Back at the dog killing, Estelle came out to the landing zone after reloading Old Betsy. She viewed the wreckage with composure at first, but her calm dissolved into rage and misery when she spotted Plug’s paw sticking out from under the Historic Pile of Lumber that was once a porch.
“I’ll kill them!” she wailed, waving her shotgun like a divining rod. She was not specific as to the identity of them, but it was A.J.’s opinion that they would be wise to lay low.
“I think you may already have,” replied A.J., recalling the erratic deportment of the helicopter as it descended behind the ridge. He eased the shotgun from her grasp.
“Do you think it hurt?” she asked as she viewed the remains, referring to the dog, presumably, and not the helicopter. She squatted down and touched the paw.
“I guarantee you that he didn’t feel a thing,” A.J. kindly replied. “When my time comes, I hope a porch falls on me.” He was not good with this kind of thing.
“I can’t believe you said that,” Maggie whispered in his ear when she came up. She gave him an urgent jab in the ribs with her elbow. Then she moved over to Estelle and gave her a hug. Estelle sobbed quietly as Maggie led her to the Folly for a cup of tea and a little sympathy.
“Don’t worry,” he hollered after them. “I’ll take care of this.” He reviewed the problem for a moment and then went for his truck and some tools. His plan was to haul it all-lock, stock, porch, and dog-to the landfill for a decent burial. He had just gotten the tailgate lowered when Truth Hannassey rolled up in her Mercedes convertible.
“What is that porch doing there?” she demanded. The implication appeared to be that A.J. was in some way responsible, that he had willed the porch to earth.
“It seems to be holding down that dog,” he said, pointing at the rubble. “If you’d like, I can hook a chain to it and haul it over to the house.” He gestured at the roadway. Truth looked in that direction and blanched. She had been so intent on the side issue of the porch that she had overlooked the main event in the highway.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“I think your helicopter went down behind the ridge,” he volunteered helpfully, hiking his thumb in the direction of the whirlybird’s last known location. “You probably want to report that to the police.” He again pointed at the house. “You’ll find him up in your house. He plowed into it when it landed in front of him.” He paused, and then continued. “He gets touchy, sometimes. Don’t come up on his blind side.” Truth sizzled. She was so enraged he thought he might be in danger of being whacked. Then she seemed to regain her composure a little, and after taking two deep breaths she motored toward the highway to check on her real estate investments. A.J. climbed into his truck and drove toward the last observed position of the helicopter. Neither the Historic Porch nor Plug would be going anywhere, and it had occurred to him that someone ought to be looking after the downed transport.
A.J. found the helicopter sitting in the middle of the county road on the other side of the ridge. The landing gear looked bent, and so did the pilot. He was crouched in the open doorway, steadying his nerves with Old Granddad. The aroma of hydraulic fluid pervaded the scene.
“I hate it when this shit happens,” the man confided in A.J. “Call me Wormy.”
“I wouldn’t think it happened that often,” A.J. observed, his untrained eye checking for signs of trouble, such as fuel pouring out of a rupture or flames dancing within.
“This is my fifth time,” Wormy quipped. He tossed the empty pint bottle into the woods.
“House moving must be a rough business,” A.J. concluded. After further discussion, it turned out that the other four times had been over the Mekong Delta, random occurrences orchestrated by dedicated employees of that wily rascal, Ho Chi Minh.
“I sort of thought I was through being shot down,” Wormy said ruefully, as if he were ashamed. “You don’t know who got me, do you?” It was an odd question, but it seemed important to the downed flyer, a pride issue, perhaps, or something to do with insurance. The man was looking at A.J. with anxiety etched on his features.
“Crazy guy who lives across the ridge,” A.J. lied. He could not say why. “Ex-Marine. Shoots stuff down all the time.” It was not a convincing fabrication, but Wormy had been softened up by near death and plenty of alcohol and was not a tough crowd. He nodded, as if he knew several guys just like that. Good boys, but a little hasty on the trigger.
“Real badass, huh?” he asked with a grin. He apparently liked being taken out by the best. A.J.’s hunch was correct. It would have been cruel to inform the pilot he had been aced by a little old lady in a fit of revenge over a squashed pooch. He had undergone enough already. They decided that the helicopter would be fine where it was. It required repair to make it airworthy, and Wormy needed to check with his boss now that the load had become kindling.
“You think somebody’ll hit it, sitting there?” Wormy asked as they climbed into the truck. A.J. perused the landing site. The machine was sitting on a straight stretch of road and was far enough off the shoulder to allow vehicles to pass one at a time.
“I only know one person who would be in any danger of hitting it,” A. J. replied. “And she’s tied up right now with a dog problem.” He fired up the truck, and they headed for a phone.
“Dog too mean?” asked Wormy conversationally. He was fishing around unsuccessfully for something to smoke. A.J. removed a pack from over the visor and tucked it into Wormy’s pocket.
“Dog too flat,” he responded. Wormy nodded his head as if he understood just how much trouble a flat dog could be.
A.J. drove to the broken cabin and arrived just in time to witness the culmination of a misunderstanding between Truth and Slim. The problem revolved around two issues, the first being the house in the road and the second being the car in the house. Neither made Slim happy, and he could not seem to convey the extent of his unhappiness to Truth. Admittedly, it may have been his presentation, which was limited to stammering with rage while waving a loaded gun. Still, A.J. could see what Slim wanted as soon as he drove up.
He got out of the truck and sauntered over to the point of impact. He made plenty of noise as he came near; he didn’t want to end up dead just because the skittish gendarme was having a mood. He squatted and looked up under the cruiser, then hollered to Wormy to bring the log chain from the back of the pickup. They attached one end to A.J.’s truck and the other to Slim’s patrol car, and they had the cruiser extracted from its historic garage in no time. A.J. unhooked the chain from both vehicles and tossed it into the back of the truck. Slim was still waving his pistol and mouthing soundless words, but he seemed to be recovering from the conniption.
“There, Slim,” A.J. said pleasantly. “You can have your car back. I don’t know what we’re going to do about this house, though. Maybe Johnny Mack can push it out of the way with his dozer.” It sounded like an expedient plan, but it upset Truth.
“You can’t just push my house out of the way with a bulldozer!” She folded her arms. “This is a National Historic Dwelling!” A.J., Slim, and Wormy all looked at the remains of the house.
“It’s in pretty bad shape,” A.J. said.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” She turned to Wormy, who was exhibiting the post-disaster flush of someone proud to be requiring oxygen. “Rig it back up, get your helicopter, and let’s get back to work! I’m paying good money for nothing right now.” Wormy smiled disarmingly and gave her a full-body shrug.
“I’d be happy to, but no can do,” he replied. “My helicopter is out of action since the crazy guy shot it down.”
“What crazy guy?” asked Slim.
“Never mind,” A.J. interjected.
The committee by the log pile adjourned with no clear consensus. Truth exited the scene after first being cited by Slim on a zoning violation for owning a structure too close to the right-of-way. Wormy received a ticket for illegal parking before riding to the jail to borrow the phone and check in. He
was terminated by his superior, a former Army colonel called Maniac Monroe. This was a term of endearment imposed on him by the relatively small number of survivors of his various commands. Colonel Maniac had no patience with extenuating circumstances, bad luck, or the quiet of peacetime. He believed that heads and excrement should both roll downhill, away from colonels and others in charge.
Back at the flattening, A.J. began to disentangle animal from vegetable and mineral. He was about through when he heard a shrill whistle coming from the Folly. In addition to being stellar women named after famous authors, the Callahan girls all excelled at the fine art of whistling for effect, and Maggie was the most proficient of the lot. When she placed her two pinkies on her lower lip and blew, the resulting sound demanded respect.
A.J. answered his summons. He entered the kitchen and saw Estelle drinking tea at the table. She had gathered her dignity and was handling her bereavement well. He watched as she poured about a tablespoonful of tea into one of the exquisite Nortake cups that Maggie brought out on solemn occasions. A.J. called them the Death Cups. Then Estelle poured about a slug and a half of brandy in with her spot of tea. She tossed the mixture back in one quick flick, shuddered, and began preparing the next installment. A.J. eased up close to his wife.
“Why don’t you just heat up the brandy bottle and put the tea away?” he whispered. He received another bump in the ribs to remind him to be nice. Estelle gulped another one down before speaking.
“A.J., I can’t go with you to bury Plug,” she said with a quaver. “I just couldn’t stand it.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll put him in deep, so a possum can’t get to him.” A.J. could not help it. He was well meaning but blithering when it came to bereaved women. This time, thankfully, it did not seem to matter.
“I think we should bury him next to Parm,” Estelle said. She blinked a tear.
“Well, sure, Estelle. Whatever you want,” A.J. said. He did not think Parm would care. Over the years, Estelle had augmented his gravesite with a goodly number of extras-the funerary equivalent of cruise control and stereo-and A.J. felt sure the deceased had become inured to additions to his eternal home, a place A.J. called The Parm Shrine.
At the head of the mound was a statue of a Parm-like figure locked in mortal combat with a Hun-like creature, and neither appeared happy over their timeless embrace. At Parm’s feet was an eternal flame. It wasn’t actually perpetual-there were no gas lines out at the cemetery-but it was a reasonable facsimile made by A.J. out of the guts of a camp stove. Estelle lit it each year on Armistice Day, the Fourth of July, and the anniversary of Parm’s relocation to a better place. In A.J.’s opinion, a dead guy with his feet in a camp stove who had a Hun standing on his head ought not object to having a flat dog snugged in next to him. It was actually sort of the next logical step.
There was, however, a small problem; it was against the law to bury the animals with the people in Sequoyah. A.J. did not have it in him to break Estelle’s heart, so he would simply have to work it out.
“Everything I love goes away,” Estelle sobbed and nipped at her tea.
“We love you, Estelle,” Maggie said, patting her shoulder. “We love you, and we’re not going away.” Estelle nodded and sniffed, gratitude etched on her features. A.J. left. He had a dog burial to fake. He went to Estelle’s yard and finished loading the truck.
“Let’s go, Plug,” he said as they left.
His first stop was at the landfill, where he unloaded most of the porch and all of the dog. He buried poor old Plug on a slight rise overlooking some appliances. Then he tapped a little cross into the ground, a monument made of sticks and duct tape erected in memory of the best friend Estelle had left in this world.
“You were a hound,” he eulogized. “But you deserved better than this.”
He got back in the truck. His next destination was the cemetery. On his way, he stopped at Billy’s for some gasoline. Wormy was there, killing time and drinking a Coke. A.J. was surprised when Wormy threw his duffel bag into the truck.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“The graveyard,” A.J. replied. Wormy gave a thumbs-up. A.J. kind of liked the downed aviator, and he figured that Wormy would love what was coming up next. They arrived at the burial ground and drove up close to The Parm Shrine. Then they got out.
“Bring the shovel,” A.J. instructed as he grabbed the Plug-sized piece of porch he had saved. He needed to displace one Plug’s worth of dirt for the mound to look right. They walked over to the area of interment. A.J. began to dig a hole next to Parm’s grave. Wormy was busy inspecting the statuary.
“Is one of these guys buried here?” he asked, pointing at the sculptures.
“The one who looks like he’s saying Oh,” A.J. replied. He was down about a foot and wanted to go another.
“So who’s the other one, the one who looks like he’s about to puke?”
“That’s his mortal enemy.”
“This is cool,” Wormy stated. “I want one of these when I go. Maybe a helicopter.” He took the shovel from A.J. and began his turn. “How deep do we want to bury this wood?” he asked.
“Just a little more,” A.J. said. Wormy took out a few more shovelfuls. Then he stepped out of the hole and stood, silent and respectful. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew that he was participating in a solemn rite of some sort.
“Parm, I’m sorry about this,” A.J. said as he dropped the wood into the hole. “It’s what Estelle wants, and you know how she can be.” The breeze rustled through the fallen leaves, as if Parm were sighing in agreement.
“Is Parm the guy saying Oh?” Wormy asked as they filled the grave.
“He is,” said A.J., shaping the mound.
“Is that his stick we’re burying?” Wormy asked, attempting to pull together the many pieces to this puzzle.
“It’s his wife’s dog,” A.J. said, dusting off his pants. Wormy nodded, as if it all made sense, now that he knew it was the wife’s dog being committed to the ground.
“Was Parm a warrior?” Wormy asked.
“He was arguably the bravest man who ever lived,” A.J. replied, picking up his shovel and heading for the truck. Wormy stood silent and cast a salute. It was his tribute to a fallen brother-in-arms, there at The Parm Shrine, adjacent to The Tomb of the Unknown Porch.
“Where are you staying?” A.J. asked conversationally as they drove away. “I’ll drop you off.” Wormy was still a bit overcome and could not immediately reply. After a moment, he regained control.
“Not staying anywhere,” he responded. “Not doing anything.” He related the details of his loss of employment. While A.J. listened, his mind began to form a plan. Wormy seemed like a decent sort. He needed a job and a place to stay. A.J. needed some help. Eugene needed full-time attendance. What would be wrong with Wormy?
“How about riding to see a friend of mine?” A.J. asked casually. He would see how they got on.
“Great,” Wormy responded. “Let’s go see your buddy. Uh, I hate to go empty-handed, and I could use a drink, myself. Is there somewhere around here we could buy a taste?”
“I can arrange that,” A.J. said. They drove out to the county line and pulled up behind Eugene’s beer joint. It was still closed due to the stiletto in Bird Egg’s liver, but A.J. had a key. He opened the back door and invited Wormy in.
The beer joint’s effect on the pilot was profound. He wandered with his mouth slightly agape, touching various containers of alcoholic beverage. He sat silently at the blond dinette table and fingered the poker chips and the playing cards. He observed the many photos taped to the walls, pictures of young women burgeoning forth, looking come-hither at Wormy.
“This is a good place,” he observed. “Whose is it?”
“Mine,” A.J. responded. Technically, it wasn’t true, but it would be gospel soon enough. “Get what you want and put it in the truck. It’s on the house.” Wormy selected a case of beer and
a half gallon of bourbon. A.J. picked up a jug for Eugene in case he was running low.
It was midday when A.J. and his passenger arrived at the foot of the mountain and began the journey up to the clearing. As he wheeled up the road, A.J. looked for signs of Rufus but saw no trace. When he rounded the last curve and entered the straightaway to the cabin, however, there sat the hound in the middle of the road. His paws were firmly planted, and his eyes were on A.J. This behavior represented a fair example of an old dog and a new trick.
“Bear in the road,” noted Wormy. He had fallen naturally into the role of spotter for the expedition. A.J. halted about ten feet from Rufus. He didn’t want to hit him-except maybe a couple of times with the bat-but the animal showed no intention of moving. He blew the horn, but there was no response. He hung his head out the window.
“Move, Rufus!” he yelled. Wormy raised his eyebrows. He seemed surprised that A.J. knew the bear. Then an extraordinary sequence of events occurred.
Rufus stood and looked over his shoulder at the road up to the cabin. Then he looked back at A.J. He barked once and headed up the track. A.J. slowly followed the dog.
“That’s a dog, not a bear,” Wormy corrected.
“That’s the one you want to be dropping porches on,” A.J. confirmed. “It’ll probably take two.”
When they reached the clearing, Eugene was not to be seen. Rufus crossed to the porch and stood patiently. A.J. parked and slid the Louisville Slugger from behind the seat. If Rufus was laying a trap, he was prepared. Wormy slid out the other door and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. He was tense as he scanned the perimeter. Old habits and old soldiers died hard.
“Don’t try anything you’ll regret,” A.J. said to the dog as he crossed the clearing. Rufus barked and looked at the door. Wormy was running a flanking movement from the right.
“Yeah, you’re Rex the Wonder Dog,” A.J. said. “But one wrong move and you’ll be out at the landfill next to Plug.” He eased up the steps to the porch. The dog barked one last time before entering the open doorway. A.J. followed, wary but concerned. His sense of foreboding was acute. Wormy materialized beside him.
The Front Porch Prophet Page 20