Raymond Atkins: The Front Porch Prophet

“I’ll get the wine,” he volunteered. He was about to hoist the Chablis when he noted the arrival of Mom’s Taxi.

“I’ll be right along,” A.J. said to Truth, who had already started toward the house. The van door opened and out stepped Wormy. He walked over to A.J. Eugene appeared to be asleep in the van.

“I was just kidding when I told you to load him up and bring him anyway,” A.J. said.

“No, he was in pretty good shape when we left,” Wormy said. “He sort of faded out at the beer joint.” He shrugged.

“How much help did he have fading?” A.J. asked.

“About a quart,” Wormy admitted. He looked as if he was in pain. A.J. sighed. He had apparently wanted this day for Eugene more than Eugene had desired it for himself. He supposed he was a fool for even making the attempt.

“Take him home, Wormy,” he said. “I don’t want his boys to see him this way.” Wormy nodded, as if he agreed. “I’ll bring you both a plate tomorrow,” A.J. continued. Wormy hung his head in disgrace. His shame was a burden upon him. A.J. patted him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault. He’s a hard man to control. You couldn’t stop him if he wanted it. Now, go on.” Wormy plodded slowly to the van, started it, and left. Eugene never moved. His last Thanksgiving was a bust despite A.J.’s best efforts, a total failure rivaling the first and final voyage of the Titanic. It was a pity.

Later, A.J. sat in the parlor in his favorite chair and viewed the fruits of his labor. Some of his pleasure was diminished because of Eugene’s lapse, but it was still a good day. Family and friends were all talking, eating, and generally making merry. It was Thanksgiving at the Folly, and he had gone the extra lap to make it memorable, an observance that would be held as a standard for years to come. He broke from his reverie. Standing before him was Diane. He had not talked to her since rousing her ire earlier in the day.

“Where’s Eugene?” she asked. “Truth told me he was here awhile ago.”

“He was feeling pretty bad,” A.J. lied. “He made his regrets and went home to bed.” She considered this, and he was unsure whether she believed him or not.

“I was going to do it, you know,” she said. Her voice was sad, and she was looking him directly in the eye. “I was going to be nice.” He could sense it was important to her that he understand this.

“I know you were,” he answered. “I knew it all the time.” She sat next to him, and that was where Truth discovered them some time later, two old friends sharing the sweet sadness of daring to breathe.

“Are you okay?” she asked Diane with concern in her voice. Diane nodded.

“She’s a little low,” A.J. offered. “I think it was the lime Jell-O.” Truth bent down and pecked her cheek.

“Maybe we should go,” Truth said kindly.

“Yeah, I guess we should,” Diane answered. She stood. “I’ll go get the boys.” She looked at A.J. “Thank you,” she said, then left. Truth sat down in the chair Diane had vacated.

“What about the Finn Hall?” she asked, her tone friendly. He thought about it one last time.

“I’ll do the job,” he said, offering his hand.

“Fair enough,” she said, and they shook. “How much?” she asked.

“Not a penny more than it’s worth,” he replied. The shrewd real estate genius and the idle country boy took each other’s measure. Then she nodded.

“That sounds reasonable,” she said. Diane caught her eye from across the room, and she stood to go.

“I’ll call you Monday,” A.J. said. “My wife is tired of me being unemployed.” Truth nodded and left to rejoin Diane while A.J. sipped a taste of Doc’s good brandy and considered his new career. It could be worse, he supposed. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and took another nip. Yes, it could be worse. He noted that the afternoon was waning, and many of the guests were making ready to leave. He stood, stretched, and threw a few sticks of wood on the fire. He was standing with his back to the flames when Hoghead came up to make his farewells.

“I’ve got to go, A.J.,” he said. “But it was great. Did you get any of my meatballs?”

“They were superb, Hog,” A.J. replied. Hoghead beamed.

“How about that turkey pie?” the old cook asked, pumping for just one more compliment.

“I’ve never had better.”

A.J. maintained his post and monitored the exodus. There were handshakes given, compliments offered, and pleasantries exchanged as the guests left, each as full as a tick on a hound’s ear. Finally, everyone had departed except for Eudora and Carlisle. A.J., Maggie, and John Robert sat in the darkened parlor and watched the fire prance. They sipped the coffee that John Robert had brewed.

“Good Thanksgiving,” John Robert noted.

“Yes, it was,” agreed Maggie. A.J. nodded.

“Did you try Estelle’s lime Jell-O?” the elder Longstreet asked of no one in particular.

“Uh-uh,” said Maggie.

“I wanted to be sure there was enough for our guests,” A.J. said. John Robert chuckled.

“Well, somebody ate most of it,” he said.

“I need to check with Charnell,” A.J. observed. “We may be liable.” They sat quietly for a while. Then he yawned.

“I think you may need a nap,” Maggie offered. She looked at him. Then she looked at the crack in the ceiling.

“I think a nap may be just the thing,” he agreed. It was the perfect ending to a mostly flawless day, a Thanksgiving Day to remember.

A.J. STOOD IN THE CLEARING ON EUGENE’S MOUNTAIN and warmed his hands at the fire. It was a wintry day, New Year’s Day, and arctic air scoured the mountain. His breath steamed in the lengthening shadows as he inched closer to the blaze. Rufus sat next to him but offered no belligerence, an oddity over and above the general dementia of the day. This passivity was just as well, since A.J. was unarmed. The venerable Louisville Slugger was accidental fuel for the flames before him, a bad way for a fine piece of ash to go. The small inferno sizzled and popped, mingling orange, yellow, and blue. Somber smoke drifted skyward.

He shuddered and took a small sip from the bottle he had brought for Eugene. The spirit burned all the way down, amber solace for a bleak day. He sighed and squatted, forearms resting on thighs in the manner of old men whittling. He held up the bottle in salute before sitting back cross-legged on the hard-packed dirt.

“Well,” he said quietly to Eugene, who did not answer, being otherwise occupied burning up in the cabin. It had been a long and tiring outing, and A.J. was beset with weariness. But the vigil was over, and Eugene’s time of travail was past. He had cruised the tributary, had caught the big cable car. He was now up close and personal with whatever awaited the departed.

A.J.’s mind traipsed back to the day after Thanksgiving, when he had brought a movable feast to the woebegone boys in the clearing-turkey and ham, dressing, boiled carrots, green beans, ajar of gravy, two pies, the remainder of the lime Jell-O for color, some Swedish meatballs, and one of Eugene’s absolute favorites, deviled eggs. Eugene was sitting in the clearing in the La-Z-Boy warming his toes at the fire when A.J. arrived. He looked rough.

“If that’s food, I don’t want any,” he said, gesturing at the plate. A.J. removed the foil wrapper and carefully selected a deviled egg. He popped it whole into his mouth and savored the morsel before speaking.

“I brought the dinner for Wormy,” he said as he placed the plate of eggs in Eugene’s lap. “I brought these for you.” Eugene hesitated a moment before choosing one of his own.