Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“He gets drunk with me and cooks birds in the yard.”

“I saw the bird,” A.J. said, handing the guitar back to Eugene. “It looked like Wormy hit it with the helicopter. My advice is to go with some of the Spam I brought you.” Eugene was even a bigger fan of Spam than A.J. was. He was the only person A.J. knew who had actually baked one, just like the optimistic picture on the can.

They chatted awhile, and A.J. related the tale of Duke and the hand dryers. Eugene was appreciative of the symbolism.

“That Duke is a pistol ball,” he observed.

“Oh, that Duke,” agreed A.J. When Duke had been his responsibility, A.J. had not thought him so droll. Wormy appeared before them, looking sheepish.

“The colonel wants me to fly the helicopter out of the road,” he said. “I told him I would take it as far as Chattanooga. Then I’m coming back here.” Having spoken his piece, Wormy went back to his bird.

“You gotta admire loyalty and a sense of duty,” Eugene said.

“That Wormy is a jewel,” A.J. agreed.

“I think I’m going to fly with him. I’ve never been on a helicopter, and I’m running out of chances.”

“Bad idea,” said A.J. “The reason they need Wormy is because there’s probably no one else crazy enough to do it. The helicopter is bent in some places it shouldn’t be. I don’t think it’s going to fly too well. It may even crash.”

“Now you’re talking,” Eugene said. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. A.J. shook his head. He walked to the truck and unloaded some supplies as Eugene sauntered out to the barbecue pit to secure his travel arrangements.

In exchange for six-hundred forty dollars, Eugene was allowed to make the trip. The odd sum represented all the cash Eugene had on hand, and he had to sign a document that released Maniac from all liability for everything, everywhere, for a period of time stretching specifically from the Big Bang to the Second Coming. It was agreed that the operation would take place the following morning. Until then, a mechanic would go over the crippled ship with a fine-tooth comb. Maniac would follow Eugene and Wormy to Chattanooga in another helicopter, and if they were alive after the landing he would bring them back to Eugene’s cabin.

“Wormy, you don’t have to do this,” A.J. said as Colonel Monroe walked to the truck. “You don’t owe that man anything.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Wormy replied. “I put it in the road, and it’s up to me to fly it out.” He sounded apologetic. A.J. slugged him lightly on the shoulder. Rufus growled.

“Take care of yourself up there,” A.J. said. “And for God’s sake, don’t fly over my house.” Wormy nodded sagely.

“Because of the crazy guy, right?” he said.

“What damn crazy guy?” Eugene asked.

“Never mind,” said A.J. He turned his attention to Eugene. “If you happen to get your killing tomorrow, is there anything you want me to take care of?” He knew the arrangements thanks to the purloined letter, but he didn’t know them with authorization.

“There are a lot of things I want you to do,” said Eugene lightly. “Charnell Jackson has the scoop. Get with him.” A.J. turned to leave. “Look at it this way,” Eugene said to his retreating back. “If I get it tomorrow, it takes you off the hook. I won’t need that favor we talked about.”

“What favor?” Wormy asked.

“Never mind,” said Eugene, reaching for some squab.

A.J. did not attend the big fly-out the following day, but he did keep his family home.

“Why don’t we have to go to school today?” Emily Charlotte asked.

“So a house won’t fall on you,” came A.J.’s reply.

“Like it did on Plug?” asked Harper Lee.

“Like it did on Plug,” A.J. confirmed.

“Boy, that dog had a big penis,” J.J. observed.

“I am always amazed at what passes for conversation around this house,” Maggie said.

A.J.’s precautions were not necessary. Wormy’s number was not yet up, and the helicopter did not crash, although the landing gear fell off over Dalton, which made for an interesting landing in Chattanooga. The touch down was so dicey, in fact, that Wormy was not inclined to fly home after reaching terra firma. He had survived two crash landings in two days on top of several other previous occurrences, and he decided on the spot that his flying days were over.

“My mama didn’t raise no fool,” was his comment. So Eugene and Wormy caught a cab over to Car-O-Rama, and after some hard bargaining they became the proud owners of a 1988 Dodge Caravan with “Mom’s Taxi” emblazoned on the bumper sticker in front.

A.J. heard the full story the following day as he walked around Mom’s Taxi. He could understand Wormy’s decision to remain on the ground, but he was having difficulty with the choice of vehicles.

“Was this the only one they had left?” he asked. That would explain it.

“Don’t start,” Eugene said. “Wormy liked the bumper sticker.” Oddly, at that moment they heard a vehicle bouncing up the road. Visitors other than A.J. were uncommon.

“Sounds like you have company coming,” A.J. noted.

“Is my hair all right?” Eugene asked. As he spoke, Jackie Purdue’s vehicle came into view. Sitting beside him in the cab was Angel.

“Your family has come to call,” A.J. said.

“Shit,” Eugene said under his breath. “I’m not ready for this.”

“No, but Angel is,” A.J. said. He greeted Jackie, hugged Angel, and left. This was family business, and he wasn’t family. Not officially anyway.

THE THANKSGIVING SEASON HAD ALWAYS SEEMED accelerated to A.J., a time of quickened and scarce days. This year, however, he did not have a job to pilfer his hours, so he took advantage and began his preparations early. His festive demeanor became contagious, and John Robert soon caught turkey fever. Between them, they left no detail uncovered, no stone unturned in their quest for the perfect celebration.

The guest list was discussed and refined, and they finally agreed to just invite everyone they knew. They spent a full day compiling the menu, and another day combing the countryside for the turkey, ham, and standing rib roast. Side dishes, casseroles, and desserts were delegated to members of the guest roster based upon their specialties. The exception was Estelle Chastain, whose forte was cornmeal boiled in molasses. She called the resulting gruel Indian pudding, and it was vile.

“What is this?” A.J. had asked Maggie some years back after his first and last mouthful of the substance.

“Estelle calls it Indian pudding,” Maggie said. “She says it is an authentic Pilgrim dish.” Her spoonful had stopped in midair pending the outcome of his taste.

“I think she must have used canned Indians,” A.J. said between gulps of cider. The flavor was insistent and would not leave him.

“Well, it is hard to get fresh ones this time of year,” was Maggie’s reply as she carefully laid a slice of bread over her portion. Since that time, Estelle had always been assigned a dessert.

Once the bill of fare was in order, A.J. and John Robert set their sights on the banquet hall. The Folly was scrubbed, waxed, and buffed. Curtains were washed, starched, and ironed. Windows were cleaned inside and out. Woodwork was oiled, and Granmama’s silver was polished. By a week before the event, the house was perfect.

“It’s going to be great!” A.J. told Maggie.

“You’re obsessing,” she noted, not unkindly.