“This must have been an ancient vampire execution ground,” he had told Maggie. “The earth has been scorched and sown with salt.” He went on to suggest that they continue to buy the plants, anyway, and then just throw them away on the way home, thus cutting out all the work in the middle. “Some farm boy you turned out to be,” had been her reply.
“What’s up?” A.J. asked as he sat on the ground. Maggie turned and smiled.
“We’re killing these flowers,” she explained, gesturing with her trowel. “And what we haven’t murdered outright,” she continued, hiking a thumb in J.J.’s direction, “he has tried to eat.” At the moment, J.J. was intent on tamping the dirt around his latest attempt.
“How did the flowers taste?” A.J. asked his son.
“They tasted nasty,” the boy answered.
“They probably needed salt,” A.J. said, tousling his son’s long blond hair. “Run on in and wash up. We’ll kill more flowers tomorrow, but right now I need to talk to Mama.” J.J. frowned and crossed his arms. Going in was not what he had in mind. A.J. looked over at Maggie. “This boy needs a haircut,” he said conversationally. At the mention of the dreaded word, J.J. jumped up and ran toward the house. His little arms were over his head in a protective gesture.
“He sure hates a haircut,” A.J. observed as they watched their son go.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she replied. They heard the screen door slam. “Except maybe when it’s time to take Harper to the dentist.” Harper Lee was their eight-year-old middle child and, unfortunately, her first dental experience had been painful. Thus, all subsequent visits to the dentist were like pulling teeth. The problem was so severe the Longstreets had been referred to a pediatric dentist, which is a regular dentist who charges more due to an ability to work on screaming children. They had been faced with this necessity when they discovered Harper Lee was blacklisted at every dental establishment within a fifty-mile radius. “You can’t rely on people with slim hands,” A.J. had noted upon discovering his daughter had become a persona non grata in the dental community.
“You’re right,” he said, back in the yard with Maggie. “Taking her to the dentist is worse. It’s your turn next time.” He laid back on the grass to watch the sunset. The sky to the west was passing from dark blue to black. A chill crept into the air.
“How could I forget?” Maggie responded, lying next to him. Together they watched the light fade over the magnolias.
Night fell, and a lone cricket warmed up. It was late in the season, and soon he would be gone. A.J. had briefly forgotten about Eugene’s short, bleak future, but now thoughts of him crept in like ghosts. A.J. wondered what Eugene was thinking now that night had descended. He silently wished him well. As if she could read his mind, Maggie spoke.
“Tell me about your visit with Eugene. Was it a social call, or did he want to accuse you of sleeping with some other member of his family?” Maggie did not generally succumb to petty commentary, but she had not cared for the misunderstanding at the barbecue and had made no secret since then of her opinion that Eugene was primarily responsible for the whole sorry affair. Not that A.J. had escaped unscathed. He had caught the rough side of her tongue over the incident and had listened in abashed silence to an hour-long monologue peppered with many a succinct observation.
But the fight was long ago, and Maggie’s anger did not last, although references to the event occasionally surfaced as instructional aids. She had even sent A.J. off with her blessing earlier in the day. Of course, she had also given him benediction to brain Eugene with the Louisville Slugger if the necessity arose.
The Longstreets lay there in the deepening darkness, and as the stars flickered into their nightly patterns, A.J. related the details of his visit. He spoke of how Eugene had looked, how he had sounded, and what he had said. But not all of what had been said. He did not mention the second favor Eugene had requested. There was no real reason to withhold this information since he had no intention of complying with the wish, but he could not voice the words. They were too bold and terrible, too cold and final. When A.J. finished the story, they were both quiet.
“Well,” Maggie said, breaking the silence. “I don’t know what to say.” She paused for a moment and then continued. “I haven’t had much use for him for a long time. You know that. I think he has been a horrible father to those poor boys and the worst excuse for a husband I have ever seen. He has driven away everyone who ever cared about him, including you. Still, for all of that, I feel really bad for him.” She sighed.
“He’s been no saint,” A.J. agreed. A memory popped into his head to support the opinion.
They had been at a Little League game, and Eugene had taken it as his fatherly duty to coach his oldest boy on the finer points of the game. This action would have been normal behavior for any father in that setting, but Eugene added a twist when he drove his Jeep through the fence and out to center field to give the boy instruction and encouragement. He was in his cups that day, and it had seemed too far to walk. A.J. had sprinted out and sent the mortified youngster to the dugout with a pat and a reassuring word. Then he had turned to Eugene.
“Do you know what hubris is?” he had asked.
“No,” Eugene had said. “What is hubris?”
“Hubris,” A.J. had replied, “is when God screws you over for being a smartass. Move the Jeep.” The words A.J. had spoken in the outfield now rang in his ears.
“Who knows about this?” Maggie asked.
“I get the impression that you, me, Doc Miller, and the Emory boys are the long list,” A.J. said.
“Do you think he intends to tell his family?” Maggie asked. “He can’t just die and disappear. Diane and the boys need to know. He owes them a chance to say good-bye.”
“Who knows what he’s thinking?” A.J. was privy to Eugene’s strategic plan, but he was unclear on the smaller, tactical details, and Eugene tended toward a random logic that made his actions difficult to predict.
“When you go back up to see him,” Maggie said, “try to find out what his plans are for informing his family.” A.J. was silent. “Whoops,” she said, looking at him. “I’m sorry. I was assuming you were going back. Are you?”
“I suppose I am,” A.J. said with reluctance. “I don’t want to, but I said I’d do it. To be honest, I don’t want anything to do with this. I don’t want to see him dying, and I don’t want to see him dead. I must be a coward.” He had developed a bad headache, his lifelong habit when dealing with cosmic no-win situations. He rubbed his temples in the darkness.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “I’d really be worried about you if you were looking forward to it. And you’re not a coward. You’re just a little more honest than most men.” She reached over and patted his chest. “Which isn’t saying that much, really.”
As he was about to respond, they were interrupted by a commotion coming from the house. The screen door slammed and Harper Lee’s voice came to them across the gloaming.
“Mama! Emily says I’m adopted.” Emily Charlotte was the Longstreet’s oldest child at eleven years. In a break with a tradition that had been handed down from mother to daughter for generations in Maggie’s family, Emily Charlotte was named after not one but two of her mother’s favorite authors, the Bronte sisters. A.J. was unaware of this unusual family tradition when he married Maggie but probably would have taken her to love, honor, and obey anyway, had he known. The other two children, Harper Lee and J.J. (short for James Joyce, much to A.J.’s dismay), had to resign themselves to being living tributes to only one of Maggie’s cherished writers. Emily took every opportunity to point out this literary shortcoming to her siblings, because it was her job to torment her younger brother and sister. It was a duty she took seriously.
Maggie, born Margaret Mitchell, had been named by her mother, Jane Austen Callahan, after the celebrated author of Gone with the Wind, a self-help manual that dealt with the subject of how best to cope with Yankees when they venture south
.
“Mama? Daddy? Am I adopted?” Harper’s voice had a small quaver in it.
“Absolutely not,” A.J. replied. “We got you the regular way. Mama and I went down to the hospital and picked you out. Emily, on the other hand, we bought from a roving band of Gypsies. We gave nineteen dollars for her, back when that was a lot of money. We wouldn’t have paid so much, but we really wanted a son. Emily was the only boy they had, so they charged extra.”
“But Emily is a girl’” Harper protested.
“Well, sure, now she’s a girl. But she was a boy when we bought her. She changed when she caught the chicken pox right after we brought her home. I looked all over for those Gypsies to get my money back, but they were long gone.”
“Really, Daddy?”
“Absolutely. I have a receipt around here somewhere.” Harper was very quiet. Then Maggie and A.J. heard the screen slam as she ran inside to discuss genealogy with her older sister. A.J. got up from the ground and dusted off. Then he offered his hand to his partner in child procurement.
“I wish you wouldn’t tell her things like that,” Maggie said as she stood beside him. “She believes every word you say.” They walked toward the house.
“I guess we had better feed them before they turn mean on us,” A.J. said. They stopped on the porch.
“Are you feeling better about Eugene?” she asked.
“A little better,” he replied. “Not great, but better. I will do what I can. It wouldn’t be decent to leave him hanging. Thank you for straightening me out.”
“I’ve been straightening you out since the night we met,” she observed. “I view it as my life’s work. I just wish it paid a little better.”
Maggie and A.J. first met fresh out of high school while working the third shift at a cotton mill famous for its denim products and its abuse of the hired help. A.J. could recall these days as clearly as if he were watching a Movietone Newsreel of his own life, complete with humorous clips, mugs for the camera, and narration by Lowell Thomas. The clarity of his memories was no doubt influenced by the altered states of awareness he achieved throughout most of the period. Unlike Eugene, he did not favor drugs; his main weakness was alcohol, and between the ages of sixteen and nineteen he had been attempting to drink himself to death before his invitation arrived to visit exciting tropical climes and get shot. Luckily for A.J. and Eugene, Richard Nixon was, at this point in history, coming to the belated conclusion that it was not possible to subdue Asiatic peoples through warfare by attrition.
A.J. was sober the night he met his future wife. He had seen Maggie around the mill previous to their first meeting and had admired from afar her obvious grace, intelligence, and poise, all of which he had inferred from the way she filled her blue jeans. He had been hoping that the chance to introduce himself would arise, and when that opportunity presented itself, he was quick to realize his time had come.
A.J. was operating his forklift on that fateful evening when he noticed Maggie engaged in a discussion with the shift supervisor, Clyde Cordele. She seemed to be agitated, but Clyde was smiling and nodding and did not seem perturbed in the least. Then Clyde reached over and touched her shoulder. A.J. walked toward the pair. As he neared their vicinity, Maggie knocked Clyde’s arm out of the way, and he again reached over and touched her shoulder. Maggie again knocked the offending arm away, then balled her fist and drew it back. It was this defiant gesture that caused A.J. to fall in love with her, or at least that’s what he always said. She cut a fine and formidable figure. A.J. was close enough by then to hear her next words, and they were eloquent.
“If you touch me again, Pillsbury,” she said, “I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.” There was cold steel in her voice and fire in her eye. All of Clyde’s employees called him Pillsbury due to his uncanny resemblance to the famous doughboy of the same name. It was a tribute to Clyde’s intellect that he never realized the insult and believed instead the name was a term of endearment.
There was never much doubt in anyone’s mind, excluding upper management, about the shortage of anything vaguely resembling common sense in Clyde Cordele. Any shred of confusion lingering on the subject was cleared up on the night A.J. first met Maggie. Clyde stood facing her, smiling and mulling his alternatives. He had been warned and should have retired from the field. But it is one of Nature’s immutable laws that a snake does not know how to be anything but a snake, and Clyde could not overcome his own DNA. So he reached over for one more try. He was one surprised doughboy, however, when he realized it was a different shoulder he was holding. A.J. had slipped between Maggie and Clyde at the opportune moment and was now looking into the latter’s confused eyes.
“You had better let go of my shoulder,” A.J. said. “You know how people around here talk.”
“Longstreet, you goddamn hippie,” Clyde hollered with color in his cheeks, “get your ass back on your job, and get it over there now! This ain’t none of your affair!” A.J. had been suspecting his budding career in textiles wasn’t truly important to him, so it was with no great distress that he decided to plow into Clyde like a Massey-Ferguson tractor into a new row.
“She isn’t interested,” A.J. said. “She probably has religious convictions against consorting with farm animals.” That one really got to Clyde. His face turned blood red, and his mouth began to make random movements. At that moment, he resembled the Pillsbury dough fish. Behind A.J., Maggie cleared her throat. Then she lightly tapped her uninvited hero’s shoulder.
“Uh, look, whoever you are,” she said, her soft drawl a melody of syllables to A.J.’s ears, “I appreciate that you are trying to help me, but I can take care of this. Really.” A.J.’s shoulder tingled as if burned.
“I know you can,” A.J. said, not removing his eyes from his opponent. “But let me.” He had arrived at another crossroads, but none of his possible avenues were clearly marked.
“You’re going to get yourself fired,” Maggie said in a dubious tone, but the nobility of his action was strangely appealing. White knights had all but gone the way of the passenger pigeon and the two-dollar haircut, and the novelty of meeting a real live one at 3:00 a.m. in a cotton mill was refreshing.
“He’s not going to fire me,” A.J. said, although in his heart he didn’t believe it. But the die was cast, and there would be no turning back. If it came down to unemployment before dishonor, then so be it.
“You’re fired!” Pillsbury hollered.
“I probably am,” A.J. said, “but you’re not going to be the one to do it. I want to sit down with Howard Hoyt in the morning and talk to him. If he says I’m fired, then I’m fired.” Howard Hoyt was the mill manager. He had been known upon occasion to be a fair man, but he was not obsessive about it.
“I said you’re fired, goddamn it, and I’m callin’ Security right now to get your ass off the property!” Clyde was panting.
“Go ahead,” A.J. responded. “Call Uncle Luke down here and let’s see who he decides to shoot.” His mother’s oldest brother had been the night shift security guard at the mill for years, which left his days free for farming. Unfortunately, A.J. was not his favorite nephew due to a boyish prank that had once cost Luke one of his barns. A.J. hoped Clyde would not call his bluff, because he sensed it could go either way upon his uncle’s arrival. Luke had really liked that barn.
Pillsbury was quiet for a moment. Then he turned abruptly and walked toward his office.
“Both of you be in Howard’s office at eight o’clock!” he hollered over his shoulder as he stomped off, as if it had been his idea all the time. A.J. felt another tap on his shoulder and turned to greet his Lady Guenivere. He intended to be humble and assure her thanks were not in order; he would have done it for anyone.
“That certainly went well,” she said. There was a tone in her voice he could not identify, one that did not sound like undying gratitude. “You came barreling in here like a wild bull to defend the honor of a total stranger, got in a fight with our boss, and got yourself fi
red. Probably me, too. Did I miss anything, or does that cover it?” Her manner was arch and her arms were crossed.
“I guess if you want to take the short view, then that about covers it,” A.J. replied, abashed. He wondered what was happening. This initial meeting was not going as he had hoped. He would be the first to admit his plan had been skimpy, but it had been a plan, and Pillsbury was no longer bothering her. He was hard pressed to understand why she seemed miffed. He decided he should just leave, but he could not take his eyes off of her.
She was tall with piercing green eyes that radiated intelligence. Her shoulder-length brown hair was curly and thick, and A.J. wanted nothing more out of life at that moment than to reach out and touch it. Luckily, he realized-even as smitten as he was-that this would have been a grave error given the circumstances. Her beauty was a positive energy that flowed from within. Hers was an old soul, and a fine one, and it had without question been around the wheel many times.
“It’s not that I’m locked into taking the short view,” she told A.J. “I’m just having trouble seeing the bigger picture.” She looked at him another moment, then let him off the hook. “Since we’re going to be fired together in a couple of hours, I think we should introduce ourselves,” she said. “My name is Maggie Callahan.” She was smiling as they shook hands.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, seeking the haven of civility, a time-honored tactic of Southern men when confronted with formidable women. “My name is Arthur John Longstreet,” he said, “but everybody calls me A.J. Except old Clyde. You heard what he calls me.” Maggie smiled.
“You don’t like him?” she asked.
“You must be psychic,” he said, shaking his head in admiration of her exceptional observation.
The Front Porch Prophet Page 5