The Front Porch Prophet

CHAPTER 11

THE FOLLOWING WEEK WAS PECULIAR, EVEN BY THE liberal standard that A.J. had come to accept. His daily schedule had always revolved around his occupation. The removal of this cornerstone via sudden termination had left him with time on his hands, and idle extremities are the Devil’s workshop. So he decided to be more proactive during Eugene’s final days. He had known all along that eventually Eugene’s condition would deteriorate to a point where it would be inadvisable to leave him alone. It seemed the time had arrived.

It was late Sunday night, and they were sitting at the kitchen table. John Robert and the children were in bed, and Maggie had just been informed of her new status as Eugene’s sister-in-law.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she had said dubiously.

“Neither was I,” A.J. had agreed.

He had not yet warmed up to the idea of John Robert, philandering knave. On the rational level, he knew his father was merely a human being like everyone else. His hang-point was more visceral, and complete acceptance would take time. Maggie, too, experienced cognitive disharmony over the concept. After a little double-clutching, however, she caught another gear and proceeded to the subject of Eugene’s health.

“Will he come down so he can be taken care of?” Maggie asked.

“No,” A.J. replied. “He intends to die up on his mountain. That’s his business, I guess. I just feel bad about leaving him in a drug-induced coma with the dog in charge.”

“No, that doesn’t seem right,” Maggie agreed. She was in her cotton nightgown, looking better than she had any business looking after all their years in tandem. She continued. “I believe it has fallen to you to help look after him. This may even be the reason for you losing your job.” She always sought the ultimate meaning of the universe, the Big Plan. “Think about it,” she said. “Out of nowhere, you hear from Eugene, and he’s dying. Then you lose your job. Then you find out he’s your brother.” She shrugged.

“It does seem a little neat, but I don’t know,” A.J. said. His personal belief system tended toward the Random Cruelty school, but what she said did exhibit a nice sense of order. And he did feel responsible for Eugene. “So, what should I do? Move up there? Come see you when it’s over?” He was unenthusiastic about the idea.

“Absolutely not,” she replied. “There are other people in this besides you. Angel. Jackie. Diane. Even Johnny Mack. If the time has come for someone to be with him all the time, then I think you need to talk to his family about taking turns. If nothing else, you could hire some help. He has plenty of money, and he can’t take it with him.” As was often the case, Maggie’s grasp of the situation was superior to A.J.’s. He began considering the problems associated with full-time care for Eugene.

On Monday morning, he left the Folly with the full intention of bringing the remainder of the Purdues into the loop, but his plans were delayed when Truth Hannassey decided for some aberrant reason to kill Estelle Chastain’s dog, Plug, by dropping a Nationally Historic Porch on him. The offending entryway fell off the front of the Nationally Historic House that Truth was relocating by helicopter from property she intended to develop. She had retained a company out of Charlotte that rented helicopters piloted by wild-eyed worthies who had gained their credentials under fire in tropical latitudes.

When A.J. stepped into the yard, he could hear the whop-whop-whop of the blades beating the air as the helicopter strained across the sky. He could see the conveyance in the distance, the house dangling beneath. It was more of a small cabin, but even so, the helicopter appeared to be toiling mightily in an attempt to remain aloft. A.J. could see that the porch was sagging as the house slowly revolved on its cable. Then it drooped a bit more. Finally, it simply separated from the house and plunged Plugward. Gravity was running true to form, and the notable veranda crossed the distance between up and down in short order.

Plug had not been an attractive animal even before he broke the porch’s fall. He was a homely little hound, named after the proverbial fireplug because he was squat and leaky. He was also cranky, loud, and obnoxious, but Estelle loved him, and love is not always neat or explainable. When the Historic Porch landed on Plug, it flattened him right into the next universe, a bad but quick way to get there. A.J. saw the entire incident from thirty yards away, and he arrived at the tragedy in a bare moment. He was too late to save the dog or the porch, but he had a ringside seat for the aftermath.

Estelle had spent most of her life as a widow, and during her time alone she became eccentric and set in her ways. Her husband, Parm, had died for no apparent reason years previously after first surviving the Hun. He just went to bed one night and neglected to wake up the following morning. A.J. held the theory that he had simply lost the desire to continue and had willed his breathing to cease.

“The man survived everything the Axis could throw at him,” he once observed to Maggie. “Lived through bombs, tanks, and prison camp, but Estelle did him in.”

“Hush,” Maggie had replied.

So Estelle’s years alone had been abundant and prolonged. Somewhere along the way, she began to obsess on the idea of being robbed and raped by some itinerant or other, hopefully one resembling Tyrone Power. To protect herself from this eventual certainty, she armed herself with a variety of large shotguns. These were loaded, ready for mayhem, and propped at strategic locations throughout the Chastain household. Estelle believed she would be overcome when the moment ultimately arrived, but honor dictated that she put up a decent struggle before the sanctity of her private areas was disturbed.

She was standing that morning next to the largest of these shotguns when she gazed out her screen door and noticed a porch on her dog. Perhaps she believed that this was the prelude to rape-foreplay in the rough-and-ready style. Or maybe she concluded the evil Hun had once again arisen, threatening democracy and dogs everywhere. For whatever reason, she grabbed the shotgun, ran outdoors, aimed in a generally up direction, and let fly. Normally, Estelle couldn’t hit the water if she fell out of the boat. But the pattern flew tight and true and struck the helicopter.

When the blast impacted the big helicopter, Vernon L. “Wormy” Locklear relied on the quick instincts that had saved his bacon on numerous occasions over in Nam. His reflexes did not seem in the least diminished by the pint of Old Granddad he had consumed that morning, and he jinked to the right and dove when he came under fire. He had historically enjoyed great success with this maneuver, but he found that attempting the strategy with a house in tow brought complications. Specifically, the dive, once commenced, was impossible to pull out of. The helicopter was overloaded to begin with, and the necessary horsepower was not available. Wormy would have been lost but for one stroke of luck; his brother-in-law, Meat-head, had rigged the load. Meathead’s nickname was not the result of an idle whim, and what he didn’t know about slinging a house for transport by air was considerable. So it was not particularly surprising when the house, for want of more technical terminology, fell off the rope and alighted in the road north of town.

And that was where Slim entered the picture. He was on routine patrol just north of town when a log cabin came to earth on the highway right in front of him. The dwelling split in two upon its sudden contact with the asphalt, and he put the cruiser into the living room before he could get stopped. He clambered out of his car with sidearm drawn, ready to inflict punishment upon the scofflaw who had gotten the drop on him. Wormy, however, had bigger fish than Slim to fry. The loss of the house had gained him very little in terms of control. The helicopter lurched toward starboard, putting it on a collision course with the ridge north of town. It clawed at the sky, fishtailing back and forth as it disappeared behind the ridge. A.J. listened for the crash, but the sound never came. He hoped the pilot had regained altitude.

Back at the dog killing, Estelle came out to the landing zone after reloading Old Betsy. She viewed the wreckage with composure at first, but her calm dissolved into rage and misery when she spotted Plug’s paw sticking out from under the Historic Pile of Lumber that was once a porch.

“I’ll kill them!” she wailed, waving her shotgun like a divining rod. She was not specific as to the identity of them, but it was A.J.’s opinion that they would be wise to lay low.

“I think you may already have,” replied A.J., recalling the erratic deportment of the helicopter as it descended behind the ridge. He eased the shotgun from her grasp.

“Do you think it hurt?” she asked as she viewed the remains, referring to the dog, presumably, and not the helicopter. She squatted down and touched the paw.

“I guarantee you that he didn’t feel a thing,” A.J. kindly replied. “When my time comes, I hope a porch falls on me.” He was not good with this kind of thing.

“I can’t believe you said that,” Maggie whispered in his ear when she came up. She gave him an urgent jab in the ribs with her elbow. Then she moved over to Estelle and gave her a hug. Estelle sobbed quietly as Maggie led her to the Folly for a cup of tea and a little sympathy.

“Don’t worry,” he hollered after them. “I’ll take care of this.” He reviewed the problem for a moment and then went for his truck and some tools. His plan was to haul it all-lock, stock, porch, and dog-to the landfill for a decent burial. He had just gotten the tailgate lowered when Truth Hannassey rolled up in her Mercedes convertible.

“What is that porch doing there?” she demanded. The implication appeared to be that A.J. was in some way responsible, that he had willed the porch to earth.

“It seems to be holding down that dog,” he said, pointing at the rubble. “If you’d like, I can hook a chain to it and haul it over to the house.” He gestured at the roadway. Truth looked in that direction and blanched. She had been so intent on the side issue of the porch that she had overlooked the main event in the highway.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“I think your helicopter went down behind the ridge,” he volunteered helpfully, hiking his thumb in the direction of the whirlybird’s last known location. “You probably want to report that to the police.” He again pointed at the house. “You’ll find him up in your house. He plowed into it when it landed in front of him.” He paused, and then continued. “He gets touchy, sometimes. Don’t come up on his blind side.” Truth sizzled. She was so enraged he thought he might be in danger of being whacked. Then she seemed to regain her composure a little, and after taking two deep breaths she motored toward the highway to check on her real estate investments. A.J. climbed into his truck and drove toward the last observed position of the helicopter. Neither the Historic Porch nor Plug would be going anywhere, and it had occurred to him that someone ought to be looking after the downed transport.

A.J. found the helicopter sitting in the middle of the county road on the other side of the ridge. The landing gear looked bent, and so did the pilot. He was crouched in the open doorway, steadying his nerves with Old Granddad. The aroma of hydraulic fluid pervaded the scene.

“I hate it when this shit happens,” the man confided in A.J. “Call me Wormy.”

“I wouldn’t think it happened that often,” A.J. observed, his untrained eye checking for signs of trouble, such as fuel pouring out of a rupture or flames dancing within.

“This is my fifth time,” Wormy quipped. He tossed the empty pint bottle into the woods.

“House moving must be a rough business,” A.J. concluded. After further discussion, it turned out that the other four times had been over the Mekong Delta, random occurrences orchestrated by dedicated employees of that wily rascal, Ho Chi Minh.

“I sort of thought I was through being shot down,” Wormy said ruefully, as if he were ashamed. “You don’t know who got me, do you?” It was an odd question, but it seemed important to the downed flyer, a pride issue, perhaps, or something to do with insurance. The man was looking at A.J. with anxiety etched on his features.

“Crazy guy who lives across the ridge,” A.J. lied. He could not say why. “Ex-Marine. Shoots stuff down all the time.” It was not a convincing fabrication, but Wormy had been softened up by near death and plenty of alcohol and was not a tough crowd. He nodded, as if he knew several guys just like that. Good boys, but a little hasty on the trigger.

“Real badass, huh?” he asked with a grin. He apparently liked being taken out by the best. A.J.’s hunch was correct. It would have been cruel to inform the pilot he had been aced by a little old lady in a fit of revenge over a squashed pooch. He had undergone enough already. They decided that the helicopter would be fine where it was. It required repair to make it airworthy, and Wormy needed to check with his boss now that the load had become kindling.

“You think somebody’ll hit it, sitting there?” Wormy asked as they climbed into the truck. A.J. perused the landing site. The machine was sitting on a straight stretch of road and was far enough off the shoulder to allow vehicles to pass one at a time.

“I only know one person who would be in any danger of hitting it,” A. J. replied. “And she’s tied up right now with a dog problem.” He fired up the truck, and they headed for a phone.

“Dog too mean?” asked Wormy conversationally. He was fishing around unsuccessfully for something to smoke. A.J. removed a pack from over the visor and tucked it into Wormy’s pocket.

“Dog too flat,” he responded. Wormy nodded his head as if he understood just how much trouble a flat dog could be.

A.J. drove to the broken cabin and arrived just in time to witness the culmination of a misunderstanding between Truth and Slim. The problem revolved around two issues, the first being the house in the road and the second being the car in the house. Neither made Slim happy, and he could not seem to convey the extent of his unhappiness to Truth. Admittedly, it may have been his presentation, which was limited to stammering with rage while waving a loaded gun. Still, A.J. could see what Slim wanted as soon as he drove up.

He got out of the truck and sauntered over to the point of impact. He made plenty of noise as he came near; he didn’t want to end up dead just because the skittish gendarme was having a mood. He squatted and looked up under the cruiser, then hollered to Wormy to bring the log chain from the back of the pickup. They attached one end to A.J.’s truck and the other to Slim’s patrol car, and they had the cruiser extracted from its historic garage in no time. A.J. unhooked the chain from both vehicles and tossed it into the back of the truck. Slim was still waving his pistol and mouthing soundless words, but he seemed to be recovering from the conniption.

“There, Slim,” A.J. said pleasantly. “You can have your car back. I don’t know what we’re going to do about this house, though. Maybe Johnny Mack can push it out of the way with his dozer.” It sounded like an expedient plan, but it upset Truth.

“You can’t just push my house out of the way with a bulldozer!” She folded her arms. “This is a National Historic Dwelling!” A.J., Slim, and Wormy all looked at the remains of the house.

“It’s in pretty bad shape,” A.J. said.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” She turned to Wormy, who was exhibiting the post-disaster flush of someone proud to be requiring oxygen. “Rig it back up, get your helicopter, and let’s get back to work! I’m paying good money for nothing right now.” Wormy smiled disarmingly and gave her a full-body shrug.

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

“What crazy guy?” asked Slim.

“Never mind,” A.J. interjected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we going?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s his mortal enemy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was Parm a warrior?” Wormy asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he sick?” Wormy whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad you like him,” A.J. said. “I got him for you.”

“You want to run that one by me again?”

“It’s simple,” A.J. said. “You need someone around to give you a hand. Wormy needs a place to stay. I need a little peace of mind when I’m not here. You ought to give me money for coming up with this idea.”

“Wormy?” Eugene asked. “Fucking Wormy? I know about nine guys named Wormy. They all look like him.” Eugene was trying to be a tough sell, so A.J. brought out the big guns.

“He killed Estelle Chastain’s dog with a porch today.”

“Get out of here,” came Eugene’s skeptical reply.

“Swear to God,” A.J. replied. “Then he dropped a whole house on Slim’s police car.” Eugene cocked his head sideways and gave Wormy a long look.

“Well,” he said grudgingly. “The boy may have a little potential. Slim make it out alive?”

“Yeah, he got out,” A.J. admitted.

“These things happen,” mused Eugene with mild disappointment in his voice. “I guess the important thing is that he made the attempt.” Out in the yard, Wormy looked up and smiled.

“The coffee is ready,” he said. A.J. arose and scratched up a measuring cup, a mug with no handle, and a small soup bowl. They savored the hot drink in silence. Wormy broke the quiet before it became oppressive.

“Did the crazy guy blow up your cars?” he asked Eugene, pointing at the carnage on the other side of the yard.

“What crazy guy?” Eugene replied.

“Never mind,” said A.J., holding the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day, outlandish and fraught with peril. His head was tired, and he wanted to go home. Wormy arose, walked out to the truck, and returned with both half gallons of bourbon. He broke the seal on one and turned it up in a long, slow swig. When he finished, he sucked the air in through his teeth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Does anyone mind if I have a little nip?” he asked as a courtesy.

“I like a man with manners,” Eugene observed, tipping the other jug for his own extended guzzle. A.J. could tell that Eugene was warming up to Wormy. The pair started to talk.

A.J. eased out of his chair and moved inside. He found pencil and paper and made a list of supplies that needed to be trucked in. He could hear laughter and easy talk coming from outside. The boys were hitting it off and slugging it down. He returned to the porch and viewed his handiwork. There were apples in their cheeks and twinkles in their eyes. Eugene lifted his bottle and offered a toast.

“To Saint fucking A.J., the founder of the feast,” Eugene proposed. He was two drams to the right of sober and generous in word and thought. They drank.

“To all the boys who died in the attempt,” Wormy said solemnly, and they quaffed again. It looked to A.J. like it was going to be a long evening.

“To the women I’m not going to get around to,” offered Eugene with a trace of melancholy.

“To how my eyes will be looking in the morning,” intoned Wormy. He seemed to be planning on staying.

“To how everyone’s eyes will be looking in the morning,” came Eugene’s reply.

“How will your eyes look in the morning?” asked A.J.

“Like two cigarette burns in a blanket,” said Wormy.

“Like two piss holes in the snow,” said Eugene.

“Like two road maps of Georgia,” said Wormy.

A.J. figured it was one metaphor past high time to leave, so he slipped off the porch. They were doing fine and wouldn’t miss him. He started the truck, and the boys didn’t even turn to see him go. As he bounced down the mountain, A.J. thought that the matchmaking was a success. At least for awhile, Eugene was not alone. It was not a perfect solution, but it wasn’t bad as a temporary expedient. Wormy seemed to be the proverbial rolling stone, but maybe he would gather some moss before moving on.

He headed to town. When he neared the city limit, he turned up the county road that led to Jackie Purdue’s place. He rounded a long, slow curve and came to the straightaway that held Wormy’s crippled ship. Slim stood in the road. With him was a stern-looking man in military garb. He reminded A.J. of a coiled spring. A.J. pulled up and rolled down his window.

“Slim, could you move your car?” he asked, pointing at the slightly dented cruiser blocking the way.

“Sure, I-” Slim began to respond, but the man with him cleared his throat and impatiently tapped his leg.

“Is that a swagger stick?” A.J. asked, smiling. He had never seen one in person and was enchanted. From Wormy’s description, A.J. realized he was in the presence of Maniac Monroe.

“Um. This officer informs me that you may know what has become of my pilot.” Maniac tapped while he talked, his tone indicating he was comfortable in his role as a leader of men.

“You must be Colonel Monroe,” A.J. said. Maniac stood as stiff as a starched Georgia pine. “Wormy told me all about you.” A.J. offered his hand.

“Um. Yes,” responded Maniac. “Do you know where I might find Captain Locklear? I need to speak to him about moving this helicopter.” A.J. could sense the situation was not as shipshape as the colonel would have liked.

“The last I saw of Wormy, he was too drunk to fly. And he was under the impression that he was unemployed. He is talking to someone about another situation as we speak.” A.J. didn’t want to rain on Maniac’s parade, but he had dibs on Wormy.

“Can you take me to him?” Colonel Monroe asked.

“Not today,” A.J. responded, but not unkindly. “It’s late, he’s sloshed, and I have something to do. I’ll take you to see him tomorrow. Meet me at the diner in town about ten in the morning, and we’ll ride on up.” Maniac nodded. It would have to do.

A.J. finished the drive to Jackie’s house. Jackie was in his long handles, drinking coffee on the porch.

“A.J.” said Jackie. He nodded his head.

“Jackie, how have you been?”

“Been working, eating, and sleeping,” he responded. “And haven’t been getting much sleep, at that. I swear they’re trying to kill me.” He smiled ruefully. The box plant was well known for long hours of overtime.

“If I had your money, I’d throw my money away,” A.J. responded. Jackie worked all the overtime he could lay his hands on and put aside the fruits for rainy days. By all accounts, it could rain for years, and he would be just fine. He lived the single life. Having seen his parents’ marriage up close, it had seemed to him that there were worse things than being an old bachelor.

So A.J. the unemployed husband sat with Jackie the overemployed bachelor and talked of many things under the sun. They talked about Alabama Southern, and about the rumor that they were purchasing the box plant.

“I may end up drinking coffee with you down at the drive-in,” Jackie observed.

“No, you’re not management. They’ll love you,” was A.J.’s reply. Then they spoke of the brutal murder of Estelle Chastain’s dog. The news was novel to Jackie, and he hid a smile as he heard the details.

“I never liked that dog much, but Estelle is okay, except when she’s showing me her cleavage,” he commented, referring to her many attempts to reel him in. She had set her cap for him years ago, but her bait was simply not up to par.

“Plug has gone to a better place, and Estelle needs you now more than ever,” A.J. kidded. Then they discussed the weather, the price of gas down at Billy’s, and the new salad bar offered by Hoghead at the drive-in. Finally, A.J. ran out of anything else to talk about and broached the situation up on the mountain.

He outlined Eugene’s condition. He related his discussions with Johnny Mack. He described the sad discourse between Eugene and Diane. He shared his opinion that Eugene was sliding fast and in need of constant attendance. Then he finished by explaining the installation of Wormy until better arrangements could be made.

“Johnny Mack knows about this?” Jackie finally asked.

“Everything but Wormy,” A.J. said.

“I talked to him yesterday,” Jackie continued. “And to Angel. He didn’t tell me any of this. And she seemed happy, so I guess he hasn’t told her either.” Jackie seemed embarrassed.

“You need to go make her unhappy, Jackie,” A.J. said. It was the hard truth, flinty and cold.

That night back at the Folly, A.J. discussed his accomplishments with Maggie. He was satisfied with the day’s labors, but Maggie voiced concern.

“You left a drunken, dog-killing, unemployed helicopter pilot named Wormy in charge?” she asked, putting the worst possible slant on the arrangement.

“It beats leaving him with the dog,” A.J. said defensively.

The next day was busy. A.J. began his chores by taking Estelle out to the Parm Shrine so she could pay her respects to the chunk of wood A.J. had committed to eternity. Estelle was overcome at the sight of the small, raw mound.

“You did a fine job, A.J.,” she boo-hooed as he endured a hug. He thought of Plug out at the landfill next to an Amana.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

After taking Estelle home, A.J. drove down to the We Shall Gather by the Salad Bar Drive-In to wait for Maniac Monroe. When he walked in, a couple of his old sawmill employees hailed him.

“How is life in the sawmill?” A.J. asked.

“They have lost their minds,” said Duke Favors. He pointed his fork at A.J. “They’ve raised the production quota, and they have a bunch of new boys wandering around with clipboards looking for waste.”

He shook his head in absolute disgust as he bit into a piece of bacon. “If they were really interested in waste, they’d start by shit-canning those guys.”

“Tell him about the paper towels, Duke,” urged Brickhead Crowe.

“Oh, man,” said the Duke. “Somebody on the day shift wadded a bunch of paper towels in one of the johns. When they flushed it, it flooded the bathroom. So they got some of those damn air blowers that hang on the wall. You know, the ones where the fourth step is to wipe your hands on your pants. Our new supervisor-and this guy is a real treat, by the way-told us he guessed we wouldn’t be stopping up the toilets anymore. Real shitty about it, too.” Duke chased a bite of egg around his plate with his toast.

“Tell him the rest,” Brickhead said with glee.

“Somebody-and I swear to God I don’t know who, but I’d buy him a beer if I did-ripped those blowers off the damn wall and tossed them in the shitters. It was beautiful.” Duke and Brickhead were laughing, and A.J. was glad to see that they were in good spirits. It seemed there was trouble brewing at Alabama Southern. He stood when Maniac Monroe came in.

“Conley, you need to be hanging way back when the shit hits the fan,” he said to Brickhead Crowe. “Do you understand me?” Conley nodded. A.J. looked at him to be sure he understood. “I mean way back. Are you with me on this?” The big man nodded again. A.J. turned to Duke, whose ways he knew quite well.

“Duke, they’ll fire you if they catch you, and probably press charges, too,” he advised.

“What?” Duke asked, the paragon of innocence. He held up his hands, as if to show he had nothing up his sleeves.

“Duke, this is me, not some wet-behind-the-ears new boy. These people will not play with you. I’m telling you.” Duke was still holding his innocent pose as A.J. left with Maniac. A.J. chuckled when he and Colonel Monroe got into the truck. The hand-dryers-in-the-johns deal was pretty good.

The trip to Eugene’s was silent. They arrived at the clearing and saw Wormy squatted in the yard, cooking a bird on a spit. An open can of beer was to the left of him and Rufus was to the right. Eugene sat on the porch, strumming at an acoustic guitar. A.J.

headed to the porch to confer with Eugene. Maniac stopped at the bird-roast to speak with his former pilot.

“We should have become rock stars,” Eugene offered. “I remember we used to talk about it all the time.” He seemed wistful. “I wonder why we never did it.”

“We never did it because we sucked,” A.J. replied simply. It was the truth, and no use dancing around the fact. When they were boys, he and Eugene and three other lads had formed a rock-and-roll band with the unlikely name of Skyye. To their musically challenged minds, the extra ye at the end of the perfectly sufficient Sky constituted class, and considering the quality of their song Stylings, they needed all the help they could get.

“We didn’t suck all that bad,” Eugene said defensively.

“We sucked so bad we’re lucky we didn’t implode,” A.J. commented. He reached for the guitar, and Eugene surrendered it without a fight. A.J. began to tune the instrument.

“Well, okay, we mostly sucked,” Eugene conceded grudgingly. “But Jimmy didn’t suck. He was great.”

“You’re right,” A.J. agreed. “He could have been a star.” They were referring to Jimmy Weems, former lead guitar player for Skyye, onetime inhabitant of Sequoyah, and bygone participant in life. He could make music flow from almost any instrument, could pick out a song after hearing it once, and could play a guitar upside down and backward just like Jimi Hendrix. But he was luckless, and somewhere along the way he was stricken with crippling arthritis in both hands. By the time he turned twenty-one, his fingers were so bent and deformed he could no longer button his shirt, never mind skitter up the neck fast and sweet. Music was his life, and when the music died, so did Jimmy. He was gone when his mama found him, dead of an overdose of painkillers washed down with cherry vodka.

A.J. and Eugene fell silent for a moment, saddened by the memory of their friend. They watched Wormy and Maniac out in the yard where they carried on a lively conversation. Rufus sat beside Wormy and kept a weather eye on Colonel Monroe. Eugene pointed his finger in Maniac’s direction.

“Who’s he?” he asked.

“That’s Wormy’s ex-boss. He’s come to try to hire him back. He needs him to fly the helicopter out of the road.”

“He can’t have him,” Eugene said. “He works for me now.”

“I didn’t know you were hiring, or I would have hit you up myself,” A.J. said. “What are his duties?”

“He gets drunk with me and cooks birds in the yard.”

“I saw the bird,” A.J. said, handing the guitar back to Eugene. “It looked like Wormy hit it with the helicopter. My advice is to go with some of the Spam I brought you.” Eugene was even a bigger fan of Spam than A.J. was. He was the only person A.J. knew who had actually baked one, just like the optimistic picture on the can.

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

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

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

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

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

“That Wormy is a jewel,” A.J. agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What damn crazy guy?” Eugene asked.

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

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

“What favor?” Wormy asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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