Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“…fine. I’ll pick it up Wednesday afternoon.” She smiled at them both when she walked to the door. They watched as she strode up the sidewalk.

“She is nice,” Hoghead observed, counting his tip. He appreciated women who ate his food and gave him money. “All the young bucks around here must be fast asleep.” He had that old if I were twenty years younger look on his face.

“It’s complicated,” A.J. told him. “Don’t torment yourself.” Truth was no Swedish meatball cook from Hong Kong, and A.J. did not want to see Hoghead get hurt.

“She loved my turkey pie, and for a little girl, she could eat, too.” This was high acclaim from Hoghead. “She ordered a big pan to bring with her to your house on Thursday.”

“No kidding,” A.J. responded. “Well, it doesn’t get much better than that.” He paid his bill, made his adieus, and headed for Eugene’s via the beer joint.

He studied on the Finn Hall idea until his arrival at the beer joint, newly reopened and staffed by a slowly convalescing Bird Egg. He had overcome the long knife stuck in his liver by Termite Nichols, but he still weakened easily and could not carry heavy loads, so Eugene had provided Wormy as an assistant. The bootlegger-in-training spent two or three hours a day with Bird Egg, loading the coolers and hauling the garbage. The two were birds of a feather. Both had been to Asian wars of their country’s choice and had survived, and every day since had been bonus time. A.J. pulled in and saw Mom’s Taxi, which meant Wormy was in residence. He parked and entered.

“A.J.!” Bird Egg exclaimed. “How in the goddamn hell have you been, boy?” The exertion of the greeting sent Bird Egg into a coughing fit.

“I’ve been fine, Bird Egg. You’re looking pretty good for an old guy with a hole in his liver.” He was lying. Bird Egg looked like aged Kansas roadkill.

“Shit,” the old man commented as he lit another Pall Mall. “It’ll take more’n Termite Nichols to put me under.” He was racked by another coughing fit.

Not much more, A.J. thought, saying, “That’s the ticket, Bird.” Wormy came in from the back carrying a couple of cases of beer. He saw A.J. and smiled.

Wormy had been a godsend. He enjoyed living up on the mountain and drinking the day away with his young ward, Eugene. But in addition to that duty, he took care of Eugene. He made sure that his patient had hot food and clean clothes. He saw that Eugene had medicine and booze, cigarettes and weapons of destruction. He kept the cabin clean and the yard neat. He helped out at the beer joint some, but he would not leave his charge for long.

“Wormy, you’re working too hard,” A.J. said. “I think you must be trying to take Bird Egg’s job away from him.” Bird was snoring on the sofa. Wormy removed the burning cigarette from the old man’s lips.

“No, I don’t want his job,” Wormy said seriously as he looked with concern in the comatose rogue’s direction. He didn’t want Bird Egg to get the wrong idea, to think he was gunning for him. Fortunately, Bird Egg was not paying strict attention to the conversation.

“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.