Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

A.J. felt a little better. In one fell swoop, he had dispensed with the problems of what to do with Wormy, Bird Egg, and the beer joint. He looked at his watch. The day was long into afternoon, and he needed to be going. He stood and clapped Wormy on the shoulder. They walked out to the bonfire. Eugene stirred, and it seemed he might awaken. Then he settled into a deeper doze.

“I think he’s out for a while,” Wormy said.

“If he’s still asleep Thursday, he’ll be easy to load,” A.J. observed. Wormy nodded. Apparently he hadn’t thought of it. A.J. exited the clearing. He could see Wormy standing by the bonfire looking to be deep in thought, perhaps on the subject of the load out if Eugene did not awaken. A.J. knew he would ponder the problem until he had worried a solution.

That night, he sat with Maggie at the kitchen table and talked about the Finn Hall. The house was filled with the aromas of holiday baking, and the three pies currently in the oven-one pumpkin and two cherry-were adding to the already mouthwatering composite of smells. Maggie and Eudora had baked themselves haggard, and their offerings were stacked casually throughout the kitchen. Eudora’s new husband, Carlisle, had not contributed to the ovenfest. But he had grown weary, nonetheless, while reclining on the sofa watching bad movies and eating cheese puffs. So he and Eudora had retired early, ostensibly to sleep.

“Sleeping, my foot,” said A.J., as they heard a crash from upstairs. John Robert and the children were gone to the drive-in, so unless there was a large badger wandering the second floor, he knew what was up.

“Hush,” Maggie said. “They’re newlyweds.” They heard a yell.

“Damn,” A.J. said.

“Don’t talk about it. That’s my sister up there.” They heard one more yell, a loud one, and then it grew quiet.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a cigarette,” A.J. said.

“Quit it,” she said.

“I’m going to have to get with Carlisle tomorrow and get a few pointers,” he continued.

“I hate to break it to you,” Maggie said, “but Carlisle was the one making all the noise.”

“All right,” A.J. said. “You go, Eudora.” This was getting better all the time.

“But feel free to get with Carlisle on those pointers,” Maggie added. She got up and removed the pumpkin pie from the oven. The scent of nutmeg wafted across the room. “A few more minutes on the cherry pies and we’ll be done,” she said as she regained her seat. A.J. started back in on the subject of the Finn Hall.

“I just don’t know about Truth,” he said. “She seems human now, but what if she reverts?”

“Then you quit,” Maggie replied. She looked at him and continued. “But I have to tell you that no one besides you seems to have much of a problem with her.”

“So you’re saying it’s me?” he asked incredulously.

“Some of it is you,” she confirmed. “If you keep your ego reeled in, you two can get along. I think you really want the job.”

“I do,” he said.

“So do it,” she said. “Truth is very mellow these days. She’s in love.”

“With Diane?”

“With Diane.”

“I can’t believe you invited Truth over for Thanksgiving,” he said.

“I was simply being polite,” she said absently, checking her pies. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is Diane and Eugene and Diane’s girlfriend all sitting at the same table. Eugene will slit his own throat.”

“You fret too much,” she replied, pulling the cherry pies out of the oven. Their aroma was heart-warming.

“If they kill each other, I’m not burying them,” A.J. stated emphatically. It had been bad enough with Plug.

“Let’s go to bed,” was Maggie’s reply as she turned off the light. She patted his head when she walked by, obviously not gravely concerned over the upcoming Thanksgiving Day Massacre. He stood and left the darkened kitchen, heading for a nod.

The big day finally arrived, and A.J. was up before dawn but not before John Robert. When he arrived downstairs, his father was outside stoking his smoker with seasoned hickory. He had decided at the last minute to add a couple of smoked pork loins to the menu, just to be on the safe side. It was a chilly morning, and A.J. could see John Robert’s breath rise in steamy puffs as he closed the firebox door and began to walk toward the house. He noticed a small limp on the older man, a little hitch in the get-along he had never seen before. John Robert stepped onto the porch and entered the kitchen.

“Just about ready to smoke these loins,” John Robert said as he removed the meat from the refrigerator.

“I saw you limping,” A.J. said. “Did you step on a nail?”

“No, I’m just a little stiff on the cold mornings these days.” John Robert carried his roasts in a pan. “I’ll be back,” he said as he backed out the door.

A.J. watched his father gimp across the yard. Because of Eugene, issues of mortality were on his mind, and the sight of John Robert shuffling to the smoker saddened him, but he shook off the moment. He had a turkey to roast and a house full of people circling, ready to land. The larger meanings of life and the absolute futility of it all would have to wait until he had more time.

Thanksgiving Day at the Folly was not a fixed event. Rather, it was a continuum through which the various participants flowed, each bringing according to means and taking according to need. The first to arrive were Eudora and Carlisle, who had come two days earlier and intended to remain for the week. The next to arrive were the Alexanders-Carson McCullers; her husband, Karl; and their two boys, John Steinbeck and William Faulkner. He liked Maggie’s younger sister and her husband, and the boys were good lads, although John was underrated by his peers, and it was often difficult to place William in time. They arrived around nine o’clock, bearing the makings of the Thanksgiving breakfast-country ham to fry, sausage balls to bake, and enough eggs to stock a henhouse. The biscuits would be conjured by John Robert. Hugs and greetings were exchanged, and the boys ran off in search of their cousins.

“Stay out of the guest room,” A.J. hollered at their retreating backs.

“What’s going on up there?” Karl asked. He was a quiet, slow-talking man.

“Eudora and Carlisle are taking a nap,” A.J. replied as he sliced the salty, cured ham.

“Taking a nap at nine in the morning?” Carson queried.

“Never mind,” advised Maggie, cracking eggs into a large green bowl.

Next in was the Smith family: Maggie’s sister, Agatha Christie, and her husband, John, as well as their children, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Madeline L’Engel.

“Uncle A.J.!” Ray yelled as he grabbed a leg and held tight. He was a sweet child but a loud one. “Are we having turkey?”

“No, baby, there was a problem with the turkey,” A.J. said as he tousled the boy’s hair. “Rogues from Texas broke in last night and got it.” Ray looked concerned. “Don’t worry, though,” A.J. continued. “We’ve got plenty of hot dogs.” The boy looked askance for a moment. Then he grinned and ran out of the room. He knew well the ways of his uncle.

Carlisle wandered in looking pale and drawn. He appeared to be having trouble concentrating. A.J. poured him a glass of orange juice and handed him a jelly biscuit. There was no use in letting him get poorly.

Mary Shelley Hensley and her husband, Gary, arrived around noon, accompanied by the matriarch and patriarch of the Callahan clan, Emmett and Jane Austen. The Hensleys didn’t have any children and intended to keep it that way. A.J. considered childlessness an abnormal condition, but to each his own. Gary and Mary were nice people despite their decision to not breed, and they were quite well-to-do, a condition easier to achieve in the absence of progeny.