The Front Porch Prophet

by Raymond L. Atkins

  “Well, I see what you mean,” A.J. said. “Too much pressure.” Bird Egg rolled over in his stupor.

  “Exactly. Who needs it?” Wormy asked.

  “Right,” A.J. confirmed. He moved to the wine closet and rummaged around for selections sealed with corks rather than twist tops, obvious evidence of finer vintages. He put these in a box and placed them on the card table. Then he dug out the spiral notebook that served as the ledger and charged the wine to his tab. He felt better about it that way. The beer joint wasn’t his yet.

  “I’m heading up to see Eugene,” he told Wormy as he picked up the box. “Is anyone up there with him?”

  “Angel was still visiting when I left this morning,” Wormy replied. “She came real early today.” It was the rare day she did not come to see her baby son. Jackie provided the horsepower for her visits, so he saw Eugene as often as she did. Counting A.J. and Wormy, Eugene was attended most of the time, which was what A.J. had set out to accomplish. Predictably, Johnny Mack had not made the trek. A.J. held hope that he would find it in his heart to attempt a reconciliation before the end.

  “You going to hang around down here long?” he asked.

  “I’ll be along as soon as he finishes his nap,” Wormy said. He followed A.J. out to the truck.

  “Bird Egg is looking pretty bad,” A.J. commented as he climbed into the cab.

  “I know dead guys in better shape,” Wormy agreed. “I guess he’s just too mean to die.” A.J. had to agree that the old man was gritty. But too mean to die or not, it looked like the checkmark had already been placed by Bird’s name. Maybe the Reaper had gotten stuck in traffic or stopped off for a short stack and a cup of coffee, but directly he would come to call. A.J. waved as he backed out. Wormy nodded as he began to police the area around the beer joint.

  A.J. drove up the mountain. When he pulled into the clearing, he viewed Eugene asleep in his La-Z-Boy recliner. The chair and its occupant were out in the open in front of a bonfire. Eugene preferred the outdoors, and the arrangement had been Wormy’s solution when it became too cold for Eugene to sit without heat on the porch. Four sturdy poles were implanted around the perimeter of the seating area so a tarp could be strung in case of rain. A cord of seasoned oak was split and stacked to the west of the area, providing handy fuel and a break from the prevailing winds. The venerable cable spool had been dragged from the porch and sat next to the La-Z-Boy, rounding out the ensemble. A.J. dismounted and walked over. He poked up the fire and tossed on a few more logs. There was more than a nip in the air, and the heat felt good. Rufus was snoozing next to his master. He stirred, cast a baleful eye, and growled with low menace. A.J. held up a piece of the split oak.

  “Think of this as a baseball bat with bark on it,” he advised the dog. Rufus blinked and resumed his nap. Wormy had been a calming influence on the old canine, and most times he was content to merely glare and rumble.

  The last month had not been kind to Eugene. The dark circles under his eyes looked like twin shiners, as if he had unwisely made rude remarks to burly boys in a bar named Smitty’s. The contrast with the yellowish tinge of his skin was stark. He had passed gaunt and was now skeletal. He slept a great deal, but it was difficult to say whether this was because of his condition or due to his treatment. He was on the downhill slalom, gaining momentum exponentially while barely dodging the trees. A.J.’s heart told him that it would not be long. He left his brother sleeping and walked on to the cabin. He intended to brew some coffee, thinking that Eugene might like a cup when he awoke. He opened the door, and there stood Angel. She looked as if she had been crying, and she gasped and put her hand over her heart when she saw him.

  “A.J.!” she said. “I didn’t hear you come up. You startled me.” She sat down on the tall stool next to the stove. A small pot of vegetable soup was bubbling, and he could smell cornbread baking.

  “I’m sorry, Angel,” he said apologetically. “I figured you were gone, or I would have made more noise. Jackie didn’t forget you, did he?” He put the coffee on to boil.

  “No, he came. But Eugene was having a bad morning. Jackie helped me get him comfortable, and then I sent him on to work. He said he would be glad to stay, but you know how much it upsets him to miss a day. He was working the short shift today, and ought to be back soon.”

  They sat briefly silent while Angel stirred the soup. She looked over at A.J., and he could see that the tears were flowing. There was a quiet dignity to her sadness. They were on the hard way now, no mistake, and there was little he could do to comfort her. She stood and stared out the kitchen window at her son.

  “I wish he would come in,” she said. “It’s cold out there.” She smiled a blue smile. “He always was a little stubborn. Sort of like his daddy.” A.J. decided to leave that one right where it was. Perhaps he would discuss Eugene’s paternity on a day less mournful and joyless.

  “Headstrong,” he agreed. He stood by her and looked out the window. Presently, Eugene stirred. “Looks like he’s waking up,” A.J. said. “I’ll go see if he wants some of that soup, or maybe some coffee.” He walked out into the yard and dragged up a chair. Eugene looked over as his brother sat, and he offered a whisper of wisdom.

  “Here’s your chance,” he said. “Rufus is asleep.”

  “I’ll pass,” A.J. replied. “If I can’t take him out face to face, it wouldn’t be right to sneak up from behind.” He nudged Rufus with his toe, and the big dog snarled ominously in his sleep.

  “You are a noble man,” Eugene observed before knocking back a fair slug of bourbon followed by a small sip of one of his medicines. He coughed a moment before regaining control. “Rufus, on the other hand, is not. His preference is for you to never see it coming. Remember that.” A.J. nodded his appreciation for the advice, although he had not been unclear on the subject to begin with. Eugene shrunk deeper into his coat and grew motionless. Finally, just as A.J. decided he had dropped back off, Eugene spoke.

  “Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked. There was a bleakness in his voice, a timbre of defeat. It gave A.J. a chill. “Angel seems to have hidden mine again.” A.J. lit one for Eugene and tossed the rest of the pack on the cable spool.

  “Well, they are bad for you,” he offered lamely. “And she is your mama.”

  “I know,” Eugene said. They were quiet for a while. “What time did Angel and Jackie leave?” he asked. He seemed to be feeling particularly bad at the moment.

  “I don’t know when Jackie left,” A.J. answered. “Angel is inside. She’s making you some soup.” Eugene considered this information for a moment while enjoying his borrowed cigarette. He smoked it to the nub, flipped it in the fire, and lit another.

  “Angel is of the opinion that soup will cure my cancer. Every time I turn around, she’s bringing me some soup and hiding my fucking smokes.” Eugene’s voice was quiet, yet his words were harsh. A.J. didn’t know what to say. Angel’s soup wasn’t that bad, and he could always slip Eugene another carton of the Surgeon General’s bane.

  “Well, she wants to help you,” he said. “But she doesn’t know what to do.”

  “Like I don’t fucking know that,” Eugene snarled. He seemed to coil, as if about to strike. “But there’s not a goddamn thing that she can do. In the meantime, I don’t have time to be hunting up a damn cigarette.” A.J. knew that his brother was right. There was nothing anyone could do. Nothing at all. “I don’t want to die,” Eugene said. His voice caught, and he grew quiet.

  A.J. was in a bind. He wanted to ease Eugene’s anguish and bolster his troubled spirit, but he had no tools adequate to the task. He was not trained to handle raw emotion from hopeless souls. But the fat was in the fire. Eugene was going to die, and there would be no quarter. He reached over and took Eugene’s hand. It was a totally uncharacteristic action, but it was all he could think of. At first there was no reaction, but after a moment he felt a slight returning pressure. And so they sat in silence for a long, stony time, secret brothers staring into the blaze
, each with his own thoughts.

  After an interval, A.J. heard a vehicle making its way up the road and Jackie’s vehicle rolled into view. Eugene removed his hand and placed it in his coat pocket. Jackie parked next to A.J.’s truck and joined the boys at the fire.

  “Man, it’s cold,” he said. He blew into his hands.

  “There’s some coffee in the cabin,” A.J. offered.

  “And soup,” Eugene said distantly, although his voice had lost its steel edge.

  “I think I’ll get us all a coffee,” Jackie said. “Coffee, Gene?” he asked his brother. Eugene nodded absently.

  “That Jackie will just talk your leg off,” Eugene said after Jackie had entered the cabin. “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” He had joshed Jackie for years on his lack of vocal acumen. He washed down a little more medicine with a lot more bourbon before lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag and closed his eyes. When they reopened, they had a softer look, glazed and watery around the edges.

  “The thing about morphine is this,” he expounded. “It’s great.” He looked over at A.J. “Just absolutely, fucking great. If I had known it, I would have been a junkie years ago.” They heard the door shut, and Jackie made his way over to them with three steaming Styrofoam cups.

  “Here’s the Joe, boys,” he said, handing out the fragrant vessels. They all sipped appreciatively for a moment.

  “Sure is cold out here,” Eugene offered in Jackie’s direction. He was as high as government spending, feeling good enough to pick at his oldest brother.

  “Man,” Jackie agreed, oblivious to his brother’s wiles. He finished his coffee. “Mama’s tired,” he said to Eugene. “She says she wants to stay, but I’m going to take her home.” He looked at A.J. “Are you going to be around awhile?”

  “Absolutely.” A.J. thought she needed to go home, as well. She was not a young woman, and all of those years she had lived with Johnny Mack had each counted for more, like dog years. Jackie pitched his cup on the fire and went to get his mother. Eugene and A.J. watched as the cup melted away.

  “Jackie is not an environmentally sound man,” Eugene noted, as if it saddened him that his own brother was part of the problem and not the solution.

  “Not like me and you, for sure,” A.J. agreed, and threw his cup on the pyre. Eugene’s followed.

  “Maybe later we can spray some deodorant into the air,” Eugene suggested. Jackie and Angel made their way to the fire. She was carrying a tray.

  “Eat your soup and then we’ll talk,” A.J. said quietly when they walked up. Angel placed the meal on the cable spool.

  “Eugene, I made you some soup,” she said. “I want you to have some of it before it gets cold.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. She looked over at A.J.

  “Make sure he eats,” she advised. He could hear the concern in her voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he echoed. She looked frail in the cold light of afternoon, tottery and infirm. She bent down and kissed Eugene on the cheek.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” she told him. Then Jackie took her arm and led her to the Bronco. A.J. and Eugene watched as they left the clearing, then A.J. uncovered the soup and handed the bowl to Eugene.

  “Here. Eat a bite and I’m off the hook.” Eugene complied. Then he surprised A.J. by taking two more spoonfuls before putting the broth down. He looked around on the cable spool for a moment. Then he sighed and shook his head.

  “She took my cigarettes again,” Eugene said with resignation in his voice. A.J. looked, and sure enough, they were absent.

  “She’s good,” he said as he walked to his truck and removed the carton he had brought.

  “She’s driving me crazy,” Eugene said.

  “It could be worse,” A.J. pointed out. “Estelle Chastain could be your mother.”

  “There’s no call for that kind of talk,” Eugene said, shuddering. “I need a drink,” he concluded, reaching for the remnants of the sour mash on the cable spool. He drained the bottle. “I hope you brought more,” he croaked.

  “I did,” A.J. assured him. “But I’m considering putting your whiskey and cigarettes up until you learn moderation.” Eugene cast him a look that would soften lead.

  “I have to put up with that kind of shit from Angel,” he said. “You, I can kill.”

  “You seem to have your old good humor back,” A.J. noted.

  “I slept too long, and my feelgood wore off,” came the simple reply. He directed unfocused eyes at A.J. “A man in my condition does not need for his feelgood to wear off.” A.J. had to take that one on faith but did not mistrust a word of it. He nodded.

  “Maggie told me to ask you again to come to dinner Thursday,” he said. “So I’m asking. Why don’t you have Wormy bring you down?” This marked the third time he had asked, but Eugene was extremely resistant to the idea, stating that he didn’t have a hell of a lot to be thankful for.

  “Do you think Diane will come?” Eugene asked, throwing a slow curve in A.J.’s direction. It caught the corner for a strike.

  “Yeah, I think she will,” A.J. answered. What he didn’t mention was that she would likely be in the company of Truth Hannassey. The two had become a couple and were seldom separated. He still couldn’t believe that Maggie had asked Truth to come. He made a mental note to stop by the beer joint and invite Bird Egg in retaliation.

  “I’d like to see her,” Eugene lamented. “And the boys, too.”

  “Well, then, it’s a date,” A.J. said. He would just have to talk to Diane and Truth and get them to work with him on this. “We’ll eat, drink, and be merry. It will be good for you.”

  “Let me see what Wormy says,” Eugene hedged.

  “He wants to come,” A.J. said. “He told me that he has never been to a real Thanksgiving feast. Give him a break.” Eugene sighed.

  “I’m looking pretty rough. I don’t want to offend any of your guests.” His Emily Post was showing, and his concern was laudable and touching.

  “You have always offended everybody,” A.J. pointed out. “You may be the most offensive person who ever lived. The only difference now is that you’re thinner. You were getting a little paunchy anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t talk,” Eugene countered. He was rolling a generous joint while he talked. “Unemployment has gone right to your hips.” A.J. looked down. He might have picked up a pound or two, but he believed he carried it well.

  “Keep it up, and I’ll tell Angel where you hide the dope,” he responded. “Now, how about it? Are you coming?”

  “Tell Maggie May I’ll be there unless I feel rotten,” Eugene said slowly, almost grudgingly. “But I’ll probably feel rotten.”

  “If you don’t when you get there, you will after you eat the Indian pudding.”

  “Oh, God,” Eugene said. “Is she bringing that?” He, too, had sampled the dish.

  “No, I fixed it,” was A.J.’s response. “But beware of anything that has lime Jell-O as the main ingredient. That’s her fallback.”

  “Knowing Estelle, she’ll whip up a bowl of lime Jell-O and horse shit,” Eugene observed.

  They grew quiet, and A.J. realized Eugene had once again drifted off. He got up and threw a couple more chunks on the fire. Then he went inside to secure a bowl of Angel’s soup. He was sitting on the edge of the porch waiting for his portion to cool when Wormy arrived in Mom’s Taxi. He got out and cast a look in Eugene’s direction, then came over and sat.

  “Get some soup,” A.J. suggested.

  “I might have a bowl in a little while,” Wormy replied. He unscrewed the cap from the pint bottle he had removed from his jacket pocket and took a lengthy sip. “Want a taste?” he asked when he was through.

  “No, better not,” A.J. declined. “If I go home with liquor on my breath, Maggie might beat me with a stout cane.”

  “And the downside would be?” Wormy asked with a twinkle in his bloodshot eye. He had obviously been spending too much time in the Purdue presence.

  “You’re ge
tting quick,” A.J. noted. “I may have to tell Maggie you’re having discipline fantasies about her.” Wormy looked alarmed.

  “Lord, Lord,” he said with concern. “Don’t do that. I really like your wife. I don’t want her to be mad at me.” He looked like he was about to cry.

  “You just don’t want to get uninvited to supper,” A.J. said.

  “I don’t guess we’re coming anyway,” Wormy said sadly. “Eugene doesn’t think he’ll feel up to it.” He sighed. “I could almost taste that turkey, too.” He looked off into the distance as if he could see it out there: tender, roasted poultry, forever just out of his grasp.

  “I got him to agree to come,” A.J. informed him. “If you don’t let him back out, you’ll still get your drumstick.”

  “I’ll try,” Wormy said doubtfully.

  “Don’t try. Do.” A.J. pointed out in the yard to the sleeping figure by the bonfire. “He doesn’t have long. This could be the last time he gets out. If he won’t come, pick him up and put him in the van.” Wormy looked at Eugene and nodded.

  “All right. I’ll get him there somehow.” He took another sip. “You’re right, though. He’s sliding. And it’s taking more of everything to keep him out of pain.” He lit a smoke. “More booze. More pills. More morphine.”

  “What do you think about all that?’” A.J. asked.

  “I think it’s his business,” Wormy said without hesitation. “I say let him have at it. I’ve seen a lot of people die, and there is no good way to go about it.” The wisdom of the ages as spoken by an alcoholic helicopter pilot. A.J. decided to broach a subject that had been lingering since Eugene had taken his latest downward turn.

  “I know you like Eugene, but it’s starting to get a little rough now.” He considered how best to continue. He wanted to convey that if it was time to hat up, no one would think less of Wormy for going. “If you, uh…”

  “Don’t,” Wormy said. “I finish what I start. It’s kind of like flying the helicopter out of the road after the crazy guy shot me down. Anyway, Eugene is my friend just like he’s yours.”

  “Okay, then,” A.J. said. “I won’t mention it again.”