The Front Porch Prophet (2 page)

So it was that A.J. began his formal education. He loved the neat structure and implicit boundaries of classroom life and awaited his lessons with eagerness. He quickly and correctly learned all the material presented to him and always seemed hungry for more. He thought Mrs. Williams was a pearl and liked most of his classmates. His one problem was Hollis Battey, a bully from a long line of the same who took particular delight in harassing A.J. Hollis was seven and much bigger than A.J. The Battey clan esteemed only unemployment and alcohol above ignorance, and Hollis was in school solely because the county sheriff had insisted.

A.J. endured Hollis’s torments for the better part of a month. He did so for two reasons. The first was that John Robert had always told him fighting was to be held as a last resort. Secondly, A.J. was afraid of the brutish boy. He knew without doubt that when it came to blows, he was going to lose. So he tried avoidance, but that was tough to pull off in a class of eleven. Then he attempted accommodation, but Hollis was not to be accommodated. A.J. even tried to make friends with the Battey boy, but the novelty of having a comrade did not appeal to Hollis. Finally, A.J. turned to his father for advice.

“If he was after you, John Robert, would you fight him?” A.J. asked, perplexed by the enormity of his problem.

“No, I wouldn’t fight him,” John Robert replied. “And I’ll love you just the same whether you fight him or not.” So A.J. went on to school without a definite solution to his predicament while John Robert put on his jacket and headed for the truck. It was his intent to drive out for a chat with Jug Battey, father of Hollis and, in John Robert’s opinion, the root cause of the problem. Clara did not care for the plan.

“I’ll not have you rolling in the dirt with Jug Battey,” she firmly declared. “That man is as mean as a snake and as sorry as the day is long.” Clara disliked Jug Battey as much as any Christian woman was allowed—perhaps even a tad more—and she did not want any members of her family near him.

“I’m just going for a talk, Mama,” John Robert responded. “There won’t be any fighting.”

“What
if Jug
starts a fight?” Clara demanded. She knew there was a temper buried deep under her son’s fabled composure.

“I’ll finish it.”

While John Robert was chewing the fat with Jug, an animated discussion by all accounts, A.J. was arriving at a crossroad on the highway of life. It was recess, and Hollis had sought out A.J. and pushed him to the ground. Tears of anger welled in A.J.’s eyes. Then Hollis made an error in judgment and overplayed his hand. He told A.J. he ought to go cry to his mama, but that he didn’t even have one to cry to.

“People without mamas are bastards,” Hollis sneered. “You’re just a crybaby bastard.” A.J. had no clue this genealogical seminar was fundamentally in error, but he did know an insult when he heard one. He had had enough. He arose slowly, fists balled, and advanced on the bigger boy. He knew he could not win, but his anger made him momentarily fearless.

The combatants plowed into one another, and Hollis was surprised and a touch anxious at A.J.’s ferocity. Even so, it was only a matter of time before size became the determining factor, and soon enough A.J. found himself flat on his back with Hollis on top.

The drubbing was about to begin in earnest when a random factor presented itself. A small boy launched himself from the ring of spectators and landed on Hollis’s head and neck, where he held on for sheer survival. Hollis released A.J. to concentrate on the removal of the new assailant. With his freed fists, A.J. pummeled the Battey midsection with such dramatic result that Hollis was relieved when Mrs. Williams arrived a few moments later and ended the fracas.

At supper that evening, A.J. felt elated. He had stood up for himself even though he had been afraid. The whipping he received had not hurt as much as he thought it might, and he wore his faint shiner with pride.

John Robert’s black eye was a bit more pronounced. The talk with Jug had not gone well, its outcome inconclusive. Granmama was bustling around, slamming crockery onto the table while apologizing to the Lord on behalf of her son and grandson, stating she had done her absolute best.

It had been a day of meetings for A.J. He had met and mastered his fear. He had met John Robert as an equal, fresh from the field of battle, and they had met Granmama’s wrath in tandem. And he had met a small boy who had saved him. He had met Eugene Purdue, who was destined to be his lifelong friend.

TO THE EAST OF SEQUOYAH LIES FOX MOUNTAIN
, also known as Eugene’s Mountain in honor of its owner and sole inhabitant, Eugene Purdue. The elevation came into the possession of the Purdue family soon after the conclusion of the Great War of Northern Aggression, also called the Civil War by certain scholars and historians. Upon his return from that conflict, Eugene’s great-great-great grandfather, Clayton, acquired the tract during a game of chance with Charles Fox, the last surviving member of the Fox family. Clayton Purdue was a rascal who claimed gambling as his vocation. Charles Fox was a drunkard and a fool, inalienable rights at that time of the sons of the gentry. The game was Five Card Stud, and the betting on the final hand was heavy. When Charles Fox drew his fourth jack with his fifth card, he wagered the mountain. Clayton Purdue had a great deal of money on the whiskey barrel and was bluffing a busted royal flush. Ever the sportsman, he drew his trusty Navy Colt and called the bet with finality. The dealer and only witness, Spartan Cook, swore under oath at the inquest that Clayton had acted in self-defense when he shot Charles Fox. In return for this middling perjury he received five-hundred dollars and subsequently relocated to the Oklahoma Territories to practice law. The judge at the hearing, Clayton’s cousin Samuel, ruled that the demise of Charles Fox was lamentable but unavoidable. He then awarded the mountain to Clayton after first advising him to refrain from attempting to draw inside to a straight. Both the mountain and the Navy Colt have remained in the Purdue family to this day.

A.J. Longstreet arrived at the foot of Eugene’s Mountain after driving the dirt road that wound eight miles from the state highway. It was noon on a Saturday. He parked his old pickup under the hanging-tree near the trail that snaked up the mountain to Eugene’s cabin. The trail had once been a road, but due to a bitter family disagreement, Eugene no longer had access to his father’s bulldozer and thus was unable to keep the roadway in good repair. The falling-out had occurred when Eugene inherited the mountain from his grandfather, A.R. Purdue. The inheritance had passed over Eugene’s father and on to Eugene because of a difference of opinion regarding a choice of brides.

When Eugene’s father, Johnny Mack, returned from the Big War back in 1946, he had in tow a beautiful French woman, Angelique, and her young son, Jacques. A.R. Purdue was charmed by Angelique and took right to little Jackie—
Jacques
was a bit too European for his taste—but all hell broke loose when he discovered that both newcomers bore the
Purdue
surname. He had been under the mistaken impression Angelique was a souvenir of sorts, along the lines of a Luger or a bayonet, but prettier.

“Did you think I just walked around France till I found one I wanted?” Johnny Mack asked, amazed at his father’s crystalline stupidity.

“What about that boy?” A.R. demanded, pointing at the child like he was a sack of meal. “Is he yours?”

“He is now,” Johnny Mack replied, looking at his father with disdain.

So Johnny Mack and Angelique set up housekeeping in the face of significant opposition. A.R. continued to rant and rave and pitch a general fit over the audacity his son had exhibited by marrying a damn foreigner, and a Catholic damn foreigner at that. These ongoing tirades caused Johnny Mack’s mother to take to her bed with a case of nerves destined to last for years. The newlyweds ignored the histrionics and plowed ahead undaunted, and Johnny Mack figured that sooner or later A.R. would come the long way around to reason. He was quite surprised at the eventual reading of the will to discover the old man never had.

Regarding the relationship between Johnny Mack and his younger son, Eugene, the inheritance of the mountain was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back. Almost, but not quite. They had not gotten along for some time and took opposing views on most issues. Johnny Mack was stern and pious, and had imposed harsh discipline throughout Eugene’s formative years. Eugene, on the other hand, held nothing sacred, and he took particular delight in antagonizing his father. Still, they eventually might have struck an uneasy truce for the sake of Angel, formerly known as Angelique, whom they both loved. They might have, but the week after Eugene inherited the mountain, his cannabis harvest was found curing up in the rafters of the well house of the Hog Liver Road Primitive Baptist Church. Johnny Mack was a deacon out at the church, and the incident proved to be a religious liability to him.

“What in hell were you thinking?” Johnny Mack growled around the unlit cigar clamped in his jaw. He had given up smoking and cussing as a younger man after accepting the Almighty into his bosom, but the well house incident had caused him to backslide. “You were raised up better than this!” he continued. “W.P. is running around like a damn fool telling everyone that he has been touched by the hand of the Holy Spirit!” He was referring to W.P. Poteet, unpaid janitor and unofficial watchman at the church. W.P. had discovered Eugene’s marijuana when he went into the well house to get his lawn mower, with which he intended to touch up a few graves. The unfortunate combination of W.P.’s agricultural background, poor eyesight, and lack of mental acuity had led him to assume some local farmer was drying a cash crop of burley up in the rafters. Since he had not enjoyed a
good fresh
smoke in about forty years, he tamped his pipe and fired up. Sweet Baby Jesus had revealed Himself shortly thereafter.

“I can’t help it if W.P. is a damn fool,” Eugene had replied coolly. “And what raising I got was Angel’s doing, not yours. Before you get too holy, I know about that half gallon of bourbon you have stashed in the stove. It would be a damn shame if the brethren found out about it!” The threat was clear. He was referring to the church’s potbellied wood heater, used for warmth on cold mornings and as a liquor cabinet by Johnny Mack during more temperate weather. Johnny Mack kept the sour mash around in case of pleurisy. A cautious man, he stored an additional half gallon under the tractor seat at home and even took the occasional preventive dose to be on the safe side.

Eugene knew all of this but was overcome with emotion and had spoken rashly. In his defense, his entire harvest of homegrown had just drifted up in smoke during the Evils of Satan bonfire and picnic held at the church the day after the well house discovery. Also destroyed were two Rolling Stones albums, a
Hustler
magazine, a hula hoop, and any hope of reconciliation between Johnny Mack and his wayward, errant son. There was some fireside discussion concerning the hula hoop, and many of the less zealous parishioners voiced doubts about its inclusion. But Myrtle Ellsbury was adamant, having apparently been drawn into mortal sin by one when she was a young girl, and Rabbit Brown finally chunked the foul instrument onto the pyre so Myrtle would hush.

Myrtle has long since gone to claim her reward for vigilance, Johnny Mack eventually overcame the stigma of having a spawn of Lucifer for a son, and the following year Eugene grew more dope. But Eugene and Johnny Mack never spoke again, and the road suffered greatly as a result.

A.J. got out of his truck and stretched for a moment. Then he reached behind the seat for his old Louisville Slugger, which he would need for his long walk up to the cabin. His intent was not to play baseball. He was there because Eugene’s ex-wife, Diane, had delivered an invitation from Eugene. The bat was for snakes, of which he had a lifelong terror. And for Rufus, should the need arise.

A.J. had encountered Diane down at Billy’s Chevron, where she was pumping gas into the tank of her 1977 Ford LTD. It was long, yellow, and arguably the worst-looking vehicle south of the Mason-Dixon Line. She had taken to driving the relic after her divorce from Eugene. In the settlement, she had received child support, a small but nice house in town, and a nearly new Buick, which later turned up missing, until it was discovered at the bottom of Lake Echota by some scuba-diving Eagle Scouts from Atlanta. So Diane’s father fixed up the old LTD and gave it to her until she could see a little better.

Actually, her eyesight was fine, but her salary down at the glove mill wasn’t, and Eugene was always behind with his child support payments so Diane had to be careful with her budget. Her lawyer had twice threatened Eugene with garnishment, but these were empty gestures, since most of his income was unreported and stemmed from his brokerage of alcoholic beverages in a county where the enterprise was officially frowned upon.

Eugene’s slow payments to Diane were not the result of a problem with cash flow, since large quantities of it flowed right into the house down by the county line where he conducted business. Rather, it was to him a matter of principle to be late. He did what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. He resembled Johnny Mack in that respect but did not like to have the similarity pointed out.

Diane informed A.J. of Eugene’s request for a visit as she was finishing pumping her gas. She then cast him a questioning glance and asked if he intended to visit
the shit head,
a term of endearment she used when referring to her ex-husband. Eugene and A.J. had not seen each other for quite some time since exchanging hard words one bleak evening after Eugene accused A.J. of having the hots for Diane. This was not unusual behavior for Eugene, because he was a jealous man and Diane was an attractive woman.

To be honest, Diane and A.J. had been somewhat attracted to each other in high school, where they had once attempted to consummate their relationship. Technically speaking, both had still been virgins afterward thanks to the high state of excitement achieved by A.J. during the short foreplay period, and a rematch had never been attempted.