Regarding the relationship between Johnny Mack and his younger son, Eugene, the inheritance of the mountain was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back. Almost, but not quite. They had not gotten along for some time and took opposing views on most issues. Johnny Mack was stern and pious, and had imposed harsh discipline throughout Eugene’s formative years. Eugene, on the other hand, held nothing sacred, and he took particular delight in antagonizing his father. Still, they eventually might have struck an uneasy truce for the sake of Angel, formerly known as Angelique, whom they both loved. They might have, but the week after Eugene inherited the mountain, his cannabis harvest was found curing up in the rafters of the well house of the Hog Liver Road Primitive Baptist Church. Johnny Mack was a deacon out at the church, and the incident proved to be a religious liability to him.
“What in hell were you thinking?” Johnny Mack growled around the unlit cigar clamped in his jaw. He had given up smoking and cussing as a younger man after accepting the Almighty into his bosom, but the well house incident had caused him to backslide. “You were raised up better than this!” he continued. “W.P. is running around like a damn fool telling everyone that he has been touched by the hand of the Holy Spirit!” He was referring to W.P. Poteet, unpaid janitor and unofficial watchman at the church. W.P. had discovered Eugene’s marijuana when he went into the well house to get his lawn mower, with which he intended to touch up a few graves. The unfortunate combination of W.P.’s agricultural background, poor eyesight, and lack of mental acuity had led him to assume some local farmer was drying a cash crop of burley up in the rafters. Since he had not enjoyed a good fresh smoke in about forty years, he tamped his pipe and fired up. Sweet Baby Jesus had revealed Himself shortly thereafter.
“I can’t help it if W.P. is a damn fool,” Eugene had replied coolly. “And what raising I got was Angel’s doing, not yours. Before you get too holy, I know about that half gallon of bourbon you have stashed in the stove. It would be a damn shame if the brethren found out about it!” The threat was clear. He was referring to the church’s potbellied wood heater, used for warmth on cold mornings and as a liquor cabinet by Johnny Mack during more temperate weather. Johnny Mack kept the sour mash around in case of pleurisy. A cautious man, he stored an additional half gallon under the tractor seat at home and even took the occasional preventive dose to be on the safe side.
Eugene knew all of this but was overcome with emotion and had spoken rashly. In his defense, his entire harvest of homegrown had just drifted up in smoke during the Evils of Satan bonfire and picnic held at the church the day after the well house discovery. Also destroyed were two Rolling Stones albums, a Hustler magazine, a hula hoop, and any hope of reconciliation between Johnny Mack and his wayward, errant son. There was some fireside discussion concerning the hula hoop, and many of the less zealous parishioners voiced doubts about its inclusion. But Myrtle Ellsbury was adamant, having apparently been drawn into mortal sin by one when she was a young girl, and Rabbit Brown finally chunked the foul instrument onto the pyre so Myrtle would hush.
Myrtle has long since gone to claim her reward for vigilance, Johnny Mack eventually overcame the stigma of having a spawn of Lucifer for a son, and the following year Eugene grew more dope. But Eugene and Johnny Mack never spoke again, and the road suffered greatly as a result.
A.J. got out of his truck and stretched for a moment. Then he reached behind the seat for his old Louisville Slugger, which he would need for his long walk up to the cabin. His intent was not to play baseball. He was there because Eugene’s ex-wife, Diane, had delivered an invitation from Eugene. The bat was for snakes, of which he had a lifelong terror. And for Rufus, should the need arise.
A.J. had encountered Diane down at Billy’s Chevron, where she was pumping gas into the tank of her 1977 Ford LTD. It was long, yellow, and arguably the worst-looking vehicle south of the Mason-Dixon Line. She had taken to driving the relic after her divorce from Eugene. In the settlement, she had received child support, a small but nice house in town, and a nearly new Buick, which later turned up missing, until it was discovered at the bottom of Lake Echota by some scuba-diving Eagle Scouts from Atlanta. So Diane’s father fixed up the old LTD and gave it to her until she could see a little better.
Actually, her eyesight was fine, but her salary down at the glove mill wasn’t, and Eugene was always behind with his child support payments so Diane had to be careful with her budget. Her lawyer had twice threatened Eugene with garnishment, but these were empty gestures, since most of his income was unreported and stemmed from his brokerage of alcoholic beverages in a county where the enterprise was officially frowned upon.
Eugene’s slow payments to Diane were not the result of a problem with cash flow, since large quantities of it flowed right into the house down by the county line where he conducted business. Rather, it was to him a matter of principle to be late. He did what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. He resembled Johnny Mack in that respect but did not like to have the similarity pointed out.
Diane informed A.J. of Eugene’s request for a visit as she was finishing pumping her gas. She then cast him a questioning glance and asked if he intended to visit the shit head, a term of endearment she used when referring to her ex-husband. Eugene and A.J. had not seen each other for quite some time since exchanging hard words one bleak evening after Eugene accused A.J. of having the hots for Diane. This was not unusual behavior for Eugene, because he was a jealous man and Diane was an attractive woman.
To be honest, Diane and A.J. had been somewhat attracted to each other in high school, where they had once attempted to consummate their relationship. Technically speaking, both had still been virgins afterward thanks to the high state of excitement achieved by A.J. during the short foreplay period, and a rematch had never been attempted.
“What do you suppose Eugene wants?” A.J. asked, leaning on the fender of Diane’s car. It was a calm, cool autumn day. He needed to be heading on to work but had no great urge to do so. He hated his job only slightly less than he would hate watching his children starve. He was not politically astute in the workplace, and the lack of diplomatic acumen had not had an enhancing effect on his career. He was relegated to the nether realms and occupied the position of permanent night shift supervisor at the sawmill.
“He wouldn’t say what he wanted,” Diane replied. “You know how he is. He just said to tell you that he really needed to talk to you.” She leaned up against the LTD beside A.J., sipping on a cold Coke. She was a little over five feet tall and was ten pounds to the right of slim. She was pretty, not beautiful, with the coal-black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones that were common traits in the area. The high valley was once Cherokee land, until Old Hickory himself-Andrew Jackson-had decided the proud mountain and forest tribe would be happier romping on a government reservation in the Oklahoma Territory, which was where he sent them. They left behind their names, their genes, and some of the prettiest country ever stolen by the white eyes.
“Anyway, what are you doing talking to Eugene?” A.J. asked. “Did hell freeze over?” At the divorce hearing, Diane had specified that date as the next time she would willingly lay eyes on Eugene. She had then gone out to his Jeep parked in front of the courthouse and shot out all four tires plus the spare to finalize the arrangement. The incident caused a stir, but Eugene declined to press charges and the judge admired a spirited woman, so no legalities ensued. Diane had not seen Eugene since. His intermittent child support payments arrived courtesy of the U.S. Mail, in a manner of speaking. Eugene would periodically drive down to the highway and hand over an envelope full of cash to the town’s ancient postman, Ogden Abney. Ogden would personally deliver the envelope to Diane later in the day after first removing one dollar for postage.
“No, it didn’t freeze, but I could have waited,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “The boys wanted to see him.” Diane had loved Eugene when they married, but fifteen years of life with him had laid that love in an unmarked g
rave. She had endured the marriage for the sake of the children until the day Eugene’s occasional verbal abuse turned physical and he slammed his fist into the wall beside her head, breaking three knuckles and creating a fairly large hole in the wall. Then he had stormed out of the house.
He had returned three days later feeling sheepish, a feeling that intensified exponentially upon his discovery of a totally empty house. Diane and the boys were gone, as was the furniture, the carpets off the floor, and the light bulbs from the fixtures. Eugene contemplated the sorry state of affairs while consuming a fifth of bourbon and arrived at the conclusion that it was no longer possible to find a good woman, one who would stick by a man. Then he burned the house down. When Diane heard the news, she was surprised to discover that she really didn’t care. Her life with Eugene was over. It had ended during the fight when she saw Eugene’s fist change trajectory ever so slightly right before it whizzed past her left ear. His gaze at that instant was lethal, as if his eyes were made of cobalt.
“How did the visit go?” A.J. asked Diane. “You didn’t shoot out his tires again, did you? I loved that.” He smiled and punched her softly on the shoulder.
“No, I didn’t have to shoot anything,” she replied. “He behaved himself all day. We rode up there last Saturday on Jackie’s horses. The boys were really excited about seeing their father.”
“I don’t guess you were all that excited,” A.J. commented. He looked up and noted a small flock of geese tacking across the azure sky.
“You know for a fact I didn’t want to go up there,” she replied, shrugging. “But I can’t keep the boys away from him forever. It was a strange day. He actually spoke to me a little, and he was good with the boys the whole time. They went fishing down in the canyon, and later on he showed them how to shoot. Do you remember his matched pair of shotguns? The ones he bought in Memphis? He gave one to each of the boys. Later, when we got to the bottom of the mountain, Cody handed me an envelope. He said his daddy told him to give it to me after we were down.” She looked over at A.J. “There was five thousand dollars in that envelope and a note telling me to make sure the boys had a real good Christmas.” She shook her head. Her long hair blew gently in the breeze.
“You’re sure you were at Eugene’s place?” A.J. asked. “Maybe you went up the wrong mountain.” A.J. thought it was unlikely, but so was the Big Bang, and it had certainly received its share of the press.
“No, it was him,” she replied. “I know the face. He looked bad, though, like maybe he’s been sick.” They were quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again. “I’m just not used to him acting nice. It hasn’t come up that often.”
“Maybe he’s trying to win you back,” A.J. suggested. “A girl could do worse than a nice cabin, two custom shotguns, and envelopes full of money lying around everywhere.”
“The cabin is not that nice, there are not enough envelopes in the world, and I’d end up using both shotguns on him. No thanks.” She seemed adamant.
“Well, I guess that’s your choice,” A.J. said dubiously. He shrugged. “So, what did you do all day while Eugene played with the boys?”
“I sat on the porch and read my book. Rufus sat and watched.” The book in question was Diane’s dog-eared copy of The Happy Hooker, a cult classic she had been reading for about fourteen years. A.J. once saw her finish the saga, shut the book for a moment, then open it back up to page one and begin again. Out of curiosity, he had also read the book, and although it contained some compelling passages, he was relieved to discover he had no compulsive urge to reread the tome for eternity.
“Rufus was there?” A.J. asked. He disliked Rufus and had heard he was dead. He was disappointed to hear it wasn’t so. “You’re lucky that dog didn’t drag off one of the horses.”
“I don’t know why you don’t like Rufus,” Diane replied, opening the car door and climbing in. “He’s really a pretty good dog.”
“Call me sensitive,” A.J. said, shutting the door for her. “I don’t like him because every time I see him he tries to kill me.” It was true. Rufus had been the scourge of the food chain up on Eugene’s Mountain for a long, long time, but the only human he ever bothered was A.J. Small children could ride the dog like a pony, but he transformed into the Hound of the Baskervilles if he ever caught A.J.’s scent.
“He doesn’t seem to care for your company all that much,” Diane agreed, firing up the old LTD. It chugged quietly, sending up light blue exhaust to foul the clear mountain air. “Maybe you could take him a biscuit or something,” she proposed. “You know, make friends with him.”
“I’d rather just keep on hating him,” A.J. said. “We’re both used to it, and I don’t like new things.”
Diane waved and motored off.
A.J. crossed the cracked concrete in front of the garage. He raised the lid of the old cold drink box, dropped in two quarters, and retrieved a grape Nehi that was mostly slush. He sat on the weathered bench in front of Billy’s to sip and consider. A.J. put a lot of store in fate, and as fate would have it, the bad blood with Eugene had been heavy on his mind. He had already decided prior to his encounter with Diane that a visit to his old friend was in order. It was time to bury the hatchet.
CHAPTER 2
I see a new preacher in your future.
– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to the deacons of the Hog Liver Road Baptist Church
A.J. STOOD UNDER THE HANGING-TREE AT THE FOOT of Eugene’s Mountain on the early autumn Saturday morning. It was cool, almost brisk, and the sky that could be seen through the canopy of trees was clear. He leaned the Louisville Slugger up against the hanging-tree and lit a cigarette. For whatever reason, he had decided to go see Eugene.
The hanging-tree was a huge old oak with a large limb jutting perpendicular to the trunk about twenty feet from the ground. Legend had it that two Yankees had gotten themselves hung there back during the unfortunate period of time when William Tecumseh Sherman, the Anti-Christ, was burning Georgia to the ground. A local farmer and his wife had been murdered, and two young men unlucky enough to be wearing blue and unwary enough to be sleeping away from their weapons had been apprehended by several of the local worthies and charged with the murder. The fact that both men and their regiment had been fighting sixty miles to the north at Chickamauga when the crime was committed did not alter the outcome of their trial, although a pause of several seconds occurred when the information was revealed.
The dilemma was resolved by Spartan Cook, unofficial prosecutor at the affair. He had acquired a great deal of legal expertise during his many court appearances, and even though he had always been on the receiving end of justice, he was deferred to on matters of law at the current proceedings. It was decided the two villains had no doubt murdered several farmers and their wives up in Chickamauga, and they surely would have committed the local crimes, as well, if someone had not beaten them to it. The fair and speedy trial had concluded shortly thereafter.
A.J. began his slow journey up to Eugene’s cabin. The battered but proud Louisville Slugger was his walking stick as he made his way. He moved silently through the north Georgia mountains, as quiet as a stolen kiss. It was a talent he had always had, to pass unseen and unheard through the wild places. His father attributed the knack to the trace of Cherokee blood flowing in A.J.’s veins, and a rustle and a shadow were all that marked his passage. As he reached the midpoint of his journey, he tightened his grip on the bat and swung it up on his shoulder. He was sure Rufus was already stalking him and had no doubt his perennial foe would join him presently. He listened carefully, and as he rounded the bend in the old road he heard a twig snap. He whirled and assumed the batter’s-up position. Running straight at him from behind was Rufus. Their eyes met, and they froze.
“Come on over here, boy, and get some of this,” A.J. said quietly, not taking his eyes off the hound for an instant. Rufus lowered to a crouch, teeth bared. His eyes emanated malice. Then he blinked and lowered his head to his front paws, co
nceding the round to A.J.
Rufus’s specific lineage was unclear, but he appeared to be a cross between a Great Dane and a bear. He was as big as a small Shetland and covered with scars. His hair grew in patches around the scar tissue, and his eyes were yellow and bloodshot. A.J. likened the dog to a creation by Dante on LSD. He was a hound from hell, and A.J. had no doubt that if Rufus ever got hold of him, there wouldn’t be much left to bury, except maybe a half-eaten shoe or a few small pieces of the Louisville Slugger.
A.J. backed up slowly, then turned and headed on his way. Rufus stayed where he was and watched. It was always that way, as if the dog was just letting A.J. know he was still around, waiting for the day when his foe forgot to be cautious. For the life of him, A.J. couldn’t remember any incident that might explain the dog’s ire. It didn’t really matter much, anyway. The ritual of defending his life had evolved into a routine nuisance, akin to paying taxes, going to the dentist, or listening to his neighbor, Estelle Chastain, talk about the hard old days when her long-suffering and now-deceased Parm had gone off to fight the Hun, leaving her, a mere girl of seventeen, pregnant but still petite, mind, to fend for herself for two long, cold, lonely years.
A.J. entered the homestretch, the last quarter mile of his trek to Eugene’s home. Just ahead was a wide place in the trail, and parked there, rusting peacefully, was The Overweight Lover. It was a 1965 Chrysler Imperial with fine Corinthian leather interior and a 440 cubic-inch motor. It sat where it had finally died and, in A.J.’s opinion, this was hallowed ground. The car was green and wide, and it had The Overweight Lover hand-painted in Gothic script across the tops of both the front and back windshields. Eugene had purchased the Lover complete with lettering back in the days when pre-owned vehicles were simply used cars. He made the acquisition because he needed another motor for his little hot rod, but his plans changed dramatically when the old Chrysler hit 128 mph during the trip home. Eugene held great admiration for speed in those days, and since the Lover handled better than his Dodge Charger ever had, he parked the smaller car in favor of the touring sedan.
The Front Porch Prophet Page 2