The Front Porch Prophet

A.J. deliberated as the night waned. He considered getting good and drunk, but that avenue seemed low. He supposed he could make the grand gesture and do away with himself, but the plan seemed limiting. He tarried on the idea of finding Pootie and beating him up. He knew it would make him feel better, but he didn’t want to lose his parking spot, so he grudgingly let the notion fade. When the whistle that marked shift change blew, he was toying with the idea of buying a new Mustang and drafting three riding companions, because at least Pootie had been allowed the privilege of a couple of dates before getting the heave-ho, whereas A.J. had been forced to take his heave-hos straight up. They were a little dry that way, a trifle laborious to swallow.

The night crew began to file out of the mill, and with them came Maggie. A.J. got out of his car and leaned up against the dent he had made the previous evening, as if attempting to hide the evidence. She paused when she saw him, a diminutive half step of indecision. He felt a trickle of sweat trace his spine. His mouth was as parched as baked sand.

“I thought I told you to quit hanging around,” she said to him when she came up. She spoke in a no-nonsense tone, but behind the message lingered a lack of absolute resolve, as if she had found a bit of charity for the pitiable wreck before her. He was looking at her shoes.

“Well, what you said was to quit being here at night,” he said lamely. He was a drowning man holding a broken spar, hoping to get off on a technicality. “This is morning.” A small point, admittedly. She leaned next to him on the Hog Farm.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy, and I know your heart is in the right place.” Her voice was relaxed and sensible. “The problem is, I think you’re looking for something that I’m not. I don’t want a steady boyfriend. We could go out once in a while, maybe, but you’ve got to let me have a little room. Okay?”

“Would you like to go get some breakfast?” he asked. She did not respond for what seemed a lifetime. Then she sighed and spoke.

“Okay,” she said. “Just breakfast. I’m sort of hungry anyway. But this is not a date, understand?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, holding the door for her. When she climbed in, he continued. “Maybe after we eat we could go for a swim at the quarry.”

Having overcome geography and Pootie, A.J. still had one more river to cross, and that wide river was Emmett Callahan. As the courtship progressed, it became apparent Emmett was less than enthralled by the long-haired boy in the ragged Chevy who was spending more and more time at the Callahan household. He was protective of his daughters, and A.J. was frankly not what he had in mind. In later years, A.J. would come to understand the point of view, but at the time it had made for a tough swim.

Emmett’s campaign of discouragement was not subtle, but it was creative. One evening while A.J. was catching a few winks in the back of the Hog Farm-parked in Maggie’s driveway after a late date-Emmett had the old Impala towed. Another time, A.J. noticed a lively odor and upon investigation found several sacks of Callahan garbage in the trunk of his car. Once, Emmett performed a citizen’s arrest on A.J. and held him until the Alabama equivalent of Slim arrived to haul him off. Admittedly, A.J. was soused, but the incident did little to enhance their relationship.

But A.J. toughed it out and slowly honed Emmett’s rough edges. Nothing worth having was easy to obtain, and such was the case with Maggie Callahan. In later years as her sisters all married, A.J. would listen to his brothers-in-law lament about Emmett and he would smile. He had taken the brunt, had taken the drawknife and slowly shaved the bark off the gnarled hickory that was Emmett Callahan, and all who came after were standing on his shoulders.

On the night A.J. proposed, he and Maggie were sitting on the broken dam that held back Lake Echota. The dam was at an isolated site and had been built during the Great Depression by a diverse group of young people with poor prospects who became dam builders because there was nothing else for them to do. A.J.’s granmama and her husband had met and married while working on the project. Their initials were discretely written in the concrete, a lasting memorial to true love, Portland cement, and the WPA.

“What’s wrong, A.J.?” Maggie asked. “You’ve been quiet all day.” The west end of the dam was in ruin, and the water roared through the breach. They sat in the causeway on the east side, trailing their toes in the green, cool water. The day had been a pearl, and the only mar on it was the sunburn Maggie had acquired in an area where the sun does not normally shine. Hopefully, she would not have to explain it to her mama.