Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“What makes you say that?” he asked defensively.

“I saw those little chef’s hats you bought to go on the ends of the turkey legs,” she replied. “I also found the family’s Pilgrim costumes-which I, incidentally, refuse to wear-hidden in the sewing room.”

“Oh.”

“It looks to me like everything is prepared,” she continued. “You and John Robert have done a wonderful job. Take the day off. Go see Eugene. You haven’t been up there in a couple of days. Check on him, and renew his invitation for dinner. Ask Wormy to come, too.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he began. “I have some baking to do, and-”

“I’ll do the baking,” Maggie interrupted. “Eudora and Carlisle will be in from Atlanta later today, and she’ll want to help. Now go. Pick up some wine.” She pecked his cheek and shoved him out the kitchen door.

He took a slow drive through town before heading up to Eugene’s. In truth, there was very little left to do, and he was glad for the day off. Obsession is hard work and can only be performed at full speed for short periods of time. It was early in the day, and he stopped at the Judge Not That Ye Be Not Breakfast Anytime Drive-In for a bite. He sat down at the empty counter hearing the clatter in the kitchen as Hoghead prepared the lunch special. A.J. hoped it was chili-mac.

“What’s for lunch?” he hollered. Through the round window in the swinging door, he could see Hog slam down a large baking pan.

“A.J., how are you doing?” Hoghead asked breathlessly as he whisked through the door. “I didn’t hear you come in. We’re having turkey pie.” Turkey pie. A.J. didn’t really care for the turkey pie at the drive-in. He had viewed its preparation on one occasion and couldn’t get past the fact that the turkey had come in a large can marked Turkey, One.

“How about a cheeseburger?” A.J. asked.

“Comin’ right up,” Hoghead huffed. A.J. watched as the old cook worked the grill. He was a maestro at the short order, his moves graceful yet economical. The preparation of food was Hoghead’s dance, his Sistine Ceiling. In a little more than no time at all, the steaming plate was before A.J. Hog scooped out a bowl of turkey pie for himself and sat down next to his customer. They ate their first few bites in a shared, comfortable silence.

“Are you still bringing your Swedish meatballs?” A.J. asked. He had requested the restaurateur to bring his famous appetizer to the Thanksgiving feast. Hoghead claimed to have obtained the recipe from a genuine Swedish girl while on shore leave in Hong Kong back in ’53. No one knew why a Swedish meatball chef was with Hoghead in Hong Kong in 1953, but the tidbits were tasty, and A.J. thought it best not to pry.

“They are soaking in the sauce while we speak,” Hoghead said proudly. He blew on a spoonful of the turkey pie. A.J. figured the hotter the better, in case the Turkey, One, had been in the can too long. Idly, he wondered if there were any cans in the back marked Meatballs, Swedish. He hoped not, but seldom was anything as it seemed. He finished his burger and was sipping his coffee when the bell at the front door tinkled. In walked Truth Hannassey. She clipped across the diner and sat on the stool next to A.J. Then she looked at him and smiled. Hoghead jumped up and cleared his plate.

“Yes, ma’am. What can I get you?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied pleasantly. “What’s good?”

“Try the turkey pie,” A.J. advised her. “It’s one of Hoghead’s specialties.” Hoghead beamed. He loved to hear his efforts applauded.

“Turkey pie sounds good. And maybe a glass of tea?” Hoghead set to. “I need to talk to you,” she said to A.J. “Would you mind if we sat at a booth? My skirt is a little short for this stool.” A.J. had, in spite of himself, noticed that it was. The glance had been instinctive, an involuntary reaction involving the optical nerve that runs from the eyes to the penis without making any stops at the brain.

“Sure, we can move,” A.J. replied. His curiosity was piqued. She was being awfully nice. They moved to a booth and sat down opposite each other. She folded her hands and made eye contact.

“I have purchased the old Finn Hall on the Alabama side of the mountain,” she said. He was familiar with the property. It was a huge and stately old wreck-opulent in its day-that had been quietly rotting away on the side of Lookout Mountain for many years. It was built before the turn of the century by a group of Finnish people who had made fortunes in the lumber industry of the period. Thus it was named the Finn Hall, and it was where they all gathered together to socialize. As a group of people they did quite well, due to the combination of big, cheap logs to harvest and big, cheap Alabamians to harvest them with.

“I know the Finn Hall,” he said. The mantle in his parlor had come from there on a liberal lend-lease deal involving a crowbar, his truck, and a dark night. “It was the fanciest building ever nailed up around here, that’s for sure.”

“It will be that way again,” she said, and he could hear the excitement in her voice. “I am going to turn it into another Biltmore Estates. It will be beautiful.” She looked at him, and he knew he was seeing a piece of her dream. But he still didn’t know what she wanted. Hoghead whisked up with a platter laden with turkey pie, cranberry sauce, glazed yams, and hot yeast rolls. A piece of garnish completed the presentation. He had reached down deep.

“Well, good luck with it,” A.J. said, referring to the Finn Hall and not the turkey pie. “As long as you’ve got the money and the time, you can make it magnificent.”

“I’ve got the money,” she assured him. She took a petite bite of turkey pie. “What I would like to know is, do you have the time?”

The question surprised A.J. He watched as she buttered a roll. Strangely, the idea of working on the Finn Hall held some appeal for him. He had actually once sketched out some plans for the old hall, some ideas he would like to try. He knew in his heart he could make that building his masterpiece. But he had some concerns with regard to the woman across the table. He and Truth had a little history behind them, some battered baggage sitting by the tracks.

“You want me to restore the Finn Hall?”

“Yes,” she replied simply. She was really warming up to the plate before her.

“Why me?” he asked, a reasonable question given their record. “You must know all sorts of high-powered construction types. And you and I have not always seen eye to eye.”

“This is not construction,” she stated emphatically. “This is art. I have seen what you did with your house. Maggie showed me all of your before-and-after pictures. I want that same eye for detail and careful workmanship on this job.”

“Did Maggie suggest we talk about this?” he asked.

“No, she didn’t,” Truth responded. “She liked it when she heard it, but it was my idea. She told me you’ve considered going into this type of work before. You’re the one I want.” She finished her pitch and her lunch, and she sat there silently, sipping her tea. He was in a quandary. He wanted to do it, but he wasn’t sure about working for Truth. And money had not been discussed, but that could come later if he decided to do the job.

“Let me think about it a couple of days,” he said. He wanted to talk to Maggie and see what she really thought. Also, he thought he might ride out to the Finn Hall. It had been a while since his last look, and that peek had been after nightfall.

“That’s fair,” she said, holding out her hand for a shake. “We can talk more about it Thursday.” She stood, left a generous tip, and walked to the counter to settle her check. A.J. was lingering back at Thursday. Was she coming Thursday? Maggie must have invited her. As he tuned back in, he heard Truth finishing a statement.