John 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 McCarthys it was home.
Life rolled along as usual until the old man realized he could not compete with the larger ranches in the area. They eventually traded in driving cattle and breaking broncs for milking cows.
When it seemed there was nothing more to life than dairy farming, John was saved by the bell, a church bell of all things. The pastor, a man who loved to watch the pretty girls just as well as offer a heartfelt sermon, called for a square dance. All the girls in the county were going to be there. At sixteen years old, John wasn’t about to let the pastor have them all.
It was a perfect night, as John recalled, a warm spring night filled with the smell of honeysuckle and the song of crickets. Duded up in clothes that didn’t need mending, he showed up stained with an hour’s walk of sweat.
From the door, he could see that the barn had been cleaned up pretty good. There weren’t many older folks there, except the boys in the band and the pastor who, of course, was smiling from ear to ear. After taking a belt from the half-empty Mason jar being passed around, John matted down his mop of blond hair and went in. In no time, the moonshine was kicking in, giving him the courage to ask the hand of the prettiest girl.
He searched the crowd and eyed her sitting in the corner. For a second, the sight stole his breath away. She’s beautiful in her peach polka dot dress, he thought. A closer look made his mouth go dry. She had high cheekbones, jet-black hair and eyes as black as coal, with equal amounts of the devil and heaven shining through. He couldn’t remember asking, but at some point they were on the floor—twirling, laughing and dancing in each other’s eyes. Through the clamor of dueling banjos, he learned that her name was Alice; the daughter of a drunken French trapper who’d left her and her mother as outcasts in their Sioux tribe.
Under a magical moon—and after tripping over the roots of a weeping willow tree—a beautiful courtship began on that very night.
John and Alice waited for the end of the autumn harvest before exchanging vows in the same white church that had witnessed their every stolen kiss. With chores that needed finishing, John showed up late, his suit disheveled from the frantic trip. As he ran for the altar, he vowed, I’ll never enter the Lord’s house again without wearin’ my best. And he never did. His young bride, however, was waiting patiently and never once complained about his tardiness. She smelled of lilac and beamed with love. The ring—a last-minute gift from John’s mother’s own hand—fit her finger perfectly. The sullen pastor, who was forced to witness another beauty get away, made the nuptials quick. Their kiss, in fact, lasted twice as long as the ceremony. But it didn’t matter. They were finally hitched and John had taken the hand of the woman he not only loved, but also needed. Even at seventeen years old, he knew the difference.
After a brief honeymoon in the barn, they went right back to work—and they worked hard all week. As a reward, each Friday night they kicked up their heels down at the Grange Hall and wore out the linoleum floor with the Texas two-step or the Tennessee waltz—with John preferring the latter. God, how I loved dancin’ with Alice. She giggled like a child in his arms, while her body moved with his like water over rock. When they got home, they’d slip out of their proper dress. The dancing continued horizontally under the sheets—both of them completely comfortable and unashamed of each other’s moves. They became such good dance partners, in fact, that Alice awoke one morning with a surprise announcement. “John McCarthy, you’re gonna be a pa.”
Those nine months whipped by and before he knew it, John was sitting in a hospital waiting room feeling like a cowboy at the opera. What a terrible place, he thought. The strong scent of alcohol and other sanitary smells were worse than sitting in a dung-infested chicken coop. He waited and waited. Hours dragged on until old Doc Duff came out, his white smock stained crimson red. Panting, the geezer announced, “Congratulations, John. You have a boy.” John’s eyes welled up.
John cringed, as he vividly recalled the rest of the medicine man’s news. “But it wasn’t an easy delivery. In fact, if you didn’t have such a strong wife, she wouldn’t be with us right now … that I can assure you.” The doctor went on to explain how the baby had wreaked such havoc on Alice’s insides that there was no choice but to perform a full hysterectomy. “Your boy came into the world kickin’ and screamin’, makin’ sure he’d be the last to exit his mother’s womb,” Doc Duff said, adding, “Born with the devil in him, I tell ya!”
But when John saw his son Hank for the first time, he saw nothing but an angel. There was no greater gift than for a man to have a son carry on his name. John instantly fell in love. No matter how much kicking, screaming or havoc this boy was sure to cause, Hank was his son and John was going to love him—without conditions. In the McCarthy family, love was a given, while respect and everything else had to be earned.
One night, Alice took the baby from John’s lap to tuck him into bed. “I’ll be in soon,” John told her before removing a jackknife from his pocket. It was almost an hour before he had carved the name HANK deep into the chair’s seat. Satisfied with his workmanship, he sneaked off to the boy’s room to kiss Hank’s cheek. “I love you, son,” he whispered.
Without fail—each night, and so as not to be heard—he vowed his love to his son. But like his father before him, words felt like weakness and John didn’t want Hank to grow up soft.
As John wiped a forgotten teardrop from his eyes, a gentle hand rested upon his shoulder, bringing him back to a time that was less kind. Gazing up, he caught Elle’s smile peeking out from behind the storm door.
“Supper’s on, Pa, and I won’t take no for an answer. You’ve been sitting in this chair for hours. I think you could both use a break.” She smiled.
“I’ll be right along,” he promised with a smile. The wind slammed the door shut behind her. John yawned and looked down at Three Speed. The dog hadn’t lasted the entire trip down memory lane; his eyelids were twitching to the mercy of his own dreams.
With a deep breath, John decided right then, Anyone who pities the elderly is a damned fool! After only one afternoon of daydreaming, it was obvious to him that if anything it should be the opposite. The elderly should be envied, he decided. John and Alice didn’t have the opportunities or possibilities that younger folks had for the future, but they had something much more precious. They had realities of the past, which nothing or no one could ever take away. Even Alice … though she can’t recall a minute of it, that ol’ girl’s loves are still loved, her dreams realized, deeds done, sufferings endured and meanings of life fulfilled, John thought. Disease or no disease, her life’s like money in the bank.
From where John sat, the future was foggier than ever but the past was as clear as the memories that proved it. There was no question about who he and Alice were and how their lives had turned out. Wearing a proud smile, he stood. Every muscle and bone in his tired body snapped, crackled or popped—waking Three Speed from his dreams.
John stretched out and walked toward the rail with the mutt shadowing him. They stood together, watching a watercolor sky grow faint of light, the great orange ball disappearing and sending off colors of pink, purple and red.
It really is a beautiful place that Pa chose as home, John thought. Everything was so vast and glorious. Turning back toward the house, he asked Three Speed to step aside. “Even though you played hooky from work today,” he whispered, “I’ll still see if I can’t fetch you somethin’ from my plate.”
Everything from the tongue to the tail started wagging. John patted the mutt on the head and headed for the washroom. Dirt or no dirt, he thought, a man cleans up for supper.
Alice was already propped at the table when John took his respected seat at the head of it. Hunched in her own chair, she noticed John with indifference. She was too distracted, her fingers fumbling for her long, gray locks of hair. Twirling long strands into curls, she’d stop momentarily, play with her place setting and then go back to her hair. John took notice of the tiny wrinkles in the corners of her mouth; permanent tattoos of a life of happiness when her smile would dance across her beautiful little face. From there, he worked up to those dark eyes that always shined with life, only to find an empty, stoic glare. Alice’s entire face was set like granite and the sight of it made him feel like he was sucking air through a straw.
Elle put the last of the meal on the table, offered a brief prayer of thanks and asked Alice, “Do you want some salad?”
Before she could even process the question and muster a reply, Elle answered with action and dished some out.
John watched as Alice concentrated on the slow, awkward path that her fork took from the plate to her mouth. Before long, she was wearing more food than tasting it. When she had finally abandoned the futile task, without so much as a thought Elle slid her chair over and began spoon-feeding her mother-in-law. John looked on in horror, his eyes locked on his wife’s blotchy hands, the skin now as fragile and thin as crepe paper. He remembered how she had once been, hovering over the kitchen table like an orchestra conductor, a dozen steps ahead of any guest that sat. The things those hands could once do, he thought. They never rested. Now, they were gnarled and twisted—like curled-up maple leaves—incapable of working so much as a spoon. To think she has no idea what those hands were ever used for or all the people they touched. His stomach kicked up something that left the slow burn of whiskey in his throat. Time can be so unfair, he thought.
John recalled thinking—not so long ago—that life was supposed to return to the way it had once been when it was just him and Alice. Though they’d each lost a little bounce in their step, he was looking forward to showing the folks down at the Grange Hall that they still had it. We might even sneak a roll in the hay when we get back to the house, he hoped. It never happened that way, though. Her body was tired and the gears in her mind had slipped into reverse. Life had hardly returned to the way it had once been. Instead, it had become more a matter of surviving the days rather than living them.
Though John normally didn’t come up for air until his plate was clean, he fiddled with his fork while Alice continued to audition for no one. In her common gibberish of late, her lips twitched and out of the babble a complete sentence finally arose. “I know. I know. Churn the butter, churn the butter, then feed the wood stove. Churn the butter, churn the butter, then feed the wood stove. I know. I know. But I ain’t takin’ a bath … not until Pa says I have to and Pa ain’t been around for quite a spell now.”
In between episodes of belly laughter and cries of things that go bump in the night, Elle continued to feed Alice—just as she was sure to bathe her, brush out her hair and even clean her bottom when Mother Nature called. And all of it would be done with love, patience and dignity. It was clear that Elle would keep her vigil and watch over Alice until her final hour. John wondered again, What did my bitter son ever do to deserve this amazin’ woman?
Excusing himself from the table, John hugged both women; Elle because he was grateful and Alice because of all the memories she had given him. Elle returned the embrace. But Alice just sat there like a lifeless doll, acting surprised that this stranger would touch her so personally.
John grabbed his promise to Three-Speed. “I need to head out for one last check on the animals,” he told Elle.
She nodded her approval. “Take your time, Pa.”
No matter what the reason, Three Speed couldn’t have been happier for the old man’s unusual lack of appetite. As for John, well, he was just happy that Elle was looking after Alice, giving him some more time to sort out each path that led to this shaky present.
After completing his final chores, John flipped up the collar on his jacket. There was a wolves’ bite in the air. Looking down, he noticed that Three Speed was matching his every step back to the house. “It’s gettin’ some nippy ol’ boy,” he whispered, a billow of smoke rising slowly into the night. “If you can keep it to yourself, you can catch your shut-eye in the mudroom tonight.”
The dog yawned and hurried on ahead to the door where he stood, waiting.
The moon was full and lit up the earth with a soft light. John stopped. It’s been a long trip but the nicest trip any man could ever hope for. He smiled at the truth of it. As he reached the porch, he turned to see the lights burning at Hank and Elle’s place across the creek bridge. Hank’s probably still waitin’ on his supper. It’s time for the changin’ of the guard.
Alice was already in bed, with Elle by her side reading a bedtime story. John paused at the door and stole a peek at the two women he loved. Alice’s hair was now braided like a little girl’s. A quilt covered most of her. She listened as Elle read, but the distant glare in her eyes told John that she had no clue about anything being said. It was the soft way Elle spoke that soothed her.
As John broke the threshold, Elle placed the book on the nightstand and fumbled for her jacket hanging over the chair. “I thought you were going to stay out there all night until I noticed the windows getting frosted,” she said.
John half-shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … ”
She waved her hand, politely cutting him off. “I’m just teasing, Pa. I’m glad you took the time.” She kissed Alice on the cheek and assured her patient, “I’ll see you at first light, okay?” Alice stared straight through her. Walking to John, Elle stopped and planted the same kiss on his cheek. “I was thinking about treating you to my famous blueberry muffins in the morning.”
As she started for the door, John stopped her. “You hear from your young’uns lately?” he asked.
Elle shook her head and rolled her pretty green eyes all in one motion. “We got a letter from Georgey a few days ago,” she said, “but it was a little peculiar. It was from Afghanistan and it was postmarked three weeks ago. For this tour, he hasn’t been allowed to call or text or go online. I hope everything’s okay over there.” She shrugged. “Hank says not to worry.”
The old man nodded, erasing some of the fear in her eyes. “Hank’s right. George’ll be fine. He’s a survivor.”
“Sure,” Elle said, “a survivor who couldn’t hurt a fly. You remember how he felt when he ran that mutt over with the tractor?”
“I do,” John said, chuckling at the thought of it. “Old Three Speed got over it a lot quicker than Georgey did.” His face turned serious again. “Any word from the other two?”
“Evan hasn’t returned my calls for almost two weeks now, which is unusual, and Tara …” The eyes rolled again. “…you know that one. I tried calling her but her latest number has been disconnected. I guess she and the baby are doing fine, but I’ll have to wait until she decides to pick up a phone to know for sure.”
John smiled. “I’m sure they’re all fine … just finding their own way in that big world out there.”
She nodded once and then turned to leave.
Stopping her one last time, John gestured toward the bed. “Thank you, sweetheart. From the both of us … thank you for all you’ve done.”
His voice cracked just enough that Elle’s eyes welled up. For fear of her own voice breaking into pieces, she nodded her welcome and hurried out of the room.
John sat at the foot of the bed and sucked in a few deep breaths. Glancing down, he took notice of the quilt that secured Alice like a baby. At one time not so long ago, it was new and quite beautiful. Alice had prided herself on the long, tedious hours she put into it. Now that same cozy quilt was worn and tattered. Threadbare in some spots, it was actually starting to unravel at the seams. He tucked it under her chin, looked into her face and was shocked to find a faint glimmer of his wife somewhere in her tired eyes. For that one moment, he swore, It’s her! It’s Alice. Unwilling to waste this precious time with her, he leaned into her ear and spoke. “Squaw, we had a wonderful life together, you and me. I can see you’ve about had your fill of me, but before you set your mind on leavin’ for good, I need to thank you for …” He touched his forehead to hers and whispered, “Thank you for givin’ me such a good life, Alice.”
He pulled away just enough to catch her smile. Though it only lasted a moment, it was the same smile he had fallen in love with and spent every day of his adult life trying to catch. It started in the corners of her mouth and worked its way up to her eyes where a sparkle of mischief made him lose his breath. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished and Alice’s face was returned to the woman no one knew. She was gone, perhaps forever. He kissed her softly, whispered, “Good-bye, my love,” and silently prayed that the Lord would shroud her in His angels.
Turning out the lights, John lit a candle and placed it on the small table near the window. He was happy to remain a student of the old school, where there were no such things as cell phones or the Internet. He grabbed for a sharp pencil and searched his mind for the proper words to start. It’s time to call my three injuns home. Alice’s hourglass is about empty and Georgey, Evan and Tara should say their good-byes.
The purple hue of dusk had faded to black hours before. Hank could hear crushed stone crunch under the weight of car tires and knew that Elle was home. Meeting her out on the porch, he watched as her exhausted body strained to climb the stairs. “How is she?” he asked, giving her a pathetic hug so as not to spill his beer.
“She’s not good, Hank … but it’s not her I’m worried about.”
His brow rose in confusion. “How’s that?”
Elle shook her head with years of frustration, but smiled compassionately—as if trying to reach his heart one more time. “It’s your pa, babe. He really needs you now.” Ignoring his shaking head, she grabbed his shoulders and finished. “I think you should go to him, Hank. He looks so tired … and so old.”
Hank continued to shake his head but set his eyes on the face of the moon. For a second, his Adam’s apple bounced like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“Your pa is such a wonderful man,” she added. “How you can think the way you do about him is beyond me.”
With a pain Hank had always known, he pushed Elle away and mumbled, “That wonderful man never needed me, Elle … and he don’t need me now!” The last words sounded like they were sifted through cotton. He raised the beer to his lips and attempted to extinguish the wildfire that had been set years before.
Sighing heavily, Elle kissed him on the forehead and then turned to go in. Before the door hit her backside, she looked over her shoulder. “They won’t be around forever Hank,” she said. “I’m telling you right now that you’d better make your peace before it’s too late.”
Hank spun at the surprise of her tone. Elle never raised her voice and she’d never once spoken a word that could be construed as a threat. “You tryin’ to hurt me?” he asked through pursed lips.
Their eyes locked briefly and she returned his shaking head to him. “I’m going to bed,” she announced and vanished through the door.
Hank retrieved the rest of the six-pack from the fridge and returned to the broken-down porch. Taking a seat on the rough planks, he rested his aching back against the house and noticed a faint light glowing in his folks’ bedroom window. Curious as to what the old man was doing up so late, he cracked open another beer and drank half of it down in one gulp. It was going take a few more of those to numb the pain. He’d gone at it for years and still couldn’t tell how many it took. “He needs you …” he groaned in his gruff smoker’s voice. “What a crock! That woman has no idea what she’s sayin’.” He stared at the farmhouse window. “That old man never needed me.” Besides a love of racing pigeons together, they’d never really shared anything positive—at least as far as Hank could recall. Finishing off the beer, he decided that he’d already wasted too much time dwelling on his cold-hearted father. Instead, he concentrated on calling up fonder memories of his children.
It was funny—the small, seemingly insignificant things a mind remembered: breakfast on Sunday mornings; playing horseshoes until dark; lying in a hammock with the three of them; the animals they brought home to save from the weather; their report cards; the love that went into their hand-made Christmas gifts. The list went on and the memories made were priceless. Hank marveled at how three children who shared the same blood could be so different.
Georgey loved the land but never had the stomach for the heartlessness that made for a mountain man. Hank had taken him hunting once. Georgey had an eight-point buck in his sights and froze. Even when Hank’s whispers turned to screams, the boy never pulled the trigger. He couldn’t. Years later, Hank caught wind of an accident and had to laugh. Georgey ran over one of the farm’s mutts with his Grampa’s tractor. The dog lost a leg but Georgey was the one who suffered the trauma. He was all torn up over giving that mutt the new name, Three Speed.
Evan cried a lot. Hank couldn’t stomach it. He was a sweet boy but too sweet for Hank’s liking. At first, he’d take him out whenever he could to toughen him up but Evan proved plenty tough. He had his fair share of fistfights and normally came out on top. Come to think of it, Hank couldn’t once recall the boy whimpering over physical pain. He was just very emotional and there was no changing him. Evan was Evan and he and Hank never clicked. Hank allowed him to find his own way.
Tara, well, that kid scared Hank out of his wits from the time she was born to the day she flew the coop. With vivid memories of his own youth and the desires that ached to be satisfied, he’d get sick imagining some boy putting his mitts all over her. The world had changed for the worse and boys were less patient. He was always at a loss when it came to Tara. Girls were different—inside and out—so he left Elle to take care of most of it. From where he sat, she did a real solid job. He insisted, though, that Tara finish her schooling. In fact, he demanded that they all graduate. I wasn’t gonna raise dummies like me, he thought.
The kids spent way too much time on the farm as far as Hank recalled. They loved their grandma but absolutely adored the old man—who’d demanded that they call him Grampa John; Grampa as a title of respect and John so they’d always be on a first-name basis and able to talk as such. It was like their grandfather walked on water for them. Knowing that he’d drowned in that same pool of righteousness years before, Hank couldn’t get over it. It don’t make no sense. As the years unfolded, the old man maintained his stubbornness, so Hank stayed clear. The kids would come home with stories that painted anything but an accurate picture of the strict, unforgiving mule. He was gentle and kind with them—like he’s livin’ long enough to make up for the pain he put me through. In a shameful way, Hank envied his kids for their loving stories of their grandpa.
Maybe with death gettin’ closer every day, the old man got scared, he wondered. Maybe the kids were Pa’s repentance.
Without asking Hank’s permission, the kids grew fast. It seemed like Elle was putting up a new calendar every couple of months. Hank awoke one morning to find the boys’ cowlicks flattened with some hair jelly, while Tara’s pigtails were replaced with a perm. It felt like he slept once more and awoke to find them gone. And that was exactly how it went. The house was filled with chaos one minute and the kids were all graduating from high school the next. Then sure enough, one by one they flew the coop to find whatever their hearts were searching. After they’d each made it over those looming mountains to discover the real world, silence blanketed the house. Thinking of all the laughter that had once spilled through the bunkhouse, Hank thought, I’d give anything to hear it again.
Still, he couldn’t have been more proud of each of them. No matter how their efforts turn out, Hank thought, they’re each tryin’ their best. Georgey went to serve Uncle Sam—God bless his soul. Evan’s feet couldn’t move fast enough out the door—off to college in the East to spite me and become a writer. Tara followed a shooting star that landed in New York. He cringed at the thought of his sweet, innocent girl in the big city and prayed, God be with her. There was nothing more he could do.
Life got real quiet after that. Elle found hobbies to replace the time she spent with the kids and his mother took ill. Ma just showed up on his porch one night and asked, “Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me if you’ve seen my pa?”
Hank was horrified and realized that when life was good, time got carried away on a hurricane wind—but when pain came knocking, the air went still. While Ma’s memories grew faint and foreign, her mind was slowly being removed from the world around her. It was terrible to watch. Hank couldn’t imagine a worst crime than for some disease to steal away the memories that an entire life spent collecting.
The coldest wind whipped down the mountain and back-handed Hank across the face. Opening his eyes, he reached for his pocket and lit another cigarette. “A few more Marlboro miles and I’ll be able to order that iron lung,” he coughed.
The air must have dropped ten degrees since his mind took a jog down memory lane. It’s gonna be another winter of endurance for sure, he thought, and then glanced toward the farmhouse. Pa’s light’s out. Gazing up, he stared into a majestic sky. The moon was ripe and there were a million stars; it looked as if someone had freed every firefly Hank had ever trapped in a Mason jar and placed them on a black velvet canvas. Hunched in his jacket, he collected the empty beer cans around him and struggled to stand. His back ached. He stretched out and realized the throb in his head felt worse. 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.