The Front Porch Prophet

CHAPTER 3

A.J. MADE QUICK WORK OF THE WALK DOWN THE mountain. He was unsettled. The afternoon had been like a trip into the Twilight Zone. So much so, in fact, he wouldn’t have been much surprised to find Rod Serling standing in the road, wearing a black sport coat with narrow lapels, chain smoking and eyeing him with intensity. He decided to stop at Billy’s Chevron for a Coke and some non-apocalyptic conversation. A dose of normalcy would do him good after the recent festivities up on the mountain. The establishment sat at the crossroads right outside of town.

“You’ll be needin’ some tires soon, Will,” Billy said, peering at the rubber on A.J.’s truck. Billy called his male patrons Will and his female customers Missus. He was ancient and grizzled. At the moment he was shaking his head, as if he found it hard to believe that a grown man would run around on such a pitiful set of tires.

“You sold me that set last month,” A.J. said, sipping his cold drink. Billy was an old country boy who had done extremely well for himself by adhering to the simple belief that every vehicle had some problem that should be repaired by Billy.

“Well, they’re wore some,” Billy said stubbornly. “Maybe we need to line her up and rotate these front tires while there’s a little life left in them.”

A.J. was now fully alert.

“We ‘lined her up’ when we put the tires on,” A.J. noted. “Maybe your alignment machine was out of whack.” Billy was squatted down, looking at the tires. He scratched his head and lit a slightly bent cigarette. Confusion was etched on his grainy features. As A.J. watched, he saw Billy nod his head twice and look up with certainty in his eye. A resolution had been reached.

“Here’s what we need to do, Will,” Billy said, standing and dusting his hands on his pants. “Bring her in next week and I’ll line her up and rotate those tires. You must’ve run over a pothole or something and knocked her out.”

Actually, it had been a curb. A.J. had vaulted it while avoiding one of Estelle Chastain’s more erratic driving maneuvers. But he wasn’t telling Billy that.

“Don’t you worry,” Billy continued. “I’ll fix her up good as new.”

Ironically, at that moment, A.J. saw Estelle’s aged Ford motoring up the highway, running astraddle the broken white line in the middle of the road. All that could be seen of Estelle were two white gloves clenched on the steering wheel and the top of her head, complete with pillbox hat. She peered with myopic eyes in A.J.’s general direction, and he knew it was time to go. He exited after pointing out the danger to Billy, who was no fool and took cover. When Miss Estelle came to town it was every man for himself, vehicular Darwinism based on survival of the quickest.

In his rearview mirror, A.J. saw Estelle swing into the Chevron in a long, slow arc that left her parked with her right front tire up on the pump island. Billy came out from hiding and squatted in front of Estelle’s car-elevated for convenience-and when the venerable mechanic began to slowly shake his head, A.J. knew the game was again afoot.

It was dusk when A.J. arrived home, exhausted. He sat for a moment and gazed at Maggie’s Folly, his name for the family manor. He and his wife, Maggie, had bought it thirteen years ago, an abandoned Victorian dwelling that had seen better times. It was built during the days when the wealthy kept summer homes in cool mountain valleys to escape the heat of the city. This particular structure was built by a carpetbagging entrepreneur who had traveled to Georgia in 1866 with the intention of stealing a fortune and living the good life, both of which he managed to do before being shot fatally in a bawdy house by the estranged husband of one of the employees of the establishment. As A.J. sat, he remembered the first time he and Maggie had seen the house.

“I want it,” Maggie had said as they walked through the creaking, moldering foyer. “Look at that stained glass! Look at that stairway!” She turned and looked at A.J. “We have to buy it.” A.J. thought that ten or fifteen skilled craftsmen could have it whipped into shape in a couple of decades or so, if their luck held and it didn’t rain too much.

“Who are you going to get to fix this dump up?” he had asked, but it was token resistance. The deal was done from the moment they walked through the door, and he knew it.

“I didn’t marry you for your good looks,” Maggie replied, folding her cruel arms around his poor, doomed neck. The house continued its decline momentarily as she kissed A.J. Then they drove down to the bank and arranged to buy it.

They found the bankers to be motivated sellers; they had been in possession of the property for several years and had pretty much given up on ever finding buyers. Then in had walked A.J. and Maggie. The Longstreets signed a promissory note stating they would pay the bank some money every year if they could manage, and that the house should be paid for in twenty years, if that was convenient.

Now a sense of calm descended upon A.J. as looked at the old place. The anxiety brought about by his reunion with Eugene drifted away. He was in his element. He got out of the truck and walked slowly to the house, which had shaped up well. Maggie had been a stern taskmaster while bringing the Folly back from the brink of ruin, and they both had put in many long hours on the project. She stood double duty as construction superintendent and general laborer, and A.J. did everything in between.

A.J. walked past the porch and patted one of the columns. He rounded the corner and saw Maggie and their five-year-old son, J.J., planting chrysanthemums in the side yard. Gardening wasn’t coming naturally to the boy, and Maggie was down on her hands and knees trying to help him. Several of the unsuccessful attempts lay scattered about.

It was a Longstreet family tradition to butcher fifty or sixty dollars’ worth of flowers each fall and again each spring. These ritual sacrifices were not a pagan rite marking the passage of the seasons. Maggie just wanted a pretty yard. Unfortunately, the ground in the vicinity of the Folly stubbornly refused to support any plant that might possibly bloom. A.J. was the son of a farmer and took personally the fact that he could not get anything worthwhile to grow around his house. He had fertilized, aerated, rotated, watered, and chopped, and still no flowers. Finally, he gave up.

“This must have been an ancient vampire execution ground,” he had told Maggie. “The earth has been scorched and sown with salt.” He went on to suggest that they continue to buy the plants, anyway, and then just throw them away on the way home, thus cutting out all the work in the middle. “Some farm boy you turned out to be,” had been her reply.

“What’s up?” A.J. asked as he sat on the ground. Maggie turned and smiled.

“We’re killing these flowers,” she explained, gesturing with her trowel. “And what we haven’t murdered outright,” she continued, hiking a thumb in J.J.’s direction, “he has tried to eat.” At the moment, J.J. was intent on tamping the dirt around his latest attempt.

“How did the flowers taste?” A.J. asked his son.

“They tasted nasty,” the boy answered.

“They probably needed salt,” A.J. said, tousling his son’s long blond hair. “Run on in and wash up. We’ll kill more flowers tomorrow, but right now I need to talk to Mama.” J.J. frowned and crossed his arms. Going in was not what he had in mind. A.J. looked over at Maggie. “This boy needs a haircut,” he said conversationally. At the mention of the dreaded word, J.J. jumped up and ran toward the house. His little arms were over his head in a protective gesture.

“He sure hates a haircut,” A.J. observed as they watched their son go.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she replied. They heard the screen door slam. “Except maybe when it’s time to take Harper to the dentist.” Harper Lee was their eight-year-old middle child and, unfortunately, her first dental experience had been painful. Thus, all subsequent visits to the dentist were like pulling teeth. The problem was so severe the Longstreets had been referred to a pediatric dentist, which is a regular dentist who charges more due to an ability to work on screaming children. They had been faced with this necessity when they discovered Harper Lee was blacklisted at every dental establishment within a fifty-mile radius. “You can’t rely on people with slim hands,” A.J. had noted upon discovering his daughter had become a persona non grata in the dental community.

“You’re right,” he said, back in the yard with Maggie. “Taking her to the dentist is worse. It’s your turn next time.” He laid back on the grass to watch the sunset. The sky to the west was passing from dark blue to black. A chill crept into the air.

“How could I forget?” Maggie responded, lying next to him. Together they watched the light fade over the magnolias.

Night fell, and a lone cricket warmed up. It was late in the season, and soon he would be gone. A.J. had briefly forgotten about Eugene’s short, bleak future, but now thoughts of him crept in like ghosts. A.J. wondered what Eugene was thinking now that night had descended. He silently wished him well. As if she could read his mind, Maggie spoke.

“Tell me about your visit with Eugene. Was it a social call, or did he want to accuse you of sleeping with some other member of his family?” Maggie did not generally succumb to petty commentary, but she had not cared for the misunderstanding at the barbecue and had made no secret since then of her opinion that Eugene was primarily responsible for the whole sorry affair. Not that A.J. had escaped unscathed. He had caught the rough side of her tongue over the incident and had listened in abashed silence to an hour-long monologue peppered with many a succinct observation.

But the fight was long ago, and Maggie’s anger did not last, although references to the event occasionally surfaced as instructional aids. She had even sent A.J. off with her blessing earlier in the day. Of course, she had also given him benediction to brain Eugene with the Louisville Slugger if the necessity arose.

The Longstreets lay there in the deepening darkness, and as the stars flickered into their nightly patterns, A.J. related the details of his visit. He spoke of how Eugene had looked, how he had sounded, and what he had said. But not all of what had been said. He did not mention the second favor Eugene had requested. There was no real reason to withhold this information since he had no intention of complying with the wish, but he could not voice the words. They were too bold and terrible, too cold and final. When A.J. finished the story, they were both quiet.

“Well,” Maggie said, breaking the silence. “I don’t know what to say.” She paused for a moment and then continued. “I haven’t had much use for him for a long time. You know that. I think he has been a horrible father to those poor boys and the worst excuse for a husband I have ever seen. He has driven away everyone who ever cared about him, including you. Still, for all of that, I feel really bad for him.” She sighed.

“He’s been no saint,” A.J. agreed. A memory popped into his head to support the opinion.

They had been at a Little League game, and Eugene had taken it as his fatherly duty to coach his oldest boy on the finer points of the game. This action would have been normal behavior for any father in that setting, but Eugene added a twist when he drove his Jeep through the fence and out to center field to give the boy instruction and encouragement. He was in his cups that day, and it had seemed too far to walk. A.J. had sprinted out and sent the mortified youngster to the dugout with a pat and a reassuring word. Then he had turned to Eugene.

“Do you know what hubris is?” he had asked.

“No,” Eugene had said. “What is hubris?”

“Hubris,” A.J. had replied, “is when God screws you over for being a smartass. Move the Jeep.” The words A.J. had spoken in the outfield now rang in his ears.

“Who knows about this?” Maggie asked.

“I get the impression that you, me, Doc Miller, and the Emory boys are the long list,” A.J. said.

“Do you think he intends to tell his family?” Maggie asked. “He can’t just die and disappear. Diane and the boys need to know. He owes them a chance to say good-bye.”

“Who knows what he’s thinking?” A.J. was privy to Eugene’s strategic plan, but he was unclear on the smaller, tactical details, and Eugene tended toward a random logic that made his actions difficult to predict.

“When you go back up to see him,” Maggie said, “try to find out what his plans are for informing his family.” A.J. was silent. “Whoops,” she said, looking at him. “I’m sorry. I was assuming you were going back. Are you?”

“I suppose I am,” A.J. said with reluctance. “I don’t want to, but I said I’d do it. To be honest, I don’t want anything to do with this. I don’t want to see him dying, and I don’t want to see him dead. I must be a coward.” He had developed a bad headache, his lifelong habit when dealing with cosmic no-win situations. He rubbed his temples in the darkness.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “I’d really be worried about you if you were looking forward to it. And you’re not a coward. You’re just a little more honest than most men.” She reached over and patted his chest. “Which isn’t saying that much, really.”

As he was about to respond, they were interrupted by a commotion coming from the house. The screen door slammed and Harper Lee’s voice came to them across the gloaming.

“Mama! Emily says I’m adopted.” Emily Charlotte was the Longstreet’s oldest child at eleven years. In a break with a tradition that had been handed down from mother to daughter for generations in Maggie’s family, Emily Charlotte was named after not one but two of her mother’s favorite authors, the Bronte sisters. A.J. was unaware of this unusual family tradition when he married Maggie but probably would have taken her to love, honor, and obey anyway, had he known. The other two children, Harper Lee and J.J. (short for James Joyce, much to A.J.’s dismay), had to resign themselves to being living tributes to only one of Maggie’s cherished writers. Emily took every opportunity to point out this literary shortcoming to her siblings, because it was her job to torment her younger brother and sister. It was a duty she took seriously.

Maggie, born Margaret Mitchell, had been named by her mother, Jane Austen Callahan, after the celebrated author of Gone with the Wind, a self-help manual that dealt with the subject of how best to cope with Yankees when they venture south.

“Mama? Daddy? Am I adopted?” Harper’s voice had a small quaver in it.

“Absolutely not,” A.J. replied. “We got you the regular way. Mama and I went down to the hospital and picked you out. Emily, on the other hand, we bought from a roving band of Gypsies. We gave nineteen dollars for her, back when that was a lot of money. We wouldn’t have paid so much, but we really wanted a son. Emily was the only boy they had, so they charged extra.”

“But Emily is a girl’” Harper protested.

“Well, sure, now she’s a girl. But she was a boy when we bought her. She changed when she caught the chicken pox right after we brought her home. I looked all over for those Gypsies to get my money back, but they were long gone.”

“Really, Daddy?”

“Absolutely. I have a receipt around here somewhere.” Harper was very quiet. Then Maggie and A.J. heard the screen slam as she ran inside to discuss genealogy with her older sister. A.J. got up from the ground and dusted off. Then he offered his hand to his partner in child procurement.

“I wish you wouldn’t tell her things like that,” Maggie said as she stood beside him. “She believes every word you say.” They walked toward the house.

“I guess we had better feed them before they turn mean on us,” A.J. said. They stopped on the porch.

“Are you feeling better about Eugene?” she asked.

“A little better,” he replied. “Not great, but better. I will do what I can. It wouldn’t be decent to leave him hanging. Thank you for straightening me out.”

“I’ve been straightening you out since the night we met,” she observed. “I view it as my life’s work. I just wish it paid a little better.”

Maggie and A.J. first met fresh out of high school while working the third shift at a cotton mill famous for its denim products and its abuse of the hired help. A.J. could recall these days as clearly as if he were watching a Movietone Newsreel of his own life, complete with humorous clips, mugs for the camera, and narration by Lowell Thomas. The clarity of his memories was no doubt influenced by the altered states of awareness he achieved throughout most of the period. Unlike Eugene, he did not favor drugs; his main weakness was alcohol, and between the ages of sixteen and nineteen he had been attempting to drink himself to death before his invitation arrived to visit exciting tropical climes and get shot. Luckily for A.J. and Eugene, Richard Nixon was, at this point in history, coming to the belated conclusion that it was not possible to subdue Asiatic peoples through warfare by attrition.

A.J. was sober the night he met his future wife. He had seen Maggie around the mill previous to their first meeting and had admired from afar her obvious grace, intelligence, and poise, all of which he had inferred from the way she filled her blue jeans. He had been hoping that the chance to introduce himself would arise, and when that opportunity presented itself, he was quick to realize his time had come.

A.J. was operating his forklift on that fateful evening when he noticed Maggie engaged in a discussion with the shift supervisor, Clyde Cordele. She seemed to be agitated, but Clyde was smiling and nodding and did not seem perturbed in the least. Then Clyde reached over and touched her shoulder. A.J. walked toward the pair. As he neared their vicinity, Maggie knocked Clyde’s arm out of the way, and he again reached over and touched her shoulder. Maggie again knocked the offending arm away, then balled her fist and drew it back. It was this defiant gesture that caused A.J. to fall in love with her, or at least that’s what he always said. She cut a fine and formidable figure. A.J. was close enough by then to hear her next words, and they were eloquent.

“If you touch me again, Pillsbury,” she said, “I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.” There was cold steel in her voice and fire in her eye. All of Clyde’s employees called him Pillsbury due to his uncanny resemblance to the famous doughboy of the same name. It was a tribute to Clyde’s intellect that he never realized the insult and believed instead the name was a term of endearment.

There was never much doubt in anyone’s mind, excluding upper management, about the shortage of anything vaguely resembling common sense in Clyde Cordele. Any shred of confusion lingering on the subject was cleared up on the night A.J. first met Maggie. Clyde stood facing her, smiling and mulling his alternatives. He had been warned and should have retired from the field. But it is one of Nature’s immutable laws that a snake does not know how to be anything but a snake, and Clyde could not overcome his own DNA. So he reached over for one more try. He was one surprised doughboy, however, when he realized it was a different shoulder he was holding. A.J. had slipped between Maggie and Clyde at the opportune moment and was now looking into the latter’s confused eyes.

“You had better let go of my shoulder,” A.J. said. “You know how people around here talk.”

“Longstreet, you goddamn hippie,” Clyde hollered with color in his cheeks, “get your ass back on your job, and get it over there now! This ain’t none of your affair!” A.J. had been suspecting his budding career in textiles wasn’t truly important to him, so it was with no great distress that he decided to plow into Clyde like a Massey-Ferguson tractor into a new row.

“She isn’t interested,” A.J. said. “She probably has religious convictions against consorting with farm animals.” That one really got to Clyde. His face turned blood red, and his mouth began to make random movements. At that moment, he resembled the Pillsbury dough fish. Behind A.J., Maggie cleared her throat. Then she lightly tapped her uninvited hero’s shoulder.

“Uh, look, whoever you are,” she said, her soft drawl a melody of syllables to A.J.’s ears, “I appreciate that you are trying to help me, but I can take care of this. Really.” A.J.’s shoulder tingled as if burned.

“I know you can,” A.J. said, not removing his eyes from his opponent. “But let me.” He had arrived at another crossroads, but none of his possible avenues were clearly marked.

“You’re going to get yourself fired,” Maggie said in a dubious tone, but the nobility of his action was strangely appealing. White knights had all but gone the way of the passenger pigeon and the two-dollar haircut, and the novelty of meeting a real live one at 3:00 a.m. in a cotton mill was refreshing.

“He’s not going to fire me,” A.J. said, although in his heart he didn’t believe it. But the die was cast, and there would be no turning back. If it came down to unemployment before dishonor, then so be it.

“You’re fired!” Pillsbury hollered.

“I probably am,” A.J. said, “but you’re not going to be the one to do it. I want to sit down with Howard Hoyt in the morning and talk to him. If he says I’m fired, then I’m fired.” Howard Hoyt was the mill manager. He had been known upon occasion to be a fair man, but he was not obsessive about it.

“I said you’re fired, goddamn it, and I’m callin’ Security right now to get your ass off the property!” Clyde was panting.

“Go ahead,” A.J. responded. “Call Uncle Luke down here and let’s see who he decides to shoot.” His mother’s oldest brother had been the night shift security guard at the mill for years, which left his days free for farming. Unfortunately, A.J. was not his favorite nephew due to a boyish prank that had once cost Luke one of his barns. A.J. hoped Clyde would not call his bluff, because he sensed it could go either way upon his uncle’s arrival. Luke had really liked that barn.

Pillsbury was quiet for a moment. Then he turned abruptly and walked toward his office.

“Both of you be in Howard’s office at eight o’clock!” he hollered over his shoulder as he stomped off, as if it had been his idea all the time. A.J. felt another tap on his shoulder and turned to greet his Lady Guenivere. He intended to be humble and assure her thanks were not in order; he would have done it for anyone.

“That certainly went well,” she said. There was a tone in her voice he could not identify, one that did not sound like undying gratitude. “You came barreling in here like a wild bull to defend the honor of a total stranger, got in a fight with our boss, and got yourself fired. Probably me, too. Did I miss anything, or does that cover it?” Her manner was arch and her arms were crossed.

“I guess if you want to take the short view, then that about covers it,” A.J. replied, abashed. He wondered what was happening. This initial meeting was not going as he had hoped. He would be the first to admit his plan had been skimpy, but it had been a plan, and Pillsbury was no longer bothering her. He was hard pressed to understand why she seemed miffed. He decided he should just leave, but he could not take his eyes off of her.

She was tall with piercing green eyes that radiated intelligence. Her shoulder-length brown hair was curly and thick, and A.J. wanted nothing more out of life at that moment than to reach out and touch it. Luckily, he realized-even as smitten as he was-that this would have been a grave error given the circumstances. Her beauty was a positive energy that flowed from within. Hers was an old soul, and a fine one, and it had without question been around the wheel many times.

“It’s not that I’m locked into taking the short view,” she told A.J. “I’m just having trouble seeing the bigger picture.” She looked at him another moment, then let him off the hook. “Since we’re going to be fired together in a couple of hours, I think we should introduce ourselves,” she said. “My name is Maggie Callahan.” She was smiling as they shook hands.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, seeking the haven of civility, a time-honored tactic of Southern men when confronted with formidable women. “My name is Arthur John Longstreet,” he said, “but everybody calls me A.J. Except old Clyde. You heard what he calls me.” Maggie smiled.

“You don’t like him?” she asked.

“You must be psychic,” he said, shaking his head in admiration of her exceptional observation.

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “I should have been promoted to day shift three months ago, but he keeps holding me back.”

“He’s a real gem,” A.J. said. He looked into her eyes, and it was like looking into green eternity.

“Well,” she said, “we will deal with him in the morning. Or try to, anyway.” She shrugged. “We should get back to work, although I don’t suppose it matters much now. Thank you for trying to help me.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, and then she was gone. The sweetness of that one kiss lingered and would be with him until he was no more.

Many problems were resolved when Howard Hoyt arrived the next morning. He sat and listened to all three versions of events, and then he efficiently made short work of the whole situation. He first told Maggie she must have misunderstood Clyde’s intentions and apologized on his behalf for any unpleasantness the confusion may have caused. Then he told her that the day shift job she was seeking was not going to be filled at present, after which he sent her home with an admonishment to refrain from spreading unfounded rumors. She sat quietly through her portion of the chat, but as she stood to leave, she calmly informed Howard that she did not consider the matter resolved. Having watched her glare throughout his monologue, Howard had no doubts he would be hearing from the Callahan girl again.

After Maggie left, Howard turned to Clyde and began to chew him loud and long on the apparently related subjects of compromising positions and absolute stupidity. A.J. sat there and thought it odd that he was being given the opportunity to view the show. But he was fairly quick on the uptake, and it took only a moment to figure the score and realize which long-haired forklift driver was on the losing team. Still, he had expected it, so it did not trouble him greatly. He settled back and enjoyed the scene as Clyde was drawn and quartered by Howard Hoyt. After about thirty minutes of verbal abuse, however, even A.J. began to feel bad for Clyde. He would not have thought this possible and figured he would get over it presently.

Howard continued his tirade until his voice became hoarse. Then he sent Clyde home with instructions to return the following morning. He was now first shift supervisor so he could be watched.

Howard and A.J. sat alone in the office. Howard looked up at him over glasses that had slid down to the tip of his nose. “I let you hear that because I wanted you to know your former supervisor was dead wrong,” he said. “You risked a great deal to do the right thing.” A.J. looked at Howard, and the mill manager could not hold the gaze.

“But I’m fired, right?”

“You’re fired,” Howard agreed. He picked up a pad and pen and wrote down a name and a phone number. “This man is a friend of mine who runs the little mill over at Dogtown. Call him later today. I’ll have it arranged so you can start work tonight.”

He handed the slip of paper over to A.J., who took it because he didn’t know what else to do. It seemed Howard was going to great lengths to soften the blow, and he appreciated it, but the fact loomed large that the man who should have been axed had just been promoted to day shift. It was a poor excuse for justice, a sort of anti-justice that A.J. did not understand. He was tender in years and had not yet learned all he needed to know.

There were several postscripts to the episode. Maggie went home and over coffee told her mama, Jane Austen, of the events that had transpired. Janey was sympathetic and told her daughter not to let it worry her. She also told Maggie to be sure not to mention the problem to her father, Emmett, because they both knew how he would react. Ironically, Emmett agreed that his wife had given their daughter some sound advice. He was sitting in the next room working on an ingrown toenail with his pocketknife when he overheard the conversation. Without a word, he put his knife in his pocket, slipped on his shoe, and took a drive to the mill. Right was right and wrong was wrong, and Emmett had a history of explaining the difference between the two to people like Howard Hoyt.

Emmett Callahan had no tolerance for shades of grey, and he didn’t like anyone harrying his girls, as A.J. would find out presently when he began to court Maggie. In later years, A.J. amused himself by imagining the look that must have been on Howard Hoyt’s face when he saw Emmett filling the door frame, looking as hard as a bar of iron. The two of them conferred privately, and although neither ever spoke of the conversation, the phrase Come back down here with my shotgun and blow away everything wearing a damn necktie was overheard by Howard’s secretary, Mrs. Hicks.

Maggie was surprised to learn upon her arrival at work that night that the job she desired had been awarded to her. When she later discovered what had led to her promotion, however, she confronted her father in anger and told him in no uncertain terms that when she wanted his help, she would certainly ask for it. Emmett listened in silence. Women were a mystery to him.

Clyde Cordele did not fare well on first shift. A smarter man would have acknowledged a near miss and vowed to change. But this sanity was beyond Clyde, and he never skipped a beat as he slammed into the day crew like a tidal wave. Ironically, Clyde’s ultimate downfall occurred over a set of circumstances eerily similar to those that had gotten him sent to day shift in the first place. Karma will find a way.

Not long after his arrival on his new shift, Clyde became enamored of Beatrice Beaufort England, a weaver otherwise known as Betty B. Although she in no way encouraged Clyde, he took every opportunity to present his attentions and to make a general nuisance of himself. This situation continued for some few weeks until the fateful day of Clyde’s professional and very nearly personal demise arrived.

On that day, Clyde finally became completely overwhelmed with desire and actually reached out and touched one of Betty B.’s breasts. No one would argue the fact that they were dandies, a point that formed the core of Clyde’s defense. But dandies or not, his urge constituted sexual harassment even by the extremely liberal standards of the textile industry of the day.

Betty B.’s husband, Rocky, was the day shift forklift driver, and he was not known for his tolerance where his wife’s breasts were concerned. When Howard Hoyt and Security arrived, Clyde was bound head to foot in a length of winding and was standing on a pallet raised ten feet in the air by Rocky’s forklift. There was a strip of heavy denim looped around Clyde’s neck, the other end of which was tied to a ceiling joist directly above. Rocky had decided to hang the scoundrel, which was better than he deserved, and Clyde had not handled this reversal of fortune well. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed, although it appeared at the time that Howard left Clyde standing on tiptoe somewhat longer than was absolutely necessary before he was cut down and fired. Rocky had to go to the regional hospital for an evaluation but was pronounced sane. He was allowed to come back to work with a write-up in his file and a stiff warning about hanging management.

As for A.J., he had enjoyed his fill of textiles and did not take advantage of the employment opportunity that Howard Hoyt had offered. Eugene urged A.J. to come help him run a little import business he had started, and A.J. was intrigued at first. But ultimately he took a pass when he discovered that Eugene’s fledgling enterprise consisted of high-speed runs in the Lover to Denver, where the old Chrysler was loaded with as many cases of Coors beer as it would hold for transport back to Cherokee County for resale at three times its purchase price.

“You’re missing the boat,” Eugene said in an exasperated tone when A.J. informed him that he appreciated the offer, but he felt he wasn’t cut out for the occupation. Instead, he hired on dragging slabs at a little sawmill down in the valley. The work was unpleasant but not intellectually demanding, so he had plenty of time to think. And what he thought about was Maggie.