The Front Porch Prophet (24 page)

“Come on. Don’t give me that. What do you think?” There was an earnest urgency in his voice that tugged at A.J.’s heart.

“I don’t think it is such a hot idea. Why don’t I run you up to Chattanooga? We can find you some girls to urge with, as many as you want.” In previous lives this plan would have held great appeal for Eugene. A.J. had noticed, however, that standing with one foot in the grave and the other in a daub of axle grease had clarified Eugene’s thinking.

“No, my Chattanooga days are over,” he said with a trace of melancholy. “Why don’t you think it’s a good idea to see Diane again? We got along real well yesterday.”

A.J. didn’t know what to do. On one hand, he felt it would be cruel to let Eugene harbor false hope. On the other hand, illusory anticipation is better than none at all, particularly among the hopeless. A.J. was mulling the best road to travel when Eugene spoke again.

“Shit. I know what this is,” he said, hitting his head with the heel of his hand. “She’s seeing someone, right?” A.J. was inscrutable. “Right?” Eugene insisted.

“I think maybe she is,” said A.J. slowly. He wanted to be out of this discussion.

“Who is it?” Eugene asked. There was defeat in his voice. He seemed to sag almost imperceptibly, as if a slight diminution of the life force had occurred, a quickening of the sand through the hourglass.

“I don’t know who it is,” A.J. said.

“You lie.”

“Okay, I know. But it won’t do a damn bit of good to tell you. Diane divorced you, and she can see whoever she wants to. So can you. That’s the way it works.” Eugene seemed to consider this argument, to hold it to the light as if checking for flaws. Then he spoke.

“I’m just curious,” he said petulantly.

“Bull. You’re just wondering who to go shoot, and you’re not getting anything from me.” He knew Eugene and his willful ways. And as much as he disliked Truth Hannassey, she didn’t deserve being shot. Not fatally, anyway.

“Just tell me if I know who it is,” Eugene obsessed. The subject held morbid fascination for him.

“You know the person,” A.J. said. “Now, let it go.” They fell silent. It seemed that the limited possibilities of the conversation had been exhausted. A.J. was glad to be moving to higher ground.

“Did you ever sleep with Diane?” Eugene asked. A.J. looked at him.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he asked. Eugene was slumped in the chair with his eyes closed. He presented a pitiful picture, unkempt and seedy.

“I don’t know,” Eugene said. “It just sort of popped out. I am curious, though. Did you?”

“Sleep? No, no sleeping,” A.J. said enigmatically. The question really peeved him.

“You know what I mean,” Eugene said. His eyes were still closed, and there was scant emotion in his tone.

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. What I’m having trouble with is that you even asked me something like that.” The fact that he was only technically innocent of a premarital interlude with her was beside the point.

“Diane talks in her sleep,” Eugene stated, almost slurring the words. “One night I woke up, and she was talking to you. Apparently, you were doing a good job.” He fell silent. A.J. felt guilty, and the feeling of culpability was about the stupidest thing he had ever heard of.

“It was a dream, Eugene,” he said. “Her dream, not mine. I wasn’t really there.”

“I know. I just always felt bad that she was dreaming of you. She had a habit of comparing me to you anyway.
I wish you would spend more time with your children, like A.J. does with his,
she would say. Or,
A.J. always treats Maggie nice.
You’re a tough yardstick to be measured against.” A.J. was embarrassed for the both of them.

“You know, I’m just as screwed up as everyone else,” he said.

“Oh,
I
know what a sack of shit you are,” Eugene said. “It’s the women who are confused.”

“Just so we’re clear on that point,” A.J. said emphatically. They fell into silence. The dissonance produced by Diane’s fantasy melted away.

Presently, Eugene started to snore. A.J. attempted to rouse him but had no success, so he stepped inside and brought out a pillow. He arranged Eugene and left him to nap, then went back in the house.

Eugene’s housekeeping skills were poor, and the cabin was a shambles. A.J. decided to remedy the situation. He had time to kill, anyway, since he did not want to leave without saying good-bye. So he set to with a vengeance, and the cabin slowly became habitable again.

Later, he was resting on the porch when Eugene awoke. A small bonfire burned in the yard, fueled by the detritus from the cabin. The scent of pine oil lingered in the air, mixed with the meaty aroma of the stew A.J. was simmering. He was worn out. Cleaning the cabin had been a big job, and he had been forced to employ untraditional methods. First he had shoveled the floors. Then he had dragged the hose in through the back window and washed the place out. It was during the final phase of the project he discovered the letters. He had been straightening the chaos on Eugene’s desk—several planks laid across sawhorses—when he stumbled across a cache of correspondence. Presumably, Eugene was in the process of writing a note to nearly everyone he knew. Some of the letters were finished, sealed, and ready to mail. Others appeared to be works in progress.

He had been about to move on to the kitchen when he noticed an envelope addressed to himself. It was unsealed and contained several sheets of paper. His curiosity was aroused, and he wondered what was contained within. Uncharacteristically, he removed the contents and began to read.

A.J. stopped and sat down. He felt sick at Eugene’s portrayal of him as an executioner. Almost involuntarily, his eyes strayed back to the testament before him.

A.J. let his eyes drift to the Sequoyah Police Station sign on the wall. He remembered the twenty dollars. He had hauled hay for two long days to earn it and had always assumed that he had lost it. It had seemed to be a large amount at the time, which was why he supposed it had stuck in his mind. Eugene’s posthumous confession saddened him. He read on.

He dropped the letter like a hot rivet, then rose and shuffled into the kitchen. Without thinking, he began to peel potatoes. Then he washed and peeled some carrots that were past their prime but salvageable. He needed an onion, but there wasn’t one in residence. As he cut up the deer roast he had dislodged from the freezer, his mind moved back to the letter. Eugene made a pass at Maggie? He didn’t want it to be true, but why would a dead guy lie about something like that? And why had Maggie kept it to herself all this time? He dumped all the ingredients into a pot and placed it on the burner. Then he wandered slowly back to the desk. He was developing a dislike for letters from beyond the grave.

A.J. folded the letter neatly and placed it back in its receptacle. Then he went to the kitchen and stirred his stew. Granmama had always told him that curiosity would kill the cat, but this was extreme. He had a brother. He didn’t doubt a word of it. It felt true. He stepped out to the porch and sat down, and he was sitting there rocking quietly when his brother awoke.

“I must have dozed off,” Eugene said. He sat up straighter and fumbled with his pill bottles before swallowing an assortment of medications. “My yard seems to be on fire,” he noted.

“Yeah, while you were asleep, I decided to burn all your stuff.” Eugene looked bad. He appeared frail and drawn. A.J. wanted to talk to him, to tell him that he knew, to share brotherhood with him. He started to speak, but all that came out was, “Let’s get some food in you and put you to bed.” Eugene didn’t object, so A.J. helped him up and took him in.

“Damn,” Eugene said, looking around the cabin. “I’ll never be able to find anything now.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said A.J. “Here, eat some of this.” He dished up a small bowl of the stew and served it to Eugene, who ate a few bites, mostly broth.

“This is good,” he mumbled. “Maggie May better watch out, or some tender young thing will snatch you right up.” He put down his spoon and sagged in his chair. A.J. walked him over to the john. Then he supported him to the bed. “Took too much of the good stuff,” Eugene slurred. He crawled in and immediately fell asleep. A.J. covered him up and put a glass of water and all of the medications on the bedside table. He put the stew in the refrigerator and walked outside. Rufus eyed him closely. He pointed toward the open door.

“Go in there and keep an eye on him. I’ll be back tomorrow.” For whatever reason, the big dog went into the cabin. A.J. closed the door, picked up his bat, and walked off the porch to his truck. He had done what he could for his brother on this day, and tomorrow would bring what it brought.

THE FOLLOWING WEEK WAS PECULIAR, EVEN BY THE
liberal standard that A.J. had come to accept. His daily schedule had always revolved around his occupation. The removal of this cornerstone via sudden termination had left him with time on his hands, and idle extremities are the Devil’s workshop. So he decided to be more proactive during Eugene’s final days. He had known all along that eventually Eugene’s condition would deteriorate to a point where it would be inadvisable to leave him alone. It seemed the time had arrived.

It was late Sunday night, and they were sitting at the kitchen table. John Robert and the children were in bed, and Maggie had just been informed of her new status as Eugene’s sister-in-law.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she had said dubiously.

“Neither was I,” A.J. had agreed.

He had not yet warmed up to the idea of John Robert, philandering knave. On the rational level, he knew his father was merely a human being like everyone else. His hang-point was more visceral, and complete acceptance would take time. Maggie, too, experienced cognitive disharmony over the concept. After a little double-clutching, however, she caught another gear and proceeded to the subject of Eugene’s health.

“Will he come down so he can be taken care of?” Maggie asked.