The Front Porch Prophet

by Raymond L. Atkins

  “Anyway, I’ve got no place else to be and nothing else to do,” Wormy said. “After he goes, I’ll be moving on. I don’t know what I’ll be doing, but it won’t be flying.”

  A.J. thought about this for a moment. An obvious solution occurred to him.

  “Don’t tell Eugene I told you,” he said, “but he’s leaving the beer joint to me when he dies.” Wormy nodded, as if to say it made good sense to him. “I don’t want it,” A.J. continued, “so I’m going to give it to you. You seem to have a knack for the work.” Wormy held up his hands, warding off the compliment and the largesse. Both were much too grand in his scheme of things.

  “I’d just screw it up,” he objected. “And what about Bird Egg?”

  “You have to keep an eye on Bird Egg until he goes to the big card game in the sky,” A.J. said, resolving another problem. He was on a roll. “After that, it’s all yours. How can you screw it up? You buy alcohol, sell it for more than you bought it for, pay off Red Arnold every now and then, and play poker the rest of the time. It’s not brain surgery.” Wormy looked doubtful. He seemed resistant to making the executive move. Then his eyes lit up.

  “We can be partners,” he proposed. “You be the boss, and I’ll run the business. We can split the money.” This wasn’t quite what A.J. had in mind, but it looked like it was the best he was going to be able to manage. He supposed he could reserve his half for charitable works, like sending the children to college. One thing was for certain; he would have to present to Maggie her new status as the bootlegger’s wife in the best possible light.

  “Okay,” he said to Wormy as he held out his hand. Giving him half a beer joint was better than giving him no beer joint at all, at least for the time being. They shook. “We’ll try it for a while. Once you get your confidence up, you can buy me out.” Wormy nodded.

  A.J. felt a little better. In one fell swoop, he had dispensed with the problems of what to do with Wormy, Bird Egg, and the beer joint. He looked at his watch. The day was long into afternoon, and he needed to be going. He stood and clapped Wormy on the shoulder. They walked out to the bonfire. Eugene stirred, and it seemed he might awaken. Then he settled into a deeper doze.

  “I think he’s out for a while,” Wormy said.

  “If he’s still asleep Thursday, he’ll be easy to load,” A.J. observed. Wormy nodded. Apparently he hadn’t thought of it. A.J. exited the clearing. He could see Wormy standing by the bonfire looking to be deep in thought, perhaps on the subject of the load out if Eugene did not awaken. A.J. knew he would ponder the problem until he had worried a solution.

  That night, he sat with Maggie at the kitchen table and talked about the Finn Hall. The house was filled with the aromas of holiday baking, and the three pies currently in the oven-one pumpkin and two cherry-were adding to the already mouthwatering composite of smells. Maggie and Eudora had baked themselves haggard, and their offerings were stacked casually throughout the kitchen. Eudora’s new husband, Carlisle, had not contributed to the ovenfest. But he had grown weary, nonetheless, while reclining on the sofa watching bad movies and eating cheese puffs. So he and Eudora had retired early, ostensibly to sleep.

  “Sleeping, my foot,” said A.J., as they heard a crash from upstairs. John Robert and the children were gone to the drive-in, so unless there was a large badger wandering the second floor, he knew what was up.

  “Hush,” Maggie said. “They’re newlyweds.” They heard a yell.

  “Damn,” A.J. said.

  “Don’t talk about it. That’s my sister up there.” They heard one more yell, a loud one, and then it grew quiet.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cigarette,” A.J. said.

  “Quit it,” she said.

  “I’m going to have to get with Carlisle tomorrow and get a few pointers,” he continued.

  “I hate to break it to you,” Maggie said, “but Carlisle was the one making all the noise.”

  “All right,” A.J. said. “You go, Eudora.” This was getting better all the time.

  “But feel free to get with Carlisle on those pointers,” Maggie added. She got up and removed the pumpkin pie from the oven. The scent of nutmeg wafted across the room. “A few more minutes on the cherry pies and we’ll be done,” she said as she regained her seat. A.J. started back in on the subject of the Finn Hall.

  “I just don’t know about Truth,” he said. “She seems human now, but what if she reverts?”

  “Then you quit,” Maggie replied. She looked at him and continued. “But I have to tell you that no one besides you seems to have much of a problem with her.”

  “So you’re saying it’s me?” he asked incredulously.

  “Some of it is you,” she confirmed. “If you keep your ego reeled in, you two can get along. I think you really want the job.”

  “I do,” he said.

  “So do it,” she said. “Truth is very mellow these days. She’s in love.”

  “With Diane?”

  “With Diane.”

  “I can’t believe you invited Truth over for Thanksgiving,” he said.

  “I was simply being polite,” she said absently, checking her pies. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “The problem is Diane and Eugene and Diane’s girlfriend all sitting at the same table. Eugene will slit his own throat.”

  “You fret too much,” she replied, pulling the cherry pies out of the oven. Their aroma was heart-warming.

  “If they kill each other, I’m not burying them,” A.J. stated emphatically. It had been bad enough with Plug.

  “Let’s go to bed,” was Maggie’s reply as she turned off the light. She patted his head when she walked by, obviously not gravely concerned over the upcoming Thanksgiving Day Massacre. He stood and left the darkened kitchen, heading for a nod.

  The big day finally arrived, and A.J. was up before dawn but not before John Robert. When he arrived downstairs, his father was outside stoking his smoker with seasoned hickory. He had decided at the last minute to add a couple of smoked pork loins to the menu, just to be on the safe side. It was a chilly morning, and A.J. could see John Robert’s breath rise in steamy puffs as he closed the firebox door and began to walk toward the house. He noticed a small limp on the older man, a little hitch in the get-along he had never seen before. John Robert stepped onto the porch and entered the kitchen.

  “Just about ready to smoke these loins,” John Robert said as he removed the meat from the refrigerator.

  “I saw you limping,” A.J. said. “Did you step on a nail?”

  “No, I’m just a little stiff on the cold mornings these days.” John Robert carried his roasts in a pan. “I’ll be back,” he said as he backed out the door.

  A.J. watched his father gimp across the yard. Because of Eugene, issues of mortality were on his mind, and the sight of John Robert shuffling to the smoker saddened him, but he shook off the moment. He had a turkey to roast and a house full of people circling, ready to land. The larger meanings of life and the absolute futility of it all would have to wait until he had more time.

  Thanksgiving Day at the Folly was not a fixed event. Rather, it was a continuum through which the various participants flowed, each bringing according to means and taking according to need. The first to arrive were Eudora and Carlisle, who had come two days earlier and intended to remain for the week. The next to arrive were the Alexanders-Carson McCullers; her husband, Karl; and their two boys, John Steinbeck and William Faulkner. He liked Maggie’s younger sister and her husband, and the boys were good lads, although John was underrated by his peers, and it was often difficult to place William in time. They arrived around nine o’clock, bearing the makings of the Thanksgiving breakfast-country ham to fry, sausage balls to bake, and enough eggs to stock a henhouse. The biscuits would be conjured by John Robert. Hugs and greetings were exchanged, and the boys ran off in search of their cousins.

  “Stay out of the guest room,” A.J. hollered at their retreating backs.

  �
�What’s going on up there?” Karl asked. He was a quiet, slow-talking man.

  “Eudora and Carlisle are taking a nap,” A.J. replied as he sliced the salty, cured ham.

  “Taking a nap at nine in the morning?” Carson queried.

  “Never mind,” advised Maggie, cracking eggs into a large green bowl.

  Next in was the Smith family: Maggie’s sister, Agatha Christie, and her husband, John, as well as their children, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Madeline L’Engel.

  “Uncle A.J.!” Ray yelled as he grabbed a leg and held tight. He was a sweet child but a loud one. “Are we having turkey?”

  “No, baby, there was a problem with the turkey,” A.J. said as he tousled the boy’s hair. “Rogues from Texas broke in last night and got it.” Ray looked concerned. “Don’t worry, though,” A.J. continued. “We’ve got plenty of hot dogs.” The boy looked askance for a moment. Then he grinned and ran out of the room. He knew well the ways of his uncle.

  Carlisle wandered in looking pale and drawn. He appeared to be having trouble concentrating. A.J. poured him a glass of orange juice and handed him a jelly biscuit. There was no use in letting him get poorly.

  Mary Shelley Hensley and her husband, Gary, arrived around noon, accompanied by the matriarch and patriarch of the Callahan clan, Emmett and Jane Austen. The Hensleys didn’t have any children and intended to keep it that way. A.J. considered childlessness an abnormal condition, but to each his own. Gary and Mary were nice people despite their decision to not breed, and they were quite well-to-do, a condition easier to achieve in the absence of progeny.

  The last of Maggie’s sisters to arrive was Jacqueline Susann Stewart. A.J. called her The Apostate, because she had broken doctrine by not naming her children after authors. She and her husband Geoffery had named their large brood Glen, Peter, Carol, Russell, and Zachary, or Zack for short. The name for the imminent sixth child had not yet been determined. Interspersed among the entrances of Maggie’s sisters and their families were the arrivals of the other guests. Estelle came over for breakfast wearing her pink flannel robe and furry slippers. She bore a huge lime Jell-O mold infused with chunks of carrots, celery, cheddar cheese, and bell pepper. She had outdone herself, and as A.J. accepted the offering, he was forced to concede the Indian pudding hadn’t been that bad, after all.

  “Estelle, you shouldn’t have,” he said, meaning every word.

  “Better get that in the icebox,” noted Estelle as she loaded scrambled eggs onto her plate. “We don’t want it to get too warm.”

  “No, that’s for sure,” he agreed as he slid it way in the back of the refrigerator, out of sight but not quite out of mind.

  More guests arrived throughout the morning and early afternoon. Doc Miller and Minnie whisked in with a bottle of fifty-year-old brandy and a vegetable tray. Minnie had made certain the assortment contained white radishes, which were one of A.J.’s favorites when served with a little salt. Hoghead landed with twenty pounds of Swedish meatballs, each a small study in Hong Kong tastiness. He was accompanied by Dixie Lanier, drive-in patron and recent divorcée after her husband, Pitt, accidentally shot her in the head through the side of the trailer while squirrel hunting. Pitt had been truly sorry over the incident and had begged Dixie for forgiveness, but the twenty-two slug buried just behind her right ear was not a transgression she could pardon. So she cut Pitt loose and sent him back to his mama’s house to hunt squirrels. Dixie and Hoghead seemed to make a nice couple, and since the old cook was not a hunter, maybe the relationship would blossom.

  The Folly filled as other visitors wandered in. Slim Neal came bearing deviled eggs, and in recognition of the general gaiety of the day, he had left his sidearm in the cruiser. Jackie came with Bernice Martin on one arm and a sweet potato casserole on the other, and A.J. was touched to learn he had turned down double-time-and-a-half to come to the revelries. Charnell Jackson was there with his German chocolate cake, and Ellis Simpson arrived with Raynell, the children, and four bowls of potato salad. Brickhead and Cyndi Crowe arrived with their brood and with Cyndi’s famed baked beans. Billy from the Chevron came. He was no one’s idea of a cook, so he brought several cases of cold drinks, belly-washers for the children, as he put it.

  Bird Egg showed up, and when A.J. saw the old retainer, he had to take double. Bird was scrubbed clean. He was shaven and barbered, and he appeared to be sober, although he smelled quite strongly of mouthwash. He was wearing a suit, mostly, and the fact that it looked like it had been excavated at the boneyard did not detract in the least from the gesture.

  “Bird, you look sharp,” A.J. complimented. The sleeves of his suit coat stopped about two inches above his bony wrists. “You must be here looking for women.” Bird Egg produced a hangdog grin and stared at the floor, shuffling a bit, looking shy. A.J. made a mental note to steer him clear of the opposite sex, lest misunderstandings occur. “Who’s watching the beer joint?” A.J. asked.

  “Eugene and Wormy stopped by awhile ago. Told me to shut ’er down and take the day off.”

  “A day off with pay?” A.J. quizzed. “That’s like having benefits. Next you’ll be going on the insurance plan and signing up for the 401K.” Bird Egg guffawed before wandering off in the general direction of the Swedish meatballs.

  Diane arrived with her boys, Cody and Ransom. Truth was conspicuous by her absence, but A.J. suspected that his luck would not hold. The boys were subdued, which was understandable given the circumstances surrounding their father, but they seemed to forget their troubles as they joined in play with the other youngsters. A.J. had talked to his older two about being particularly nice to the Purdue boys, and why, and the girls had taken a solemn vow to see to it that they had a good day. As the children all went off to romp, A.J. sidled up next to Diane.

  “I sort of figured you’d be coming with Truth,” he ventured, hoping something had come up. Sometimes things just worked out, and maybe this was one of those times.

  “She’ll be along in a while,” Diane said. She seemed to be in good spirits. A.J. sighed before broaching a delicate subject.

  “Your ex-husband may be coming,” he began, wishing he had thought to soften her up with some Swedish meatballs before venturing into the minefield.

  “It was nice of you to invite him,” she said cheerfully, missing the entire point.

  “Yeah, I’m a nice guy,” he said, regrouping. “The thing is, he doesn’t know about you and Truth. He’s still sort of… pining away for you, and I’m thinking that he might get… upset.” He saw her eyes flash like black lightning.

  “A.J. Longstreet, are you telling me that Truth is not welcome here?” Her dander was up.

  “No, I’m not saying that,” he responded. “What I’m asking is that if he does come, you and Truth cool it. There’s no use killing him on the spot.”

  “Let me tell you something,” she began, “I feel really bad for Eugene, but my life with him was over long before he got sick. I spent fifteen years trying to be what he wanted me to be, fifteen years of feeling like shit because I wasn’t quite the little Barbie doll he wanted, and I’m through doing that for anyone.” She was breathing hard, and her eyes shone when she continued. “I know you’re trying to help him, just like you always try to help everyone. But I am who I am, and I feel like I feel, and if you and Eugene don’t like it, you can both kiss my ass.”

  A.J. considered her words, and he had to concede their validity. The simple fact was that she was right. He had been out of line. Her life was her business, and he felt bad for upsetting her, even though his intentions had been pure.

  “Truce,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m wrong. You’re right. I apologize. Don’t hit. I swear I won’t be this stupid again for weeks.”

  “You’d better make it months, after this one,” she replied. Her tone was still stern, but her eyes signaled a reluctance to kill. Just to be on the safe side, he decided to leave her vicinity and stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

  John Robert
saw him and hailed him to the smoker. A.J. waved at Marie Prater as she came down the walk. Since she possessed the only good back in her family, she was carrying a large casserole dish while her disabled husband and boys shuffled dutifully behind.

  “How goes life at the sawmill, Marie?” he asked.

  “Life as we knew it has changed for the worse,” she replied. Her voice sounded as tired as her eyes looked. A.J. felt for her. His professional demise had been relatively painless, but she was obviously suffering. He looked over at John Robert.

  “How are those loins coming?” he asked his father. “We’re running out of Hoghead’s meatballs.”

  “The meat is ready,” John Robert said as he speared the roasts into his pan. “Let’s go feed the company.” As they walked back to the Folly, A.J. saw Truth’s Mercedes wheel in at the end of the driveway. She exited the car and waved him over. He walked up, and she turned and smiled.

  “A.J., I have two cases of wine and some turkey pie,” she said. “Can you help carry some of it?” She was as nice as a walk on the beach at twilight, which he had to admit was preferable to her previous incarnation as one of the Horsewomen of the Apocalypse.

  “I’ll get the wine,” he volunteered. He was about to hoist the Chablis when he noted the arrival of Mom’s Taxi.

  “I’ll be right along,” A.J. said to Truth, who had already started toward the house. The van door opened and out stepped Wormy. He walked over to A.J. Eugene appeared to be asleep in the van.

  “I was just kidding when I told you to load him up and bring him anyway,” A.J. said.

  “No, he was in pretty good shape when we left,” Wormy said. “He sort of faded out at the beer joint.” He shrugged.

  “How much help did he have fading?” A.J. asked.

  “About a quart,” Wormy admitted. He looked as if he was in pain. A.J. sighed. He had apparently wanted this day for Eugene more than Eugene had desired it for himself. He supposed he was a fool for even making the attempt.

  “Take him home, Wormy,” he said. “I don’t want his boys to see him this way.” Wormy nodded, as if he agreed. “I’ll bring you both a plate tomorrow,” A.J. continued. Wormy hung his head in disgrace. His shame was a burden upon him. A.J. patted him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault. He’s a hard man to control. You couldn’t stop him if he wanted it. Now, go on.” Wormy plodded slowly to the van, started it, and left. Eugene never moved. His last Thanksgiving was a bust despite A.J.’s best efforts, a total failure rivaling the first and final voyage of the Titanic. It was a pity.