The Front Porch Prophet

CHAPTER 7

A.J. SAT IN HIS TRUCK, PARKED UNDER THE HANGING tree at the foot of Eugene’s Mountain. It was just before dawn on the Saturday following his meeting with Ralph Hunter, a date that would live in infamy. He couldn’t explain why he was there, except to say it was as good a place as any to be, and better than some. He sighed and flipped his cigarette out the vent window. With any luck at all it would start a forest fire and burn down several thousand acres of pine trees destined to become Alabama Southern lumber. He had been unemployed now for about five hours, and even though he had known it was coming, he had not yet arrived at complete objectivity regarding the condition.

The shift following the meeting with the mortal incarnations of Alabama Southern had passed without incident, although the mill was abuzz with rumors, and the men were unsettled. A.J. decided to call a meeting right after break to address the crew’s concerns. He arrived at the break room as the crew was filing out. Luther Barnette had just won the Wednesday night pool, and everyone milled around outside for a few moments out of respect for Luther’s abilities.

The second shift’s Wednesday night flatulence contest was legendary, and a respectable sum had changed hands over the years based upon its results. The competition was divided into three categories-decibel, duration, and effect-although there was some overlap due to the inexact nature of the groupings. Side bets were common, arguments were frequent, and any contestant who could clear the canteen took home the pot. Many exotic dishes were consumed by the hopefuls during the hours preceding the festivities as the aspirants searched for a combination of edibles that would provide the extra edge. The man to beat was Luther Barnette, who suffered from a blood condition that required his daily ingestion of a prescription drug containing sulphur. He usually won with authority.

Once they were able to reenter the lunch room, A.J. called the meeting to order. “This will be short,” he said when he gained their attention. “I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t much. John McCord has sold the mill to an outfit called Alabama Southern. They’re a big company with a lot of mills, and as of now you all work for them. I’m sure there will be some meetings to explain your benefits and such, and since this is a union shop, I don’t see how any of you can get hurt on the deal. They have to honor your contract for its duration. After that, it’s up to you. As for me, I’m history. The new owners are bringing their own supervisors with them. I don’t know when that will happen, but it’ll be soon.” There was some murmuring and stirring. A.J. had always tried to be a good boss and was popular with his employees.

“When the new boy gets here, he might not run so good,” said Luther Barnette. He had an ominous tone.

“He might run like a short pig in deep shit,” agreed Luther’s brother, Snake. He was a quiet man, and he had just doubled the number of words A.J. had ever heard him say at one stretch. There were grunts of approval and nods of assent throughout the room, as if they had all seen short pigs run and had liked what they had seen.

“It’s always a sad thing to see someone crash and burn,” observed Fred Wallace. He loaded a good dip of snuff while casting a look that conveyed questionable intent.

“Whoa,” A.J. said, holding up his hands. “Don’t even think about lying down on these people. You can’t help me, and you’ll only end up hurting yourselves. Contract or no contract, they’ll fire you if they catch you screwing around. Just do your jobs, collect your pay, feed your families, and keep your mouths shut.” A.J. looked at them and wondered if they would follow the good advice he had given. It didn’t look promising.

“Sawmill’s a dangerous place,” offered the infamous Mayo Reese of Sand Valley fame. He had walked into the mill one evening seven years earlier and asked for a job. Any job. His wife was sick, his children needed shoes, and Outlaw Pete, King of Modular Living, was about to haul the double-wide back down to the land of E-Z Credit. A.J. had taken pity. Life had casually done to Mayo that which no mere mortal had been able to manage. It had beaten and humbled him. A.J. couldn’t stand it. He had given Mayo his hand and a job, neither to his regret.

Mayo expounded on his subject. “A stack of lumber could fall on him, or he could get sucked up into the chipper.” The conversation was taking an ugly turn.

“Mayo,” A.J. said, “do not kill the new boss. Don’t even hurt him. Hell, he may be a great guy. But even if he is a dick, I don’t want to be hearing about any accidents. I’m serious.”

Mayo shrugged his shoulders. A.J. could have it his way.

“A.J., I want to work for you,” said Brickhead Crowe, one of A.J.’s favorite people anywhere. Brickhead’s given name was Conley, and he and A.J. had known each other since boyhood. He was intellectually challenged, and his nickname stemmed from the undeniable fact that he was as dumb as a brick. His alternate nickname, Pick-head, further illustrated the point. He had acquired it by knocking himself unconscious with his own pickax.

“I want that, too,” said A.J., smiling gently at the large, slow speaking man. “But we can’t always have what we want. You just do as good a job for the new people as you’ve always done for me, and you’ll be fine.” A.J. hoped this would be the case, anyway. He had always made allowances for Conley. It was an unspoken agreement on A.J.’s shift that everyone kept an eye on him. To do otherwise was to invite the Longstreet wrath.

A.J. had started school with Conley and had been keeping tabs on him ever since. Conley’s mother, Eurlene, conceived him late in her life, long after the best eggs were gone. It is the way of children that they will harry a weaker member of the herd, but it became common knowledge among the pack early on that this was not to be done to Conley in front of A.J. He held a soft spot in his heart for his less capable schoolmate and would not tolerate any abuse of the slow but sweet child.

As was often the way in those days, Conley was passed from grade to grade, even though he had not mastered the work. Thus, he was allowed to remain with his classmates, and A.J. was afforded the opportunity to watch out for him. A.J. helped him with his schoolwork and ran interference when the necessity arose. Later on, when Conley felt the need to demonstrate his prowess on the gridiron, A.J. was there. The big boy was strong and could hit hard, but he had no clue when it came to memorizing plays. So A.J. showed him, play by play, what was expected. They would line up, and A.J. would point to an opponent and say hit him, then pull left. And Conley would hit and pull left. This arrangement became so formalized that Coach Crider came to hold A.J. responsible for Conley’s performance. Goddamn it, Longstreet, Coach would yell, Brickhead missed his man by a mile and a half. What the hell is wrong with you boys? So A.J. would talk with Conley and explain the error, and they would go at it again.

Some of the hardest words ever exchanged by A.J. and Eugene were over Conley. They were all sitting down at the depot one night sharing two quarts of beer when the conversation turned to Cyndi Hawkins. She was an older girl of twenty-one who had a small child, and legend had it that she would share the occasional favor. This subject was of great interest to Conley. His hormones had finally caught up with him, and he believed Cyndi was the most beautiful woman in the world.

In his halting manner, he asked how he might make his intentions known to her. He wished to declare on her and needed for his friends to coach him. He directed this query mainly to Eugene, who was the acknowledged swain of the group. By this point in time, Eugene had gotten lucky four times. Actually, he had been astoundingly fortunate once and had paid for it the other three. A.J., on the other hand, had not fared so well. He had almost managed to dance the waltz once with Diane, but there had been technical difficulties. So Eugene was deferred to on the matter at hand.

“What you have to do, Brick, is be direct,” he began. “You have to walk right up and ask ’em. What would it take to get some of that pussy? If they’re interested, they’ll tell you what it will take. If they’re not interested, they’ll let you know that, too.” A.J. immediately objected to this advice.

“Conley, that’s all wrong,” he said, glaring at Eugene. “What you have to do is be nice. Be polite. Maybe buy her some flowers.” Conley looked back and forth between his advisors. He was confused. A.J.’s method sounded promising, but there was no getting around Eugene’s impressive track record.

“Brickhead’s not wanting a girlfriend,” said Eugene. “He’s just wanting some of that thing. You’re going to mess him up, A.J.” Eugene was amused.

“No, a girlfriend would be okay,” Conley responded seriously. He had seen some pictures of that other business in a magazine and found it all a little hard to believe. But he was trying to take it on faith.

“What would it take to get some of that pussy?” Eugene intoned. “You listen to me, and I guarantee she’ll be crawling all over you.” Conley held both sides of his head, which was his way when presented with a quandary. He could only process so much information and was definitely in overload. He began to walk toward his car, still holding his head. A.J. walked with him.

“Eugene is full of shit,” he assured Conley. “Do what I told you to do, and you’ll be fine. If it doesn’t work out with Cyndi, don’t give up. It will work out with someone.” He patted Conley on his shoulder and sent him on his way.

Eugene was still chuckling when A.J. walked back up and slapped the beer bottle out of his hand. It crashed on the pavement, spilling warm, brown foam onto the road.

“How many times have I told you to leave him alone?” A.J. asked. They were nose to nose. The humor had left Eugene’s eyes.

“Fuck you, A.J. I was just having some fun. You know he’s not going to buy her flowers or ask her for any. Women are not for poor old Brickhead.” A hard tone entered his voice. “You owe me a beer. And the next time you pull this kind of shit, I’m going to have to hurt you.”

“Hurt me now,” A.J. said, pushing his shoulder. “Come on, Eugene. What would it take to get some of that ass?” They eyed each other a moment. Then the interlude passed, and the slow process of de-escalation began.

“You’re crazy,” Eugene said as he brushed past A.J. on the way to the newly acquired Lover.

“Leave Conley alone,” A.J. hollered at his back. “I don’t care who else you screw with, but leave Conley alone.”

The postscript to the evening’s events proved one of the pieces of advice had been valid and one had not. After much deliberation, Conley determined that A.J.’s suggestions would suffice. Stylistically, he was the Typhoid Mary of romance, but his heart was in the right place. Thus it was that Cyndi was inclined to kindness when Conley walked up to her and shoved a bouquet of slightly bent flowers into her arms. She smiled as he stood there, holding his head with both hands while inquiring about her health. She had known him since their childhood and knew him to be a harmless, gentle soul, one of the few she had encountered.

Cyndi’s lot in life up to that point had been to hoe the hard row. Her mother, Louise, was unparalleled in her ability to select marginal members of the male gender with whom to frolic, and the only positive result from her many unions was Cyndi. Cyndi’s father, Earl Hawkins, left for parts unknown via the Merchant Marine soon after impregnating Louise. He was a sensitive man, and had he known about his young wife’s condition he would have gone anyway, but he would have felt bad about doing it. Cyndi never knew him, and none of the misfits who took his place during her childhood made much of an impression on her, except to produce in her a general uneasiness about the male of the species. In retrospect, those were the good years, and they ended upon Louise’s marriage to Skim Murdock.

Skim was a man for whom the veneers of civilization held no appeal. He came to town with the county fair during the fall of Cyndi’s fourteenth year and elected to stay on when the fair slipped off a day early while Skim was passed out due to an excess of alcohol, cocaine, and two of the employees of the girlie show. During his tenure with the organization he had offended the sensibilities of an entire carnival, and they unanimously took their opportunity to cut and run when they saw it. When Louise and Cyndi arrived at the fairgrounds looking forward to a little fun, they found instead a large amount of garbage, a broken car from the Tilt-a-Whirl, and Skim, sitting on the ground eating a corn dog while wondering what in hell he was going to do now.

Louise cast her eyes upon this banished remnant of the rites of autumn and decided he was the finest man she had ever seen, which wasn’t saying much, considering what all she had seen. As usual, her instinct about men had failed. Louise was a moral woman, and all of the many souls who had visited her personal valley of paradise had first had to acquire title to the tract. So she married Skim Murdock in short order and moved him into her happy home, a well-kept trailer house sitting just across the Southern Railway line.

Cyndi had the misfortune to be an early bloomer, and by the time the honeymoon was over, Skim began to notice that she had flowered quite nicely, indeed. Unbeknownst to Louise, who worked the second shift over at the glove mill, Skim began to make improper advances upon Cyndi. Thus it came to pass that Cyndi was forced to gain carnal experience at the hands of her newest stepfather. Louise was blissfully unaware of the family dynamic she had created, so Cyndi determined her best course was to run away. Late one night right after she turned fifteen, Cyndi made her break. She had only walked about forty feet, however, when her small plan evolved into a grand scheme that held permanent solutions.

In front of her, the drunken and immobile form of Skim Murdock was draped across the Southern Railway line. He had apparently decided to have a few drinks before coming home and had been thirstier than he thought. Cyndi looked at her watch and noted that the coal train was due. Time being a luxury granted the young, she sat down, reached into her rucksack for a Coke, and calmly sipped while she waited. She loved trains and suspected she would absolutely adore this one. It was quiet except for the crickets and the snores of Skim. In the distance she heard the thrum of her salvation.

As the train neared its target, the victim began to stir. He was feeling the vibrations through the steel ribbons. The engines came around the bend and bathed his form in bright light. The engineer saw the body on the tracks and applied the brakes as he began to blow the horns repeatedly. The lights and noise roused Skim from his stupor, and he saw his predicament. Then he saw Cyndi, who appeared to be taking a drink of Coke.

“Goddamn it, girl, help me,” he roared at her as he attempted to gain his hands and knees. It has been noted that young girls do not always know their own minds, but Cyndi knew exactly what she wanted, and Skim knew it, too, as their eyes met for the final time. She reared back and chunked the Coke bottle at him, and he screamed when it hit his forehead. The scene was ghostly as the train slid past with horns blaring and sparks flying. Skim was frozen in the harsh glare, and then he was gone, given a boost down the highway to hell courtesy of Southern Railway, Jim Beam, Coca-Cola, and Cyndi.

The freight train finally stopped about a mile down the tracks. Most of Skim had reaped the whirlwind, but enough was found to bury, although pieces of an unlucky raccoon were irretrievably mixed in with him. Cyndi removed the Coke bottle from the small pile of remains before they were shoveled into the bucket. It was a keepsake marking the best time she had ever had with Skim. All in all, no one seemed to be much upset over the incident except Louise. Fortunately, she got over her loss fairly quickly with the help of a grave digger from Boaz who took a shine to her at Skim’s funeral based mostly on how nice she looked in those tight, white jeans. Time heals most wounds, and love will find a way.

Cyndi turned wild and acquired the reputation for being bountiful with her indulgences, a relative rarity in a culture where milk was seldom dispensed without prior cow purchase. So she was popular, but her full dance card brought her no joy. She was punishing Louise, God, and herself, but neither of the first two seemed to take much notice.

Cyndi’s salvation arrived in the form of a five-pound, seven-ounce baby girl whom she named Hope. She didn’t know who the baby’s father was, but it didn’t matter, because they were all pretty much the same anyway. What counted was her determination that the child never know the trials Cyndi had known. So she gave up her wanton ways and set about the business of raising her daughter.

And this was the new-and-improved Cyndi for whom Conley had set his cap, but he was making no headway. Although she was always nice to him, she seemed immune to his charms. He consulted A.J., who advised him to be patient, because these things take time. So Conley devoted more effort and ingenuity to the endeavor. Cyndi would come home to a freshly mown yard, and there would be Conley, head in hands, staring at his shoes. Gifts began to appear on her porch, dime-store luxuries he believed to be grand, and he was always available to carry groceries, take out the trash, or wash the car. Cyndi knew he had a crush on her, and although she in no way encouraged him, she was patient. She did not want to hurt his feelings and felt he would soon grow tired of pitching his woo. She was incorrect, for she did not understand the depth of the feelings he had for her.

Eventually, Conley found it necessary to move on to plan B. On that fateful day, Cyndi came out of the glove mill and found him standing there, waiting.

“Hello, Conley,” she said in a light tone. It was payday, and she was in a good mood. He mumbled a phrase, but the mill at her back was noisy. “I’m sorry, Conley, I couldn’t hear. What did you say?” She looked at him. He was trembling and seemed to be in grave distress. Then he raised his head, and in the single most courageous moment of his life, he spoke what was on his mind.

“What would it take to get some of that pussy?” he asked quietly. Then he lowered his head and awaited his doom. He had tried A.J.’s methods with little success, and now he was hauling out the big guns.

Cyndi looked at the terrified form of Conley. She was taken aback, but not as much as she might have been, for she had once heard those words from another source: Eugene. Since his survival would have been virtually impossible if he had committed to her requirements, however, their love had gone unrequited. So Cyndi knew Conley’s rough request had been the result of some extremely bad advice, and that he meant no harm.

Many thoughts crossed Cyndi’s mind as she looked at Conley. He stood there quaking, and her heart went out to him. Because she had traveled the hard way, she was capable of great compassion. She saw before her a lonely man who had tried valiantly to win her affections. She, too, knew the bitter taste of loneliness, and she did not want to end up with a succession of rogues the way Louise had. Realistically, she knew her prospects were limited; small towns are not kind to women with checkered pasts. What she wanted was a lifelong companion, a partner to share her joys and sorrows, someone to love. She didn’t think it was too much to ask.

And then she realized with a slight startle that standing in front of her was the most decent man she had ever known. The epiphany rolled over her like the coal train had run over Skim. Impulsively, she reached and raised his chin so that their eyes met.

“What it would take, Conley, is for you to marry me. Love me, love Hope, and never hurt us or leave us. Work hard, bring your check home every week, and build a home and a life with me.” She had not intended to say any of this, not even remotely, but sometimes words operate of their own accord. His eyes said yes before his mouth did, but Conley always was a little slow of speech.

They married shortly thereafter, and Conley was as good as his word. He treated Cyndi like a queen and Hope like a princess, and he and Cyndi built a fine life. Cyndi, too, was as good as her word, and Conley was afforded plenty of opportunities for intimacy. Thus it was that presently along came Rita Sue, Tammy Faye, Brandy Starr, Sweet Melissa, and the twin boys, Starsky and Hutch.

A.J. snapped from his reverie and noted the sun climbing the sky. He looked at his watch. It was just after seven in the morning and he needed a cup of coffee and a friendly ear. John Robert was off on a hunting trip, and Maggie and the children were gone on a trip to visit Maggie’s sister, Eudora Welty. She was entering the bonds of holy matrimony that very afternoon after a painfully long engagement to a history professor named Carlisle Davenport, of whom A.J. suspected a lack of intellectual rigor.

A.J. dropped the truck into gear and headed up Eugene’s Mountain. The Purdues were notoriously early risers, and A.J. discounted the possibility of awakening Eugene. Thanks to the recent grading job, the trip to the cabin was quick.

The clearing appeared to be the scene of catastrophic events.

Eugene’s Jeep was totally obliterated, and A.J. was forced to weave around large pieces of it. The Lover was up on its side and was missing some critical components. The hackberry tree was reduced to a splintered stump. Craters pocked the area. The door to the cabin opened, and out stepped Eugene wrapped in a blanket. Beside him limped Rufus, bandaged but still malicious. He made a start for A.J., but the sudden movement seemed to cause him pain. He abandoned the assault and sat down to nurse his wounds. Eugene absently patted him on the head.

“Don’t worry, boy,” he said to the dog. “You can attack A.J. twice next time.” Eugene moved slowly, and his breathing was labored. He was favoring his right arm, and his eyes had dark circles tinged with yellow. He shuffled to his chair and sat. He was fully dressed and wrapped in a blanket, but still he shivered. On the cable spool was a large quantity of marijuana along with the usual collection of medications, spirits, and firearm supplies. In addition, there were three hand grenades piled carelessly in a bowl. A.J. knew what had destroyed the clearing. Eugene spoke.

“I didn’t know if I’d see you today. I thought you might still be a little pissed.” He shifted in his chair, wincing with the movement. He seemed to be searching for a comfortable spot that was always just one step ahead. He looked bad.

“I wasn’t pissed,” A.J. replied, taking a seat. “I had to go rinse out a few things and take care of some long overdue correspondence.” He gestured to the carnage in the yard. “Someone run a little air strike in here? Slim finally figure out who got the bus?” Eugene picked up one of the grenades and handed it to A.J.

“These are great,” he said. “That bit about pulling the pin with your teeth is a crock of shit, though.” He pointed at the remainder of one of his incisors. “Broke this one. Hurt so bad I dropped the damn grenade. By the time I found it, I was a little pressed for time, and I barely got it thrown out of here. Almost blew up poor old Rufus. He took some shrapnel, but I got it out.” Rufus looked over at the mention of his name. A.J. felt a little bad for his canine foe. It must be difficult to be Eugene’s dog.

“Where did you get them?” A.J. asked, hefting the lethal object. It was heavier than he thought it would be.

“Bird Egg brought them to me. He’s been coming up a couple times a week with supplies, and he thought I would enjoy them.”

Bird Egg was an institution, a man whose mission in life was to never draw another sober breath. He was a local boy who had gone off to help Douglas MacArthur stamp out the Asiatic Hordes, and he had returned from the Korean peninsula with strong aversions to bitter cold, sudden death, and heavily armed yellow people wearing tennis shoes. He was currently in charge of Eugene’s beer joint and was the perfect man for the job. His duties included selling beer and liquor, playing cards, breaking up fights unless he was personally involved, and paying off Red Arnold, the ancient and venal county sheriff. He took no wages other than what he drank and ate, and he even left his substantial poker winnings in the general fund.

“Where did Bird Egg get hand grenades?” A.J. asked, handing the pineapple back to Eugene.

“I have an associate from Fort Benning who occasionally lays his hands on some interesting war surplus items.”

“War surplus?” asked A.J. “You could get thirty years for receiving stolen government goods.” Eugene rolled his eyes, and A.J.

realized his warning was foolish, given the circumstances.

“I’ll take it,” Eugene commented. He stood, pulled the pin, and hurled the grenade into the woods.

“Duck,” he said. He hit the deck gently, as if he were in slow motion. A.J. was not nearly as graceful as he kissed the floorboards. When the explosive went off, the porch shook, and bits and pieces of the forest landed in the clearing. A.J. was slow getting up. His ears were ringing, and his body tingled from the force of the blast. Eugene was grinning from ear to ear. “I just love these things,” he said. “Now you throw one. We can blow up your truck. I’ll buy you another one.”

“I like my truck.”

“Your problem is that you don’t know how to have fun,” Eugene said as he settled himself back into his chair. He attempted to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking badly and he couldn’t manage. A.J. lit it for him.

“How is Bird Egg doing?” A.J. asked, changing the subject. He had not seen the old man in a while.

“He’s been stabbed again,” Eugene replied. “I found out about it yesterday. Red came up to tell me. He also told me that I’m closed down for a week.” He gazed at one of the craters in the yard.

“That’s no big deal,” A.J. said. “He’s always getting stabbed or shot. It’s a tradition with him.” It was true. Bird Egg had been winged often during his long, checkered time. He was opinionated and tended to incite strong emotions in others.

“This time it’s a big deal. Termite Nichols stuck a long knife in him and nicked his liver.” Termite was living proof that occasionally abortions are necessary. And prisons, should intervention not be possible in that crucial first trimester. “His liver hasn’t had an easy life,” Eugene continued, “and it damn sure didn’t need a knife stuck in it. He’s in bad shape.” There was a long pause. Bird Egg wasn’t much, but he was theirs.

A.J. felt a small wave of sadness lap at him. Too many constants were changing, belying the illusion of permanence. He hated change, and it seemed everything was in flux. The way things were going, Maggie would probably meet a handsome academic down at Eudora’s wedding, one with patches on the elbows of his corduroy jacket who made quotation marks with his fingers. He would suggest he and Maggie “have coffee,” and that would be the old burrito for A.J. Maybe he would get the kids on alternate weekends. Eugene spoke.

“Do you ever wish you could do something different? You know, that you could go back and do just one thing over, do it better maybe, or maybe not do it at all?”

“I wish I had gone to sea,” A.J. replied without hesitation. “I wanted to see the world, and smell the salt air on the midnight watch, and ride out a hurricane, and find out if it’s true what they say about Chinese girls.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t, and now the time is gone.” John Robert had sailed four of the seven seas in his day, and it had been a wondrous time, although that part where the Japanese boys tried to crash their planes into his ship hadn’t been so great. He instilled this love for the sea in his son, but one thing had led to another, and A.J. never made it up the gangplank.

“It’s not true about Chinese girls,” Eugene said, comforting his friend. “If I could do one thing over, I’d be better to Diane.” He sighed. The enormity of his crimes was heavy upon his soul. Then A.J. had an epiphany.

“Well, hell, Eugene. She’s not dead. Let’s hop in the truck and go find her.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eugene said, sounding doubtful. He winced and grabbed his side, fumbled for some pills, and washed them down with a taste of bourbon. Then he fired up a pipeful of the marijuana and took two or three deep hits. “Helps with the nausea,” he croaked, offering some to A.J., who declined. “I have some suppositories, but I’d rather smoke dope.”

“Get up,” A.J. said to Eugene. “We’re going to town. Maybe get a cup of coffee. Maybe run into Diane. Hell, bring a gun. We might see Johnny Mack, and you could shoot him.” That idea appeared to cheer Eugene considerably, and he made up his mind.

“All right, let’s go,” he said. “I haven’t been down the mountain in a while. I need a change.” He stood and dropped his blanket. Then he went inside, and when he came back he was carrying a shoe box under his arm. He had donned his Grateful Dead jacket. The skull on the back of the garment bore a strong resemblance to Eugene, and A.J. made a mental note that they needed to visit Doc Miller while they were in town. Eugene loaded several items of importance into his jacket pockets: pills, his pipe and some contents for it, a fresh pint bottle of Ancient Age. He lingered over the grenade bowl as if he could not decide, but finally shook his head and passed them up. A.J. wondered how it would have gone if the jacket pockets had been larger. They made slow progress across the clearing to the truck, and A.J. noticed how much Eugene appeared to have gone down during the past week. If he had not witnessed the decline for himself, he would not have believed it.

“You drive,” Eugene said, climbing into the passenger side.

“Good idea,” replied A.J. They headed down the road. A.J. missed as many bumps as he could in light of Eugene’s frailty. Still, the trip was rugged, and Eugene braced against every jolt. When they finally gained the highway the ride eased considerably, and Eugene unscrewed the cap from the whiskey and took a tentative sip.

“You seem a little low yourself,” he said, taking another taste before screwing the lid back on. “What about? If it’s Rufus, don’t worry. He’s going to make it just fine.”

“I got fired last night,” A.J. replied. “I don’t have a job.” A.J. recounted the tale of his short tenure with Alabama Southern. Since he had survived a mere three days, it didn’t take long to tell the story. Boy meets employer, boy pisses employer off, and boy gets shown the door. It was the same old story.

“Let me get this straight,” Eugene said. “They showed up at two o’clock this morning right after your shift and fired you?”

“The personnel guy and someone I didn’t know were waiting for me when I got to the office. Handed me my money, wished me a nice life, and took away my keys. I asked the other guy if he was my replacement, and he said he was. I gave him my paperwork and told him that there was the number to beat. Then I left.” Actually, the new guy hadn’t seemed a bad sort, and A.J. hoped Mayo didn’t throw him into the chipper.

“That was a nice touch,” commented Eugene. “Let the boy know he’s in the bigs now. Tell you what. I’ve got a rifle back at the cabin I guarantee will take all of these fuckers out at one thousand yards. Got a tripod and a scope and everything. Even you couldn’t miss. Let’s go get it.”

“As you pointed out last week,” A.J. said, “I can hit what I’m aiming at.”

“Pardon me for being indelicate, but on full automatic it’s kind of like mowing the grass. We’re talking fine work here. Ridge work.” His voice failed, and a small shudder overtook him. He downed a couple of pills with the bourbon, and then sat quietly.

“Where do you want to go?” A.J. asked as they neared the outskirts of town. The town wasn’t much, so neither were the outskirts. A decision would have to be made quickly.

“Take me to Diane’s house. I want to talk to her a minute.” A.J. looked at his watch.

“It’s still a little early. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and give her a chance to wake up?”

“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.