The Front Porch Prophet

CHAPTER 10

A.J. AWOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. HIS EVENING of intimacy with Maggie had done much to improve his mood. She had the ability to make him feel like he was a part of the world rather than just a mildly interested observer, and he felt renewed. He slipped out of bed carefully, so as not to awaken her, although she stirred and reached for him. He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand, and she murmured an almost inaudible sound as she settled back into slumber. He gently stroked her hair while she slept. He often watched her in repose; it instilled in him a sense of serenity.

She loved to sleep late, although the opportunity to do so did not often present itself. A.J., on the other hand, slept very little, never longer than five or six hours. He had received this trait from John Robert, and there was nothing much he could do about it. It was a factor set at conception, like hair color or political affiliation. Pigs can’t fly because pork is heavy, snakes crawl on their bellies because they have no feet, and A.J. was up before the sun because his eyes would not stay closed.

“If I had known you never sleep,” Maggie had observed not long after their marriage, “I might have had second thoughts.” It was three o’clock in the morning, and her new husband had inadvertently awakened her while making a sandwich.

After their initial introductions in that cotton mill so many years ago, it was some time before A.J. made Maggie his own. There were difficulties to overcome before he could press his suit, the first of these being geography. Maggie was from the Alabama side of Lookout Mountain, and this cartographical anomaly coupled with his banishment to Dogtown made it nearly impossible to simply run into her. So he was forced to casually hang around the parking lot of the cotton mill at midnight to even get a glimpse. Luckily, stalking had not yet been invented, and diligent pursuit was still somewhat smiled upon as long as it didn’t involve firearms, state lines, or lengths of rope. So A.J. coincident ally bumped into Maggie at every opportunity, always keeping up the pretense of happenstance even though he was fooling no one. Maggie evolved the habit of smiling when she saw him, unless the meeting was excessively serendipitous.

The second obstacle in the path to matrimony was Roger Cork, called Killer by his friends and Pootie by his detractors, A.J. chief among their legion. The origin of the Killer moniker seemed to be a very poor impression of Jerry Lee Lewis singing “Whole Lotta Shakin’” complete with plenty of oh, baby’s and some spirited but bad piano playing with his nether regions. The more customary nomenclature, Pootie, stemmed from an unfortunate set of circumstances involving thirteen Krystal cheeseburgers-also known as gut bombs-a six-pack of hot Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and the questionable wisdom of riding the Zipper at the county fair after ingesting all of that. The chemical reaction brought about by this combination was a tribute to digestive systems worldwide. The ride was cut short at the insistence of the other revelers, one of whom threatened to kill both the operator and Pootie if matters did not immediately improve. Because he was an amusement professional, the carny complied, but by then Roger Cork’s new nickname had stuck like gum to a desk bottom.

A.J. did not care for Pootie for two reasons. First, he had been one of the unlucky occupants of that Zipper car. In later years he regretted his rash words to the operator, but he never once felt bad about offering to put Pootie out of his misery. Indeed, his fellow thrill-seekers were urging him to action and offering suggestions as to the best way to get the job done. Many of the recommendations were quite creative, although one of the proposals was most likely impossible, given the laws of physics and the actual size of Zipper cars.

The second reason for A.J.’s animosity toward Pootie had to do with timing. To put it simply, when A.J. came to call, he discovered that young master Cork had beaten him to the punch.

“Would you like to go out Friday?” A.J. asked Maggie one night in the parking lot of the cotton mill. “I’ve got tickets to the Doobie Brothers.” He had been sleeping in his car when she noticed and awakened him.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, smiling. “I’ve promised Roger Cork I’d go out with him.” This was hard news for A.J., but he took it well.

“My advice is, don’t go to the Krystal,” he said. “I’d skip the fair, too.” He determined from her bewildered expression that she was unaware of Pootie’s seamier side.

So A.J. was faced with the need for an alternate plan of action. Sadly, he was not a divergent thinker, and he could envision no better strategy than to park on the other side of the mill parking lot. So that was what he did, although he didn’t harbor much hope the plan would bear fruit. Fortunately, there are unfathomable forces at work in the universe. Love would find a way. The following night, he was sitting in his Impala on the other side of the parking lot when his car door jerked open.

“Get out, Longstreet,” a voice boomed. A.J. recognized it, and he smiled. He took a sip of beer. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at Pootie, standing tall and indignant. He was blocking A.J.’s potential view of Maggie.

“Pootie,” he said, stretching the first syllable. “How about a beer?” A.J. was trying to be sociable, but his nemesis was as rigid as a walnut timber and as flexible as cold-rolled steel. He loomed in his muscle shirt with his fists clenched tight and his gut sucked tighter. A.J. yawned for effect and lit a cigarette. Then he removed himself from the interior of the Hog Farm and slouched against the car with his hands in his pockets. He eyed his foe.

Pootie was pretty, and he was rich on top of that. In A.J.’s limited experience, when the two qualities were combined it was not an absolute guarantee that the individual possessing them would be a shit head, but historically the correlation had been strong, and A.J. was in no mood to allow for individual exceptions. He didn’t like pretty boys, and he didn’t like rich boys, and if Pootie had been neither, he would have found something else.

“I hear you’ve been trying to mess with my girl,” Pootie said, foregoing the soup and getting right to the main course. He looked and behaved much like his father, Jack Cork, whose money had made no one happy, especially Jack.

“You can hear most anything around these parts, Poot,” A.J. observed, looking over his companion’s shoulder and noticing the carload of associates he had brought along.

“I’m not playing with you, you fucking hippie. If I catch you around her again, I’ll be on you like white on rice.”

“Get ready,” A.J. informed him. “You’ll be catching me around her in about five minutes.” A vein throbbed on Pootie’s forehead, and A.J. hoped he hadn’t been eating any Krystals lately. There was movement in the Mustang, and the three running buddies eased out and arranged themselves. A.J. reached in the open window of the Hog Farm and retrieved the Louisville Slugger. He smacked it against the side of his venerable Chevrolet, adding a dent to the collection while indicating his resolve to the worthies standing opposite. One of them flinched. Pootie’s eyes narrowed to a squint.

“I’ve heard about you and that bat,” he said. “Chicken shit.”

“Oh, great,” A.J. said, his eyes not leaving Pootie. “You bring three guys to do your talking for you, and I’m a chicken shit.”

They stood at impasse, and it may have gone bad but for the intervention of the Gods of Romance, one of whom chose that moment to stretch, spit out his cosmic toothpick, and address the situation in the parking lot below. He was a union god, apparently, and had finished his smoke break before springing to action, but late is better than not at all.

So up drove Maggie. Pootie and company stood in the harsh glare of her Torino’s headlights, gesturing wildly. Opposite them stood A.J., with the tip of his bat resting on Pootie’s chest. She stopped the car about a foot from the boys and got out.

“What are we doing?” she asked quietly. By silent agreement, Pootie’s compadres shuffled over to the Mustang, looking like a low-budget edition of the Keystone Cops. Pootie stood his ground but would not look at Maggie. A.J. looked at her, but his bat remained planted on Pootie’s sternum. Maggie removed her hands from her hips and folded her arms. This pose had the unintended effect of accentuating her bust line, and A.J. got weak in the knees. He swallowed and spoke.

“We’re just talking,” he said. Although he had not started this, he knew he was in trouble. He was raised to take his medicine, but he hoped it wouldn’t be too bitter.

“Just talking,” Pootie agreed. He, too, knew he was in a predicament, and he was not the most astute rich boy to ever climb out of a Mustang.

“About?” she directed her query at A.J., who didn’t know if it was a good sign he was now spokesman for the group.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he began, throwing caution to the wind. “Pootie here seems to think I’m trying to steal his woman-that would be you-and he wanted to discourage me. I was about to explain to him that you are way too fine for his sorry likes, and that I intend to do whatever it takes to make you mine.” Pootie did not appreciate the “sorry likes” part and started for A.J., but A.J. shoved him back with the Slugger.

A.J. had a tendency to second-guess himself, but not this time. He had not planned to speak, but he would not recant a single word if he had a year to rewrite the discourse. The declarations drifted in the air like cotton fiber. Finally, Maggie spoke.

“I am nobody’s girl,” Maggie said. “Roger,” she continued, “I think it would be better if we didn’t go out again.” A.J. brightened. It seemed to be rolling his way. “A.J.,” she continued, “when I need someone to make me his, I’ll let you know. Until then, take your bat and go play baseball. And quit bothering me every night while I’m trying to go to work.” It had been rolling his way, all right, and it had flattened him when it arrived. Having spoken her piece, Maggie turned and walked toward the mill. A.J. watched as she crossed the parking lot, his heart fractured. He looked over at Pootie, who was staring at him with hatred.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” Pootie promised as he backed away from the bat.

“We’ll get some Krystals and drink some beers,” came A.J.’s reply. He was saddened by his setback, and climbed into the Hog Farm with the firm intention of having a smoke and a think. Pootie left several dollars’ worth of tread on the asphalt when he roared away.

A.J. came to the conclusion he was confused on the subject of women. He did not know where he was going wrong with Maggie. He had twice demonstrated his willingness to fight for her honor, and she wasn’t impressed. He had shown his undying devotion to her by making a nuisance of himself, and she didn’t seem enchanted by the gesture. He had declared his intentions and had been told to go away. He just didn’t get it.

A.J. deliberated as the night waned. He considered getting good and drunk, but that avenue seemed low. He supposed he could make the grand gesture and do away with himself, but the plan seemed limiting. He tarried on the idea of finding Pootie and beating him up. He knew it would make him feel better, but he didn’t want to lose his parking spot, so he grudgingly let the notion fade. When the whistle that marked shift change blew, he was toying with the idea of buying a new Mustang and drafting three riding companions, because at least Pootie had been allowed the privilege of a couple of dates before getting the heave-ho, whereas A.J. had been forced to take his heave-hos straight up. They were a little dry that way, a trifle laborious to swallow.

The night crew began to file out of the mill, and with them came Maggie. A.J. got out of his car and leaned up against the dent he had made the previous evening, as if attempting to hide the evidence. She paused when she saw him, a diminutive half step of indecision. He felt a trickle of sweat trace his spine. His mouth was as parched as baked sand.

“I thought I told you to quit hanging around,” she said to him when she came up. She spoke in a no-nonsense tone, but behind the message lingered a lack of absolute resolve, as if she had found a bit of charity for the pitiable wreck before her. He was looking at her shoes.

“Well, what you said was to quit being here at night,” he said lamely. He was a drowning man holding a broken spar, hoping to get off on a technicality. “This is morning.” A small point, admittedly. She leaned next to him on the Hog Farm.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy, and I know your heart is in the right place.” Her voice was relaxed and sensible. “The problem is, I think you’re looking for something that I’m not. I don’t want a steady boyfriend. We could go out once in a while, maybe, but you’ve got to let me have a little room. Okay?”

“Would you like to go get some breakfast?” he asked. She did not respond for what seemed a lifetime. Then she sighed and spoke.

“Okay,” she said. “Just breakfast. I’m sort of hungry anyway. But this is not a date, understand?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, holding the door for her. When she climbed in, he continued. “Maybe after we eat we could go for a swim at the quarry.”

Having overcome geography and Pootie, A.J. still had one more river to cross, and that wide river was Emmett Callahan. As the courtship progressed, it became apparent Emmett was less than enthralled by the long-haired boy in the ragged Chevy who was spending more and more time at the Callahan household. He was protective of his daughters, and A.J. was frankly not what he had in mind. In later years, A.J. would come to understand the point of view, but at the time it had made for a tough swim.

Emmett’s campaign of discouragement was not subtle, but it was creative. One evening while A.J. was catching a few winks in the back of the Hog Farm-parked in Maggie’s driveway after a late date-Emmett had the old Impala towed. Another time, A.J. noticed a lively odor and upon investigation found several sacks of Callahan garbage in the trunk of his car. Once, Emmett performed a citizen’s arrest on A.J. and held him until the Alabama equivalent of Slim arrived to haul him off. Admittedly, A.J. was soused, but the incident did little to enhance their relationship.

But A.J. toughed it out and slowly honed Emmett’s rough edges. Nothing worth having was easy to obtain, and such was the case with Maggie Callahan. In later years as her sisters all married, A.J. would listen to his brothers-in-law lament about Emmett and he would smile. He had taken the brunt, had taken the drawknife and slowly shaved the bark off the gnarled hickory that was Emmett Callahan, and all who came after were standing on his shoulders.

On the night A.J. proposed, he and Maggie were sitting on the broken dam that held back Lake Echota. The dam was at an isolated site and had been built during the Great Depression by a diverse group of young people with poor prospects who became dam builders because there was nothing else for them to do. A.J.’s granmama and her husband had met and married while working on the project. Their initials were discretely written in the concrete, a lasting memorial to true love, Portland cement, and the WPA.

“What’s wrong, A.J.?” Maggie asked. “You’ve been quiet all day.” The west end of the dam was in ruin, and the water roared through the breach. They sat in the causeway on the east side, trailing their toes in the green, cool water. The day had been a pearl, and the only mar on it was the sunburn Maggie had acquired in an area where the sun does not normally shine. Hopefully, she would not have to explain it to her mama.

“We need to talk about something,” he blurted out. The words were abrupt, not at all what he had in mind. He stood and looked out over the dam, silently pledging to throw himself into the cataract if he screwed this up. He knew a spot where the rusted rebar would be bound to impale him.

“Tell me what it is,” said Maggie with concern in her voice. She arose and stood next to him.

“I need for you to marry me,” was his reply. A soft breeze brushed the surface of the lake. He studied the far shore. His fist was in the pocket of his denim cutoffs, clenched around an engagement ring. He intended to fling it far if she declined to wed.

A.J. risked a quick peek out of the corner of his eye at Maggie. She was looking at him and smiling. She took his hand and squeezed it gently, and he removed the ring from his pocket and placed it on her finger. Her eyes widened a touch in surprise, but she was still smiling.

“Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you, Farm Boy?” she asked. The ring was too large, so she slipped it on her thumb for safekeeping.

“You haven’t said yes,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” she responded.

Thus their paths merged, and from that point on they traveled the same road. They spent the remainder of the summer and autumn preparing for their leap of love and faith, and they pledged their troth on a cold January day in a simple wedding attended by family and friends. John Robert was the best man, and Maggie’s maids of honor were her many sisters. The reception was catered by Granmama, who made the fanciest dishes she knew: cocktail wieners in barbecue sauce, cheese balls, and little cucumber sandwiches. The cake was made by Maggie’s sister, Eudora Welty, and it was magnificent even if the layers did bear the vaguest resemblance to coffee cans, which is what she had used for pans. Emmett Callahan gave his daughter away and in deference to the solemnity of the ceremony only glared momentarily at A.J. The rings were exchanged, the veil lifted, and the kiss given and received. And then it was done. The two became as one in the eyes of God and the governor of Georgia. They became the current incarnation of a devotion that spanned the long ages of the world, a fidelity destined to last until the end.

Now, years later, A.J. softly kissed his sleeping wife. He dressed quietly and went downstairs. He poured a cup of coffee brewed by John Robert. Then he stepped on the porch to greet his father. The elder Longstreet was busy cleaning the fish he had brought home the previous evening. They had spent the night in a bucket of water and now were taking the final step to becoming full-fledged members of the food chain.

“Morning, John Robert,” A.J. said, settling down in his rocker. He knew that John Robert had been up for some time; he was an early riser even by A.J.’s standards. Back when he was employed, A.J. would arrive home from the sawmill around four in the morning, and invariably he would be greeted by his father, who would be busying around on some small project or other while waiting patiently for the sluggards of the world to arise.

“Thought you were going to stay in bed all day,” John Robert replied. The sun had not yet risen. His razor sharp knife flashed with quick, sure movements.

“I’m getting lazy since I became unemployed,” A.J. said, taking a sip of coffee. It was painfully strong.

“I heard about that yesterday in town,” John Robert grunted. He finished filleting the last fish and laid the grayish-white squares of bass in the pan along with the others. They would make a fine supper that evening, served fried alongside cabbage slaw, salty fried potatoes, and hush puppies made of sweet yellow cornmeal. Admittedly, the fare would be better for the soul than for the heart, but no one lived forever. “They didn’t waste any time,” John Robert continued, rinsing his hands in the bucket.

“No, they didn’t,” A.J. agreed, taking another sip of coffee. “They are very efficient people.” He felt a coffee ground on his tongue and spit the offending particle over the porch rail. John Robert made coffee in the old way, by boiling a handful of grounds in a pot that had been timeworn when Granmama was still a slip of a girl. The resulting brew was not for the faint of heart.

There was no enmity in A.J.’s voice, and he wished no harm to the people from Alabama Southern. Not much, anyway. Maybe the odd broken leg or unfaithful wife, just to smooth out any unlevel spots in their bloodsucking, tree-sawing karmas.

John Robert picked up his pan of fish and headed into the kitchen. The screen door squeaked a second time as A.J. followed him in. The elder Longstreet rinsed the fish at the sink, then put them in the refrigerator to chill. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the table.

In the harsh fluorescent light, he looked his age. This was a recent phenomenon; he had aged well until this year, the heart attack notwithstanding. Now he looked like an old man, and it was hard for A.J. to get comfortable with the idea.

“Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do now?” John Robert asked, looking at his son.

“I thought I might borrow Slim’s big shotgun and go kill them all in their beds,” A.J. replied.

“Will you be back by supper, or do you want me to make you a plate?” John Robert inquired, surprising A.J. Most of his attempts at kidding with his father were met with deadpan looks and stony silences.

“I’ll be back in time,” A.J. said with a broad grin.

“Want some breakfast?”

“No, I don’t think so.” A.J.’s years of shift work had left his eating schedule in ruin, and he tended to eat at different times than most people. He looked at the clock on the wall and noted it was time to be moving along. He had awakened this morning wishing he had not promised Eugene a visit. He was ashamed of this reluctance and strengthened his resolve, but he hoped to get the visit completed early in the day. He stood and stretched.

“I’m going up to see Eugene for a while,” he told his father. “I should be back around lunch. Maggie’s worn out, so let her sleep. She can go to church twice next week.”

“How is Eugene doing?” asked John Robert.

“I don’t think he has very long.”

“Tell him I’m thinking about him,” John Robert said in a somber tone. “Tell him if I can help him, to just let me know.”

“I’ll tell him.” A.J. left the house and climbed into his truck. It was balky in the cool morning, but he coaxed it to life after a few false starts and made the short drive to town. As he drove through Sequoyah, he noticed several vehicles parked outside of the Follow Me, and I Shall Make You Fishers of Pecan Pie Drive-In. One of them was John McCord’s truck. A.J. liked his loose ends tidied, so he entered and sat at the counter next to his former boss.

“A.J.,” John said, sounding truly happy to see his former employee. “Hoghead, bring some coffee and collision mats for A.J.” Hoghead appeared wearing a coat and tie and whistling what may have been “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” but with his whistling skills it was hard to be certain. Sunday morning coffee and collision mats comprised Hoghead’s ministry. He opened early and provided them free of charge so that all comers would be fed and alert when they got to church. Around ten o’clock he would close up and go down to the Rapture Preparation Holiness Temple to get his weekly dose of rapture preparation.

“How is it going down at the mill?” John McCord inquired.

“Couldn’t really say,” responded A.J. “I lasted two days longer than you did, but I think your check was probably larger.” There was an uncomfortable silence that A.J. did nothing to mellow. He figured John needed to squirm. It would build character.

Finally, McCord broke the silence with a grunt. His movements were slow as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved his checkbook. As A.J. and Hoghead looked on, John McCord wrote out his portion of A.J.’s severance package. Hoghead whistled low. John stood up, leaving the check on the lunch counter.

“You know, A.J., I don’t owe you a damn thing,” he said with tension in his voice.

“You don’t now,” A.J. responded as he picked up his money. They faced each other. Then John turned and left.

“I think he feels bad about it,” observed Hoghead.

“We can hope,” said A.J. He finished his coffee and asked Hoghead if he would pour a large one for Eugene. Hog poured two and provided a sackful of collision mats, as well. A.J. thanked him and headed for the truck.

He drove slowly as he left town, enjoying the coolness of the morning as it blew in the vent window. He occupied his mind with the thoughts of the picnic he intended to take later in the day with Maggie and the children. As he drove, he passed the spot where Slim had arrested Patty Hearst years earlier, and he smiled.

That was the summer Patty Hearst had decided for some bizarre reason that robbing banks was intrinsically better work than being a millionaire heiress. The resulting nationwide girl hunt took on a circus air, and Slim Neal succumbed to the frenzy along with many of his law enforcement brethren. Patty Hearst loomed large on his mind, and the obsession led him to erroneous conclusions on the day he observed a road-worn young woman hanging about the outskirts of town. It was true the lass bore some resemblance to the fugitive in question, in that she possessed two breasts and lacked a penis, but other than that, the similarities were scant. Slim was never one to let facts deter a good investigation, however, so he scooped her up and ran her in. When the FBI agents arrived, they discerned fairly quickly that the woman Slim had in the slammer was not the infamous Hearst. Slim was impressed with the swift work of the Feds and wanted to know in detail how they had made such short work of the affair. Was it fingerprints? Were dental records used? Had they contacted Interpol?

“Patty Hearst is a white girl,” said Agent Simser, the more talkative of the two. Then the FBI boys loaded Shereea into their car and gave her a ride to the nearest Greyhound terminal.

A.J. was still smiling when he turned off the highway. As he bumped along the ruts, he could smell the fresh fragrance of pine in the early morning air. When he reached the hanging-tree, he turned left and headed up Eugene’s road. He kept an eye peeled for Rufus, who could strike at any time. But the trip to the clearing was without incident, leaving him to wonder what was going on. He could not see Eugene, and the canine from hell should have long since attacked. He blew the horn. Then he got out slowly with his bat at the ready. The coffee and collision mats could wait for the all clear.

Eugene appeared at the door, wrapped in a blanket. He stepped out and sat on the porch. His hair was uncombed, and the dark circles under his eyes were clearly visible from the yard. It was evident he had endured a bad night. He peered in A.J.’s direction, and a smile crossed his face.

“Rufus! Sit!” he shouted. A.J. whirled, and there was the dog. He had infiltrated to within five feet and would have had Longstreet hash for breakfast if Eugene had not intervened. Rufus glared, and A.J. could swear he saw triumph in the canine’s evil eyes.

“Old Eugene won’t always be around to save you,” Eugene patiently explained. He was enjoying the episode a great deal. A.J. was shaken. Rufus had nearly won the prize, and the prize was having difficulty with the concept. “You’re going to have to tighten up, if you want to live to be old,” he observed, lighting a cigarette.

“Words cannot express how much I hate your dog.”

“Hate is a strong word,” said Eugene. “You merely have different priorities. He wants to eat your ass, and you want to save it. Anyway, he’s your dog. I gave him to you.” Eugene took a drag from his cigarette and broke into a coughing fit. His frame was racked with the effort, and he appeared weak and pale.

“Maybe you should switch to filter tip,” A.J. said with concern.

“Maybe you should kiss my ass,” Eugene croaked, trying to catch his breath. His hands shook, and he seemed to be in pain. He twisted the lid off of a small bottle and tossed back the contents. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Are you okay?” A.J. asked.

“Stupid question,” observed Eugene.

“Yeah, I guess. How about some coffee?”

“I’d like a cup.” A.J. got the coffee and doughnuts and brought them to the porch. He stepped inside for some sugar, which he poured freely into both cups. Eugene took a big slug and sighed in appreciation.

“I like my coffee like I like my women,” he ventured, waiting for A.J. the straight man.

“You like your coffee to cost forty dollars? You like your coffee to have big breasts?” A.J. leaned over and looked into Eugene’s cup, as if checking.

“Nobody likes a wise guy,” said Eugene.

“Have a doughnut,” said A.J., handing the sack to Eugene. They took the remainder of their coffee break in silence. The coffee and the collision mats seemed to revive Eugene. He looked better and seemed more at ease. Hoghead’s coffee tasted like medicine, and A.J. had always suspected it had medicinal value. He made a mental note to tell Hog that Eugene had enjoyed the breakfast. It was the kind of news the old cook liked to hear.

“Anybody interesting in town this morning?” Eugene asked as he finished his coffee. A.J. handed over his own cup.

“I saw John McCord down at the drive-in.”

“Did you hit him in the kneecaps with your bat?”

“No. We had a cup of free coffee and he paid me off.” He showed the check to Eugene.

“If you don’t tell Maggie May about that,” Eugene noted, nodding at the draft, “you can have some good times.”

“Just one festivity after another,” A.J. agreed. “Girls, girls, girls.”

“Never mind. I can tell your heart’s not in it. You’d end up showing the girls pictures of Maggie May and the kids.”

“I do have some nice shots,” A.J. remarked, reaching for his billfold.

“I’ve seen them,” Eugene said, holding up his hands. “Real nice shots.” He shook his head. “You’re hopeless. Don’t you ever get the urge?”

“I think you’ve got the urge now,” A.J. said, sidestepping the question. “Maybe we can find someone to help you out with that.”

“What I’d like is to take care of one last urge with Diane,” Eugene said. He turned and asked, “What do you think my chances are?”

“I really couldn’t say,” said A.J.

“Come on. Don’t give me that. What do you think?” There was an earnest urgency in his voice that tugged at A.J.’s heart.

“I don’t think it is such a hot idea. Why don’t I run you up to Chattanooga? We can find you some girls to urge with, as many as you want.” In previous lives this plan would have held great appeal for Eugene. A.J. had noticed, however, that standing with one foot in the grave and the other in a daub of axle grease had clarified Eugene’s thinking.

“No, my Chattanooga days are over,” he said with a trace of melancholy. “Why don’t you think it’s a good idea to see Diane again? We got along real well yesterday.”

A.J. didn’t know what to do. On one hand, he felt it would be cruel to let Eugene harbor false hope. On the other hand, illusory anticipation is better than none at all, particularly among the hopeless. A.J. was mulling the best road to travel when Eugene spoke again.

“Shit. I know what this is,” he said, hitting his head with the heel of his hand. “She’s seeing someone, right?” A.J. was inscrutable. “Right?” Eugene insisted.

“I think maybe she is,” said A.J. slowly. He wanted to be out of this discussion.

“Who is it?” Eugene asked. There was defeat in his voice. He seemed to sag almost imperceptibly, as if a slight diminution of the life force had occurred, a quickening of the sand through the hourglass.

“I don’t know who it is,” A.J. said.

“You lie.”

“Okay, I know. But it won’t do a damn bit of good to tell you. Diane divorced you, and she can see whoever she wants to. So can you. That’s the way it works.” Eugene seemed to consider this argument, to hold it to the light as if checking for flaws. Then he spoke.

“I’m just curious,” he said petulantly.

“Bull. You’re just wondering who to go shoot, and you’re not getting anything from me.” He knew Eugene and his willful ways. And as much as he disliked Truth Hannassey, she didn’t deserve being shot. Not fatally, anyway.

“Just tell me if I know who it is,” Eugene obsessed. The subject held morbid fascination for him.

“You know the person,” A.J. said. “Now, let it go.” They fell silent. It seemed that the limited possibilities of the conversation had been exhausted. A.J. was glad to be moving to higher ground.

“Did you ever sleep with Diane?” Eugene asked. A.J. looked at him.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he asked. Eugene was slumped in the chair with his eyes closed. He presented a pitiful picture, unkempt and seedy.

“I don’t know,” Eugene said. “It just sort of popped out. I am curious, though. Did you?”

“Sleep? No, no sleeping,” A.J. said enigmatically. The question really peeved him.

“You know what I mean,” Eugene said. His eyes were still closed, and there was scant emotion in his tone.

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. What I’m having trouble with is that you even asked me something like that.” The fact that he was only technically innocent of a premarital interlude with her was beside the point.

“Diane talks in her sleep,” Eugene stated, almost slurring the words. “One night I woke up, and she was talking to you. Apparently, you were doing a good job.” He fell silent. A.J. felt guilty, and the feeling of culpability was about the stupidest thing he had ever heard of.

“It was a dream, Eugene,” he said. “Her dream, not mine. I wasn’t really there.”

“I know. I just always felt bad that she was dreaming of you. She had a habit of comparing me to you anyway. I wish you would spend more time with your children, like A.J. does with his, she would say. Or, A.J. always treats Maggie nice. You’re a tough yardstick to be measured against.” A.J. was embarrassed for the both of them.

“You know, I’m just as screwed up as everyone else,” he said.

“Oh, I know what a sack of shit you are,” Eugene said. “It’s the women who are confused.”

“Just so we’re clear on that point,” A.J. said emphatically. They fell into silence. The dissonance produced by Diane’s fantasy melted away.

Presently, Eugene started to snore. A.J. attempted to rouse him but had no success, so he stepped inside and brought out a pillow. He arranged Eugene and left him to nap, then went back in the house.

Eugene’s housekeeping skills were poor, and the cabin was a shambles. A.J. decided to remedy the situation. He had time to kill, anyway, since he did not want to leave without saying good-bye. So he set to with a vengeance, and the cabin slowly became habitable again.

Later, he was resting on the porch when Eugene awoke. A small bonfire burned in the yard, fueled by the detritus from the cabin. The scent of pine oil lingered in the air, mixed with the meaty aroma of the stew A.J. was simmering. He was worn out. Cleaning the cabin had been a big job, and he had been forced to employ untraditional methods. First he had shoveled the floors. Then he had dragged the hose in through the back window and washed the place out. It was during the final phase of the project he discovered the letters. He had been straightening the chaos on Eugene’s desk-several planks laid across sawhorses-when he stumbled across a cache of correspondence. Presumably, Eugene was in the process of writing a note to nearly everyone he knew. Some of the letters were finished, sealed, and ready to mail. Others appeared to be works in progress.

He had been about to move on to the kitchen when he noticed an envelope addressed to himself. It was unsealed and contained several sheets of paper. His curiosity was aroused, and he wondered what was contained within. Uncharacteristically, he removed the contents and began to read.

Dear A.J.,

I always thought it was cool when people in the movies got letters from dead people, so I decided to send a few myself. If Ogden doesn’t screw it up, you will get this the day after I kick off. And since you’re reading, I must be gone. Hopefully, it didn’t hurt too much. Hopefully, you didn’t let me linger. I don’t have any doubt that you killed me. I hated to ask, and I know you really didn’t want to, but I needed the help, and I was too much of a chicken shit to do it myself. You were the only natural born killer I knew, the only one who could cut through the bullshit and get it done.

A.J. stopped and sat down. He felt sick at Eugene’s portrayal of him as an executioner. Almost involuntarily, his eyes strayed back to the testament before him.

There are some things I want to tell you that I couldn’t say while I was alive. Well, I guess I could have said them, but I didn’t. When we were in seventh grade, I stole twenty dollars from you. You probably don’t even remember it, but it has been on my mind for a long time. I didn’t need the money. I just didn’t want you to have it. I thought you had it better than me. I’m sorry.

A.J. let his eyes drift to the Sequoyah Police Station sign on the wall. He remembered the twenty dollars. He had hauled hay for two long days to earn it and had always assumed that he had lost it. It had seemed to be a large amount at the time, which was why he supposed it had stuck in his mind. Eugene’s posthumous confession saddened him. He read on.

A few years ago, I made a pass at Maggie May. It was the twenty-dollar deal again. Things weren’t going so well with Diane, and it pissed me off that you had such a great marriage. You don’t need to worry, though. That girl can cut a nut when the mood is on her, and you can believe it when I tell you that she shut me right down. I apologize to you, and I apologize to her. It was a shitty thing to do.

He dropped the letter like a hot rivet, then rose and shuffled into the kitchen. Without thinking, he began to peel potatoes. Then he washed and peeled some carrots that were past their prime but salvageable. He needed an onion, but there wasn’t one in residence. As he cut up the deer roast he had dislodged from the freezer, his mind moved back to the letter. Eugene made a pass at Maggie? He didn’t want it to be true, but why would a dead guy lie about something like that? And why had Maggie kept it to herself all this time? He dumped all the ingredients into a pot and placed it on the burner. Then he wandered slowly back to the desk. He was developing a dislike for letters from beyond the grave.

There is something else I need to tell you. I wasn’t going to, and I don’t know if it will do any good for you to know, but here goes anyway. You and I are brothers. Jackie told me. It beats me how he knew, but when I asked Angel, she admitted it. She said John Robert was the best man she ever knew, and she sort of wished out loud that things had been different, that he had been available. But she knew he wasn’t, even though your mama was gone. I must be getting in touch with my feminine side now that I’m dead, because I think the whole deal is kind of sad. John Robert was so in love with your mama that he wouldn’t try to steal Angel away from Johnny Mack. It didn’t even occur to him to try, and she was a babe back in the old days, even if I do say so myself. And Angel was so in love with John Robert that she respected his wishes and backed off. She told me I was her bonus, and that she never once regretted having me, that I helped her endure the pain of being alive. So at least I was good for something. I’m not telling you this to screw up your head, and I don’t want you to be beating up on John Robert. Being a living damn saint is hard work, so cut him a little slack. He doesn’t know about me, and that’s the way Angel wanted it. So swallow down your little-brother-of-Jesus act and let it pass. I’m telling you this because I am proud that you are my older brother, and I wanted you to know it. You are better than I was. Of course, I had a better time than you did, but you never were much on having fun anyway. There is a box buried under the tree I killed. It is full of money that I really shouldn’t have, so don’t flash it around too much. Make sure Diane and the boys get taken care of, and Angel. The beer joint is yours. If you don’t want it, close it. But my advice is, don’t be a damn fool. If I learned anything in life, it was that people will pay good money to sin. Bootlegging will make you rich. Just don’t forget to give the Law a little taste from time to time. The deed to the mountain is also in the box. I don’t care what you do with it as long as Johnny Mack doesn’t get it. I trust your judgment. Thank you for whacking me. I was afraid of the pain, and I knew I could count on you to get me out of trouble. You always were your brother’s keeper, but we just didn’t know it. Like it says in Proverbs, “There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.” Damn. Bible quotes. I must be hedging my bets. Tell Johnny Mack I went out singing Psalms. It will make his day.

Your Brother, Eugene

P.S. – Cremate me in the cabin. Make it a big fire. Don’t let Raymond Poteet get ahold of me. That boy ain’t right. Rufus likes a Chicken McNugget from time to time.

A.J. folded the letter neatly and placed it back in its receptacle. Then he went to the kitchen and stirred his stew. Granmama had always told him that curiosity would kill the cat, but this was extreme. He had a brother. He didn’t doubt a word of it. It felt true. He stepped out to the porch and sat down, and he was sitting there rocking quietly when his brother awoke.

“I must have dozed off,” Eugene said. He sat up straighter and fumbled with his pill bottles before swallowing an assortment of medications. “My yard seems to be on fire,” he noted.

“Yeah, while you were asleep, I decided to burn all your stuff.” Eugene looked bad. He appeared frail and drawn. A.J. wanted to talk to him, to tell him that he knew, to share brotherhood with him. He started to speak, but all that came out was, “Let’s get some food in you and put you to bed.” Eugene didn’t object, so A.J. helped him up and took him in.

“Damn,” Eugene said, looking around the cabin. “I’ll never be able to find anything now.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said A.J. “Here, eat some of this.” He dished up a small bowl of the stew and served it to Eugene, who ate a few bites, mostly broth.

“This is good,” he mumbled. “Maggie May better watch out, or some tender young thing will snatch you right up.” He put down his spoon and sagged in his chair. A.J. walked him over to the john. Then he supported him to the bed. “Took too much of the good stuff,” Eugene slurred. He crawled in and immediately fell asleep. A.J. covered him up and put a glass of water and all of the medications on the bedside table. He put the stew in the refrigerator and walked outside. Rufus eyed him closely. He pointed toward the open door.

“Go in there and keep an eye on him. I’ll be back tomorrow.” For whatever reason, the big dog went into the cabin. A.J. closed the door, picked up his bat, and walked off the porch to his truck. He had done what he could for his brother on this day, and tomorrow would bring what it brought.