Waiting on Company
By Paul Koontz
The gravel road up the holler ground against my oil pan, sending a shudder up through the steering wheel. I killed the radio. Country music felt wrong up here. Out of place, like shouting in a church house.
I rounded the final bend where the oaks grew wild, blocking out the last of the four o'clock sun. The old dogtrot cabin sat tucked into the slope, its tin roof stained rust-red, the porch sagging just a hair to the left.
And there it went.
Creak-snap. Creak-snap.
The ladder backed rocking chair swung in a wide, easy arc against the grayed cypress boards. Not a single leaf on the apple tree in the yard was moving. The mountain air hung thick and dead, smelling of damp moss and woodsmoke from someone else’s distant chimney. Yet that chair rocked like a two-hundred-pound man was leaning back in it, working his heels against the floorboards.
I let the car idle in the tall weeds of the driveway, my fingers tight on the wheel.
Back and forth.
"Ray told me he saw you," I said aloud to the dusty dashboard. "Brought a load of oak logs last November, saw you working that chair clear from the gate. Said he left the wood by the fence and didn't even ask for his thirty dollars."
The rocker kept its steady rhythm.
"Aunt Sarah came up, too," I continued, staring through the bug-splattered windshield. "Came to clear out Granny’s fruit jars. She swore up and down the air turned cold enough to see her breath right on the porch, even though it was mid-July."
I unbuckled my belt and pushed the car door open. The hinge shrieked, and my boots hit the gravel with a heavy crunch.
I took one step toward the porch. Then two.
Creak... snap.
I set my right boot on the bottom fieldstone step.
The rocker leaned back, dipped forward, and jammed to a dead stop.
The silence hit like a physical weight. The sudden lack of motion made my eyes cross for a second, but there wasn't a spark of fear in me. Just a sudden, sharp tightness in my throat. The air on the porch shifted, turning crisp, carrying the dark, sweet scent of Prince Albert tobacco and cedar shavings.
I walked past the still chair, careful not to brush the armrest, and sat down on the doorstep. I pulled my knees to my chest and stared out over the valley where the blue mist was beginning to pool in the bottoms.
"I know," I whispered, resting my chin on my arms. "I know it’s been a while, Grandpa. Three years. Maybe four. Time gets slippery down in the city. You turn around twice and a whole season’s gone."
A dry oak leaf scratched across the porch floor, pushed by a sudden, faint draft that tickled the back of my neck.
"They're selling the place," I said, the words falling hard into the quiet. "Uncle Jim's hips went bad, and none of the rest of us can afford the taxes on eighty acres of timber. A fella from Lexington put a deposit down yesterday. Said he’s gonna tear the cabin down and put up a rental cabin for hunters."
I brushed some dried leaves from the step, as if it mattered that they were there.
"I wanted to come tell you myself. Didn't seem right for you to hear it from a bulldozer." I swallowed against the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry, Grandpa. I'm sorry we all stopped coming up on Sundays. After Granny went, it was just... hard to look at her empty chair. It felt like coming to a funeral that never quite finished."
The quiet settled over us again, long and deep. The sun slipped entirely behind the rounded rim of the ridge, turning the sky a soft purple.
I stood up, brushing the porch dust off the seat of my jeans. I turned to the chair. The woven cane seat was empty, sagging slightly in the middle, worn smooth from eighty years of use.
"You don't have to stay out here on the porch no more," I said softly, looking right at the dark wood of the headrest. "Granny's been waiting on you a long time. Go on on up the hill. Everyone's gonna be just fine."
I walked back down the fieldstone steps, not looking back until I was inside the car with the engine humming. I pulled the gearshift into reverse and let the sedan roll backward down the long, winding drive.
My eyes drifted up to the center rearview mirror.
Framed in the glass, illuminated by the red glow of my taillights, the heavy oak rocker leaned back, dipped forward, and began its slow, deliberate swing once more.
Back and forth.
I let out a long breath, a small, sad smile touching my lips as I turned the wheel to follow the creek bed down to the main road.
He wasn't ready to go inside just yet. He had a driveway to watch.
(Dear Readers, thank you for supporting my work. Every Appalachian and many rural families have legends of a door opening, a chair rocking, or some tangible thing happening without human intervention. Often, these come along with a comment like, " Hi Grandad", or "Good Night, Mrs. Soandso." The stories explain the inexplicable without making them scary. I hope you have enjoyed this story, and my other work. Please consider supporting me by buying me a cup of coffee. Thank you , Paul)