The Front Porch Prophet (28 page)

They chatted awhile, and A.J. related the tale of Duke and the hand dryers. Eugene was appreciative of the symbolism.

“That Duke is a pistol ball,” he observed.

“Oh, that Duke,” agreed A.J. When Duke had been his responsibility, A.J. had not thought him so droll. Wormy appeared before them, looking sheepish.

“The colonel wants me to fly the helicopter out of the road,” he said. “I told him I would take it as far as Chattanooga. Then I’m coming back here.” Having spoken his piece, Wormy went back to his bird.

“You gotta admire loyalty and a sense of duty,” Eugene said.

“That Wormy is a jewel,” A.J. agreed.

“I think I’m going to fly with him. I’ve never been on a helicopter, and I’m running out of chances.”

“Bad idea,” said A.J. “The reason they need Wormy is because there’s probably no one else crazy enough to do it. The helicopter is bent in some places it shouldn’t be. I don’t think it’s going to fly too well. It may even crash.”

“Now you’re talking,” Eugene said. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. A.J. shook his head. He walked to the truck and unloaded some supplies as Eugene sauntered out to the barbecue pit to secure his travel arrangements.

In exchange for six-hundred forty dollars, Eugene was allowed to make the trip. The odd sum represented all the cash Eugene had on hand, and he had to sign a document that released Maniac from all liability for everything, everywhere, for a period of time stretching specifically from the Big Bang to the Second Coming. It was agreed that the operation would take place the following morning. Until then, a mechanic would go over the crippled ship with a fine-tooth comb. Maniac would follow Eugene and Wormy to Chattanooga in another helicopter, and if they were alive after the landing he would bring them back to Eugene’s cabin.

“Wormy, you don’t have to do this,” A.J. said as Colonel Monroe walked to the truck. “You don’t owe that man anything.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Wormy replied. “I put it in the road, and it’s up to me to fly it out.” He sounded apologetic. A.J. slugged him lightly on the shoulder. Rufus growled.

“Take care of yourself up there,” A.J. said. “And for God’s sake, don’t fly over my house.” Wormy nodded sagely.

“Because of the crazy guy, right?” he said.

“What damn crazy guy?” Eugene asked.

“Never mind,” said A.J. He turned his attention to Eugene. “If you happen to get your killing tomorrow, is there anything you want me to take care of?” He knew the arrangements thanks to the purloined letter, but he didn’t know them with authorization.

“There are a lot of things I want you to do,” said Eugene lightly. “Charnell Jackson has the scoop. Get with him.” A.J. turned to leave. “Look at it this way,” Eugene said to his retreating back. “If I get it tomorrow, it takes you off the hook. I won’t need that favor we talked about.”

“What favor?” Wormy asked.

“Never mind,” said Eugene, reaching for some squab.

A.J. did not attend the big fly-out the following day, but he did keep his family home.

“Why don’t we have to go to school today?” Emily Charlotte asked.

“So a house won’t fall on you,” came A.J.’s reply.

“Like it did on Plug?” asked Harper Lee.

“Like it did on Plug,” A.J. confirmed.

“Boy, that dog had a big penis,” J.J. observed.

“I am always amazed at what passes for conversation around this house,” Maggie said.

A.J.’s precautions were not necessary. Wormy’s number was not yet up, and the helicopter did not crash, although the landing gear fell off over Dalton, which made for an interesting landing in Chattanooga. The touch down was so dicey, in fact, that Wormy was not inclined to fly home after reaching
terra firma.
He had survived two crash landings in two days on top of several other previous occurrences, and he decided on the spot that his flying days were over.

“My mama didn’t raise no fool,” was his comment. So Eugene and Wormy caught a cab over to Car-O-Rama, and after some hard bargaining they became the proud owners of a 1988 Dodge Caravan with “Mom’s Taxi” emblazoned on the bumper sticker in front.

A.J. heard the full story the following day as he walked around Mom’s Taxi. He could understand Wormy’s decision to remain on the ground, but he was having difficulty with the choice of vehicles.

“Was this the only one they had left?” he asked. That would explain it.

“Don’t start,” Eugene said. “Wormy liked the bumper sticker.” Oddly, at that moment they heard a vehicle bouncing up the road. Visitors other than A.J. were uncommon.

“Sounds like you have company coming,” A.J. noted.

“Is my hair all right?” Eugene asked. As he spoke, Jackie Purdue’s vehicle came into view. Sitting beside him in the cab was Angel.

“Your family has come to call,” A.J. said.

“Shit,” Eugene said under his breath. “I’m not ready for this.”

“No, but Angel is,” A.J. said. He greeted Jackie, hugged Angel, and left. This was family business, and he wasn’t family. Not officially anyway.

THE THANKSGIVING SEASON HAD ALWAYS SEEMED
accelerated to A.J., a time of quickened and scarce days. This year, however, he did not have a job to pilfer his hours, so he took advantage and began his preparations early. His festive demeanor became contagious, and John Robert soon caught turkey fever. Between them, they left no detail uncovered, no stone unturned in their quest for the perfect celebration.

The guest list was discussed and refined, and they finally agreed to just invite everyone they knew. They spent a full day compiling the menu, and another day combing the countryside for the turkey, ham, and standing rib roast. Side dishes, casseroles, and desserts were delegated to members of the guest roster based upon their specialties. The exception was Estelle Chastain, whose forte was cornmeal boiled in molasses. She called the resulting gruel Indian pudding, and it was vile.

“What is this?” A.J. had asked Maggie some years back after his first and last mouthful of the substance.

“Estelle calls it Indian pudding,” Maggie said. “She says it is an authentic Pilgrim dish.” Her spoonful had stopped in midair pending the outcome of his taste.

“I think she must have used canned Indians,” A.J. said between gulps of cider. The flavor was insistent and would not leave him.

“Well, it is hard to get fresh ones this time of year,” was Maggie’s reply as she carefully laid a slice of bread over her portion. Since that time, Estelle had always been assigned a dessert.

Once the bill of fare was in order, A.J. and John Robert set their sights on the banquet hall. The Folly was scrubbed, waxed, and buffed. Curtains were washed, starched, and ironed. Windows were cleaned inside and out. Woodwork was oiled, and Granmama’s silver was polished. By a week before the event, the house was perfect.

“It’s going to be great!” A.J. told Maggie.

“You’re obsessing,” she noted, not unkindly.

“What makes you say that?” he asked defensively.

“I saw those little chef’s hats you bought to go on the ends of the turkey legs,” she replied. “I also found the family’s Pilgrim costumes—which I, incidentally, refuse to wear—hidden in the sewing room.”

“Oh.”

“It looks to me like everything is prepared,” she continued. “You and John Robert have done a wonderful job. Take the day off. Go see Eugene. You haven’t been up there in a couple of days. Check on him, and renew his invitation for dinner. Ask Wormy to come, too.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he began. “I have some baking to do, and—”

“I’ll do the baking,” Maggie interrupted. “Eudora and Carlisle will be in from Atlanta later today, and she’ll want to help. Now go. Pick up some wine.” She pecked his cheek and shoved him out the kitchen door.

He took a slow drive through town before heading up to Eugene’s. In truth, there was very little left to do, and he was glad for the day off. Obsession is hard work and can only be performed at full speed for short periods of time. It was early in the day, and he stopped at the Judge Not That Ye Be Not Breakfast Anytime Drive-In for a bite. He sat down at the empty counter hearing the clatter in the kitchen as Hoghead prepared the lunch special. A.J. hoped it was chili-mac.

“What’s for lunch?” he hollered. Through the round window in the swinging door, he could see Hog slam down a large baking pan.

“A.J., how are you doing?” Hoghead asked breathlessly as he whisked through the door. “I didn’t hear you come in. We’re having turkey pie.” Turkey pie. A.J. didn’t really care for the turkey pie at the drive-in. He had viewed its preparation on one occasion and couldn’t get past the fact that the turkey had come in a large can marked Turkey, One.

“How about a cheeseburger?” A.J. asked.

“Comin’ right up,” Hoghead huffed. A.J. watched as the old cook worked the grill. He was a maestro at the short order, his moves graceful yet economical. The preparation of food was Hoghead’s dance, his Sistine Ceiling. In a little more than no time at all, the steaming plate was before A.J. Hog scooped out a bowl of turkey pie for himself and sat down next to his customer. They ate their first few bites in a shared, comfortable silence.

“Are you still bringing your Swedish meatballs?” A.J. asked. He had requested the restaurateur to bring his famous appetizer to the Thanksgiving feast. Hoghead claimed to have obtained the recipe from a genuine Swedish girl while on shore leave in Hong Kong back in ’53. No one knew why a Swedish meatball chef was with Hoghead in Hong Kong in 1953, but the tidbits were tasty, and A.J. thought it best not to pry.

“They are soaking in the sauce while we speak,” Hoghead said proudly. He blew on a spoonful of the turkey pie. A.J. figured the hotter the better, in case the Turkey, One, had been in the can too long. Idly, he wondered if there were any cans in the back marked Meatballs, Swedish. He hoped not, but seldom was anything as it seemed. He finished his burger and was sipping his coffee when the bell at the front door tinkled. In walked Truth Hannassey. She clipped across the diner and sat on the stool next to A.J. Then she looked at him and smiled. Hoghead jumped up and cleared his plate.

“Yes, ma’am. What can I get you?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied pleasantly. “What’s good?”

“Try the turkey pie,” A.J. advised her. “It’s one of Hoghead’s specialties.” Hoghead beamed. He loved to hear his efforts applauded.

“Turkey pie sounds good. And maybe a glass of tea?” Hoghead set to. “I need to talk to you,” she said to A.J. “Would you mind if we sat at a booth? My skirt is a little short for this stool.” A.J. had, in spite of himself, noticed that it was. The glance had been instinctive, an involuntary reaction involving the optical nerve that runs from the eyes to the penis without making any stops at the brain.

“Sure, we can move,” A.J. replied. His curiosity was piqued. She was being awfully nice. They moved to a booth and sat down opposite each other. She folded her hands and made eye contact.

“I have purchased the old Finn Hall on the Alabama side of the mountain,” she said. He was familiar with the property. It was a huge and stately old wreck—opulent in its day—that had been quietly rotting away on the side of Lookout Mountain for many years. It was built before the turn of the century by a group of Finnish people who had made fortunes in the lumber industry of the period. Thus it was named the Finn Hall, and it was where they all gathered together to socialize. As a group of people they did quite well, due to the combination of big, cheap logs to harvest and big, cheap Alabamians to harvest them with.

“I know the Finn Hall,” he said. The mantle in his parlor had come from there on a liberal lend-lease deal involving a crowbar, his truck, and a dark night. “It was the fanciest building ever nailed up around here, that’s for sure.”

“It will be that way again,” she said, and he could hear the excitement in her voice. “I am going to turn it into another Biltmore Estates. It will be beautiful.” She looked at him, and he knew he was seeing a piece of her dream. But he still didn’t know what she wanted. Hoghead whisked up with a platter laden with turkey pie, cranberry sauce, glazed yams, and hot yeast rolls. A piece of garnish completed the presentation. He had reached down deep.

“Well, good luck with it,” A.J. said, referring to the Finn Hall and not the turkey pie. “As long as you’ve got the money and the time, you can make it magnificent.”

“I’ve got the money,” she assured him. She took a petite bite of turkey pie. “What I would like to know is, do you have the time?”

The question surprised A.J. He watched as she buttered a roll. Strangely, the idea of working on the Finn Hall held some appeal for him. He had actually once sketched out some plans for the old hall, some ideas he would like to try. He knew in his heart he could make that building his masterpiece. But he had some concerns with regard to the woman across the table. He and Truth had a little history behind them, some battered baggage sitting by the tracks.

“You want me to restore the Finn Hall?”

“Yes,” she replied simply. She was really warming up to the plate before her.

“Why me?” he asked, a reasonable question given their record. “You must know all sorts of high-powered construction types. And you and I have not always seen eye to eye.”

“This is not construction,” she stated emphatically. “This is art. I have seen what you did with your house. Maggie showed me all of your before-and-after pictures. I want that same eye for detail and careful workmanship on this job.”

“Did Maggie suggest we talk about this?” he asked.

“No, she didn’t,” Truth responded. “She liked it when she heard it, but it was my idea. She told me you’ve considered going into this type of work before. You’re the one I want.” She finished her pitch and her lunch, and she sat there silently, sipping her tea. He was in a quandary. He wanted to do it, but he wasn’t sure about working for Truth. And money had not been discussed, but that could come later if he decided to do the job.