The Front Porch Prophet (26 page)

“I’d be happy to, but no can do,” he replied. “My helicopter is out of action since the crazy guy shot it down.”

“What crazy guy?” asked Slim.

“Never mind,” A.J. interjected.

The committee by the log pile adjourned with no clear consensus. Truth exited the scene after first being cited by Slim on a zoning violation for owning a structure too close to the right-of-way. Wormy received a ticket for illegal parking before riding to the jail to borrow the phone and check in. He was terminated by his superior, a former Army colonel called Maniac Monroe. This was a term of endearment imposed on him by the relatively small number of survivors of his various commands. Colonel Maniac had no patience with extenuating circumstances, bad luck, or the quiet of peacetime. He believed that heads and excrement should both roll downhill, away from colonels and others in charge.

Back at the flattening, A.J. began to disentangle animal from vegetable and mineral. He was about through when he heard a shrill whistle coming from the Folly. In addition to being stellar women named after famous authors, the Callahan girls all excelled at the fine art of whistling for effect, and Maggie was the most proficient of the lot. When she placed her two pinkies on her lower lip and blew, the resulting sound demanded respect.

A.J. answered his summons. He entered the kitchen and saw Estelle drinking tea at the table. She had gathered her dignity and was handling her bereavement well. He watched as she poured about a tablespoonful of tea into one of the exquisite Nortake cups that Maggie brought out on solemn occasions. A.J. called them the Death Cups. Then Estelle poured about a slug and a half of brandy in with her spot of tea. She tossed the mixture back in one quick flick, shuddered, and began preparing the next installment. A.J. eased up close to his wife.

“Why don’t you just heat up the brandy bottle and put the tea away?” he whispered. He received another bump in the ribs to remind him to be nice. Estelle gulped another one down before speaking.

“A.J., I can’t go with you to bury Plug,” she said with a quaver. “I just couldn’t stand it.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll put him in deep, so a possum can’t get to him.” A.J. could not help it. He was well meaning but blithering when it came to bereaved women. This time, thankfully, it did not seem to matter.

“I think we should bury him next to Parm,” Estelle said. She blinked a tear.

“Well, sure, Estelle. Whatever you want,” A.J. said. He did not think Parm would care. Over the years, Estelle had augmented his gravesite with a goodly number of extras—the funerary equivalent of cruise control and stereo—and A.J. felt sure the deceased had become inured to additions to his eternal home, a place A.J. called The Parm Shrine.

At the head of the mound was a statue of a Parm-like figure locked in mortal combat with a Hun-like creature, and neither appeared happy over their timeless embrace. At Parm’s feet was an eternal flame. It wasn’t actually perpetual—there were no gas lines out at the cemetery—but it was a reasonable facsimile made by A.J. out of the guts of a camp stove. Estelle lit it each year on Armistice Day, the Fourth of July, and the anniversary of Parm’s relocation to a better place. In A.J.’s opinion, a dead guy with his feet in a camp stove who had a Hun standing on his head ought not object to having a flat dog snugged in next to him. It was actually sort of the next logical step.

There was, however, a small problem; it was against the law to bury the animals with the people in Sequoyah. A.J. did not have it in him to break Estelle’s heart, so he would simply have to work it out.

“Everything I love goes away,” Estelle sobbed and nipped at her tea.

“We love you, Estelle,” Maggie said, patting her shoulder. “We love you, and we’re not going away.” Estelle nodded and sniffed, gratitude etched on her features. A.J. left. He had a dog burial to fake. He went to Estelle’s yard and finished loading the truck.

“Let’s go, Plug,” he said as they left.

His first stop was at the landfill, where he unloaded most of the porch and all of the dog. He buried poor old Plug on a slight rise overlooking some appliances. Then he tapped a little cross into the ground, a monument made of sticks and duct tape erected in memory of the best friend Estelle had left in this world.

“You were a hound,” he eulogized. “But you deserved better than this.”

He got back in the truck. His next destination was the cemetery. On his way, he stopped at Billy’s for some gasoline. Wormy was there, killing time and drinking a Coke. A.J. was surprised when Wormy threw his duffel bag into the truck.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“The graveyard,” A.J. replied. Wormy gave a thumbs-up. A.J. kind of liked the downed aviator, and he figured that Wormy would love what was coming up next. They arrived at the burial ground and drove up close to The Parm Shrine. Then they got out.

“Bring the shovel,” A.J. instructed as he grabbed the Plug-sized piece of porch he had saved. He needed to displace one Plug’s worth of dirt for the mound to look right. They walked over to the area of interment. A.J. began to dig a hole next to Parm’s grave. Wormy was busy inspecting the statuary.

“Is one of these guys buried here?” he asked, pointing at the sculptures.

“The one who looks like he’s saying
Oh,” A.J.
replied. He was down about a foot and wanted to go another.

“So who’s the other one, the one who looks like he’s about to puke?”

“That’s his mortal enemy.”

“This is cool,” Wormy stated. “I want one of these when I go. Maybe a helicopter.” He took the shovel from A.J. and began his turn. “How deep do we want to bury this wood?” he asked.

“Just a little more,” A.J. said. Wormy took out a few more shovelfuls. Then he stepped out of the hole and stood, silent and respectful. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew that he was participating in a solemn rite of some sort.

“Parm, I’m sorry about this,” A.J. said as he dropped the wood into the hole. “It’s what Estelle wants, and you know how she can be.” The breeze rustled through the fallen leaves, as if Parm were sighing in agreement.

“Is Parm the guy saying
Oh?”
Wormy asked as they filled the grave.

“He is,” said A.J., shaping the mound.

“Is that his stick we’re burying?” Wormy asked, attempting to pull together the many pieces to this puzzle.

“It’s his wife’s dog,” A.J. said, dusting off his pants. Wormy nodded, as if it all made sense, now that he knew it was the wife’s dog being committed to the ground.

“Was Parm a warrior?” Wormy asked.

“He was arguably the bravest man who ever lived,” A.J. replied, picking up his shovel and heading for the truck. Wormy stood silent and cast a salute. It was his tribute to a fallen brother-in-arms, there at The Parm Shrine, adjacent to The Tomb of the Unknown Porch.

“Where are you staying?” A.J. asked conversationally as they drove away. “I’ll drop you off.” Wormy was still a bit overcome and could not immediately reply. After a moment, he regained control.

“Not staying anywhere,” he responded. “Not doing anything.” He related the details of his loss of employment. While A.J. listened, his mind began to form a plan. Wormy seemed like a decent sort. He needed a job and a place to stay. A.J. needed some help. Eugene needed full-time attendance. What would be wrong with Wormy?

“How about riding to see a friend of mine?” A.J. asked casually. He would see how they got on.

“Great,” Wormy responded. “Let’s go see your buddy. Uh, I hate to go empty-handed, and I could use a drink, myself. Is there somewhere around here we could buy a taste?”

“I can arrange that,” A.J. said. They drove out to the county line and pulled up behind Eugene’s beer joint. It was still closed due to the stiletto in Bird Egg’s liver, but A.J. had a key. He opened the back door and invited Wormy in.

The beer joint’s effect on the pilot was profound. He wandered with his mouth slightly agape, touching various containers of alcoholic beverage. He sat silently at the blond dinette table and fingered the poker chips and the playing cards. He observed the many photos taped to the walls, pictures of young women burgeoning forth, looking come-hither at Wormy.

“This is a good place,” he observed. “Whose is it?”

“Mine,” A.J. responded. Technically, it wasn’t true, but it would be gospel soon enough. “Get what you want and put it in the truck. It’s on the house.” Wormy selected a case of beer and a half gallon of bourbon. A.J. picked up a jug for Eugene in case he was running low.

It was midday when A.J. and his passenger arrived at the foot of the mountain and began the journey up to the clearing. As he wheeled up the road, A.J. looked for signs of Rufus but saw no trace. When he rounded the last curve and entered the straightaway to the cabin, however, there sat the hound in the middle of the road. His paws were firmly planted, and his eyes were on A.J. This behavior represented a fair example of an old dog and a new trick.

“Bear in the road,” noted Wormy. He had fallen naturally into the role of spotter for the expedition. A.J. halted about ten feet from Rufus. He didn’t want to hit him—except maybe a couple of times with the bat—but the animal showed no intention of moving. He blew the horn, but there was no response. He hung his head out the window.

“Move, Rufus!” he yelled. Wormy raised his eyebrows. He seemed surprised that A.J. knew the bear. Then an extraordinary sequence of events occurred.

Rufus stood and looked over his shoulder at the road up to the cabin. Then he looked back at A.J. He barked once and headed up the track. A.J. slowly followed the dog.

“That’s a dog, not a bear,” Wormy corrected.

“That’s the one you want to be dropping porches on,” A.J. confirmed. “It’ll probably take two.”

When they reached the clearing, Eugene was not to be seen. Rufus crossed to the porch and stood patiently. A.J. parked and slid the Louisville Slugger from behind the seat. If Rufus was laying a trap, he was prepared. Wormy slid out the other door and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. He was tense as he scanned the perimeter. Old habits and old soldiers died hard.

“Don’t try anything you’ll regret,” A.J. said to the dog as he crossed the clearing. Rufus barked and looked at the door. Wormy was running a flanking movement from the right.

“Yeah, you’re Rex the Wonder Dog,” A.J. said. “But one wrong move and you’ll be out at the landfill next to Plug.” He eased up the steps to the porch. The dog barked one last time before entering the open doorway. A.J. followed, wary but concerned. His sense of foreboding was acute. Wormy materialized beside him.

The scene in the cabin was not as bad as he was expecting, but it was mean enough. Eugene lay on the unmade bed. His eyes were open, and he seemed semiconscious. He turned his head and cast an unfocused gaze on A.J. The breath rattled in his chest. A.J. moved in close. The smell of bourbon was heavy.

“I dreamed I went to the circus in my Maidenform bra,” Eugene croaked, sharing the wisdom of the ages with his visitors. He was drunk, high, and mortally ill. Everything was not going to be all right.

“That happens to me all the time,” A.J. responded absently while mulling his next move. Wormy nodded as if he, too, occasionally ran down to the big top in a frilly undergarment, perhaps an underwire for additional support. A.J.’s eyes roamed the room and alighted on the shower. He believed in the potency of a hot shower, and he stepped to the stall in the corner of the room and turned on the spigots. Once the steam began to build, he crossed to the bed and gently shook Eugene. Wormy stood at the ready.

“Wake up,” A.J. said. “It’s time to take a shower.” Eugene startled, his eyes wild. Then he seemed to grasp the situation, but his gaze lingered on Wormy.

“We’ll have to get to know each other a little better before we start showering together,” he growled. A.J. and Wormy helped him to his feet and dragged him across the room. They peeled his clothing.

“I’m afraid you won’t respect me in the morning,” Eugene complained as he was eased into the stall.

“I don’t respect you now,” A.J. intoned, delivering the universal response on cue. Eugene slumped in the shower and let the hot water work its magic.

“Is he sick?” Wormy whispered.

“He is sick,” A.J. confirmed. He dug around in Eugene’s foot-locker and came out with a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He laid the clothing over a chair and straightened the bed. Wormy rambled in the kitchen, muttering as he searched the cabinets. He turned to A.J. and spoke.

“What he needs is some coffee. I’ve got some in my pack.” A.J. nodded. A cup of coffee would be a good idea for everyone. Wormy walked out to the truck. He was followed by Rufus, and A.J. was glad they seemed to be getting along. From the shower came snatches of an old Elvis tune. A.J. pounded on the side of the stall.

“Uh, humma humma,” Eugene said as he stepped out. “Elvis has left the shower.” He was still as high as a ball-game hot dog. A.J. could not find a clean towel so Eugene dripped dry while singing sacred songs from Memphis.

“I’m freezing my dick off here,” Eugene complained.

“I wondered where it had gone,” A.J. replied conversationally as he handed Eugene his clothing.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t you worry about old Henry,” Eugene said as he propped on A.J.’s shoulder and pulled on his pants. He slipped on his shirt and continued. “If you’d bring some women up here, you’d be seeing him snap to attention.”

“I’ve been trying to line you something up,” he said. “Your face is on billboards all the way to Atlanta. I’ve had a few inquiries, but they all want more money than you have.” He handed Eugene a pair of running shoes.

“Shit. They’d be paying me!” Eugene hollered as he walked out to the porch. In the yard, Wormy was squatted in front of a camp-fire patiently waiting for the coffeepot to boil. Eugene sat in his chair and lit up a cigarette. A.J. sat next to him.

“What’s the story with Daniel Boone there?” Eugene asked.

“Just a guy I brought along to make the coffee,” A.J. responded.

“He sure is cute,” Eugene observed. Wormy poked his fire with a stick. Rufus the loyal coffee-hound sat by him, guarding him from danger.