The Front Porch Prophet (7 page)

“But Emily is a girl’” Harper protested.

“Well, sure, now she’s a girl. But she was a boy when we bought her. She changed when she caught the chicken pox right after we brought her home. I looked all over for those Gypsies to get my money back, but they were long gone.”

“Really, Daddy?”

“Absolutely. I have a receipt around here somewhere.” Harper was very quiet. Then Maggie and A.J. heard the screen slam as she ran inside to discuss genealogy with her older sister. A.J. got up from the ground and dusted off. Then he offered his hand to his partner in child procurement.

“I wish you wouldn’t tell her things like that,” Maggie said as she stood beside him. “She believes every word you say.” They walked toward the house.

“I guess we had better feed them before they turn mean on us,” A.J. said. They stopped on the porch.

“Are you feeling better about Eugene?” she asked.

“A little better,” he replied. “Not great, but better. I will do what I can. It wouldn’t be decent to leave him hanging. Thank you for straightening me out.”

“I’ve been straightening you out since the night we met,” she observed. “I view it as my life’s work. I just wish it paid a little better.”

Maggie and A.J. first met fresh out of high school while working the third shift at a cotton mill famous for its denim products and its abuse of the hired help. A.J. could recall these days as clearly as if he were watching a Movietone Newsreel of his own life, complete with humorous clips, mugs for the camera, and narration by Lowell Thomas. The clarity of his memories was no doubt influenced by the altered states of awareness he achieved throughout most of the period. Unlike Eugene, he did not favor drugs; his main weakness was alcohol, and between the ages of sixteen and nineteen he had been attempting to drink himself to death before his invitation arrived to visit exciting tropical climes and get shot. Luckily for A.J. and Eugene, Richard Nixon was, at this point in history, coming to the belated conclusion that it was not possible to subdue Asiatic peoples through warfare by attrition.

A.J. was sober the night he met his future wife. He had seen Maggie around the mill previous to their first meeting and had admired from afar her obvious grace, intelligence, and poise, all of which he had inferred from the way she filled her blue jeans. He had been hoping that the chance to introduce himself would arise, and when that opportunity presented itself, he was quick to realize his time had come.

A.J. was operating his forklift on that fateful evening when he noticed Maggie engaged in a discussion with the shift supervisor, Clyde Cordele. She seemed to be agitated, but Clyde was smiling and nodding and did not seem perturbed in the least. Then Clyde reached over and touched her shoulder. A.J. walked toward the pair. As he neared their vicinity, Maggie knocked Clyde’s arm out of the way, and he again reached over and touched her shoulder. Maggie again knocked the offending arm away, then balled her fist and drew it back. It was this defiant gesture that caused A.J. to fall in love with her, or at least that’s what he always said. She cut a fine and formidable figure. A.J. was close enough by then to hear her next words, and they were eloquent.

“If you touch me again, Pillsbury,” she said, “I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.” There was cold steel in her voice and fire in her eye. All of Clyde’s employees called him
Pillsbury
due to his uncanny resemblance to the famous doughboy of the same name. It was a tribute to Clyde’s intellect that he never realized the insult and believed instead the name was a term of endearment.

There was never much doubt in anyone’s mind, excluding upper management, about the shortage of anything vaguely resembling common sense in Clyde Cordele. Any shred of confusion lingering on the subject was cleared up on the night A.J. first met Maggie. Clyde stood facing her, smiling and mulling his alternatives. He had been warned and should have retired from the field. But it is one of Nature’s immutable laws that a snake does not know how to be anything but a snake, and Clyde could not overcome his own DNA. So he reached over for one more try. He was one surprised doughboy, however, when he realized it was a different shoulder he was holding. A.J. had slipped between Maggie and Clyde at the opportune moment and was now looking into the latter’s confused eyes.

“You had better let go of my shoulder,” A.J. said. “You know how people around here talk.”

“Longstreet, you goddamn hippie,” Clyde hollered with color in his cheeks, “get your ass back on your job, and get it over there now! This ain’t none of your affair!” A.J. had been suspecting his budding career in textiles wasn’t truly important to him, so it was with no great distress that he decided to plow into Clyde like a Massey-Ferguson tractor into a new row.

“She isn’t interested,” A.J. said. “She probably has religious convictions against consorting with farm animals.” That one really got to Clyde. His face turned blood red, and his mouth began to make random movements. At that moment, he resembled the Pillsbury dough fish. Behind A.J., Maggie cleared her throat. Then she lightly tapped her uninvited hero’s shoulder.

“Uh, look, whoever you are,” she said, her soft drawl a melody of syllables to A.J.’s ears, “I appreciate that you are trying to help me, but I can take care of this. Really.” A.J.’s shoulder tingled as if burned.

“I know you can,” A.J. said, not removing his eyes from his opponent. “But let me.” He had arrived at another crossroads, but none of his possible avenues were clearly marked.

“You’re going to get yourself fired,” Maggie said in a dubious tone, but the nobility of his action was strangely appealing. White knights had all but gone the way of the passenger pigeon and the two-dollar haircut, and the novelty of meeting a real live one at 3:00 a.m. in a cotton mill was refreshing.

“He’s not going to fire me,” A.J. said, although in his heart he didn’t believe it. But the die was cast, and there would be no turning back. If it came down to unemployment before dishonor, then so be it.

“You’re fired!” Pillsbury hollered.

“I probably am,” A.J. said, “but you’re not going to be the one to do it. I want to sit down with Howard Hoyt in the morning and talk to him. If he says I’m fired, then I’m fired.” Howard Hoyt was the mill manager. He had been known upon occasion to be a fair man, but he was not obsessive about it.

“
I
said you’re fired, goddamn it, and I’m callin’ Security right now to get your ass off the property!” Clyde was panting.

“Go ahead,” A.J. responded. “Call Uncle Luke down here and let’s see who he decides to shoot.” His mother’s oldest brother had been the night shift security guard at the mill for years, which left his days free for farming. Unfortunately, A.J. was not his favorite nephew due to a boyish prank that had once cost Luke one of his barns. A.J. hoped Clyde would not call his bluff, because he sensed it could go either way upon his uncle’s arrival. Luke had really liked that barn.

Pillsbury was quiet for a moment. Then he turned abruptly and walked toward his office.

“Both of you be in Howard’s office at eight o’clock!” he hollered over his shoulder as he stomped off, as if it had been his idea all the time. A.J. felt another tap on his shoulder and turned to greet his Lady Guenivere. He intended to be humble and assure her thanks were not in order; he would have done it for anyone.

“That certainly went well,” she said. There was a tone in her voice he could not identify, one that did not sound like undying gratitude. “You came barreling in here like a wild bull to defend the honor of a total stranger, got in a fight with our boss, and got yourself fired. Probably me, too. Did I miss anything, or does that cover it?” Her manner was arch and her arms were crossed.

“I guess if you want to take the short view, then that about covers it,” A.J. replied, abashed. He wondered what was happening. This initial meeting was not going as he had hoped. He would be the first to admit his plan had been skimpy, but it had been a plan, and Pillsbury was no longer bothering her. He was hard pressed to understand why she seemed miffed. He decided he should just leave, but he could not take his eyes off of her.

She was tall with piercing green eyes that radiated intelligence. Her shoulder-length brown hair was curly and thick, and A.J. wanted nothing more out of life at that moment than to reach out and touch it. Luckily, he realized—even as smitten as he was—that this would have been a grave error given the circumstances. Her beauty was a positive energy that flowed from within. Hers was an old soul, and a fine one, and it had without question been around the wheel many times.

“It’s not that I’m locked into taking the short view,” she told A.J. “I’m just having trouble seeing the bigger picture.” She looked at him another moment, then let him off the hook. “Since we’re going to be fired together in a couple of hours, I think we should introduce ourselves,” she said. “My name is Maggie Callahan.” She was smiling as they shook hands.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, seeking the haven of civility, a time-honored tactic of Southern men when confronted with formidable women. “My name is Arthur John Longstreet,” he said, “but everybody calls me A.J. Except old Clyde. You heard what he calls me.” Maggie smiled.

“You don’t like him?” she asked.

“You must be psychic,” he said, shaking his head in admiration of her exceptional observation.

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “I should have been promoted to day shift three months ago, but he keeps holding me back.”

“He’s a real gem,” A.J. said. He looked into her eyes, and it was like looking into green eternity.

“Well,” she said, “we will deal with him in the morning. Or try to, anyway.” She shrugged. “We should get back to work, although I don’t suppose it matters much now. Thank you for trying to help me.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, and then she was gone. The sweetness of that one kiss lingered and would be with him until he was no more.

Many problems were resolved when Howard Hoyt arrived the next morning. He sat and listened to all three versions of events, and then he efficiently made short work of the whole situation. He first told Maggie she must have misunderstood Clyde’s intentions and apologized on his behalf for any unpleasantness the confusion may have caused. Then he told her that the day shift job she was seeking was not going to be filled at present, after which he sent her home with an admonishment to refrain from spreading unfounded rumors. She sat quietly through her portion of the chat, but as she stood to leave, she calmly informed Howard that she did not consider the matter resolved. Having watched her glare throughout his monologue, Howard had no doubts he would be hearing from the Callahan girl again.

After Maggie left, Howard turned to Clyde and began to chew him loud and long on the apparently related subjects of compromising positions and absolute stupidity. A.J. sat there and thought it odd that he was being given the opportunity to view the show. But he was fairly quick on the uptake, and it took only a moment to figure the score and realize which long-haired forklift driver was on the losing team. Still, he had expected it, so it did not trouble him greatly. He settled back and enjoyed the scene as Clyde was drawn and quartered by Howard Hoyt. After about thirty minutes of verbal abuse, however, even A.J. began to feel bad for Clyde. He would not have thought this possible and figured he would get over it presently.

Howard continued his tirade until his voice became hoarse. Then he sent Clyde home with instructions to return the following morning. He was now first shift supervisor so he could be watched.

Howard and A.J. sat alone in the office. Howard looked up at him over glasses that had slid down to the tip of his nose. “I let you hear that because I wanted you to know your former supervisor was dead wrong,” he said. “You risked a great deal to do the right thing.” A.J. looked at Howard, and the mill manager could not hold the gaze.

“But I’m fired, right?”

“You’re fired,” Howard agreed. He picked up a pad and pen and wrote down a name and a phone number. “This man is a friend of mine who runs the little mill over at Dogtown. Call him later today. I’ll have it arranged so you can start work tonight.”

He handed the slip of paper over to A.J., who took it because he didn’t know what else to do. It seemed Howard was going to great lengths to soften the blow, and he appreciated it, but the fact loomed large that the man who should have been axed had just been promoted to day shift. It was a poor excuse for justice, a sort of anti-justice that A.J. did not understand. He was tender in years and had not yet learned all he needed to know.

There were several postscripts to the episode. Maggie went home and over coffee told her mama, Jane Austen, of the events that had transpired. Janey was sympathetic and told her daughter not to let it worry her. She also told Maggie to be sure not to mention the problem to her father, Emmett, because they both knew how he would react. Ironically, Emmett agreed that his wife had given their daughter some sound advice. He was sitting in the next room working on an ingrown toenail with his pocketknife when he overheard the conversation. Without a word, he put his knife in his pocket, slipped on his shoe, and took a drive to the mill. Right was right and wrong was wrong, and Emmett had a history of explaining the difference between the two to people like Howard Hoyt.

Emmett Callahan had no tolerance for shades of grey, and he didn’t like anyone harrying his girls, as A.J. would find out presently when he began to court Maggie. In later years, A.J. amused himself by imagining the look that must have been on Howard Hoyt’s face when he saw Emmett filling the door frame, looking as hard as a bar of iron. The two of them conferred privately, and although neither ever spoke of the conversation, the phrase
Come back down here with my shotgun and blow away everything wearing a damn necktie
was overheard by Howard’s secretary, Mrs. Hicks.

Maggie was surprised to learn upon her arrival at work that night that the job she desired had been awarded to her. When she later discovered what had led to her promotion, however, she confronted her father in anger and told him in no uncertain terms that when she wanted his help, she would certainly ask for it. Emmett listened in silence. Women were a mystery to him.