands. “You boys are true American heroes and I want to be the first to congratulate you.” Squaring away his uniform, he took his first step in more than a year onto American soil, thinking, Thank God we made it home .
    As the band played a marching tune, a war of emotion raged inside George while his broken heart begged it to stop. In lock-step, he and the boys followed a bright red carpet straight to the decorated platform. Unlike Vietnam, the Army wasn’t wasting one minute handing out its accolades. George stood at attention and fought to contain the sea of mixed emotions that crashed against his soul. He was proud of the job he and his squad had performed in Afghanistan, but he was also drowning in the guilt of killing an innocent boy.
    A swollen-chest colonel commenced the medal-pinning ceremony and brought everyone’s attention to Sergeant McCarthy. For a second, George’s rigid stance was rocked by the surprise. Revealing a bronze star, the colonel—an old warhorse—played to the crowd. “Under extremely grave conditions, Sergeant George McCarthy displayed great courage and saved the lives of his men from the enemy.” He rambled on, but George’s disbelief blocked out every misleading word. His mind was spinning in confusion, while his heart ached with sorrow and guilt. This man’s actually awarding me for murdering an unarmed boy , George thought. There’s no honor