Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“John Robert, have you seen this list of pallbearers?” A.J. asked.

“No.”

“I’m going to need a court order and a backhoe to get four of them. The fifth is down at Raymond Poteet’s right now, and not for the barbecue. The sixth is Doc Miller.” They both grimaced.

“We’ll make Doc an honorary pallbearer,” said John Robert. “Do you think you can line some folks up to do the carrying?”

“Yeah, John Robert, I’m sure I can.” So the horsepower for Granmama’s trip down that last mile was supplied by a collection of willing volunteers. A.J.’s only problem was in selecting only six out of the large number of applicants for the positions. Eugene was the first to raise his hand.

“I’d like to be in on the deal,” he said. “She was a good old girl.”

When it came time to lay the corpse, Raymond Poteet brought her out to the farm and arranged her in the parlor. She was up on two sawhorses, as requested, surrounded by flowers, favorite mementos, and pictures from her life.

“I haven’t done one like this in twenty years,” Raymond said, admiring his handiwork. He was decked out in his best funeral suit, somber, black, and respectful. He had arranged and rearranged until everything was just so. “This is a slice of history,” he said to A.J. and John Robert. “There won’t be any more like this, done in the old way.” John Robert raised his eyebrow, and A.J. knew it was time to send Raymond back to the Fun Home. He ushered the undertaker out to the yard, and they stood by the long black Cadillac hearse. A.J. brought up the subject of payment.

“You’ve done a fine job, Raymond,” A.J. said, shaking his hand. “Get the bill totaled and I’ll be down in a couple of days to settle up.” Not surprisingly, Raymond already had a figure in mind. He had indeed done a fine job, but business was business, and he wasn’t an undertaker solely because he liked to be around dead people. But when he related the sum for the preparations, A.J. was confused. “That sounds a little low, Raymond,” he said.

“I’m doing your granmama at cost,” Raymond said simply. “She was a fine woman.”

A.J. had to blink a tear. Raymond was a cheapskate from a long line of excessively frugal people. As such, money was naturally very important to him. The only other person ever to receive “at cost” service was his own mother, a fact verified by Charnell Jackson, who had handled the estate. The honor of the gesture was not wasted on A.J., and he suspected that even Granmama might have approved, although she had not always been charitable when it came to the subject of Raymond Poteet. She had once observed that the only part of dying she really dreaded was that Raymond Poteet would see her unclothed. That part, at least, was over, and since she hadn’t rolled over, maybe it hadn’t been as bad as she had thought it would be. A.J. thanked Raymond again and sent him on his way. Then he went back inside to sit with John Robert, Maggie, Eugene, and with Granmama. Emily Charlotte was staying with Carson McCullers, one of Maggie’s sisters, and was due to be dropped off when Carson came to pay her respects.

The preacher arrived, a young theologian by the name of the Reverend Doctor Jensen McCarthy. A.J. liked the man who had ministered to his granmama’s spiritual needs for the last six or seven years, even if he did appear to be around fourteen years old. His deceased predecessor had been a crusty old so-and-so, and A.J. had always figured his ascension had depended heavily on whether God had been grading on the curve that day. But the Reverend Doctor seemed sincere and honest, qualities that washed a multitude of sins, even in a preacher. Still, A.J. was uneasy. He supposed it was the close proximity of John Robert to anything pertaining to the Almighty.

The Reverend McCarthy expressed his condolences and spoke in complimentary tones on the subject of his departed parishioner.

The trouble began at the call to pray when he noticed all heads had bowed but John Robert’s. A more seasoned veteran in local affairs would have let it pass, but the Reverend Doctor decided to gently lead John Robert to prayer. In his defense, he could not help himself. It was what they had taught him to do at preacher’s school, and he truly felt it was his mission to help John Robert. A.J. was sitting with head bowed and eyes closed, so it was a surprise to him when Jensen McCarthy spoke.

“John Robert, at times like these it is a comfort to know the Lord,” he said, his tone reasonable and compassionate. “Come. Pray with me.” He held out his hand to the elder Longstreet. The room held no sound. A.J. looked at the Reverend Doctor with respect, amazed at the obvious level of commitment and belief shown by his actions. A.J. knew it would do him no good, but Jensen certainly seemed to have the courage of his convictions, a rarity worthy of note. After a long silence, John Robert spoke.

“Reverend, Mama thought a lot of you, and you seem to be a well-meaning man. It is not my place to interfere with what you need to do. In her instructions, she said you knew all the arrangements. I leave all that to you. Please take care of your business.” John Robert rose and began to depart.

“You need to know God,” said Jenson McCarthy quietly and sincerely to John Robert’s retreating back.

“I know Him,” came the reply. “I just don’t care for His company.” The screen door squeaked as John Robert left. After an uncomfortable silence, the Reverend Doctor turned to A.J. He looked pained and sad.

The remainder of the visit was anti-climatic. Reverend McCarthy led them in prayer, and the invocation seemed to restore him somewhat, but he was still not quite himself. A.J. wanted to tell him to not take it so hard, that it was impossible for a mere mortal to put John Robert on his knees. But the opportunity did not present itself, and A.J. did not press. They briefly discussed the arrangements for the following day over a cup of coffee.

“A.J., I apologize,” Jensen McCarthy said on his way out. “I picked a poor time to try to convert an unbeliever. I owe an apology to John Robert.” He spoke in a subdued tone. A.J. thought that Jensen looked like he could use a couple of belts, but it was impolite to offer. For that matter, he could have used a swallow himself.

“Don’t worry about it, Reverend. We all know that John Robert has his ways, and Granmama knew it, too.” A.J. paused. “You’re wrong about one thing, though. He’s not an unbeliever.” John Robert’s hatred was sustained by his belief. A.J. was surprised the Reverend Doctor had not understood. He seemed sharper than that.

“That went well,” he said to Maggie after the preacher had gone.

“I thought so,” she said, smiling ruefully.

“Next time you get married, maybe you ought to shoot for normal people.”

“Maybe,” she replied, coming over and holding him. They were still for a while, holding one another while Granmama slept the long sleep.

“This is too weird for me,” said A.J. “Do you know I don’t even feel sad? I don’t feel anything. I’m just as screwed up as John Robert.”

“You’re sad,” she said with concern in her voice. “I can tell.” She held him a little longer.

The ritual that followed resembled an Irish wake, although the only Irish present were third and fourth generation, and no consumption of alcohol was evident except for the occasional nip Eugene secured in the yard. Friends and neighbors began to drop by to express their regard, and by dark it was standing room only. Food was brought by all of the female mourners, and the kitchen and dining room were filled to capacity with hams, fried chicken, potato salad, and an uncountable array of side dishes, pies, and cakes. Everyone commented on how good Granmama looked, which A.J. considered nonsense, because she was dead. But the observations were well meant, and there isn’t all that much that could be said about a dead body. Granmama had covered the subject at length in her final instructions, and A.J. smiled when he remembered her words on the notebook paper: