The Front Porch Prophet

And that had been that. The talk of joining Rose was ended. John Robert would be with her in good time, but first he had to finish the task they had initiated together.

So he and Clara commenced the raising of Arthur John Longstreet, and the joy that John Robert had lost upon his wife’s passing was slowly replaced on a smaller scale by his son. He was subject to brief depressions for the remainder of his days, particularly early in the spring, but he never again allowed himself to be overcome. He never remarried, much to the chagrin of many of the available young women in the area-all of whom knew a fine catch when one swam by-but it appeared he was no longer interested in members of the opposite sex, which was a shame in a man so vital, handsome, and propertied.

Total disinterest was not quite the truth, however. John Robert had been comforted during his darkest days by a local angel of mercy, an iron-willed woman who had survived bleak times of her own and who had the uncommon talent of knowing her own mind. To her lasting credit, she determined to help this lonely and despairing man find solace, and as payment for her kindness she bore a son. Conception had not been her intent, but she knew a gift when she received one and recognized their scarcity in an indifferent world. So she was content with the outcome and burdened neither John Robert nor her husband with the details.

Arthur John Longstreet grew into sturdy, barefoot boyhood under the dutiful care of John Robert and Granmama. John Robert’s lessons were those of hard work, duty, family, and respect. He told Arthur John of his mother, Rose, and the boy learned to hold her in reverence. There were several photographs of Rose Longstreet in the house, grainy black-and-white slices of a life that had been. His favorite depicted her in a cotton dress sitting by a pond, smiling at the photographer, her long hair windblown. Arthur John had been to that spot many times, always hoping to find her, always convinced that somehow he had just missed her. He could sense a presence there, as if her arms enfolded him across time.

While John Robert tended toward the larger issues of life, Clara was as practical in her upbringing of Arthur John as she had been with the raising of his father. She kept him clean and taught him manners. She read him stories and held him when he cried. She doctored his scrapes and made him eat his vegetables. She made him mind, and more than once found herself applying the business end of a hickory switch to his stubborn behind. She also took the boy to church each Sunday, but the weekly excursion was made without John Robert, who refused to go.

“It’s a good idea,” he told Clara when she first broached the subject. “Take the boy on down there. There’s a lot of good to be had out of going to church.”

“You ought to come with us, John Robert,” she said.

“I expect I’ll wait awhile. Me and the Lord don’t see eye to eye these days. We’ll get around to talking, directly.” But they never did. The betrayal had been too great, the theft of Rose into the night too harsh. John Robert had looked deep into his heart and found no forgiveness. He knew he was a minute speck in the vastness of the cosmos, but he was the injured party and expected an accounting. But no bush on the farm burst into voice and flame to reveal why Rose’s presence had been required elsewhere. Skulled specters did not trot in across the back pasture under a white flag of truce to clarify why her transition from here to there had been so ungodly cruel. So John Robert did not forgive. And he did not forget.

Arthur John became initialized early in life. Initialization is a Southern rite of passage akin to the Hebrew practice of circumcision, but it is sometimes less painful and does not always occur on the seventh day. So Arthur John Longstreet became A.J., and A.J. he has remained.

When A.J. was six, Granmama took him down to the school in town. It was a bright, sweet morning in early September, and A.J. was beside himself with excitement. He was decked out in stiff-as-a-board jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and U.S. Keds, black high-tops fresh out of the box. This was the big league, and A.J. knew it full well. After a brief, informal registration, he was remanded into the custody of Mrs. Williams, a sweet, blue-haired woman who had been teaching since John Robert was a child.