The Front Porch Prophet (3 page)

“What do you suppose Eugene wants?” A.J. asked, leaning on the fender of Diane’s car. It was a calm, cool autumn day. He needed to be heading on to work but had no great urge to do so. He hated his job only slightly less than he would hate watching his children starve. He was not politically astute in the workplace, and the lack of diplomatic acumen had not had an enhancing effect on his career. He was relegated to the nether realms and occupied the position of permanent night shift supervisor at the sawmill.

“He wouldn’t say what he wanted,” Diane replied. “You know how he is. He just said to tell you that he really needed to talk to you.” She leaned up against the LTD beside A.J., sipping on a cold Coke. She was a little over five feet tall and was ten pounds to the right of slim. She was pretty, not beautiful, with the coal-black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones that were common traits in the area. The high valley was once Cherokee land, until Old Hickory himself—Andrew Jackson—had decided the proud mountain and forest tribe would be happier romping on a government reservation in the Oklahoma Territory, which was where he sent them. They left behind their names, their genes, and some of the prettiest country ever stolen by the white eyes.

“Anyway, what are you doing talking to Eugene?” A.J. asked. “Did hell freeze over?” At the divorce hearing, Diane had specified that date as the next time she would willingly lay eyes on Eugene. She had then gone out to his Jeep parked in front of the courthouse and shot out all four tires plus the spare to finalize the arrangement. The incident caused a stir, but Eugene declined to press charges and the judge admired a spirited woman, so no legalities ensued. Diane had not seen Eugene since. His intermittent child support payments arrived courtesy of the U.S. Mail, in a manner of speaking. Eugene would periodically drive down to the highway and hand over an envelope full of cash to the town’s ancient postman, Ogden Abney. Ogden would personally deliver the envelope to Diane later in the day after first removing one dollar for postage.

“No, it didn’t freeze, but I could have waited,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “The boys wanted to see him.” Diane had loved Eugene when they married, but fifteen years of life with him had laid that love in an unmarked grave. She had endured the marriage for the sake of the children until the day Eugene’s occasional verbal abuse turned physical and he slammed his fist into the wall beside her head, breaking three knuckles and creating a fairly large hole in the wall. Then he had stormed out of the house.

He had returned three days later feeling sheepish, a feeling that intensified exponentially upon his discovery of a totally empty house. Diane and the boys were gone, as was the furniture, the carpets off the floor, and the light bulbs from the fixtures. Eugene contemplated the sorry state of affairs while consuming a fifth of bourbon and arrived at the conclusion that it was no longer possible to find a good woman, one who would stick by a man. Then he burned the house down. When Diane heard the news, she was surprised to discover that she really didn’t care. Her life with Eugene was over. It had ended during the fight when she saw Eugene’s fist change trajectory ever so slightly right before it whizzed past her left ear. His gaze at that instant was lethal, as if his eyes were made of cobalt.

“How did the visit go?” A.J. asked Diane. “You didn’t shoot out his tires again, did you? I loved that.” He smiled and punched her softly on the shoulder.

“No, I didn’t have to shoot anything,” she replied. “He behaved himself all day. We rode up there last Saturday on Jackie’s horses. The boys were really excited about seeing their father.”

“I don’t
guess you
were all that excited,” A.J. commented. He looked up and noted a small flock of geese tacking across the azure sky.

“You know for a fact I didn’t want to go up there,” she replied, shrugging. “But I can’t keep the boys away from him forever. It was a strange day. He actually spoke to me a little, and he was good with the boys the whole time. They went fishing down in the canyon, and later on he showed them how to shoot. Do you remember his matched pair of shotguns? The ones he bought in Memphis? He gave one to each of the boys. Later, when we got to the bottom of the mountain, Cody handed me an envelope. He said his daddy told him to give it to me after we were down.” She looked over at A.J. “There was five thousand dollars in that envelope and a note telling me to make sure the boys had a real good Christmas.” She shook her head. Her long hair blew gently in the breeze.

“You’re sure you were at Eugene’s place?” A.J. asked. “Maybe you went up the wrong mountain.” A.J. thought it was unlikely, but so was the Big Bang, and it had certainly received its share of the press.

“No, it was him,” she replied. “I know the face. He looked bad, though, like maybe he’s been sick.” They were quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again. “I’m just not used to him acting nice. It hasn’t come up that often.”

“Maybe he’s trying to win you back,” A.J. suggested. “A girl could do worse than a nice cabin, two custom shotguns, and envelopes full of money lying around everywhere.”

“The cabin is not that nice, there are not enough envelopes in the world, and I’d end up using both shotguns on him. No thanks.” She seemed adamant.

“Well, I guess that’s your choice,” A.J. said dubiously. He shrugged. “So, what did you do all day while Eugene played with the boys?”

“I sat on the porch and read my book. Rufus sat and watched.” The book in question was Diane’s dog-eared copy of
The Happy Hooker,
a cult classic she had been reading for about fourteen years. A.J. once saw her finish the saga, shut the book for a moment, then open it back up to page one and begin again. Out of curiosity, he had also read the book, and although it contained some compelling passages, he was relieved to discover he had no compulsive urge to reread the tome for eternity.

“Rufus was there?” A.J. asked. He disliked Rufus and had heard he was dead. He was disappointed to hear it wasn’t so. “You’re lucky that dog didn’t drag off one of the horses.”

“I don’t know why you don’t like Rufus,” Diane replied, opening the car door and climbing in. “He’s really a pretty good dog.”

“Call me sensitive,” A.J. said, shutting the door for her. “I don’t like him because every time I see him he tries to kill me.” It was true. Rufus had been the scourge of the food chain up on Eugene’s Mountain for a long, long time, but the only human he ever bothered was A.J. Small children could ride the dog like a pony, but he transformed into the Hound of the Baskervilles if he ever caught A.J.’s scent.

“He
doesn’t
seem to care for your company all that much,” Diane agreed, firing up the old LTD. It chugged quietly, sending up light blue exhaust to foul the clear mountain air. “Maybe you could take him a biscuit or something,” she proposed. “You know, make friends with him.”

“I’d rather just keep on hating him,” A.J. said. “We’re both used to it, and I don’t like new things.”

Diane waved and motored off.

A.J. crossed the cracked concrete in front of the garage. He raised the lid of the old cold drink box, dropped in two quarters, and retrieved a grape Nehi that was mostly slush. He sat on the weathered bench in front of Billy’s to sip and consider. A.J. put a lot of store in fate, and as fate would have it, the bad blood with Eugene had been heavy on his mind. He had already decided prior to his encounter with Diane that a visit to his old friend was in order. It was time to bury the hatchet.

A.J. STOOD UNDER THE HANGING-TREE AT THE FOOT
of Eugene’s Mountain on the early autumn Saturday morning. It was cool, almost brisk, and the sky that could be seen through the canopy of trees was clear. He leaned the Louisville Slugger up against the hanging-tree and lit a cigarette. For whatever reason, he had decided to go see Eugene.

The hanging-tree was a huge old oak with a large limb jutting perpendicular to the trunk about twenty feet from the ground. Legend had it that two Yankees had gotten themselves hung there back during the unfortunate period of time when William Tecumseh Sherman, the Anti-Christ, was burning Georgia to the ground. A local farmer and his wife had been murdered, and two young men unlucky enough to be wearing blue and unwary enough to be sleeping away from their weapons had been apprehended by several of the local worthies and charged with the murder. The fact that both men and their regiment had been fighting sixty miles to the north at Chickamauga when the crime was committed did not alter the outcome of their trial, although a pause of several seconds occurred when the information was revealed.

The dilemma was resolved by Spartan Cook, unofficial prosecutor at the affair. He had acquired a great deal of legal expertise during his many court appearances, and even though he had always been on the receiving end of justice, he was deferred to on matters of law at the current proceedings. It was decided the two villains had no doubt murdered several farmers and their wives up in Chickamauga, and they surely would have committed the local crimes, as well, if someone had not beaten them to it. The fair and speedy trial had concluded shortly thereafter.

A.J. began his slow journey up to Eugene’s cabin. The battered but proud Louisville Slugger was his walking stick as he made his way. He moved silently through the north Georgia mountains, as quiet as a stolen kiss. It was a talent he had always had, to pass unseen and unheard through the wild places. His father attributed the knack to the trace of Cherokee blood flowing in A.J.’s veins, and a rustle and a shadow were all that marked his passage. As he reached the midpoint of his journey, he tightened his grip on the bat and swung it up on his shoulder. He was sure Rufus was already stalking him and had no doubt his perennial foe would join him presently. He listened carefully, and as he rounded the bend in the old road he heard a twig snap. He whirled and assumed the batter’s-up position. Running straight at him from behind was Rufus. Their eyes met, and they froze.

“Come on over here, boy, and get some of this,” A.J. said quietly, not taking his eyes off the hound for an instant. Rufus lowered to a crouch, teeth bared. His eyes emanated malice. Then he blinked and lowered his head to his front paws, conceding the round to A.J.

Rufus’s specific lineage was unclear, but he appeared to be a cross between a Great Dane and a bear. He was as big as a small Shetland and covered with scars. His hair grew in patches around the scar tissue, and his eyes were yellow and bloodshot. A.J. likened the dog to a creation by Dante on LSD. He was a hound from hell, and A.J. had no doubt that if Rufus ever got hold of him, there wouldn’t be much left to bury, except maybe a half-eaten shoe or a few small pieces of the Louisville Slugger.

A.J. backed up slowly, then turned and headed on his way. Rufus stayed where he was and watched. It was always that way, as if the dog was just letting A.J. know he was still around, waiting for the day when his foe forgot to be cautious. For the life of him, A.J. couldn’t remember any incident that might explain the dog’s ire. It didn’t really matter much, anyway. The ritual of defending his life had evolved into a routine nuisance, akin to paying taxes, going to the dentist, or listening to his neighbor, Estelle Chastain, talk about the hard old days when her long-suffering and now-deceased Parm had gone off to fight the Hun, leaving her, a mere girl of seventeen, pregnant but still petite, mind, to fend for herself for two long, cold, lonely years.

A.J. entered the homestretch, the last quarter mile of his trek to Eugene’s home. Just ahead was a wide place in the trail, and parked there, rusting peacefully, was The Overweight Lover. It was a 1965 Chrysler Imperial with fine Corinthian leather interior and a 440 cubic-inch motor. It sat where it had finally died and, in A.J.’s opinion, this was hallowed ground. The car was green and wide, and it had
The Overweight Lover
hand-painted in Gothic script across the tops of both the front and back windshields. Eugene had purchased the Lover complete with lettering back in the days when pre-owned vehicles were simply used cars. He made the acquisition because he needed another motor for his little hot rod, but his plans changed dramatically when the old Chrysler hit 128 mph during the trip home. Eugene held great admiration for speed in those days, and since the Lover handled better than his Dodge Charger ever had, he parked the smaller car in favor of the touring sedan.

“How long would you say this car is?” A.J. had asked Eugene upon his first glimpse those many years past. “Thirty, maybe thirty-five feet? Nice wide whitewalls, too.” He was standing by the car, hands in pockets, lightly kicking at one of the tires as if he were a potential buyer.

“Don’t talk about my car,” Eugene had replied from under the dash. He was in the preferred position for eight-track tape-player installation, upside down with his legs hanging over the back of the front seat.

“What name would you put on this shade of green?” A.J. had continued, running his hand down the front fender. “I’ve seen this before, somewhere.” He was enjoying himself. He had been listening for some time to Eugene’s derisive comments about his own humble vehicle, a 1963 Chevrolet Impala that Eugene called the Hog Farm. So A.J. had been praying for a vehicle of the Lover’s pedigree to appear.

“I told you to quit talking bad about my car,” Eugene said, sitting up while he plugged in a Led Zeppelin tape to try the stereo. Jimmie Page and Robert Plant sounded like they were gravely ill.

“Led Zeppelin is a little raw for an automobile of this stature,” A.J. had observed, reaching into the ice chest for a beer. Eugene gave him a hard stare. Then he secured a beer of his own and began to wash the car. When he got around to the windows, A.J. noted that they could probably scrape the name off with a razor blade.

“You have got to be kidding,” Eugene had said, looking at A.J. with disbelief. “The name is the best part.”

A.J. emerged from his reverie of times dead and gone and smiled a little wistfully as he passed. He felt strangely happy to see the old Lover again. It was a monument to simpler days. Even now, long past her glory and rusting away on the side of Eugene’s Mountain, The Overweight Lover was one of a kind.