The Front Porch Prophet (17 page)

“No, I was kind of hoping to see her in her nightgown once more before I die,” Eugene said. “She always looked fine in her gown.” His eyes were closed, and he was slumped down in the seat. His voice held a deep weariness. “I didn’t think I ever wanted to see her again. But as soon as you mentioned going to town, I knew I wanted to talk to her.”

So A.J. drove across town and pulled up by the side of Diane’s home. He turned off the truck and waited for something to happen. When nothing did, he spoke.

“Eugene, we’re here. What now?”

“How bad do I look to you? Be honest.”

“You look pretty bad,” A.J. said, telling the truth and hating its lack of mercy.

“That’s what I figured. How about going in and telling her I need to see her? Kind of prepare her.”

A.J. sighed. He had somehow known this was going to happen. He looked at his friend and saw the sadness in his eyes.

“Sure. I’ll be right back.” He walked up to the house and rapped. At first there was no answer, but after a subsequent knock, the door opened. There stood Diane, and Eugene was right. She looked fine in her nightgown.

“A.J., what are you doing here?” she asked with confusion on her face.

“I need to talk to you. I swear it won’t take long. Can I come in?” She looked unhappy with the request. “This is important,” he said. “Please.” She considered for a moment. Then she shook her head before looking over her shoulder.

“The boys spent the night with their granddaddy,” she said quietly. “I have company. Could you come back in about an hour? We can talk all morning then, if you want to.” A.J. sighed. It was a good thing the porch was unobservable from the truck.

“I have Eugene in the truck,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour.” A look of wariness entered her eyes. “Diane, please. I wouldn’t have brought him if I didn’t think it was important.”

“Okay. One hour. I’m trusting you on this, A.J.” She closed the door, and A.J. made his way back to the truck. Eugene appeared to be asleep, but he opened his eyes when the truck door slammed.

“I couldn’t get anyone to the door,” A.J. lied. “She must be in the shower. We’ll try back in an hour or so.”

“I still have a key to this house,” Eugene said. “She looks even finer in the shower than she does in her nightgown.”

“Let’s just come back later,” A.J. said, U-turning on the spot so Eugene would not see the mystery visitor’s car parked out front. A.J.

had recognized it and was having difficulty absorbing its implications. “If I saw Diane in the shower,” he continued, “we would just have to fight again. It would look bad for me to whip a man in your condition. I’d do it, but it would look bad.”

“I can whip you with one pancreas tied behind my back,” Eugene responded. A.J. could tell he was tired and decided to swing by and see Doc Miller while they were waiting for Diane’s appointment book to clear up. He did not burden Eugene with the information, but they were going to the doctor, and that was that. Eugene looked bad and sounded worse. Predictably, he bowed up as soon as they entered Doc’s driveway.

“Hell, no,” he said.

“You come in, or I’ll bring him out. Pick it.”

“Bastard,” Eugene said, opening his door and getting out.

“Language,” A.J. said as he walked him slowly to the steps. They progressed to Doc’s door. Eugene stood there with his shoe box and grumbled while A.J. knocked. Presently, Doc answered. He was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, a T-shirt, and a pair of worn slippers. He held a cup of coffee and the door as they filed in.

“Doc, you need to take a look at Eugene,” A.J. said.

“They dress a little better down at Emory,” chided Eugene as he eyed Doc’s footwear.

“Well, go on down to Emory, or come on in the office,” said Doc testily. “My eggs are getting cold.”

Doc and Eugene went into the examining room, and A.J. sat down to wait. Minnie offered a cup of coffee, which he gratefully accepted. It had been a long night and was turning into a longer morning. To pass the time, he raised the lid of Eugene’s shoe box, which had been entrusted into his care. It was full of twenty-dollar bills banded neatly into stacks. All told, the shoe box contained fifteen thousand dollars. A.J. whistled softly and closed the lid. After about twenty minutes, Eugene and Doc came out of the office. They were arguing.

“No, Doc, I won’t do that. If it’s my time, then it’s my time.”

“Damn it, Eugene. It doesn’t have to be your time yet. We can buy you five, maybe six months.” Doc sounded exasperated.

“Fuck
five or six months,” Eugene said intensely. “What good are five or six months?”

“Eugene, if you don’t do what I say, you will die.”

“Doc, if I
do
what you say, I’ll die anyway. No offense, but I’ll pass. How much do I owe you?”

“I don’t want your money,” Doc said. “I want you to use your head.” He looked over at A.J. “You talk some sense into him.”

“He won’t listen to me,” A.J. said. “Never has.” Eugene reached for the shoe box and removed one of the stacks of twenties. He placed the cash on the table.

“I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but you can’t save me, and I’m not spending my final days wired up like a stereo. I’m going my way, and now I’m going to the truck.” Eugene walked out the door.

“What was that all about?” A.J. asked.

“Ethically speaking, I’m not supposed to discuss it with you, but what the hell. Along with about twenty other things that are going wrong, his liver is starting to fail. Or at least, that’s what I think. He needs to be in a hospital for some tests and some treatment, and he needs to stop drinking. Hell, he smells like a distillery right now.”

“He won’t do either,” said A.J. There was no use pretending.

“His time is short,” Doc said, “and he won’t lift a damn finger to prolong it.” He pointed at the money on the table. “I don’t want that.”

“You know he likes to pay his way, Doc. Keep it. Treat the widows and orphans with it.” A.J. was forming a question in his mind. “Do you know long he has?”

“I have no idea how long. We are no longer even nearly in the six-month neighborhood. In medical terms, he’s circling the drain.” Outside, they could hear the truck horn blow. Doc stepped back in his office and returned with a bottle of pills. “When his pain becomes severe, these will help. I ordered them especially for him.” Doc graced A.J. with an appraising glance. “The dosage is a little tricky, especially when mixed with alcohol. As the pain gets worse, the medication has to be increased. A little too much, and he just doesn’t wake up. Lethal but painless.” There was a long silence, a pregnant pause rife with unspoken thoughts. The truck horn blew again.

“I’ve got to go,. Doc,” A.J. said, pocketing the little pills that were guaranteed one way or another to end Eugene’s pain. He wondered what was going on in Doc’s mind, but he knew there would be no clarifications. He looked at Doc momentarily, and then walked to the truck. Eugene was petulant.

“The man just told me not to put on any long-playing records, so you stand around and shoot the shit with him for half the day. Great.”

“Sorry about that.” A.J. looked at his watch. They were in the launch window for the visit to Diane. He drove in the direction of her house. On the way, they met the vehicle driven by Diane’s companion of the previous evening. The two drivers traded glances and recognition. A.J. grunted. Life was peculiar at times.

They arrived at Diane’s, and he pulled up close and parked. Eugene had preened during the drive and looked more presentable. A.J. wanted to wait in the truck, but Eugene had other ideas. He seemed desperate for an ally, and A.J. relented. Together they walked up on the porch, and A.J. knocked. Diane answered almost immediately. She was wearing blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt. Her hair was tousled. She gasped. A.J. recalled that she had not seen Eugene for a while.

“Eugene, what’s happened to you? You look terrible!” Her hand went involuntarily to her mouth.

“I’ve been a little sick,” he said. “Can we come in?” She held the door, and Eugene stepped through, holding his shoe box. A.J. looked at his watch.

“I’ve got something important to take care of,” A.J. said. After being up all night, a cup of coffee was important. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he called over his shoulder as he cut a quick retreat. He had gotten Eugene to the water, but it was up to him to drink or drown.

A.J. drove down to the Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Spaghetti Buffet Drive-In for a cup of coffee. Most of the Saturday morning crowd was there, and word was already on the streets concerning A.J.’s realignment from employed to not. The general consensus was that A.J. had gotten the dirty end of the stick, but these things happen. There was further agreement that John McCord should be shot, but there were no volunteers and A.J. was too tired to go do it himself. Maybe later.

After an hour of pity and commiseration, he estimated he had left the Purdues alone long enough. A.J. thanked Hoghead, paid for his coffee, and exited the diner and drove slowly over to Diane’s house. He could always drive on past if things were going well, and he wanted to be nearby should gunplay erupt.

When he arrived, he saw that they were sitting on the porch swing. They seemed at ease with one another, and A.J. started to leave when Eugene waved him up to the porch. As he stepped up, he saw that Diane was softly crying. The shoe box was nowhere to be seen. Eugene arose, then bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. She stood and held him close for many heartbeats, and then slowly, almost reluctantly, she released him for all time. She turned, went inside, and quietly closed the door.

“Take me home,” Eugene said. His voice was husky and immeasurably sad. The drive to the cabin was silent. When they arrived in the clearing, Eugene got out without a word and went up on the porch. Then he turned.

“Thank you for that,” he said quietly. “I’d like to be alone now.”

“Maybe I’d better hang around a little while,” A.J. said, concerned over his friend’s state of mind.

“Don’t worry,” replied Eugene distantly. “I won’t blow my brains out. It’s not time for that. Not yet. When are you coming back?”

“I’m unemployed. I can come more often. I’ll see you tomorrow.” A.J. drove down the road. His ears strained for the sound of the gunshot, but it did not come. Eugene was correct. It was not yet time for that.

A.J. ARRIVED HOME TO AN EMPTY FOLLY. MAGGIE
and the children were due that evening from Eudora’s wedding in Atlanta, and John Robert was expected whenever he showed up. The house was quiet, a condition it did not seem comfortable with. A.J. was tired. He had endured a tedious night followed by an endless morning. Eugene’s parting with Diane had been heartbreaking and difficult to behold. Their farewells had produced in him a sadness he could not shake. Plus, he was jobless, but he found that once the initial shock had ebbed, he was not greatly concerned over this new status. It was not the first time he had been without visible means of support, and there was no guarantee it would be the last.

Ironically, A.J.’s last bout with unemployment had ended when he hired on with John McCord after he and Maggie reappeared from college. When they returned from the ivy halls, freshly scrubbed and bursting with the wisdom of the ages, Maggie landed a job as the school social worker for Cherokee County. She had shown the good sense to obtain a degree in social work, and if she worked hard and kept her nose clean, she could one day expect to command a salary on par with that drawn by Mr. Gus, the custodian at the elementary school. A.J., on the other hand, was having a hard time peddling his B.S. in Psychology to anyone for any price. He came, in time, to attribute new meanings to the initials B.S. But for all of that, he was still secretly proud of becoming a man of letters, even though it was only two.

In the interim between graduation and the delivery of Emily Charlotte about a year later, hard reality set in upon Maggie and A.J. Maggie had her low-paying job down at the school, which would become no-paying upon her commencement of maternity leave. A.J. had many irons in the fire, but his efforts to secure a permanent situation were not bearing fruit. In retrospect, he realized he should have earned a degree with more career potential, such as archaeology or astronomy. But that was water under the bridge, simply another eddy in the currents of his life.

He briefly drove a dump truck for Johnny Mack Purdue but decided he wasn’t cut out for the trade on the very day his brakes failed in a curve halfway down the Alabama side of Lookout Mountain. He was hauling twenty-five tons of gravel at the time, and the remainder of the trip down the grade was completed with authority. He resigned as soon as the truck rolled to a stop. Johnny Mack tried to rehire him, stating that anyone who could have survived that trip was a natural driver, and good boys were getting hard to find.

A.J. thanked his benefactor and sought other avenues. He worked two weeks down at the Jesus Is the Light of the Barbecue Plates Drive-In, but Hoghead was forced to apologetically let him go because he couldn’t get the coffee right. He moved on to working with John Robert out at the farm, but this resembled charity because it was, and he did not stay long. He temporarily pursued carpentry until the morning he discovered gravity’s impact on careless elevated carpenters. By this point, he was harboring thoughts of running Mr. Gus off the road so he could get his hands on that cushy janitor’s job at the school. Finally—and with a strong sense of
déjà vu
—he went to work dragging slabs down at John McCord’s sawmill. Ironically, he was almost passed over for his old job because now he was overqualified.

So A.J. knew what it was to be economically idle, and it gave him no pause in its current incarnation. Something would come up, and they would not starve in the meantime.

A sad rain fell, turning the air chill. A trace of coal smoke drifted up the valley. He donned his jacket and stepped onto the back porch for a smoke. The breeze tugged his collar. This was normally the kind of day he loved, but today it struck him as bleak. There was a hole in him that he was unequipped to fill, and he wished his family would come home. He needed their comforting presence the way the dying need the gods. He sat quietly in the porch rocker that had been Granmama’s. His mind wandered back in time to her final day. His memories were like fine crystal etchings, the remembrances delicate and fragile.