Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“I wish he would come in,” she said. “It’s cold out there.” She smiled a blue smile. “He always was a little stubborn. Sort of like his daddy.” A.J. decided to leave that one right where it was. Perhaps he would discuss Eugene’s paternity on a day less mournful and joyless.

“Headstrong,” he agreed. He stood by her and looked out the window. Presently, Eugene stirred. “Looks like he’s waking up,” A.J. said. “I’ll go see if he wants some of that soup, or maybe some coffee.” He walked out into the yard and dragged up a chair. Eugene looked over as his brother sat, and he offered a whisper of wisdom.

“Here’s your chance,” he said. “Rufus is asleep.”

“I’ll pass,” A.J. replied. “If I can’t take him out face to face, it wouldn’t be right to sneak up from behind.” He nudged Rufus with his toe, and the big dog snarled ominously in his sleep.

“You are a noble man,” Eugene observed before knocking back a fair slug of bourbon followed by a small sip of one of his medicines. He coughed a moment before regaining control. “Rufus, on the other hand, is not. His preference is for you to never see it coming. Remember that.” A.J. nodded his appreciation for the advice, although he had not been unclear on the subject to begin with. Eugene shrunk deeper into his coat and grew motionless. Finally, just as A.J. decided he had dropped back off, Eugene spoke.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked. There was a bleakness in his voice, a timbre of defeat. It gave A.J. a chill. “Angel seems to have hidden mine again.” A.J. lit one for Eugene and tossed the rest of the pack on the cable spool.

“Well, they are bad for you,” he offered lamely. “And she is your mama.”

“I know,” Eugene said. They were quiet for a while. “What time did Angel and Jackie leave?” he asked. He seemed to be feeling particularly bad at the moment.

“I don’t know when Jackie left,” A.J. answered. “Angel is inside. She’s making you some soup.” Eugene considered this information for a moment while enjoying his borrowed cigarette. He smoked it to the nub, flipped it in the fire, and lit another.

“Angel is of the opinion that soup will cure my cancer. Every time I turn around, she’s bringing me some soup and hiding my fucking smokes.” Eugene’s voice was quiet, yet his words were harsh. A.J. didn’t know what to say. Angel’s soup wasn’t that bad, and he could always slip Eugene another carton of the Surgeon General’s bane.

“Well, she wants to help you,” he said. “But she doesn’t know what to do.”

“Like I don’t fucking know that,” Eugene snarled. He seemed to coil, as if about to strike. “But there’s not a goddamn thing that she can do. In the meantime, I don’t have time to be hunting up a damn cigarette.” A.J. knew that his brother was right. There was nothing anyone could do. Nothing at all. “I don’t want to die,” Eugene said. His voice caught, and he grew quiet.

A.J. was in a bind. He wanted to ease Eugene’s anguish and bolster his troubled spirit, but he had no tools adequate to the task. He was not trained to handle raw emotion from hopeless souls. But the fat was in the fire. Eugene was going to die, and there would be no quarter. He reached over and took Eugene’s hand. It was a totally uncharacteristic action, but it was all he could think of. At first there was no reaction, but after a moment he felt a slight returning pressure. And so they sat in silence for a long, stony time, secret brothers staring into the blaze, each with his own thoughts.

After an interval, A.J. heard a vehicle making its way up the road and Jackie’s vehicle rolled into view. Eugene removed his hand and placed it in his coat pocket. Jackie parked next to A.J.’s truck and joined the boys at the fire.

“Man, it’s cold,” he said. He blew into his hands.

“There’s some coffee in the cabin,” A.J. offered.

“And soup,” Eugene said distantly, although his voice had lost its steel edge.

“I think I’ll get us all a coffee,” Jackie said. “Coffee, Gene?” he asked his brother. Eugene nodded absently.

“That Jackie will just talk your leg off,” Eugene said after Jackie had entered the cabin. “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” He had joshed Jackie for years on his lack of vocal acumen. He washed down a little more medicine with a lot more bourbon before lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag and closed his eyes. When they reopened, they had a softer look, glazed and watery around the edges.

“The thing about morphine is this,” he expounded. “It’s great.” He looked over at A.J. “Just absolutely, fucking great. If I had known it, I would have been a junkie years ago.” They heard the door shut, and Jackie made his way over to them with three steaming Styrofoam cups.

“Here’s the Joe, boys,” he said, handing out the fragrant vessels. They all sipped appreciatively for a moment.

“Sure is cold out here,” Eugene offered in Jackie’s direction. He was as high as government spending, feeling good enough to pick at his oldest brother.

“Man,” Jackie agreed, oblivious to his brother’s wiles. He finished his coffee. “Mama’s tired,” he said to Eugene. “She says she wants to stay, but I’m going to take her home.” He looked at A.J. “Are you going to be around awhile?”

“Absolutely.” A.J. thought she needed to go home, as well. She was not a young woman, and all of those years she had lived with Johnny Mack had each counted for more, like dog years. Jackie pitched his cup on the fire and went to get his mother. Eugene and A.J. watched as the cup melted away.

“Jackie is not an environmentally sound man,” Eugene noted, as if it saddened him that his own brother was part of the problem and not the solution.

“Not like me and you, for sure,” A.J. agreed, and threw his cup on the pyre. Eugene’s followed.

“Maybe later we can spray some deodorant into the air,” Eugene suggested. Jackie and Angel made their way to the fire. She was carrying a tray.

“Eat your soup and then we’ll talk,” A.J. said quietly when they walked up. Angel placed the meal on the cable spool.

“Eugene, I made you some soup,” she said. “I want you to have some of it before it gets cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. She looked over at A.J.

“Make sure he eats,” she advised. He could hear the concern in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he echoed. She looked frail in the cold light of afternoon, tottery and infirm. She bent down and kissed Eugene on the cheek.

“I will see you tomorrow,” she told him. Then Jackie took her arm and led her to the Bronco. A.J. and Eugene watched as they left the clearing, then A.J. uncovered the soup and handed the bowl to Eugene.

“Here. Eat a bite and I’m off the hook.” Eugene complied. Then he surprised A.J. by taking two more spoonfuls before putting the broth down. He looked around on the cable spool for a moment. Then he sighed and shook his head.

“She took my cigarettes again,” Eugene said with resignation in his voice. A.J. looked, and sure enough, they were absent.

“She’s good,” he said as he walked to his truck and removed the carton he had brought.

“She’s driving me crazy,” Eugene said.

“It could be worse,” A.J. pointed out. “Estelle Chastain could be your mother.”

“There’s no call for that kind of talk,” Eugene said, shuddering. “I need a drink,” he concluded, reaching for the remnants of the sour mash on the cable spool. He drained the bottle. “I hope you brought more,” he croaked.

“I did,” A.J. assured him. “But I’m considering putting your whiskey and cigarettes up until you learn moderation.” Eugene cast him a look that would soften lead.