The Front Porch Prophet

A.J. thanked his benefactor and sought other avenues. He worked two weeks down at the Jesus Is the Light of the Barbecue Plates Drive-In, but Hoghead was forced to apologetically let him go because he couldn’t get the coffee right. He moved on to working with John Robert out at the farm, but this resembled charity because it was, and he did not stay long. He temporarily pursued carpentry until the morning he discovered gravity’s impact on careless elevated carpenters. By this point, he was harboring thoughts of running Mr. Gus off the road so he could get his hands on that cushy janitor’s job at the school. Finally-and with a strong sense of déjà vu-he went to work dragging slabs down at John McCord’s sawmill. Ironically, he was almost passed over for his old job because now he was overqualified.

So A.J. knew what it was to be economically idle, and it gave him no pause in its current incarnation. Something would come up, and they would not starve in the meantime.

A sad rain fell, turning the air chill. A trace of coal smoke drifted up the valley. He donned his jacket and stepped onto the back porch for a smoke. The breeze tugged his collar. This was normally the kind of day he loved, but today it struck him as bleak. There was a hole in him that he was unequipped to fill, and he wished his family would come home. He needed their comforting presence the way the dying need the gods. He sat quietly in the porch rocker that had been Granmama’s. His mind wandered back in time to her final day. His memories were like fine crystal etchings, the remembrances delicate and fragile.

The call from John Robert came early on a Sunday morning. Clara had suffered a stroke and was to be transported to the hospital in Chattanooga the moment the ambulance arrived. A.J. awoke Maggie and explained what was happening, then roared into the night. He was at Granmama’s bedside in twenty minutes.

“I heard a noise like she was falling down,” John Robert offered, his face grim. “When I came in here, she was on the floor. I called Doc right away. He says it doesn’t look good.” Doc was listening to her chest with his stethoscope, shaking his head and muttering. He looked up at A.J. and John Robert.

“This was a big stroke. If we get her to the hospital before she bottoms out, we might save her. After that, I don’t know.” The ambulance from the county service arrived, and Doc lashed the attendants like a mule team while they loaded their patient in record time. Slim arrived in the cruiser with blue lights flashing, and Miss Clara and entourage made for the bright lights of the big city.

By noon it was apparent the situation was deteriorating. She was still alive, but she was attached to most of the machinery in the intensive care ward and surrounded by many somber-faced members of the medical community. A.J., John Robert, and Doc paced the waiting room. Slim had tears in his eyes and kept referring to her in the past tense. She was a saint. She was a damn saint, he said repeatedly. A.J. could see that this tribute was wearing on John Robert’s nerves, so he prevailed upon Slim to take Doc home. Then he and John Robert sat down to wait.

“How old is Granmama, John Robert?” A.J. asked. He was bad with dates and ages. “Is it eighty?”

“Eighty-one,” John Robert said. “That Slim is a real idiot,” he continued. The observation caught A.J. off guard. It was uncommon for John Robert to cast a disparaging remark, but it was an unusual day.

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” A.J. agreed. “But he sure does think a lot of Granmama.”

Around four in the afternoon, A.J. called Maggie. “How is she?” Maggie asked. A.J. took a breath that sounded like a ragged tear in a piece of cloth.

“She’s dying.”

“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said. “How is John Robert holding up?”

“He’s smoking and staring a lot. You know how he is. He doesn’t talk much.”

“I know. Call me if there’s any change. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” A.J. said. “I’ll be home in the morning, or I’ll call if I need to stay longer.”

Around 6:00 that evening they were visited by the neurologist. Dr. Prine was a compact person whose eyes held weary compassion. She explained that Clara’s stroke had been massive, and she was left with no brain function. Barring a miracle, she would not regain consciousness. A decision would eventually need to be made on the subject of life support. Dr. Prine left after expressing her sympathies and telling them she would see them the following day. For a long time after she had gone, no words were uttered by the pair. They were an island of silence in the sea of life. Then A.J. spoke.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” came John Robert’s reply. “We talked about this a long time ago. She always said she didn’t want to be kept alive past her time. She even wrote it out on paper.” He fell into a stare. Then he arose and walked outside, where he lit a cigarette. A.J. joined him.