The Front Porch Prophet

CHAPTER 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to restore the Finn Hall?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me think about it a couple of days,” he said. He wanted to talk to Maggie and see what she really thought. Also, he thought he might ride out to the Finn Hall. It had been a while since his last look, and that peek had been after nightfall.

“That’s fair,” she said, holding out her hand for a shake. “We can talk more about it Thursday.” She stood, left a generous tip, and walked to the counter to settle her check. A.J. was lingering back at Thursday. Was she coming Thursday? Maggie must have invited her. As he tuned back in, he heard Truth finishing a statement.

“…fine. I’ll pick it up Wednesday afternoon.” She smiled at them both when she walked to the door. They watched as she strode up the sidewalk.

“She is nice,” Hoghead observed, counting his tip. He appreciated women who ate his food and gave him money. “All the young bucks around here must be fast asleep.” He had that old if I were twenty years younger look on his face.

“It’s complicated,” A.J. told him. “Don’t torment yourself.” Truth was no Swedish meatball cook from Hong Kong, and A.J. did not want to see Hoghead get hurt.

“She loved my turkey pie, and for a little girl, she could eat, too.” This was high acclaim from Hoghead. “She ordered a big pan to bring with her to your house on Thursday.”

“No kidding,” A.J. responded. “Well, it doesn’t get much better than that.” He paid his bill, made his adieus, and headed for Eugene’s via the beer joint.

He studied on the Finn Hall idea until his arrival at the beer joint, newly reopened and staffed by a slowly convalescing Bird Egg. He had overcome the long knife stuck in his liver by Termite Nichols, but he still weakened easily and could not carry heavy loads, so Eugene had provided Wormy as an assistant. The bootlegger-in-training spent two or three hours a day with Bird Egg, loading the coolers and hauling the garbage. The two were birds of a feather. Both had been to Asian wars of their country’s choice and had survived, and every day since had been bonus time. A.J. pulled in and saw Mom’s Taxi, which meant Wormy was in residence. He parked and entered.

“A.J.!” Bird Egg exclaimed. “How in the goddamn hell have you been, boy?” The exertion of the greeting sent Bird Egg into a coughing fit.

“I’ve been fine, Bird Egg. You’re looking pretty good for an old guy with a hole in his liver.” He was lying. Bird Egg looked like aged Kansas roadkill.

“Shit,” the old man commented as he lit another Pall Mall. “It’ll take more’n Termite Nichols to put me under.” He was racked by another coughing fit.

Not much more, A.J. thought, saying, “That’s the ticket, Bird.” Wormy came in from the back carrying a couple of cases of beer. He saw A.J. and smiled.

Wormy had been a godsend. He enjoyed living up on the mountain and drinking the day away with his young ward, Eugene. But in addition to that duty, he took care of Eugene. He made sure that his patient had hot food and clean clothes. He saw that Eugene had medicine and booze, cigarettes and weapons of destruction. He kept the cabin clean and the yard neat. He helped out at the beer joint some, but he would not leave his charge for long.

“Wormy, you’re working too hard,” A.J. said. “I think you must be trying to take Bird Egg’s job away from him.” Bird was snoring on the sofa. Wormy removed the burning cigarette from the old man’s lips.

“No, I don’t want his job,” Wormy said seriously as he looked with concern in the comatose rogue’s direction. He didn’t want Bird Egg to get the wrong idea, to think he was gunning for him. Fortunately, Bird Egg was not paying strict attention to the conversation.

“Well, I see what you mean,” A.J. said. “Too much pressure.” Bird Egg rolled over in his stupor.

“Exactly. Who needs it?” Wormy asked.

“Right,” A.J. confirmed. He moved to the wine closet and rummaged around for selections sealed with corks rather than twist tops, obvious evidence of finer vintages. He put these in a box and placed them on the card table. Then he dug out the spiral notebook that served as the ledger and charged the wine to his tab. He felt better about it that way. The beer joint wasn’t his yet.

“I’m heading up to see Eugene,” he told Wormy as he picked up the box. “Is anyone up there with him?”

“Angel was still visiting when I left this morning,” Wormy replied. “She came real early today.” It was the rare day she did not come to see her baby son. Jackie provided the horsepower for her visits, so he saw Eugene as often as she did. Counting A.J. and Wormy, Eugene was attended most of the time, which was what A.J. had set out to accomplish. Predictably, Johnny Mack had not made the trek. A.J. held hope that he would find it in his heart to attempt a reconciliation before the end.

“You going to hang around down here long?” he asked.

“I’ll be along as soon as he finishes his nap,” Wormy said. He followed A.J. out to the truck.

“Bird Egg is looking pretty bad,” A.J. commented as he climbed into the cab.

“I know dead guys in better shape,” Wormy agreed. “I guess he’s just too mean to die.” A.J. had to agree that the old man was gritty. But too mean to die or not, it looked like the checkmark had already been placed by Bird’s name. Maybe the Reaper had gotten stuck in traffic or stopped off for a short stack and a cup of coffee, but directly he would come to call. A.J. waved as he backed out. Wormy nodded as he began to police the area around the beer joint.

A.J. drove up the mountain. When he pulled into the clearing, he viewed Eugene asleep in his La-Z-Boy recliner. The chair and its occupant were out in the open in front of a bonfire. Eugene preferred the outdoors, and the arrangement had been Wormy’s solution when it became too cold for Eugene to sit without heat on the porch. Four sturdy poles were implanted around the perimeter of the seating area so a tarp could be strung in case of rain. A cord of seasoned oak was split and stacked to the west of the area, providing handy fuel and a break from the prevailing winds. The venerable cable spool had been dragged from the porch and sat next to the La-Z-Boy, rounding out the ensemble. A.J. dismounted and walked over. He poked up the fire and tossed on a few more logs. There was more than a nip in the air, and the heat felt good. Rufus was snoozing next to his master. He stirred, cast a baleful eye, and growled with low menace. A.J. held up a piece of the split oak.

“Think of this as a baseball bat with bark on it,” he advised the dog. Rufus blinked and resumed his nap. Wormy had been a calming influence on the old canine, and most times he was content to merely glare and rumble.

The last month had not been kind to Eugene. The dark circles under his eyes looked like twin shiners, as if he had unwisely made rude remarks to burly boys in a bar named Smitty’s. The contrast with the yellowish tinge of his skin was stark. He had passed gaunt and was now skeletal. He slept a great deal, but it was difficult to say whether this was because of his condition or due to his treatment. He was on the downhill slalom, gaining momentum exponentially while barely dodging the trees. A.J.’s heart told him that it would not be long. He left his brother sleeping and walked on to the cabin. He intended to brew some coffee, thinking that Eugene might like a cup when he awoke. He opened the door, and there stood Angel. She looked as if she had been crying, and she gasped and put her hand over her heart when she saw him.

“A.J.!” she said. “I didn’t hear you come up. You startled me.” She sat down on the tall stool next to the stove. A small pot of vegetable soup was bubbling, and he could smell cornbread baking.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said apologetically. “I figured you were gone, or I would have made more noise. Jackie didn’t forget you, did he?” He put the coffee on to boil.

“No, he came. But Eugene was having a bad morning. Jackie helped me get him comfortable, and then I sent him on to work. He said he would be glad to stay, but you know how much it upsets him to miss a day. He was working the short shift today, and ought to be back soon.”

They sat briefly silent while Angel stirred the soup. She looked over at A.J., and he could see that the tears were flowing. There was a quiet dignity to her sadness. They were on the hard way now, no mistake, and there was little he could do to comfort her. She stood and stared out the kitchen window at her son.

“I wish he would come in,” she said. “It’s cold out there.” She smiled a blue smile. “He always was a little stubborn. Sort of like his daddy.” A.J. decided to leave that one right where it was. Perhaps he would discuss Eugene’s paternity on a day less mournful and joyless.

“Headstrong,” he agreed. He stood by her and looked out the window. Presently, Eugene stirred. “Looks like he’s waking up,” A.J. said. “I’ll go see if he wants some of that soup, or maybe some coffee.” He walked out into the yard and dragged up a chair. Eugene looked over as his brother sat, and he offered a whisper of wisdom.

“Here’s your chance,” he said. “Rufus is asleep.”

“I’ll pass,” A.J. replied. “If I can’t take him out face to face, it wouldn’t be right to sneak up from behind.” He nudged Rufus with his toe, and the big dog snarled ominously in his sleep.

“You are a noble man,” Eugene observed before knocking back a fair slug of bourbon followed by a small sip of one of his medicines. He coughed a moment before regaining control. “Rufus, on the other hand, is not. His preference is for you to never see it coming. Remember that.” A.J. nodded his appreciation for the advice, although he had not been unclear on the subject to begin with. Eugene shrunk deeper into his coat and grew motionless. Finally, just as A.J. decided he had dropped back off, Eugene spoke.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked. There was a bleakness in his voice, a timbre of defeat. It gave A.J. a chill. “Angel seems to have hidden mine again.” A.J. lit one for Eugene and tossed the rest of the pack on the cable spool.

“Well, they are bad for you,” he offered lamely. “And she is your mama.”

“I know,” Eugene said. They were quiet for a while. “What time did Angel and Jackie leave?” he asked. He seemed to be feeling particularly bad at the moment.

“I don’t know when Jackie left,” A.J. answered. “Angel is inside. She’s making you some soup.” Eugene considered this information for a moment while enjoying his borrowed cigarette. He smoked it to the nub, flipped it in the fire, and lit another.

“Angel is of the opinion that soup will cure my cancer. Every time I turn around, she’s bringing me some soup and hiding my fucking smokes.” Eugene’s voice was quiet, yet his words were harsh. A.J. didn’t know what to say. Angel’s soup wasn’t that bad, and he could always slip Eugene another carton of the Surgeon General’s bane.

“Well, she wants to help you,” he said. “But she doesn’t know what to do.”

“Like I don’t fucking know that,” Eugene snarled. He seemed to coil, as if about to strike. “But there’s not a goddamn thing that she can do. In the meantime, I don’t have time to be hunting up a damn cigarette.” A.J. knew that his brother was right. There was nothing anyone could do. Nothing at all. “I don’t want to die,” Eugene said. His voice caught, and he grew quiet.

A.J. was in a bind. He wanted to ease Eugene’s anguish and bolster his troubled spirit, but he had no tools adequate to the task. He was not trained to handle raw emotion from hopeless souls. But the fat was in the fire. Eugene was going to die, and there would be no quarter. He reached over and took Eugene’s hand. It was a totally uncharacteristic action, but it was all he could think of. At first there was no reaction, but after a moment he felt a slight returning pressure. And so they sat in silence for a long, stony time, secret brothers staring into the blaze, each with his own thoughts.

After an interval, A.J. heard a vehicle making its way up the road and Jackie’s vehicle rolled into view. Eugene removed his hand and placed it in his coat pocket. Jackie parked next to A.J.’s truck and joined the boys at the fire.

“Man, it’s cold,” he said. He blew into his hands.

“There’s some coffee in the cabin,” A.J. offered.

“And soup,” Eugene said distantly, although his voice had lost its steel edge.

“I think I’ll get us all a coffee,” Jackie said. “Coffee, Gene?” he asked his brother. Eugene nodded absently.

“That Jackie will just talk your leg off,” Eugene said after Jackie had entered the cabin. “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” He had joshed Jackie for years on his lack of vocal acumen. He washed down a little more medicine with a lot more bourbon before lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag and closed his eyes. When they reopened, they had a softer look, glazed and watery around the edges.

“The thing about morphine is this,” he expounded. “It’s great.” He looked over at A.J. “Just absolutely, fucking great. If I had known it, I would have been a junkie years ago.” They heard the door shut, and Jackie made his way over to them with three steaming Styrofoam cups.

“Here’s the Joe, boys,” he said, handing out the fragrant vessels. They all sipped appreciatively for a moment.

“Sure is cold out here,” Eugene offered in Jackie’s direction. He was as high as government spending, feeling good enough to pick at his oldest brother.

“Man,” Jackie agreed, oblivious to his brother’s wiles. He finished his coffee. “Mama’s tired,” he said to Eugene. “She says she wants to stay, but I’m going to take her home.” He looked at A.J. “Are you going to be around awhile?”

“Absolutely.” A.J. thought she needed to go home, as well. She was not a young woman, and all of those years she had lived with Johnny Mack had each counted for more, like dog years. Jackie pitched his cup on the fire and went to get his mother. Eugene and A.J. watched as the cup melted away.

“Jackie is not an environmentally sound man,” Eugene noted, as if it saddened him that his own brother was part of the problem and not the solution.

“Not like me and you, for sure,” A.J. agreed, and threw his cup on the pyre. Eugene’s followed.

“Maybe later we can spray some deodorant into the air,” Eugene suggested. Jackie and Angel made their way to the fire. She was carrying a tray.

“Eat your soup and then we’ll talk,” A.J. said quietly when they walked up. Angel placed the meal on the cable spool.

“Eugene, I made you some soup,” she said. “I want you to have some of it before it gets cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. She looked over at A.J.

“Make sure he eats,” she advised. He could hear the concern in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he echoed. She looked frail in the cold light of afternoon, tottery and infirm. She bent down and kissed Eugene on the cheek.

“I will see you tomorrow,” she told him. Then Jackie took her arm and led her to the Bronco. A.J. and Eugene watched as they left the clearing, then A.J. uncovered the soup and handed the bowl to Eugene.

“Here. Eat a bite and I’m off the hook.” Eugene complied. Then he surprised A.J. by taking two more spoonfuls before putting the broth down. He looked around on the cable spool for a moment. Then he sighed and shook his head.

“She took my cigarettes again,” Eugene said with resignation in his voice. A.J. looked, and sure enough, they were absent.

“She’s good,” he said as he walked to his truck and removed the carton he had brought.

“She’s driving me crazy,” Eugene said.

“It could be worse,” A.J. pointed out. “Estelle Chastain could be your mother.”

“There’s no call for that kind of talk,” Eugene said, shuddering. “I need a drink,” he concluded, reaching for the remnants of the sour mash on the cable spool. He drained the bottle. “I hope you brought more,” he croaked.

“I did,” A.J. assured him. “But I’m considering putting your whiskey and cigarettes up until you learn moderation.” Eugene cast him a look that would soften lead.

“I have to put up with that kind of shit from Angel,” he said. “You, I can kill.”

“You seem to have your old good humor back,” A.J. noted.

“I slept too long, and my feelgood wore off,” came the simple reply. He directed unfocused eyes at A.J. “A man in my condition does not need for his feelgood to wear off.” A.J. had to take that one on faith but did not mistrust a word of it. He nodded.

“Maggie told me to ask you again to come to dinner Thursday,” he said. “So I’m asking. Why don’t you have Wormy bring you down?” This marked the third time he had asked, but Eugene was extremely resistant to the idea, stating that he didn’t have a hell of a lot to be thankful for.

“Do you think Diane will come?” Eugene asked, throwing a slow curve in A.J.’s direction. It caught the corner for a strike.

“Yeah, I think she will,” A.J. answered. What he didn’t mention was that she would likely be in the company of Truth Hannassey. The two had become a couple and were seldom separated. He still couldn’t believe that Maggie had asked Truth to come. He made a mental note to stop by the beer joint and invite Bird Egg in retaliation.

“I’d like to see her,” Eugene lamented. “And the boys, too.”

“Well, then, it’s a date,” A.J. said. He would just have to talk to Diane and Truth and get them to work with him on this. “We’ll eat, drink, and be merry. It will be good for you.”

“Let me see what Wormy says,” Eugene hedged.

“He wants to come,” A.J. said. “He told me that he has never been to a real Thanksgiving feast. Give him a break.” Eugene sighed.

“I’m looking pretty rough. I don’t want to offend any of your guests.” His Emily Post was showing, and his concern was laudable and touching.

“You have always offended everybody,” A.J. pointed out. “You may be the most offensive person who ever lived. The only difference now is that you’re thinner. You were getting a little paunchy anyway.”

“I wouldn’t talk,” Eugene countered. He was rolling a generous joint while he talked. “Unemployment has gone right to your hips.” A.J. looked down. He might have picked up a pound or two, but he believed he carried it well.

“Keep it up, and I’ll tell Angel where you hide the dope,” he responded. “Now, how about it? Are you coming?”

“Tell Maggie May I’ll be there unless I feel rotten,” Eugene said slowly, almost grudgingly. “But I’ll probably feel rotten.”

“If you don’t when you get there, you will after you eat the Indian pudding.”

“Oh, God,” Eugene said. “Is she bringing that?” He, too, had sampled the dish.

“No, I fixed it,” was A.J.’s response. “But beware of anything that has lime Jell-O as the main ingredient. That’s her fallback.”

“Knowing Estelle, she’ll whip up a bowl of lime Jell-O and horse shit,” Eugene observed.

They grew quiet, and A.J. realized Eugene had once again drifted off. He got up and threw a couple more chunks on the fire. Then he went inside to secure a bowl of Angel’s soup. He was sitting on the edge of the porch waiting for his portion to cool when Wormy arrived in Mom’s Taxi. He got out and cast a look in Eugene’s direction, then came over and sat.

“Get some soup,” A.J. suggested.

“I might have a bowl in a little while,” Wormy replied. He unscrewed the cap from the pint bottle he had removed from his jacket pocket and took a lengthy sip. “Want a taste?” he asked when he was through.

“No, better not,” A.J. declined. “If I go home with liquor on my breath, Maggie might beat me with a stout cane.”

“And the downside would be?” Wormy asked with a twinkle in his bloodshot eye. He had obviously been spending too much time in the Purdue presence.

“You’re getting quick,” A.J. noted. “I may have to tell Maggie you’re having discipline fantasies about her.” Wormy looked alarmed.

“Lord, Lord,” he said with concern. “Don’t do that. I really like your wife. I don’t want her to be mad at me.” He looked like he was about to cry.

“You just don’t want to get uninvited to supper,” A.J. said.

“I don’t guess we’re coming anyway,” Wormy said sadly. “Eugene doesn’t think he’ll feel up to it.” He sighed. “I could almost taste that turkey, too.” He looked off into the distance as if he could see it out there: tender, roasted poultry, forever just out of his grasp.

“I got him to agree to come,” A.J. informed him. “If you don’t let him back out, you’ll still get your drumstick.”

“I’ll try,” Wormy said doubtfully.

“Don’t try. Do.” A.J. pointed out in the yard to the sleeping figure by the bonfire. “He doesn’t have long. This could be the last time he gets out. If he won’t come, pick him up and put him in the van.” Wormy looked at Eugene and nodded.

“All right. I’ll get him there somehow.” He took another sip. “You’re right, though. He’s sliding. And it’s taking more of everything to keep him out of pain.” He lit a smoke. “More booze. More pills. More morphine.”

“What do you think about all that?’” A.J. asked.

“I think it’s his business,” Wormy said without hesitation. “I say let him have at it. I’ve seen a lot of people die, and there is no good way to go about it.” The wisdom of the ages as spoken by an alcoholic helicopter pilot. A.J. decided to broach a subject that had been lingering since Eugene had taken his latest downward turn.

“I know you like Eugene, but it’s starting to get a little rough now.” He considered how best to continue. He wanted to convey that if it was time to hat up, no one would think less of Wormy for going. “If you, uh…”

“Don’t,” Wormy said. “I finish what I start. It’s kind of like flying the helicopter out of the road after the crazy guy shot me down. Anyway, Eugene is my friend just like he’s yours.”

“Okay, then,” A.J. said. “I won’t mention it again.”

“Anyway, I’ve got no place else to be and nothing else to do,” Wormy said. “After he goes, I’ll be moving on. I don’t know what I’ll be doing, but it won’t be flying.”

A.J. thought about this for a moment. An obvious solution occurred to him.

“Don’t tell Eugene I told you,” he said, “but he’s leaving the beer joint to me when he dies.” Wormy nodded, as if to say it made good sense to him. “I don’t want it,” A.J. continued, “so I’m going to give it to you. You seem to have a knack for the work.” Wormy held up his hands, warding off the compliment and the largesse. Both were much too grand in his scheme of things.

“I’d just screw it up,” he objected. “And what about Bird Egg?”

“You have to keep an eye on Bird Egg until he goes to the big card game in the sky,” A.J. said, resolving another problem. He was on a roll. “After that, it’s all yours. How can you screw it up? You buy alcohol, sell it for more than you bought it for, pay off Red Arnold every now and then, and play poker the rest of the time. It’s not brain surgery.” Wormy looked doubtful. He seemed resistant to making the executive move. Then his eyes lit up.

“We can be partners,” he proposed. “You be the boss, and I’ll run the business. We can split the money.” This wasn’t quite what A.J. had in mind, but it looked like it was the best he was going to be able to manage. He supposed he could reserve his half for charitable works, like sending the children to college. One thing was for certain; he would have to present to Maggie her new status as the bootlegger’s wife in the best possible light.

“Okay,” he said to Wormy as he held out his hand. Giving him half a beer joint was better than giving him no beer joint at all, at least for the time being. They shook. “We’ll try it for a while. Once you get your confidence up, you can buy me out.” Wormy nodded.

A.J. felt a little better. In one fell swoop, he had dispensed with the problems of what to do with Wormy, Bird Egg, and the beer joint. He looked at his watch. The day was long into afternoon, and he needed to be going. He stood and clapped Wormy on the shoulder. They walked out to the bonfire. Eugene stirred, and it seemed he might awaken. Then he settled into a deeper doze.

“I think he’s out for a while,” Wormy said.

“If he’s still asleep Thursday, he’ll be easy to load,” A.J. observed. Wormy nodded. Apparently he hadn’t thought of it. A.J. exited the clearing. He could see Wormy standing by the bonfire looking to be deep in thought, perhaps on the subject of the load out if Eugene did not awaken. A.J. knew he would ponder the problem until he had worried a solution.

That night, he sat with Maggie at the kitchen table and talked about the Finn Hall. The house was filled with the aromas of holiday baking, and the three pies currently in the oven-one pumpkin and two cherry-were adding to the already mouthwatering composite of smells. Maggie and Eudora had baked themselves haggard, and their offerings were stacked casually throughout the kitchen. Eudora’s new husband, Carlisle, had not contributed to the ovenfest. But he had grown weary, nonetheless, while reclining on the sofa watching bad movies and eating cheese puffs. So he and Eudora had retired early, ostensibly to sleep.

“Sleeping, my foot,” said A.J., as they heard a crash from upstairs. John Robert and the children were gone to the drive-in, so unless there was a large badger wandering the second floor, he knew what was up.

“Hush,” Maggie said. “They’re newlyweds.” They heard a yell.

“Damn,” A.J. said.

“Don’t talk about it. That’s my sister up there.” They heard one more yell, a loud one, and then it grew quiet.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a cigarette,” A.J. said.

“Quit it,” she said.

“I’m going to have to get with Carlisle tomorrow and get a few pointers,” he continued.

“I hate to break it to you,” Maggie said, “but Carlisle was the one making all the noise.”

“All right,” A.J. said. “You go, Eudora.” This was getting better all the time.

“But feel free to get with Carlisle on those pointers,” Maggie added. She got up and removed the pumpkin pie from the oven. The scent of nutmeg wafted across the room. “A few more minutes on the cherry pies and we’ll be done,” she said as she regained her seat. A.J. started back in on the subject of the Finn Hall.

“I just don’t know about Truth,” he said. “She seems human now, but what if she reverts?”

“Then you quit,” Maggie replied. She looked at him and continued. “But I have to tell you that no one besides you seems to have much of a problem with her.”

“So you’re saying it’s me?” he asked incredulously.

“Some of it is you,” she confirmed. “If you keep your ego reeled in, you two can get along. I think you really want the job.”

“I do,” he said.

“So do it,” she said. “Truth is very mellow these days. She’s in love.”

“With Diane?”

“With Diane.”

“I can’t believe you invited Truth over for Thanksgiving,” he said.

“I was simply being polite,” she said absently, checking her pies. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is Diane and Eugene and Diane’s girlfriend all sitting at the same table. Eugene will slit his own throat.”

“You fret too much,” she replied, pulling the cherry pies out of the oven. Their aroma was heart-warming.

“If they kill each other, I’m not burying them,” A.J. stated emphatically. It had been bad enough with Plug.

“Let’s go to bed,” was Maggie’s reply as she turned off the light. She patted his head when she walked by, obviously not gravely concerned over the upcoming Thanksgiving Day Massacre. He stood and left the darkened kitchen, heading for a nod.

The big day finally arrived, and A.J. was up before dawn but not before John Robert. When he arrived downstairs, his father was outside stoking his smoker with seasoned hickory. He had decided at the last minute to add a couple of smoked pork loins to the menu, just to be on the safe side. It was a chilly morning, and A.J. could see John Robert’s breath rise in steamy puffs as he closed the firebox door and began to walk toward the house. He noticed a small limp on the older man, a little hitch in the get-along he had never seen before. John Robert stepped onto the porch and entered the kitchen.

“Just about ready to smoke these loins,” John Robert said as he removed the meat from the refrigerator.

“I saw you limping,” A.J. said. “Did you step on a nail?”

“No, I’m just a little stiff on the cold mornings these days.” John Robert carried his roasts in a pan. “I’ll be back,” he said as he backed out the door.

A.J. watched his father gimp across the yard. Because of Eugene, issues of mortality were on his mind, and the sight of John Robert shuffling to the smoker saddened him, but he shook off the moment. He had a turkey to roast and a house full of people circling, ready to land. The larger meanings of life and the absolute futility of it all would have to wait until he had more time.

Thanksgiving Day at the Folly was not a fixed event. Rather, it was a continuum through which the various participants flowed, each bringing according to means and taking according to need. The first to arrive were Eudora and Carlisle, who had come two days earlier and intended to remain for the week. The next to arrive were the Alexanders-Carson McCullers; her husband, Karl; and their two boys, John Steinbeck and William Faulkner. He liked Maggie’s younger sister and her husband, and the boys were good lads, although John was underrated by his peers, and it was often difficult to place William in time. They arrived around nine o’clock, bearing the makings of the Thanksgiving breakfast-country ham to fry, sausage balls to bake, and enough eggs to stock a henhouse. The biscuits would be conjured by John Robert. Hugs and greetings were exchanged, and the boys ran off in search of their cousins.

“Stay out of the guest room,” A.J. hollered at their retreating backs.

“What’s going on up there?” Karl asked. He was a quiet, slow-talking man.

“Eudora and Carlisle are taking a nap,” A.J. replied as he sliced the salty, cured ham.

“Taking a nap at nine in the morning?” Carson queried.

“Never mind,” advised Maggie, cracking eggs into a large green bowl.

Next in was the Smith family: Maggie’s sister, Agatha Christie, and her husband, John, as well as their children, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Madeline L’Engel.

“Uncle A.J.!” Ray yelled as he grabbed a leg and held tight. He was a sweet child but a loud one. “Are we having turkey?”

“No, baby, there was a problem with the turkey,” A.J. said as he tousled the boy’s hair. “Rogues from Texas broke in last night and got it.” Ray looked concerned. “Don’t worry, though,” A.J. continued. “We’ve got plenty of hot dogs.” The boy looked askance for a moment. Then he grinned and ran out of the room. He knew well the ways of his uncle.

Carlisle wandered in looking pale and drawn. He appeared to be having trouble concentrating. A.J. poured him a glass of orange juice and handed him a jelly biscuit. There was no use in letting him get poorly.

Mary Shelley Hensley and her husband, Gary, arrived around noon, accompanied by the matriarch and patriarch of the Callahan clan, Emmett and Jane Austen. The Hensleys didn’t have any children and intended to keep it that way. A.J. considered childlessness an abnormal condition, but to each his own. Gary and Mary were nice people despite their decision to not breed, and they were quite well-to-do, a condition easier to achieve in the absence of progeny.

The last of Maggie’s sisters to arrive was Jacqueline Susann Stewart. A.J. called her The Apostate, because she had broken doctrine by not naming her children after authors. She and her husband Geoffery had named their large brood Glen, Peter, Carol, Russell, and Zachary, or Zack for short. The name for the imminent sixth child had not yet been determined. Interspersed among the entrances of Maggie’s sisters and their families were the arrivals of the other guests. Estelle came over for breakfast wearing her pink flannel robe and furry slippers. She bore a huge lime Jell-O mold infused with chunks of carrots, celery, cheddar cheese, and bell pepper. She had outdone herself, and as A.J. accepted the offering, he was forced to concede the Indian pudding hadn’t been that bad, after all.

“Estelle, you shouldn’t have,” he said, meaning every word.

“Better get that in the icebox,” noted Estelle as she loaded scrambled eggs onto her plate. “We don’t want it to get too warm.”

“No, that’s for sure,” he agreed as he slid it way in the back of the refrigerator, out of sight but not quite out of mind.

More guests arrived throughout the morning and early afternoon. Doc Miller and Minnie whisked in with a bottle of fifty-year-old brandy and a vegetable tray. Minnie had made certain the assortment contained white radishes, which were one of A.J.’s favorites when served with a little salt. Hoghead landed with twenty pounds of Swedish meatballs, each a small study in Hong Kong tastiness. He was accompanied by Dixie Lanier, drive-in patron and recent divorcée after her husband, Pitt, accidentally shot her in the head through the side of the trailer while squirrel hunting. Pitt had been truly sorry over the incident and had begged Dixie for forgiveness, but the twenty-two slug buried just behind her right ear was not a transgression she could pardon. So she cut Pitt loose and sent him back to his mama’s house to hunt squirrels. Dixie and Hoghead seemed to make a nice couple, and since the old cook was not a hunter, maybe the relationship would blossom.

The Folly filled as other visitors wandered in. Slim Neal came bearing deviled eggs, and in recognition of the general gaiety of the day, he had left his sidearm in the cruiser. Jackie came with Bernice Martin on one arm and a sweet potato casserole on the other, and A.J. was touched to learn he had turned down double-time-and-a-half to come to the revelries. Charnell Jackson was there with his German chocolate cake, and Ellis Simpson arrived with Raynell, the children, and four bowls of potato salad. Brickhead and Cyndi Crowe arrived with their brood and with Cyndi’s famed baked beans. Billy from the Chevron came. He was no one’s idea of a cook, so he brought several cases of cold drinks, belly-washers for the children, as he put it.

Bird Egg showed up, and when A.J. saw the old retainer, he had to take double. Bird was scrubbed clean. He was shaven and barbered, and he appeared to be sober, although he smelled quite strongly of mouthwash. He was wearing a suit, mostly, and the fact that it looked like it had been excavated at the boneyard did not detract in the least from the gesture.

“Bird, you look sharp,” A.J. complimented. The sleeves of his suit coat stopped about two inches above his bony wrists. “You must be here looking for women.” Bird Egg produced a hangdog grin and stared at the floor, shuffling a bit, looking shy. A.J. made a mental note to steer him clear of the opposite sex, lest misunderstandings occur. “Who’s watching the beer joint?” A.J. asked.

“Eugene and Wormy stopped by awhile ago. Told me to shut ’er down and take the day off.”

“A day off with pay?” A.J. quizzed. “That’s like having benefits. Next you’ll be going on the insurance plan and signing up for the 401K.” Bird Egg guffawed before wandering off in the general direction of the Swedish meatballs.

Diane arrived with her boys, Cody and Ransom. Truth was conspicuous by her absence, but A.J. suspected that his luck would not hold. The boys were subdued, which was understandable given the circumstances surrounding their father, but they seemed to forget their troubles as they joined in play with the other youngsters. A.J. had talked to his older two about being particularly nice to the Purdue boys, and why, and the girls had taken a solemn vow to see to it that they had a good day. As the children all went off to romp, A.J. sidled up next to Diane.

“I sort of figured you’d be coming with Truth,” he ventured, hoping something had come up. Sometimes things just worked out, and maybe this was one of those times.

“She’ll be along in a while,” Diane said. She seemed to be in good spirits. A.J. sighed before broaching a delicate subject.

“Your ex-husband may be coming,” he began, wishing he had thought to soften her up with some Swedish meatballs before venturing into the minefield.

“It was nice of you to invite him,” she said cheerfully, missing the entire point.

“Yeah, I’m a nice guy,” he said, regrouping. “The thing is, he doesn’t know about you and Truth. He’s still sort of… pining away for you, and I’m thinking that he might get… upset.” He saw her eyes flash like black lightning.

“A.J. Longstreet, are you telling me that Truth is not welcome here?” Her dander was up.

“No, I’m not saying that,” he responded. “What I’m asking is that if he does come, you and Truth cool it. There’s no use killing him on the spot.”

“Let me tell you something,” she began, “I feel really bad for Eugene, but my life with him was over long before he got sick. I spent fifteen years trying to be what he wanted me to be, fifteen years of feeling like shit because I wasn’t quite the little Barbie doll he wanted, and I’m through doing that for anyone.” She was breathing hard, and her eyes shone when she continued. “I know you’re trying to help him, just like you always try to help everyone. But I am who I am, and I feel like I feel, and if you and Eugene don’t like it, you can both kiss my ass.”

A.J. considered her words, and he had to concede their validity. The simple fact was that she was right. He had been out of line. Her life was her business, and he felt bad for upsetting her, even though his intentions had been pure.

“Truce,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m wrong. You’re right. I apologize. Don’t hit. I swear I won’t be this stupid again for weeks.”

“You’d better make it months, after this one,” she replied. Her tone was still stern, but her eyes signaled a reluctance to kill. Just to be on the safe side, he decided to leave her vicinity and stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

John Robert saw him and hailed him to the smoker. A.J. waved at Marie Prater as she came down the walk. Since she possessed the only good back in her family, she was carrying a large casserole dish while her disabled husband and boys shuffled dutifully behind.

“How goes life at the sawmill, Marie?” he asked.

“Life as we knew it has changed for the worse,” she replied. Her voice sounded as tired as her eyes looked. A.J. felt for her. His professional demise had been relatively painless, but she was obviously suffering. He looked over at John Robert.

“How are those loins coming?” he asked his father. “We’re running out of Hoghead’s meatballs.”

“The meat is ready,” John Robert said as he speared the roasts into his pan. “Let’s go feed the company.” As they walked back to the Folly, A.J. saw Truth’s Mercedes wheel in at the end of the driveway. She exited the car and waved him over. He walked up, and she turned and smiled.

“A.J., I have two cases of wine and some turkey pie,” she said. “Can you help carry some of it?” She was as nice as a walk on the beach at twilight, which he had to admit was preferable to her previous incarnation as one of the Horsewomen of the Apocalypse.

“I’ll get the wine,” he volunteered. He was about to hoist the Chablis when he noted the arrival of Mom’s Taxi.

“I’ll be right along,” A.J. said to Truth, who had already started toward the house. The van door opened and out stepped Wormy. He walked over to A.J. Eugene appeared to be asleep in the van.

“I was just kidding when I told you to load him up and bring him anyway,” A.J. said.

“No, he was in pretty good shape when we left,” Wormy said. “He sort of faded out at the beer joint.” He shrugged.

“How much help did he have fading?” A.J. asked.

“About a quart,” Wormy admitted. He looked as if he was in pain. A.J. sighed. He had apparently wanted this day for Eugene more than Eugene had desired it for himself. He supposed he was a fool for even making the attempt.

“Take him home, Wormy,” he said. “I don’t want his boys to see him this way.” Wormy nodded, as if he agreed. “I’ll bring you both a plate tomorrow,” A.J. continued. Wormy hung his head in disgrace. His shame was a burden upon him. A.J. patted him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault. He’s a hard man to control. You couldn’t stop him if he wanted it. Now, go on.” Wormy plodded slowly to the van, started it, and left. Eugene never moved. His last Thanksgiving was a bust despite A.J.’s best efforts, a total failure rivaling the first and final voyage of the Titanic. It was a pity.

Later, A.J. sat in the parlor in his favorite chair and viewed the fruits of his labor. Some of his pleasure was diminished because of Eugene’s lapse, but it was still a good day. Family and friends were all talking, eating, and generally making merry. It was Thanksgiving at the Folly, and he had gone the extra lap to make it memorable, an observance that would be held as a standard for years to come. He broke from his reverie. Standing before him was Diane. He had not talked to her since rousing her ire earlier in the day.

“Where’s Eugene?” she asked. “Truth told me he was here awhile ago.”

“He was feeling pretty bad,” A.J. lied. “He made his regrets and went home to bed.” She considered this, and he was unsure whether she believed him or not.

“I was going to do it, you know,” she said. Her voice was sad, and she was looking him directly in the eye. “I was going to be nice.” He could sense it was important to her that he understand this.

“I know you were,” he answered. “I knew it all the time.” She sat next to him, and that was where Truth discovered them some time later, two old friends sharing the sweet sadness of daring to breathe.

“Are you okay?” she asked Diane with concern in her voice. Diane nodded.

“She’s a little low,” A.J. offered. “I think it was the lime Jell-O.” Truth bent down and pecked her cheek.

“Maybe we should go,” Truth said kindly.

“Yeah, I guess we should,” Diane answered. She stood. “I’ll go get the boys.” She looked at A.J. “Thank you,” she said, then left. Truth sat down in the chair Diane had vacated.

“What about the Finn Hall?” she asked, her tone friendly. He thought about it one last time.

“I’ll do the job,” he said, offering his hand.

“Fair enough,” she said, and they shook. “How much?” she asked.

“Not a penny more than it’s worth,” he replied. The shrewd real estate genius and the idle country boy took each other’s measure. Then she nodded.

“That sounds reasonable,” she said. Diane caught her eye from across the room, and she stood to go.

“I’ll call you Monday,” A.J. said. “My wife is tired of me being unemployed.” Truth nodded and left to rejoin Diane while A.J. sipped a taste of Doc’s good brandy and considered his new career. It could be worse, he supposed. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and took another nip. Yes, it could be worse. He noted that the afternoon was waning, and many of the guests were making ready to leave. He stood, stretched, and threw a few sticks of wood on the fire. He was standing with his back to the flames when Hoghead came up to make his farewells.

“I’ve got to go, A.J.,” he said. “But it was great. Did you get any of my meatballs?”

“They were superb, Hog,” A.J. replied. Hoghead beamed.

“How about that turkey pie?” the old cook asked, pumping for just one more compliment.

“I’ve never had better.”

A.J. maintained his post and monitored the exodus. There were handshakes given, compliments offered, and pleasantries exchanged as the guests left, each as full as a tick on a hound’s ear. Finally, everyone had departed except for Eudora and Carlisle. A.J., Maggie, and John Robert sat in the darkened parlor and watched the fire prance. They sipped the coffee that John Robert had brewed.

“Good Thanksgiving,” John Robert noted.

“Yes, it was,” agreed Maggie. A.J. nodded.

“Did you try Estelle’s lime Jell-O?” the elder Longstreet asked of no one in particular.

“Uh-uh,” said Maggie.

“I wanted to be sure there was enough for our guests,” A.J. said. John Robert chuckled.

“Well, somebody ate most of it,” he said.

“I need to check with Charnell,” A.J. observed. “We may be liable.” They sat quietly for a while. Then he yawned.

“I think you may need a nap,” Maggie offered. She looked at him. Then she looked at the crack in the ceiling.

“I think a nap may be just the thing,” he agreed. It was the perfect ending to a mostly flawless day, a Thanksgiving Day to remember.