“I don’t know,” Eugene said. “It just sort of popped out. I am curious, though. Did you?”
“Sleep? No, no sleeping,” A.J. said enigmatically. The question really peeved him.
“You know what I mean,” Eugene said. His eyes were still closed, and there was scant emotion in his tone.
“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. What I’m having trouble with is that you even asked me something like that.” The fact that he was only technically innocent of a premarital interlude with her was beside the point.
“Diane talks in her sleep,” Eugene stated, almost slurring the words. “One night I woke up, and she was talking to you. Apparently, you were doing a good job.” He fell silent. A.J. felt guilty, and the feeling of culpability was about the stupidest thing he had ever heard of.
“It was a dream, Eugene,” he said. “Her dream, not mine. I wasn’t really there.”
“I know. I just always felt bad that she was dreaming of you. She had a habit of comparing me to you anyway. I wish you would spend more time with your children, like A.J. does with his, she would say. Or, A.J. always treats Maggie nice. You’re a tough yardstick to be measured against.” A.J. was embarrassed for the both of them.
“You know, I’m just as screwed up as everyone else,” he said.
“Oh, I know what a sack of shit you are,” Eugene said. “It’s the women who are confused.”
“Just so we’re clear on that point,” A.J. said emphatically. They fell into silence. The dissonance produced by Diane’s fantasy melted away.
Presently, Eugene started to snore. A.J. attempted to rouse him but had no success, so he stepped inside and brought out a pillow. He arranged Eugene and left him to nap, then went back in the house.
Eugene’s housekeeping skills were poor, and the cabin was a shambles. A.J. decided to remedy the situation. He had time to kill, anyway, since he did not want to leave without saying good-bye. So he set to with a vengeance, and the cabin slowly became habitable again.
Later, he was resting on the porch when Eugene awoke. A small bonfire burned in the yard, fueled by the detritus from the cabin. The scent of pine oil lingered in the air, mixed with the meaty aroma of the stew A.J. was simmering. He was worn out. Cleaning the cabin had been a big job, and he had been forced to employ untraditional methods. First he had shoveled the floors. Then he had dragged the hose in through the back window and washed the place out. It was during the final phase of the project he discovered the letters. He had been straightening the chaos on Eugene’s desk-several planks laid across sawhorses-when he stumbled across a cache of correspondence. Presumably, Eugene was in the process of writing a note to nearly everyone he knew. Some of the letters were finished, sealed, and ready to mail. Others appeared to be works in progress.
He had been about to move on to the kitchen when he noticed an envelope addressed to himself. It was unsealed and contained several sheets of paper. His curiosity was aroused, and he wondered what was contained within. Uncharacteristically, he removed the contents and began to read.
Dear A.J.,
I always thought it was cool when people in the movies got letters from dead people, so I decided to send a few myself. If Ogden doesn’t screw it up, you will get this the day after I kick off. And since you’re reading, I must be gone. Hopefully, it didn’t hurt too much. Hopefully, you didn’t let me linger. I don’t have any doubt that you killed me. I hated to ask, and I know you really didn’t want to, but I needed the help, and I was too much of a chicken shit to do it myself. You were the only natural born killer I knew, the only one who could cut through the bullshit and get it done.
A.J. stopped and sat down. He felt sick at Eugene’s portrayal of him as an executioner. Almost involuntarily, his eyes strayed back to the testament before him.
There are some things I want to tell you that I couldn’t say while I was alive. Well, I guess I could have said them, but I didn’t. When we were in seventh grade, I stole twenty dollars from you. You probably don’t even remember it, but it has been on my mind for a long time. I didn’t need the money. I just didn’t want you to have it. I thought you had it better than me. I’m sorry.
A.J. let his eyes drift to the Sequoyah Police Station sign on the wall. He remembered the twenty dollars. He had hauled hay for two long days to earn it and had always assumed that he had lost it. It had seemed to be a large amount at the time, which was why he supposed it had stuck in his mind. Eugene’s posthumous confession saddened him. He read on.
A few years ago, I made a pass at Maggie May. It was the twenty-dollar deal again. Things weren’t going so well with Diane, and it pissed me off that you had such a great marriage. You don’t need to worry, though. That girl can cut a nut when the mood is on her, and you can believe it when I tell you that she shut me right down. I apologize to you, and I apologize to her. It was a shitty thing to do.
He dropped the letter like a hot rivet, then rose and shuffled into the kitchen. Without thinking, he began to peel potatoes. Then he washed and peeled some carrots that were past their prime but salvageable. He needed an onion, but there wasn’t one in residence. As he cut up the deer roast he had dislodged from the freezer, his mind moved back to the letter. Eugene made a pass at Maggie? He didn’t want it to be true, but why would a dead guy lie about something like that? And why had Maggie kept it to herself all this time? He dumped all the ingredients into a pot and placed it on the burner. Then he wandered slowly back to the desk. He was developing a dislike for letters from beyond the grave.
There is something else I need to tell you. I wasn’t going to, and I don’t know if it will do any good for you to know, but here goes anyway. You and I are brothers. Jackie told me. It beats me how he knew, but when I asked Angel, she admitted it. She said John Robert was the best man she ever knew, and she sort of wished out loud that things had been different, that he had been available. But she knew he wasn’t, even though your mama was gone. I must be getting in touch with my feminine side now that I’m dead, because I think the whole deal is kind of sad. John Robert was so in love with your mama that he wouldn’t try to steal Angel away from Johnny Mack. It didn’t even occur to him to try, and she was a babe back in the old days, even if I do say so myself. And Angel was so in love with John Robert that she respected his wishes and backed off. She told me I was her bonus, and that she never once regretted having me, that I helped her endure the pain of being alive. So at least I was good for something. I’m not telling you this to screw up your head, and I don’t want you to be beating up on John Robert. Being a living damn saint is hard work, so cut him a little slack. He doesn’t know about me, and that’s the way Angel wanted it. So swallow down your little-brother-of-Jesus act and let it pass. I’m telling you this because I am proud that you are my older brother, and I wanted you to know it. You are better than I was. Of course, I had a better time than you did, but you never were much on having fun anyway. There is a box buried under the tree I killed. It is full of money that I really shouldn’t have, so don’t flash it around too much. Make sure Diane and the boys get taken care of, and Angel. The beer joint is yours. If you don’t want it, close it. But my advice is, don’t be a damn fool. If I learned anything in life, it was that people will pay good money to sin. Bootlegging will make you rich. Just don’t forget to give the Law a little taste from time to time. The deed to the mountain is also in the box. I don’t care what you do with it as long as Johnny Mack doesn’t get it. I trust your judgment. Thank you for whacking me. I was afraid of the pain, and I knew I could count on you to get me out of trouble. You always were your brother’s keeper, but we just didn’t know it. Like it says in Proverbs, “There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.” Damn. Bible quotes. I must be hedging my bets. Tell Johnny Mack I went out singing Psalms. It will make his day.
Your Brother, Eugene
P.S. – Cremate me in the cabin. Make it a big fire. Don’t let Raymond Poteet get ahold of me. That boy ain’t right. Rufus likes a Chicken
McNugget from time to time.
A.J. folded the letter neatly and placed it back in its receptacle. Then he went to the kitchen and stirred his stew. Granmama had always told him that curiosity would kill the cat, but this was extreme. He had a brother. He didn’t doubt a word of it. It felt true. He stepped out to the porch and sat down, and he was sitting there rocking quietly when his brother awoke.
“I must have dozed off,” Eugene said. He sat up straighter and fumbled with his pill bottles before swallowing an assortment of medications. “My yard seems to be on fire,” he noted.
“Yeah, while you were asleep, I decided to burn all your stuff.” Eugene looked bad. He appeared frail and drawn. A.J. wanted to talk to him, to tell him that he knew, to share brotherhood with him. He started to speak, but all that came out was, “Let’s get some food in you and put you to bed.” Eugene didn’t object, so A.J. helped him up and took him in.
“Damn,” Eugene said, looking around the cabin. “I’ll never be able to find anything now.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said A.J. “Here, eat some of this.” He dished up a small bowl of the stew and served it to Eugene, who ate a few bites, mostly broth.
“This is good,” he mumbled. “Maggie May better watch out, or some tender young thing will snatch you right up.” He put down his spoon and sagged in his chair. A.J. walked him over to the john. Then he supported him to the bed. “Took too much of the good stuff,” Eugene slurred. He crawled in and immediately fell asleep. A.J. covered him up and put a glass of water and all of the medications on the bedside table. He put the stew in the refrigerator and walked outside. Rufus eyed him closely. He pointed toward the open door.
“Go in there and keep an eye on him. I’ll be back tomorrow.” For whatever reason, the big dog went into the cabin. A.J. closed the door, picked up his bat, and walked off the porch to his truck. He had done what he could for his brother on this day, and tomorrow would bring what it brought.
CHAPTER 11
Angel will find a better deal. Again.
– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to Johnny Mack
THE FOLLOWING WEEK WAS PECULIAR, EVEN BY THE liberal standard that A.J. had come to accept. His daily schedule had always revolved around his occupation. The removal of this cornerstone via sudden termination had left him with time on his hands, and idle extremities are the Devil’s workshop. So he decided to be more proactive during Eugene’s final days. He had known all along that eventually Eugene’s condition would deteriorate to a point where it would be inadvisable to leave him alone. It seemed the time had arrived.
It was late Sunday night, and they were sitting at the kitchen table. John Robert and the children were in bed, and Maggie had just been informed of her new status as Eugene’s sister-in-law.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” she had said dubiously.
“Neither was I,” A.J. had agreed.
He had not yet warmed up to the idea of John Robert, philandering knave. On the rational level, he knew his father was merely a human being like everyone else. His hang-point was more visceral, and complete acceptance would take time. Maggie, too, experienced cognitive disharmony over the concept. After a little double-clutching, however, she caught another gear and proceeded to the subject of Eugene’s health.
“Will he come down so he can be taken care of?” Maggie asked.
“No,” A.J. replied. “He intends to die up on his mountain. That’s his business, I guess. I just feel bad about leaving him in a drug-induced coma with the dog in charge.”
“No, that doesn’t seem right,” Maggie agreed. She was in her cotton nightgown, looking better than she had any business looking after all their years in tandem. She continued. “I believe it has fallen to you to help look after him. This may even be the reason for you losing your job.” She always sought the ultimate meaning of the universe, the Big Plan. “Think about it,” she said. “Out of nowhere, you hear from Eugene, and he’s dying. Then you lose your job. Then you find out he’s your brother.” She shrugged.
“It does seem a little neat, but I don’t know,” A.J. said. His personal belief system tended toward the Random Cruelty school, but what she said did exhibit a nice sense of order. And he did feel responsible for Eugene. “So, what should I do? Move up there? Come see you when it’s over?” He was unenthusiastic about the idea.
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “There are other people in this besides you. Angel. Jackie. Diane. Even Johnny Mack. If the time has come for someone to be with him all the time, then I think you need to talk to his family about taking turns. If nothing else, you could hire some help. He has plenty of money, and he can’t take it with him.” As was often the case, Maggie’s grasp of the situation was superior to A.J.’s. He began considering the problems associated with full-time care for Eugene.
On Monday morning, he left the Folly with the full intention of bringing the remainder of the Purdues into the loop, but his plans were delayed when Truth Hannassey decided for some aberrant reason to kill Estelle Chastain’s dog, Plug, by dropping a Nationally Historic Porch on him. The offending entryway fell off the front of the Nationally Historic House that Truth was relocating by helicopter from property she intended to develop. She had retained a company out of Charlotte that rented helicopters piloted by wild-eyed worthies who had gained their credentials under fire in tropical latitudes.
When A.J. stepped into the yard, he could hear the whop-whop-whop of the blades beating the air as the helicopter strained across the sky. He could see the conveyance in the distance, the house dangling beneath. It was more of a small cabin, but even so, the helicopter appeared to be toiling mightily in an attempt to remain aloft. A.J. could see that the porch was sagging as the house slowly revolved on its cable. Then it drooped a bit more. Finally, it simply separated from the house and plunged Plugward. Gravity was running true to form, and the notable veranda crossed the distance between up and down in short order.
Plug had not been an attractive animal even before he broke the porch’s fall. He was a homely little hound, named after the proverbial fireplug because he was squat and leaky. He was also cranky, loud, and obnoxious, but Estelle loved him, and love is not always neat or explainable. When the Historic Porch landed on Plug, it flattened him right into the next universe, a bad but quick way to get there. A.J. saw the entire incident from thirty yards away, and he arrived at the tragedy in a bare moment. He was too late to save the dog or the porch, but he had a ringside seat for the aftermath.
Estelle had spent most of her life as a widow, and during her time alone she became eccentric and set in her ways. Her husband, Parm, had died for no apparent reason years previously after first surviving the Hun. He just went to bed one night and neglected to wake up the following morning. A.J. held the theory that he had simply lost the desire to continue and had willed his breathing to cease.
“The man survived everything the Axis could throw at him,” he once observed to Maggie. “Lived through bombs, tanks, and prison camp, but Estelle did him in.”
“Hush,” Maggie had replied.
So Estelle’s years alone had been abundant and prolonged. Somewhere along the way, she began to obsess on the idea of being robbed and raped by some itinerant or other, hopefully one resembling Tyrone Power. To protect herself from this eventual certainty, she armed herself with a variety of large shotguns. These were loaded, ready for mayhem, and propped at strategic locations throughout the Chastain household. Estelle believed she would be overcome when the moment ultimately arrived, but honor dictated that she put up a decent struggle before the sanctity of her private areas was disturbed.
She was standing that morning next to the largest of these shotguns when she gazed out her screen door and noticed a porch on her dog. Perhaps she believed that this was the prelude to rape-foreplay in the rough-and-ready style. Or maybe she concluded the evil Hun had once again arisen, threatening democracy and dogs everywhere. For whatever reason, she grabbed the shotgun, ran outdoors
, aimed in a generally up direction, and let fly. Normally, Estelle couldn’t hit the water if she fell out of the boat. But the pattern flew tight and true and struck the helicopter.
When the blast impacted the big helicopter, Vernon L. “Wormy” Locklear relied on the quick instincts that had saved his bacon on numerous occasions over in Nam. His reflexes did not seem in the least diminished by the pint of Old Granddad he had consumed that morning, and he jinked to the right and dove when he came under fire. He had historically enjoyed great success with this maneuver, but he found that attempting the strategy with a house in tow brought complications. Specifically, the dive, once commenced, was impossible to pull out of. The helicopter was overloaded to begin with, and the necessary horsepower was not available. Wormy would have been lost but for one stroke of luck; his brother-in-law, Meat-head, had rigged the load. Meathead’s nickname was not the result of an idle whim, and what he didn’t know about slinging a house for transport by air was considerable. So it was not particularly surprising when the house, for want of more technical terminology, fell off the rope and alighted in the road north of town.
And that was where Slim entered the picture. He was on routine patrol just north of town when a log cabin came to earth on the highway right in front of him. The dwelling split in two upon its sudden contact with the asphalt, and he put the cruiser into the living room before he could get stopped. He clambered out of his car with sidearm drawn, ready to inflict punishment upon the scofflaw who had gotten the drop on him. Wormy, however, had bigger fish than Slim to fry. The loss of the house had gained him very little in terms of control. The helicopter lurched toward starboard, putting it on a collision course with the ridge north of town. It clawed at the sky, fishtailing back and forth as it disappeared behind the ridge. A.J. listened for the crash, but the sound never came. He hoped the pilot had regained altitude.
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