The Front Porch Prophet (33 page)

“Is it Christmas yet?” he asked. His hand gestured at the small tree Wormy had installed in the corner. It was actually a Christmas bush, but it was the thought that counted. It was decked with an odd combination of handmade ornaments—beer cans on strings—supplied by Wormy complimented by a selection of more traditional baubles contributed by Angel. She still came daily and was due later that evening.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” A.J. said. The room reeked of illness.

“Better give me my present while you can,” Eugene whispered. It was an unadorned pronouncement of fact. A.J. stepped to the tree and returned with the bundle he had placed under it. He handed the gift to his brother. Eugene’s hands shook so badly he had to help him unwrap the offering.

“It is a fine gift,” Eugene croaked. There were tears in his eyes as he hefted the beautifully restored Navy Colt with both hands and sighted down the barrel. “I wish I could shoot it,” he said sadly.

“Have at it,” A.J. said. “I bet you ten dollars you can’t hit that wall.”

“I ought to take your money, but I don’t want to kill Wormy if he walks by.”

“Wormy’s gone to town.” A.J. reached over and steadied the big pistol. Then he cocked it. “I think you need to shoot the wall.” Eugene grinned and squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening. The pistol kicked so much in his unsteady grasp that the hole was more in the ceiling than in the wall, but it was an impressive cavity nonetheless.

“Damn, that felt good,” he said as he dropped the gun onto the bedspread. He had shot his last. “You owe me ten dollars,” he said. A.J. paid up. Eugene clutched the bill like a miser, and A.J. realized how significant his gesture had been, how satisfying it was for the dying man to take one last tenner off his brother. It was a noble gift. But the gods were not in a charitable mood that day, although it wouldn’t have cost them a dime to show a bit of mercy, so the fine moment was cut short. Eugene made a gagging noise. Then he began retching violently. He was doubled in hurt, and the severe vomiting spell caused his bowels to loosen. When it was over, he began to cry. The tears of wretchedness were pitiful to behold.

A.J. began the task of cleaning Eugene hindered by tears of his own. His task was made difficult by the obvious suffering any movement caused Eugene, and by his own notoriously weak stomach. But it had to be done, so he swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and kept to his work. Finally, mercifully, the job was over. Eugene was calmed, clean, and heavily medicated. A.J. was a mess, but life is hard and soap is cheap.

Eugene looked at A.J. His eyes were beginning to unfocus as the chemical cavalry found its way to his brain.

“I never wanted you to have to do that,” he said. His voice was clear. “I’m tired of this shit. I’m ready for it to be over.” He held his brother’s gaze until he drifted off. A.J. looked at what was left of him. It was time to fish or cut bait.

He reached suddenly and retrieved the Navy Colt. He hefted it, felt its cold, blue weight. Then he cocked it and pointed it at Eugene’s head. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and willed his finger to squeeze. The trigger moved ever so slightly, then a bit more.

His arm jerked up at the last instant when the blast erupted, and when the smoke cleared there were two holes in the cabin. He was disgusted with himself for being a coward.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his comatose brother. He dropped the Colt to the floor and sought saner latitudes. He was standing at the fire when Wormy returned. Their eyes met, Wormy nodded, and A.J. left without a word. He was quiet the remainder of the day, not because he had almost shot his brother, but rather because he had not managed the task.

But that was Christmas Eve, and it was now New Year’s Day. A.J. returned to the present and found himself in front of the smoldering remains of the cabin. The afternoon shadows had become long, and he stood close to the glowing ashes for warmth. Nothing in them was recognizable but the unmistakable shape of a gutted school bus. No sign of Eugene could be seen. The fire had done its job well in that respect. A car door slammed. He turned toward the sound and saw that Red Arnold had arrived.

Red was getting long in the tooth, but he still cut an imposing figure as he gaited slowly across the clearing. He arrived at the fire, and he and A.J. stood and warmed their hands in silence. Finally, Red spoke.

“Honey said Eugene was in there,” he said. He had turned around and was heating the Arnold hindquarters. Red’s homespun mannerisms aside, A.J. knew he was being questioned, and that the answers needed to satisfy.

“Yes.”

“Said you ran him off,” Red continued. “Told him to let it burn.” He lit a smoke and left it on his lips. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at the sky.

“He told you the truth.”

“Talked to Wormy yesterday,” Red noted. A.J. was already aware of the chat. Red had come by the beer joint for his Christmas present. “Told me that Eugene was bad. Real bad.” He turned back around and began to warm his hands again.

“Real bad,” A.J. agreed. Red flipped his cigarette into the ashes and peered long at him. Finally, the old lawman nodded slightly.

“Damn shame,” he said. “Eugene was a good boy.” A.J. had to agree. He had had his ways, but plenty of worse specimens had strolled down the long corridors of time. Red began to walk to his car. Halfway there, he stopped and turned. There was a rueful smile on his lips.

“If Slim sees that bus, he’ll be wanting to shoot somebody,” Red observed.

“He does tend to be high-strung,” A.J. allowed. “If you can keep him out of here a day or two, I’ll take care of it.” He intended to dig a pit with the dozer and fill it with the remains of the cabin and its occupant. Then he proposed to raise a large mound. It would be a funeral ceremony in the old style—about two thousand years old, in fact—but he figured it would be just odd enough to appeal to Eugene. Red nodded and climbed into his car. He U-turned and headed for the lights of the big city, leaving A.J. alone in the twilight with the ashes of his brother.

A.J. had arrived at the clearing that New Year’s morning struggling with a sense of premonition, and he had been somewhat out of kilter since blowing the hole in Eugene’s wall. As he pulled up, he saw Jackie sleeping in his truck, so he fully expected to encounter Angel when he entered the cabin.

“A.J., you look pale,” she had said with concern. “You better sit down and have some of this soup.” Death, taxes, and Angel’s soup were the three constants of life.

“Maybe just a small bowl,” he agreed, banking on its medicinal properties to clear his head.

Eugene awoke and was bathed and medicated by Angel with help from A.J. Then he went back to sleep. Wormy checked in but had to immediately leave. He was having labor difficulties down at the beer joint. Bird Egg was plastered and in the spirit of the season was attempting to give away all of the stock. He had plenty of takers.

“We really should let him go,” Wormy said. Management was coming easier all the time to the former pilot.

“We don’t pay him,” A.J. pointed out. “How can we fire him?” Wormy shrugged in the time-honored tradition of middle management and left to go keep an eye on the grizzled retainer before he literally gave away the store. Angel and Jackie departed shortly thereafter, but not before securing A.J.’s promise to remain until Wormy returned.

So he sat at Eugene’s bedside and read the
1941 Yearbook of Agriculture,
which he had removed from under one of the legs of Eugene’s kitchen table. At his feet sat Rufus, who had apparently temporarily forgotten that he hated A.J.

A.J. was rocking quietly while reading about the effects of deforestation when the trouble began. Eugene groaned and startled awake. He began to pant, and his eyes had a hunted look. A.J. twisted the top off of a vial of morphine and dosed his brother. He calmed as the medicine did its work.

“That was a bad one,” Eugene slurred. His eyes were closed.

“I know,” A.J. said with sympathy.

“…getting worse,” Eugene croaked as he drifted back off.

“I know,” A.J. said quietly, lamely.

Doc had said the pain might become unbearable before the end, and just as Doc had predicted, it was taking Eugene a while to shut down, and his pain was becoming devilishly hard to control. A.J. picked his book back up but could no longer enjoy its contents. Beside him lay Eugene, suffering mightily through his final days. He moaned and gasped, twitched and panted. A.J. could smell urine, and knew Eugene had once again lost control of his bladder. The cruelty of the situation was absolute. Nobody deserved an exit like this.

He sighed and stepped out for a cigarette. He knew what he should do, what he should have already done with the Navy Colt. He was sick at heart. He had never actually agreed to kill Eugene, but the task had fallen to him, nonetheless. He had failed in his duty on the first take, but his responsibility was not relieved. Rather, it was increased, somehow. The pact had been made somewhere along the road, and now was the time to be his brother’s keeper.

His cigarette pack was empty. As he rifled through the glove box of the truck for a fresh pack, his hand struck an object. It was the bottle of pills Doc had given him before Thanksgiving, the ones he had indicated would end Eugene’s pain. A.J. shook them out. They were small and blue. He looked at them for a long while. Here was his answer. He knew it in his heart. Doc had never mentioned them again, had acted as if he had completely forgotten them. But the old man had known what was in store, and A.J. held the contingency plan in his hand. He dropped them back into the bottle. His cigarette stretched to three while he steeled his resolve. Then he reentered the cabin.

He put on some coffee to brew. While it was warming, he dumped all of the tablets onto the countertop. He ground them fine with the handle of Eugene’s butcher knife and brushed the resultant powder into a coffee mug. The coffee boiled, and he poured the steaming liquid. Then he added two spoonfuls of sugar and set the potion aside to cool. He resumed his seat by the bed and waited for Eugene to awaken. Rufus had followed his every step.

Eugene drifted awake, and A.J. made short work of the necessary cleanup thanks to the diapers Eugene now wore. He slid him up to a semi-sitting position and gave him a cigarette. Eugene accepted it gratefully.

“How are you feeling?” A.J. asked.

“Feel great,” Eugene responded slowly. “Let’s go bowling.” His face was pinched with effort. His right eyelid drooped, and A.J. wondered if he had suffered a stroke.

“What you need is a good cup of coffee,” he said, moving to the counter. His affect was not even nearly right, but Eugene was too far gone in several senses of the word to notice. He sat back down with the cooled coffee and held the cup while Eugene took several sips.

“Your coffee really sucks today,” Eugene noted. Then his eyes closed. The cigarette fell from his fingers and dropped to the floor. His chest rose and fell a few more times. Then his breath rattled to a stop.

A.J. was surprised it had been so quick. He had thought they might chat awhile, maybe speak at last of their brotherhood. But it was not to be. He sat for a long while. He had done it, but he held no feelings or thoughts on the matter. He was a blank page, an empty vessel. It had been too terrible and too easy to do. Finally, he arose and crossed to Eugene’s desk and retrieved the unmailed letters. They were addressed and stamped, and he had every intention of mailing them. He placed them in the truck, then stepped behind the cabin and returned with the two five-gallon cans of gasoline Eugene always kept there for emergencies.

He reentered the cabin and began the business of finishing what he had started. First he cleaned Eugene, who had fouled himself when he left this world. He had to run out in the yard twice before the job was done, but he was determined Eugene was not going on to the much-touted better place in an embarrassed condition. Next, he slid Eugene’s Grateful Dead jacket onto the pitiful, bony arms. In the pockets he placed a pack of Pall Malls, a Zippo, and pictures of Diane and the boys. He cradled a bottle of Jack Daniels under Eugene’s arm and placed the grips of the Navy Colt in his lifeless left hand. Finally, he laid his hand on Eugene’s brow.

“Sorry it took so long,” he said. He lingered while he looked at Eugene’s face, ravaged but now at peace. Then he doused the cabin with ten gallons of high test and sent Eugene out in style.

A.J. emerged from this reverie and found that it was dark in the clearing. The glowing embers before him were the only remnant of the earlier makeshift crematorium. Honey and the boys had come and gone, as had Red, and only he and Rufus remained. He sighed and made for the truck. It was cold, and it was time to go. He supposed he would drive home via the beer joint and break the news to Wormy.

He stopped when he reached the truck. Something was nagging at his mind. Then he knew. He turned and looked at Rufus, formerly the hound from hell and now just another unemployed dog. He held the truck door open.

“Are you coming with me?” he asked his old nemesis. The dog looked at him a moment, then trotted over and hopped in the truck. His business in the clearing was finished as well.