“We need to try to get her to Doc Miller’s place. It’s not too far.” He looked at Maggie, who had paused from her stroll around the living room to breathe through a pain. She was notorious for short, dramatic labors and showed every indication of moving right along with this one. “Maggie, I think we should try to take you over to Doc’s. What do you think?”
“I think I would rather have this baby naked in a snowdrift than to have Estelle help deliver him. Let’s go before she comes out with a knife to cut the pain.” So A.J. went out to warm up the truck while John Robert helped her into her coat. Then they bundled her into her makeshift ambulance, and A.J. and Maggie set off into the storm. The truck bed was filled with a load of firewood cut the previous day, and A.J. was glad for the extra weight. Even so, he had to let most of the air out of the back tires before the vehicle would gain traction. As they pulled away, he saw in his mirror the forlorn sight of John Robert waving. Standing by him was a disappointed Estelle, steaming teakettle in one hand and butcher knife in the other.
The trip to Doc’s was surreal. The landscape was chiseled in snow and ice. Green lightning flashed, but there was no thunder. Trees were glazed and bent to the ground. A.J. heard the crack of a power pole as the ice brought it low. The Longstreets lived only three miles from town, but it took thirty minutes to cover this distance. They were off the road as much as on, and the truck added several dents and scrapes to its already impressive display. They were traveling backward when they entered the outskirts of town, with A.J. cursing softly as he tried to gain control. Luckily, the post office stopped their momentum. Maggie groaned involuntarily before pointing out in unkind terms he could expect to be short lived if he bounced her like that again.
“How are you doing?” A.J. asked as he attempted to get the truck off of Federal property. The tires spun and caught. His headache felt as if someone had driven a splitting wedge between his eyes.
“Better than you, looks like,” she panted as another pain hit. She dealt with the contraction, braced and rigid, and then continued. “We seem to have hit the post office just now.”
“We’re taxpayers. In reality, it is our post office. We can hit it if we want to.”
“We need to be hitting Doc’s house soon,” she replied.
They came to Doc’s long downhill drive almost as soon as she spoke. A.J. nosed it in and hoped for the best. They gained speed as they approached the carport and drifted counterclockwise with all four wheels locked. He wondered how he was going to stop but needn’t have worried. The good Lord was keeping an eye on the Longstreets that woolly night and sent a sign in the form of a beautifully restored Sedan Deville. The truck was perpendicular to the fins on the back of Doc’s old Cadillac when the two objects collided. A.J.’s door collapsed inward and knocked him over into Maggie’s lap. His new position seemed to add to her duress, so he quickly clambered out her door, where he promptly slipped and fell on the ice. When Doc emerged, he was greeted by the sight of A.J.’s truck impaled on the substantial fins of his Cadillac. Maggie was in the truck, trying not to push, and A.J. was on the ground, nursing a cracked rib from the truck door and a broken wrist from the hard concrete.
“What the hell…?” Doc began.
“Maggie’s having her baby,” A.J. informed him. Doc stepped back inside. He returned with a flashlight and a box of ice-cream salt. Doc scattered the salt, stepped gingerly to the truck, and made a brief examination of Maggie.
“The baby’s coming breech. Help me get her inside.” To Maggie he said, “Don’t push.”
“Easy for you to say,” she growled between gritted teeth. A.J. and Doc trundled her into the house and onto the spare bed, and thirty minutes later after much deft maneuvering by Doc and a great deal of waterfront cussing by Maggie, the Longstreets were parents again. A.J. and Minnie had assisted, with Minnie doing the skilled work while A.J. filled the position of tote-and-fetch boy. Maggie’s eyes shone in the lamplight as her fine baby boy was laid at her breast. A.J. and Doc shook hands, and it was difficult to tell who was prouder, the new father or the old physician, hopelessly out of date but still able to deliver a baby breech during a snowstorm in the dark.
“All these new boys would have been doing C-sections, getting excited and hollering stat. Whatever the hell that means,” Doc growled as he sipped the coffee Minnie had brewed on the gas grill. It had a slightly smoky taste.
“You did good, Doc,” A.J. said.
Maggie had worked hard, and it was late. Eventually, she drowsed. While she slept, Doc splinted A.J.’s wrist and taped his ribs. Then A.J. sat in a chair by the bed. After a time, Maggie stirred and awakened. She saw him and smiled.
“I dreamed you were gone,” she said sleepily.
“I was here the whole time,” he responded, taking her hand. Thus, the youngest member of the Longstreet clan came into the world on a blizzard’s coattails, and his difficult entrance set the tone for the life that was to follow.
“I swear he planned it,” Maggie said, back in the kitchen recounting the high points of Eudora’s wedding. “The minister had just finished saying that any objectors should speak now or forever hold their peace. The church was quiet. Then J.J. tugged on my dress and announced he had to pee. ‘Right now, Mama,’ was the way he put it. I thought Emily Charlotte was going to die on the spot.”
“Well, we told him to always let us know,” A.J. offered. J.J. had been tough to train. “I bet Carlisle loved the bathroom break.”
“He raised an eyebrow, but everyone was laughing by that time.”
“Well, the main thing is that Eudora has finally reeled Carlisle in,” A.J. said. “Now she can be truly fulfilled as a woman.” He grunted when Maggie kicked him under the table.
“Watch it,” she said. “I’m still in the mood to hit something.”
“Apparently,” he responded, rubbing his shin. “Husband beating is a serious deal. With the right lawyer, I could clean you out.”
“Save your money. I don’t have anything but the children, and you can have them.”
“Just forget it.” A.J. got up and poured them both coffee. “Let’s go to the porch.”
They sat in silence in the big rockers on the porch and enjoyed the twilight. The evening was serene. The slightest of breezes was blowing, bearing the hint of meat cooking on a grill. Estelle was burning yet another steak on her high-botch-ee.
“I missed you,” said Maggie. “Did you have fun being a bachelor while we were gone?”
“It was one party after another. I vacuumed about two truck-loads of blond stewardess-hair out of the carpet right before you got here. By the way, if you happen to find a pair of red panties somewhere in the house, they’re mine.”
“Red has always been your color,” she replied. “But I think you’re lying. I think you worked, went and saw Eugene, ate some fried Spam, and missed me.” She reached and took his hand. “But if you are messing around with a blond stewardess, you had better get in the habit of calling her a flight attendant, Plow Boy.”
“There are too many rules these days,” he responded forlornly. “Actually, you hit it pretty close, but you left out the part where I got fired.” She momentarily assimilated this data.
“Well, it’s not like we didn’t know it was coming,” she said finally. “Did you get the severance pay?”
“I got part of it. I still need to look up John McCord.”
“That’s it, then. I’m glad you’re out of there. I’ve never liked that place, and I’ve always believed you could do better. You rest for a few weeks. Then we’ll get busy finding you something else.” She sounded upbeat as she squeezed his hand.
“You know, I might not find something right off,” he cautioned. He did not want to dampen her optimism, but facts were facts.
“You have nearly a year’s pay in your pocket, counting what John McCord owes you,” she said. “You’ll find something before it runs out. I think you should start that remodeling business you’ve been talking about. There ar
e enough old houses in bad shape in these mountains to keep you busy until you’re ninety.”
It was true. History was ignorant and had a mean streak, so it tended to repeat. Sequoyah and the surrounding areas had been rediscovered by the great-grandchildren of the elite who had once had their summer homes in the mountains. Young professionals had been snatching up property left and right, and the right local boy who could fix up an old house could certainly capitalize on the situation. He and Maggie had already turned down two fairly substantial offers on the Folly, tendered by individuals who wanted to live in a restored home without actually having to restore it. A.J. was fairly tolerant of this new breed of Sequoyites, all things considered, even though he had almost been hit once by a rogue Volvo, and in spite of the fact he no longer knew the names of everyone having Saturday morning coffee down at The Lord Is My Shepherd; I Shall Not Want Thick and Frosty Milkshakes Drive-In.
“Maybe,” he said, in response to the remodeling proposal. “We’ll see.” They finished their coffee in comfortable silence. As the night descended, a mist stole across the high valley and crept onto the porch. Maggie shuddered.
“Goose walk over your grave?” A.J. asked.
“It’s going to get cold early this year,” she responded.
“I think it might,” A.J. said. “It’s about time for it anyway. Halloween’s next week.” This was one of his favorite holidays, and he enjoyed immensely the ritual of dressing up to take the children out. Some of his more notable disguises were Richard Nixon, George Armstrong Custer the Day After, and a Rambler American, which was a great costume although a bit on the heavy side. This year he was planning to go as Nikita Khrushchev and was already beating podium-shaped objects with his shoe.
“Don’t remind me,” Maggie said. “I’ve got costumes to arrange.”
“What are we going to be this year?” he asked.
“I’ve got you to thank for this,” she said. “Most kids want to be ghosts or witches. Maybe a mime. But not my children. Nothing normal for them. Emily wants to go as Topo Gigio, Harper Lee wants to go as a fish, and J.J. wants to go black-and-white.”
“I don’t get that one.”
“You ought to get it,” she replied. “You started it when you told him the world used to be black and white. He said you even proved it.”
A.J. remembered. He and the children had been watching an old Basil Rathbone movie when J.J. asked why there was no color.
“The world used to be black and white,” he said to the children. “But aliens landed and zapped us with a color ray.”
“Uh-uh!” Harper Lee said.
“No way!” J.J. chimed.
“Daddy!” Emily added.
“I can prove it,” A.J. replied. He retrieved his videotape of The Wizard of Oz and plugged it in. The children watched open-mouthed as the film turned to Technicolor upon Dorothy’s arrival in Oz. “They were making this movie when the aliens landed,” he explained. “You can see right when we got zapped.” The young Longstreets were used to their father’s leg-pulling, and over the years he had made many an unfounded claim. But this time, it was different. They had seen the bona fides for themselves. There could be no doubt of the veracity of the claim. They believed.
“How hard can it be?” A.J. asked Maggie, referring to J.J.’s request. “Put him in black pants and a white shirt. A fish is going to be much harder.”
“Big talk, Nikita,” she responded. “He wants to look like he’s in a black-and-white movie. You know, that shades-of-grey, grainy look.”
“I have confidence in your ability,” A.J. smiled. “Maybe you can find him some size-four spats down at the Pic-N-Save.”
“Maybe you can quit filling their heads with garbage and make my life easier.”
“What do you want? An easy life or children who can think creatively?”
“Keep it up, and I’ll beat on you with my shoe,” Maggie said.
“Now, that’s more like it. Hold up while I go splash on a little Hai Karate.” He possessed what he believed to be the last bottle of the exotic fragrance extant.
“No, that’s all right. The fried Spam was bad enough.”
“I never admitted that,” he reminded her.
“You didn’t have to,” she reminded him back.
They lapsed into a contented repose and watched as the stars roused themselves for another night’s work. A.J. was glad to have Maggie back. Without her he was adrift in a world full of reefs. He no longer really understood where he left off and she began. She was the best person he had ever known, and he preferred her company above all others.
“How is Eugene?” she asked.
“He’s slipping fast,” came A.J.’s reply. He described the visit. She listened without comment, although her eyes mirrored sadness when he recounted the tale of Eugene’s reunion with Diane.
“I’m glad you made him come to town. I hope he and Diane made their peace.”
“They did,” he said. “He was low when I left him, but he asked me to go. He said he wanted to be alone.”
“Poor man,” she said simply. There was nothing else to say. Eugene had been a lucky man all of his life. Now his luck flowed away like water pouring from a hole in a bucket onto the sand in July. “You said Diane had company when you first arrived,” Maggie continued. “Who’s her new boyfriend?”
“I didn’t say a word about a boyfriend,” A.J. responded.
“But you said-”
“I said she had a friend. I did not use the word boy,” he replied.
“I’m missing you on this,” Maggie said, confused.
“I discovered Diane in a post-coital glow after having spent the evening with Truth Hannassey.” Truth had been among the first wave of new-and-improved Sequoyites. She had stumbled upon the little town a few years back and had fallen in love with its charm, beauty, and potential for financial gain. She had bought and restored a fine old home and from that base had proceeded to have her way with Cherokee County.
A.J.’s first meeting with Truth had been under unusual circumstances, and he would be the first to admit they had gotten off on the wrong foot. He felt the misstep was her fault, but the fact of the matter was that they had taken an instant dislike for each other, as if they had hated one another for many lifetimes.
A.J. had a habit of sleeping on the screened side porch during the warmer months and was doing just that one morning after a hard night at the sawmill when he was awakened by a loud pounding. Maggie was at work, the two girls were at school, and J.J. was fishing with John Robert. Still half-asleep, he arose, unhooked the screen, and stood eye to eye with Truth Hannassey. She was dressed in a nicely tailored business suit, and he was in his boxer shorts.
“Good morning,” she said, offering her hand. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. My name is Truth Hannassey.” He took her hand.
“A.J. Longstreet,” he mumbled, fighting to alertness. He figured she must be lost, broken down, or beset by other emergencies compelling enough to cause her to awaken sleeping strangers.
“I would like to talk to you about buying this house,” she continued briskly. He felt at a slight disadvantage in his drawers, confused and a little unnerved, but he was raised to be polite to strangers and to women, and his visitor was both.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stifling a yawn. “It’s not for sale.” He smiled, nodded, and began to turn away.
“Maybe you should hear my offer,” came her reply. A.J. stopped in mid-turn, rotated back, and took her gaze. Her tone wasn’t unfriendly. More like pushy. A.J. hated pushy.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to offend, but it doesn’t matter what your offer is,” he said, taking one more cut at the ball. Some people just couldn’t take no for an answer. “I don’t want to sell my house. I do, however, want to go back to sleep. Please excuse me if I don’t show you out, but as you can see, I’m not wearing any pants.” He turned once more, intending to go find some peace.
“I notice that you’re wearing a wedding ring. May
be you should talk over my offer with your wife.” A.J. again about-faced and stood boxer shorts to business suit with Truth Hannassey.
“Lady, go away. If you want to talk to my wife, come back at one a.m. and drag her out in her panties. Wear a raincoat, because I guarantee she’ll turn the garden hose on you. But for now, go away and let me sleep.” He pointed in the direction of the highway. There was a strange dynamic at play. Truth’s hardball stare had never left him. Finally, she flashed a smile.
“Your fly is open,” she said as she turned to leave.
“That’s not for sale, either,” came his reply.
“Not interested,” she hollered over her shoulder as she sauntered across the yard. He stood there, hairy-legged and bare-chested, and wondered what in hell that had been all about.
When Maggie arrived home, A.J. discussed the encounter with her and discovered that Truth had bought several properties around the county. Maggie had acquired this knowledge while lunching with Ms. Hannassey, who had tracked Maggie down after her chat with A.J. She had apparently been unwilling to take his word on the subject of selling the Folly. This knowledge did little to enhance his regard for her, and according to Maggie, the feeling was mutual. The word on the streets was that Truth was a wealthy real estate genius who had no use for the male of the species, living or dead.
“Well, neither do I,” A.J. said, stating their common ground, amazed that Truth had hunted Maggie up. He was a small town boy and liked it that way, a hayseed by conscious choice and not just dumb luck, and he had encountered very few beings similar to Truth on his travels through the maze. Indeed, he felt he could have gone much longer without the privilege. “At least you got to wear your pants while you were talking,” he noted.
“No wonder you didn’t get along with her,” Maggie said. “She’s very intense. Definitely not your cup of tea.”
“So, did you sell the house?” A.J. asked.
The Front Porch Prophet Page 16