The Front Porch Prophet

by Raymond L. Atkins

  “He’s been stabbed again,” Eugene replied. “I found out about it yesterday. Red came up to tell me. He also told me that I’m closed down for a week.” He gazed at one of the craters in the yard.

  “That’s no big deal,” A.J. said. “He’s always getting stabbed or shot. It’s a tradition with him.” It was true. Bird Egg had been winged often during his long, checkered time. He was opinionated and tended to incite strong emotions in others.

  “This time it’s a big deal. Termite Nichols stuck a long knife in him and nicked his liver.” Termite was living proof that occasionally abortions are necessary. And prisons, should intervention not be possible in that crucial first trimester. “His liver hasn’t had an easy life,” Eugene continued, “and it damn sure didn’t need a knife stuck in it. He’s in bad shape.” There was a long pause. Bird Egg wasn’t much, but he was theirs.

  A.J. felt a small wave of sadness lap at him. Too many constants were changing, belying the illusion of permanence. He hated change, and it seemed everything was in flux. The way things were going, Maggie would probably meet a handsome academic down at Eudora’s wedding, one with patches on the elbows of his corduroy jacket who made quotation marks with his fingers. He would suggest he and Maggie “have coffee,” and that would be the old burrito for A.J. Maybe he would get the kids on alternate weekends. Eugene spoke.

  “Do you ever wish you could do something different? You know, that you could go back and do just one thing over, do it better maybe, or maybe not do it at all?”

  “I wish I had gone to sea,” A.J. replied without hesitation. “I wanted to see the world, and smell the salt air on the midnight watch, and ride out a hurricane, and find out if it’s true what they say about Chinese girls.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t, and now the time is gone.” John Robert had sailed four of the seven seas in his day, and it had been a wondrous time, although that part where the Japanese boys tried to crash their planes into his ship hadn’t been so great. He instilled this love for the sea in his son, but one thing had led to another, and A.J. never made it up the gangplank.

  “It’s not true about Chinese girls,” Eugene said, comforting his friend. “If I could do one thing over, I’d be better to Diane.” He sighed. The enormity of his crimes was heavy upon his soul. Then A.J. had an epiphany.

  “Well, hell, Eugene. She’s not dead. Let’s hop in the truck and go find her.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Eugene said, sounding doubtful. He winced and grabbed his side, fumbled for some pills, and washed them down with a taste of bourbon. Then he fired up a pipeful of the marijuana and took two or three deep hits. “Helps with the nausea,” he croaked, offering some to A.J., who declined. “I have some suppositories, but I’d rather smoke dope.”

  “Get up,” A.J. said to Eugene. “We’re going to town. Maybe get a cup of coffee. Maybe run into Diane. Hell, bring a gun. We might see Johnny Mack, and you could shoot him.” That idea appeared to cheer Eugene considerably, and he made up his mind.

  “All right, let’s go,” he said. “I haven’t been down the mountain in a while. I need a change.” He stood and dropped his blanket. Then he went inside, and when he came back he was carrying a shoe box under his arm. He had donned his Grateful Dead jacket. The skull on the back of the garment bore a strong resemblance to Eugene, and A.J. made a mental note that they needed to visit Doc Miller while they were in town. Eugene loaded several items of importance into his jacket pockets: pills, his pipe and some contents for it, a fresh pint bottle of Ancient Age. He lingered over the grenade bowl as if he could not decide, but finally shook his head and passed them up. A.J. wondered how it would have gone if the jacket pockets had been larger. They made slow progress across the clearing to the truck, and A.J. noticed how much Eugene appeared to have gone down during the past week. If he had not witnessed the decline for himself, he would not have believed it.

  “You drive,” Eugene said, climbing into the passenger side.

  “Good idea,” replied A.J. They headed down the road. A.J. missed as many bumps as he could in light of Eugene’s frailty. Still, the trip was rugged, and Eugene braced against every jolt. When they finally gained the highway the ride eased considerably, and Eugene unscrewed the cap from the whiskey and took a tentative sip.

  “You seem a little low yourself,” he said, taking another taste before screwing the lid back on. “What about? If it’s Rufus, don’t worry. He’s going to make it just fine.”

  “I got fired last night,” A.J. replied. “I don’t have a job.” A.J. recounted the tale of his short tenure with Alabama Southern. Since he had survived a mere three days, it didn’t take long to tell the story. Boy meets employer, boy pisses employer off, and boy gets shown the door. It was the same old story.

  “Let me get this straight,” Eugene said. “They showed up at two o’clock this morning right after your shift and fired you?”

  “The personnel guy and someone I didn’t know were waiting for me when I got to the office. Handed me my money, wished me a nice life, and took away my keys. I asked the other guy if he was my replacement, and he said he was. I gave him my paperwork and told him that there was the number to beat. Then I left.” Actually, the new guy hadn’t seemed a bad sort, and A.J. hoped Mayo didn’t throw him into the chipper.

  “That was a nice touch,” commented Eugene. “Let the boy know he’s in the bigs now. Tell you what. I’ve got a rifle back at the cabin I guarantee will take all of these fuckers out at one thousand yards. Got a tripod and a scope and everything. Even you couldn’t miss. Let’s go get it.”

  “As you pointed out last week,” A.J. said, “I can hit what I’m aiming at.”

  “Pardon me for being indelicate, but on full automatic it’s kind of like mowing the grass. We’re talking fine work here. Ridge work.” His voice failed, and a small shudder overtook him. He downed a couple of pills with the bourbon, and then sat quietly.

  “Where do you want to go?” A.J. asked as they neared the outskirts of town. The town wasn’t much, so neither were the outskirts. A decision would have to be made quickly.

  “Take me to Diane’s house. I want to talk to her a minute.” A.J. looked at his watch.

  “It’s still a little early. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and give her a chance to wake up?”

  “No, I was kind of hoping to see her in her nightgown once more before I die,” Eugene said. “She always looked fine in her gown.” His eyes were closed, and he was slumped down in the seat. His voice held a deep weariness. “I didn’t think I ever wanted to see her again. But as soon as you mentioned going to town, I knew I wanted to talk to her.”

  So A.J. drove across town and pulled up by the side of Diane’s home. He turned off the truck and waited for something to happen. When nothing did, he spoke.

  “Eugene, we’re here. What now?”

  “How bad do I look to you? Be honest.”

  “You look pretty bad,” A.J. said, telling the truth and hating its lack of mercy.

  “That’s what I figured. How about going in and telling her I need to see her? Kind of prepare her.”

  A.J. sighed. He had somehow known this was going to happen. He looked at his friend and saw the sadness in his eyes.

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.” He walked up to the house and rapped. At first there was no answer, but after a subsequent knock, the door opened. There stood Diane, and Eugene was right. She looked fine in her nightgown.

  “A.J., what are you doing here?” she asked with confusion on her face.

  “I need to talk to you. I swear it won’t take long. Can I come in?” She looked unhappy with the request. “This is important,” he said. “Please.” She considered for a moment. Then she shook her head before looking over her shoulder.

  “The boys spent the night with their granddaddy,” she said quietly. “I have company. Could you come back in about an hour? We can talk all morning then, if you want to.” A.J. sighed. It was a good thing the porch was unobservable from the t
ruck.

  “I have Eugene in the truck,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour.” A look of wariness entered her eyes. “Diane, please. I wouldn’t have brought him if I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Okay. One hour. I’m trusting you on this, A.J.” She closed the door, and A.J. made his way back to the truck. Eugene appeared to be asleep, but he opened his eyes when the truck door slammed.

  “I couldn’t get anyone to the door,” A.J. lied. “She must be in the shower. We’ll try back in an hour or so.”

  “I still have a key to this house,” Eugene said. “She looks even finer in the shower than she does in her nightgown.”

  “Let’s just come back later,” A.J. said, U-turning on the spot so Eugene would not see the mystery visitor’s car parked out front. A.J.

  had recognized it and was having difficulty absorbing its implications. “If I saw Diane in the shower,” he continued, “we would just have to fight again. It would look bad for me to whip a man in your condition. I’d do it, but it would look bad.”

  “I can whip you with one pancreas tied behind my back,” Eugene responded. A.J. could tell he was tired and decided to swing by and see Doc Miller while they were waiting for Diane’s appointment book to clear up. He did not burden Eugene with the information, but they were going to the doctor, and that was that. Eugene looked bad and sounded worse. Predictably, he bowed up as soon as they entered Doc’s driveway.

  “Hell, no,” he said.

  “You come in, or I’ll bring him out. Pick it.”

  “Bastard,” Eugene said, opening his door and getting out.

  “Language,” A.J. said as he walked him slowly to the steps. They progressed to Doc’s door. Eugene stood there with his shoe box and grumbled while A.J. knocked. Presently, Doc answered. He was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, a T-shirt, and a pair of worn slippers. He held a cup of coffee and the door as they filed in.

  “Doc, you need to take a look at Eugene,” A.J. said.

  “They dress a little better down at Emory,” chided Eugene as he eyed Doc’s footwear.

  “Well, go on down to Emory, or come on in the office,” said Doc testily. “My eggs are getting cold.”

  Doc and Eugene went into the examining room, and A.J. sat down to wait. Minnie offered a cup of coffee, which he gratefully accepted. It had been a long night and was turning into a longer morning. To pass the time, he raised the lid of Eugene’s shoe box, which had been entrusted into his care. It was full of twenty-dollar bills banded neatly into stacks. All told, the shoe box contained fifteen thousand dollars. A.J. whistled softly and closed the lid. After about twenty minutes, Eugene and Doc came out of the office. They were arguing.

  “No, Doc, I won’t do that. If it’s my time, then it’s my time.”

  “Damn it, Eugene. It doesn’t have to be your time yet. We can buy you five, maybe six months.” Doc sounded exasperated.

  “Fuck five or six months,” Eugene said intensely. “What good are five or six months?”

  “Eugene, if you don’t do what I say, you will die.”

  “Doc, if I do what you say, I’ll die anyway. No offense, but I’ll pass. How much do I owe you?”

  “I don’t want your money,” Doc said. “I want you to use your head.” He looked over at A.J. “You talk some sense into him.”

  “He won’t listen to me,” A.J. said. “Never has.” Eugene reached for the shoe box and removed one of the stacks of twenties. He placed the cash on the table.

  “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but you can’t save me, and I’m not spending my final days wired up like a stereo. I’m going my way, and now I’m going to the truck.” Eugene walked out the door.

  “What was that all about?” A.J. asked.

  “Ethically speaking, I’m not supposed to discuss it with you, but what the hell. Along with about twenty other things that are going wrong, his liver is starting to fail. Or at least, that’s what I think. He needs to be in a hospital for some tests and some treatment, and he needs to stop drinking. Hell, he smells like a distillery right now.”

  “He won’t do either,” said A.J. There was no use pretending.

  “His time is short,” Doc said, “and he won’t lift a damn finger to prolong it.” He pointed at the money on the table. “I don’t want that.”

  “You know he likes to pay his way, Doc. Keep it. Treat the widows and orphans with it.” A.J. was forming a question in his mind. “Do you know long he has?”

  “I have no idea how long. We are no longer even nearly in the six-month neighborhood. In medical terms, he’s circling the drain.” Outside, they could hear the truck horn blow. Doc stepped back in his office and returned with a bottle of pills. “When his pain becomes severe, these will help. I ordered them especially for him.” Doc graced A.J. with an appraising glance. “The dosage is a little tricky, especially when mixed with alcohol. As the pain gets worse, the medication has to be increased. A little too much, and he just doesn’t wake up. Lethal but painless.” There was a long silence, a pregnant pause rife with unspoken thoughts. The truck horn blew again.

  “I’ve got to go,. Doc,” A.J. said, pocketing the little pills that were guaranteed one way or another to end Eugene’s pain. He wondered what was going on in Doc’s mind, but he knew there would be no clarifications. He looked at Doc momentarily, and then walked to the truck. Eugene was petulant.

  “The man just told me not to put on any long-playing records, so you stand around and shoot the shit with him for half the day. Great.”

  “Sorry about that.” A.J. looked at his watch. They were in the launch window for the visit to Diane. He drove in the direction of her house. On the way, they met the vehicle driven by Diane’s companion of the previous evening. The two drivers traded glances and recognition. A.J. grunted. Life was peculiar at times.

  They arrived at Diane’s, and he pulled up close and parked. Eugene had preened during the drive and looked more presentable. A.J. wanted to wait in the truck, but Eugene had other ideas. He seemed desperate for an ally, and A.J. relented. Together they walked up on the porch, and A.J. knocked. Diane answered almost immediately. She was wearing blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt. Her hair was tousled. She gasped. A.J. recalled that she had not seen Eugene for a while.

  “Eugene, what’s happened to you? You look terrible!” Her hand went involuntarily to her mouth.

  “I’ve been a little sick,” he said. “Can we come in?” She held the door, and Eugene stepped through, holding his shoe box. A.J. looked at his watch.

  “I’ve got something important to take care of,” A.J. said. After being up all night, a cup of coffee was important. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he called over his shoulder as he cut a quick retreat. He had gotten Eugene to the water, but it was up to him to drink or drown.

  A.J. drove down to the Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Spaghetti Buffet Drive-In for a cup of coffee. Most of the Saturday morning crowd was there, and word was already on the streets concerning A.J.’s realignment from employed to not. The general consensus was that A.J. had gotten the dirty end of the stick, but these things happen. There was further agreement that John McCord should be shot, but there were no volunteers and A.J. was too tired to go do it himself. Maybe later.

  After an hour of pity and commiseration, he estimated he had left the Purdues alone long enough. A.J. thanked Hoghead, paid for his coffee, and exited the diner and drove slowly over to Diane’s house. He could always drive on past if things were going well, and he wanted to be nearby should gunplay erupt.

  When he arrived, he saw that they were sitting on the porch swing. They seemed at ease with one another, and A.J. started to leave when Eugene waved him up to the porch. As he stepped up, he saw that Diane was softly crying. The shoe box was nowhere to be seen. Eugene arose, then bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. She stood and held him close for many heartbeats, and then slowly, almost reluctantly, she released him for all time. She turned, went inside, and quietly c
losed the door.

  “Take me home,” Eugene said. His voice was husky and immeasurably sad. The drive to the cabin was silent. When they arrived in the clearing, Eugene got out without a word and went up on the porch. Then he turned.

  “Thank you for that,” he said quietly. “I’d like to be alone now.”

  “Maybe I’d better hang around a little while,” A.J. said, concerned over his friend’s state of mind.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Eugene distantly. “I won’t blow my brains out. It’s not time for that. Not yet. When are you coming back?”

  “I’m unemployed. I can come more often. I’ll see you tomorrow.” A.J. drove down the road. His ears strained for the sound of the gunshot, but it did not come. Eugene was correct. It was not yet time for that.

  CHAPTER 8

  Being dead is not that bad. There are a lot of people here I know.

  In fact, most of them were your patients.

  – Excerpt of posthumous letter from

  Eugene Purdue to Doc Miller

  A.J. ARRIVED HOME TO AN EMPTY FOLLY. MAGGIE and the children were due that evening from Eudora’s wedding in Atlanta, and John Robert was expected whenever he showed up. The house was quiet, a condition it did not seem comfortable with. A.J. was tired. He had endured a tedious night followed by an endless morning. Eugene’s parting with Diane had been heartbreaking and difficult to behold. Their farewells had produced in him a sadness he could not shake. Plus, he was jobless, but he found that once the initial shock had ebbed, he was not greatly concerned over this new status. It was not the first time he had been without visible means of support, and there was no guarantee it would be the last.

  Ironically, A.J.’s last bout with unemployment had ended when he hired on with John McCord after he and Maggie reappeared from college. When they returned from the ivy halls, freshly scrubbed and bursting with the wisdom of the ages, Maggie landed a job as the school social worker for Cherokee County. She had shown the good sense to obtain a degree in social work, and if she worked hard and kept her nose clean, she could one day expect to command a salary on par with that drawn by Mr. Gus, the custodian at the elementary school. A.J., on the other hand, was having a hard time peddling his B.S. in Psychology to anyone for any price. He came, in time, to attribute new meanings to the initials B.S. But for all of that, he was still secretly proud of becoming a man of letters, even though it was only two.