Thank you to author Steven Manchester for sending me his newest novel to read and review. Today is release day!Paperback: 270 pages
Publisher: The Story Plant
Release Date: June 18, 2013
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-067-0
E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-068-7
Genre: Contemporary Fiction
A life well-lived, though forgotten.
A jumble of memories, some real, some imagined, skim through her mind and thoughts jumbled and unclear spring forth. Beautifully displayed, John also recalls the same memories, the real ones. The square dance at the church; Friday night at the Grange ~ the Texas 2-step and Tennessee waltz, best remembered, with the latter well-favored. The cool breezes cloaking over the land and the temperament of the times. The frailness of keeping together the hours of the day, and the slowness of night. The newer young doctor comes and again confirms in greater detail the breadth of life. A live well-lived, though forgotten.
So important to a life, a home. The once active hands, now stilled. Ready to jump up to serve, eyes keenly aware of the next need of one at table. Those days are gone. She sits smaller, somehow, in the same chair, at the same place at the table. Love.
Easing into the old rockin' chair, John recalls the trip to the hospital when their son is born. Names carved on the seat of the rocker bench ~ Hank, their only child, and his children and Elle's. Sweet Elle. Hank's wife who so lovingly cares now for her mother-in-love; tenderly abiding.
Days ebb away, as do the final hours together. But thinly; resisting however faintly the flow, the distance of the stream of life lived. Memories. God's greatest gift of Love. Alice. Beloved wife.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
The
Rockin’ Chair, 10-15
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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.
 |
| Author photo by Paula Manchester |
Twelve Months
2013 San Francisco Book Festival award winner
http://lanehillhouse.blogspot.com/2012/11/twelve-months-by-steven-manchester-2012.html
 | |
| A Christmas Wish~the holiday prequel to Goodnight, Brian~ | available for eReader |
http://lanehillhouse.blogspot.com/2013/01/goodnight-brian-novel-by-steven.html
Steven Manchester is also author of 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’s
American Morning and BET’s Nightly News. Recently, three
of his short stories were selected "101 Best" for Chicken
Soup for the Soul series.
"The truth has many perceptions, while attitude
shall dictate the end of life's memories."--Evan McCarthy
Book Cover: The Rockin' Chair
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 – Grampa 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.
Following the death of his beloved wife, John McCarthy – Grampa 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.
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