The Front Porch Prophet

And this was the new-and-improved Cyndi for whom Conley had set his cap, but he was making no headway. Although she was always nice to him, she seemed immune to his charms. He consulted A.J., who advised him to be patient, because these things take time. So Conley devoted more effort and ingenuity to the endeavor. Cyndi would come home to a freshly mown yard, and there would be Conley, head in hands, staring at his shoes. Gifts began to appear on her porch, dime-store luxuries he believed to be grand, and he was always available to carry groceries, take out the trash, or wash the car. Cyndi knew he had a crush on her, and although she in no way encouraged him, she was patient. She did not want to hurt his feelings and felt he would soon grow tired of pitching his woo. She was incorrect, for she did not understand the depth of the feelings he had for her.

Eventually, Conley found it necessary to move on to plan B. On that fateful day, Cyndi came out of the glove mill and found him standing there, waiting.

“Hello, Conley,” she said in a light tone. It was payday, and she was in a good mood. He mumbled a phrase, but the mill at her back was noisy. “I’m sorry, Conley, I couldn’t hear. What did you say?” She looked at him. He was trembling and seemed to be in grave distress. Then he raised his head, and in the single most courageous moment of his life, he spoke what was on his mind.

“What would it take to get some of that pussy?” he asked quietly. Then he lowered his head and awaited his doom. He had tried A.J.’s methods with little success, and now he was hauling out the big guns.

Cyndi looked at the terrified form of Conley. She was taken aback, but not as much as she might have been, for she had once heard those words from another source: Eugene. Since his survival would have been virtually impossible if he had committed to her requirements, however, their love had gone unrequited. So Cyndi knew Conley’s rough request had been the result of some extremely bad advice, and that he meant no harm.

Many thoughts crossed Cyndi’s mind as she looked at Conley. He stood there quaking, and her heart went out to him. Because she had traveled the hard way, she was capable of great compassion. She saw before her a lonely man who had tried valiantly to win her affections. She, too, knew the bitter taste of loneliness, and she did not want to end up with a succession of rogues the way Louise had. Realistically, she knew her prospects were limited; small towns are not kind to women with checkered pasts. What she wanted was a lifelong companion, a partner to share her joys and sorrows, someone to love. She didn’t think it was too much to ask.

And then she realized with a slight startle that standing in front of her was the most decent man she had ever known. The epiphany rolled over her like the coal train had run over Skim. Impulsively, she reached and raised his chin so that their eyes met.

“What it would take, Conley, is for you to marry me. Love me, love Hope, and never hurt us or leave us. Work hard, bring your check home every week, and build a home and a life with me.” She had not intended to say any of this, not even remotely, but sometimes words operate of their own accord. His eyes said yes before his mouth did, but Conley always was a little slow of speech.

They married shortly thereafter, and Conley was as good as his word. He treated Cyndi like a queen and Hope like a princess, and he and Cyndi built a fine life. Cyndi, too, was as good as her word, and Conley was afforded plenty of opportunities for intimacy. Thus it was that presently along came Rita Sue, Tammy Faye, Brandy Starr, Sweet Melissa, and the twin boys, Starsky and Hutch.

A.J. snapped from his reverie and noted the sun climbing the sky. He looked at his watch. It was just after seven in the morning and he needed a cup of coffee and a friendly ear. John Robert was off on a hunting trip, and Maggie and the children were gone on a trip to visit Maggie’s sister, Eudora Welty. She was entering the bonds of holy matrimony that very afternoon after a painfully long engagement to a history professor named Carlisle Davenport, of whom A.J. suspected a lack of intellectual rigor.

A.J. dropped the truck into gear and headed up Eugene’s Mountain. The Purdues were notoriously early risers, and A.J. discounted the possibility of awakening Eugene. Thanks to the recent grading job, the trip to the cabin was quick.

The clearing appeared to be the scene of catastrophic events.