The Rockin' Chair by Steven Manchester Page A

In his most difficult hour, Grampa John needed to stand alone and they respected him for it.
    Elle rubbed Hank’s back, comforting her husband and ignoring her own pain. She loved Alice too. In fact, for years she loved her like her own mother. Then, when the illness took hold and caused the kind woman to live more in the past than the present, Elle loved her like one of her own children. Either way, the depth of the love never changed. At the end, though—just before Alice passed on—Elle prayed for closure. Realizing the harshness of such hopes, she wanted an end to everyone’s suffering once and for all. It had nothing to do with loving her mother-in-law any less. It had to do with peace. Mercifully, the Lord finally answered her prayers.
    Denying herself the permission to mourn just yet, she continued to rub Hank’s back and whisper things in his ear that only he could hear. There will be time for me to cry later , she decided.
    Hank stared at the beautifully carved casket and played the same reel of his mother over and over in his mind. He remembered watching her slave away for years in the house. She washed clothes by hand, hung them out and warned Hank, “You best stay clear.” Most of the time, he minded her. She canned vegetables, never stopped cooking and was usually busy working on one of her quilts. She was nonstop. Her routine was no easier than Pa’s, only she was being monitored by the ghosts that watched from frames on the parlor walls.
    She was also in charge of haircuts and what a treat they were. If Hank didn’t squirm and fuss, she’d rinse out the bowl when she was through hacking him up and fill it with a few scoops of cherry Jell-O. Hank loved rubbing the new fuzz at the back of his head as he sucked the sweet slime through his teeth.
    Ma was also the self-appointed boss of hygiene. Every Saturday for sure and sometimes once during the week—depending on how much dirt had accumulated—she’d draw him a bath. Hank loved that old porcelain tub. It was like climbing into a swimming pool, with lion’s claws holding up its weight. Ma would leave him be for a while, then call out, “Cover up your privates. I’m comin’ in.” With strong hands, she’d wash his hair, all the while complaining, “I swear there’s more water on the floor than in the tub!”
    He could still see her sneaking dinner up to his room when he was punished, never thinking any less of him for misbehaving; and the wedding ring—from her own finger—that she gave Elle at the breakfast table the morning after he and Elle had eloped. He would never forget the way she always found time to talk, or better yet—to listen; and the ways in which she showered his children with love. The list went on and so did the invisible projector in his head.
    Hank struggled to stop it, but the movie kept playing and the emotions he fought to contain finally overwhelmed him. As Elle rubbed his back, telling him, “It’s okay, hon, let it out,” the dam burst wide open. Hank’s whimpers could be heard above them all. Although he was bawling like a child, his embarrassment was suddenly replaced by another truth. This was not a physical pain that he felt. It was his heart and it was breaking. It didn’t matter that he was weeping in front of people. It don’t matter what anyone thinks , he thought. There was great freedom in it.
    Hank looked across the casket and noticed his father standing strong. “Pa’s mask is still set in place,” he mumbled under his breath. As Elle leaned in to hear what her husband was trying to say, he added, “I ain’t ever been no match for him but it don’t matter no more.” For the first time, Hank felt sorry for his father.
    Evan listened to his father’s labored sighs and childlike sobs. Like a contagious disease passed on by the wind, to his surprise he could feel the man’s