The Front Porch Prophet

“I swear he planned it,” Maggie said, back in the kitchen recounting the high points of Eudora’s wedding. “The minister had just finished saying that any objectors should speak now or forever hold their peace. The church was quiet. Then J.J. tugged on my dress and announced he had to pee. ‘Right now, Mama,’ was the way he put it. I thought Emily Charlotte was going to die on the spot.”

“Well, we told him to always let us know,” A.J. offered. J.J. had been tough to train. “I bet Carlisle loved the bathroom break.”

“He raised an eyebrow, but everyone was laughing by that time.”

“Well, the main thing is that Eudora has finally reeled Carlisle in,” A.J. said. “Now she can be truly fulfilled as a woman.” He grunted when Maggie kicked him under the table.

“Watch it,” she said. “I’m still in the mood to hit something.”

“Apparently,” he responded, rubbing his shin. “Husband beating is a serious deal. With the right lawyer, I could clean you out.”

“Save your money. I don’t have anything but the children, and you can have them.”

“Just forget it.” A.J. got up and poured them both coffee. “Let’s go to the porch.”

They sat in silence in the big rockers on the porch and enjoyed the twilight. The evening was serene. The slightest of breezes was blowing, bearing the hint of meat cooking on a grill. Estelle was burning yet another steak on her high-botch-ee.

“I missed you,” said Maggie. “Did you have fun being a bachelor while we were gone?”

“It was one party after another. I vacuumed about two truck-loads of blond stewardess-hair out of the carpet right before you got here. By the way, if you happen to find a pair of red panties somewhere in the house, they’re mine.”

“Red has always been your color,” she replied. “But I think you’re lying. I think you worked, went and saw Eugene, ate some fried Spam, and missed me.” She reached and took his hand. “But if you are messing around with a blond stewardess, you had better get in the habit of calling her a flight attendant, Plow Boy.”

“There are too many rules these days,” he responded forlornly. “Actually, you hit it pretty close, but you left out the part where I got fired.” She momentarily assimilated this data.

“Well, it’s not like we didn’t know it was coming,” she said finally. “Did you get the severance pay?”

“I got part of it. I still need to look up John McCord.”

“That’s it, then. I’m glad you’re out of there. I’ve never liked that place, and I’ve always believed you could do better. You rest for a few weeks. Then we’ll get busy finding you something else.” She sounded upbeat as she squeezed his hand.

“You know, I might not find something right off,” he cautioned. He did not want to dampen her optimism, but facts were facts.

“You have nearly a year’s pay in your pocket, counting what John McCord owes you,” she said. “You’ll find something before it runs out. I think you should start that remodeling business you’ve been talking about. There are enough old houses in bad shape in these mountains to keep you busy until you’re ninety.”

It was true. History was ignorant and had a mean streak, so it tended to repeat. Sequoyah and the surrounding areas had been rediscovered by the great-grandchildren of the elite who had once had their summer homes in the mountains. Young professionals had been snatching up property left and right, and the right local boy who could fix up an old house could certainly capitalize on the situation. He and Maggie had already turned down two fairly substantial offers on the Folly, tendered by individuals who wanted to live in a restored home without actually having to restore it. A.J. was fairly tolerant of this new breed of Sequoyites, all things considered, even though he had almost been hit once by a rogue Volvo, and in spite of the fact he no longer knew the names of everyone having Saturday morning coffee down at The Lord Is My Shepherd; I Shall Not Want Thick and Frosty Milkshakes Drive-In.

“Maybe,” he said, in response to the remodeling proposal. “We’ll see.” They finished their coffee in comfortable silence. As the night descended, a mist stole across the high valley and crept onto the porch. Maggie shuddered.

“Goose walk over your grave?” A.J. asked.

“It’s going to get cold early this year,” she responded.

“I think it might,” A.J. said. “It’s about time for it anyway. Halloween’s next week.” This was one of his favorite holidays, and he enjoyed immensely the ritual of dressing up to take the children out. Some of his more notable disguises were Richard Nixon, George Armstrong Custer the Day After, and a Rambler American, which was a great costume although a bit on the heavy side. This year he was planning to go as Nikita Khrushchev and was already beating podium-shaped objects with his shoe.

“Don’t remind me,” Maggie said. “I’ve got costumes to arrange.”

“What are we going to be this year?” he asked.