The Front Porch Prophet

“No, my Chattanooga days are over,” he said with a trace of melancholy. “Why don’t you think it’s a good idea to see Diane again? We got along real well yesterday.”

A.J. didn’t know what to do. On one hand, he felt it would be cruel to let Eugene harbor false hope. On the other hand, illusory anticipation is better than none at all, particularly among the hopeless. A.J. was mulling the best road to travel when Eugene spoke again.

“Shit. I know what this is,” he said, hitting his head with the heel of his hand. “She’s seeing someone, right?” A.J. was inscrutable. “Right?” Eugene insisted.

“I think maybe she is,” said A.J. slowly. He wanted to be out of this discussion.

“Who is it?” Eugene asked. There was defeat in his voice. He seemed to sag almost imperceptibly, as if a slight diminution of the life force had occurred, a quickening of the sand through the hourglass.

“I don’t know who it is,” A.J. said.

“You lie.”

“Okay, I know. But it won’t do a damn bit of good to tell you. Diane divorced you, and she can see whoever she wants to. So can you. That’s the way it works.” Eugene seemed to consider this argument, to hold it to the light as if checking for flaws. Then he spoke.

“I’m just curious,” he said petulantly.

“Bull. You’re just wondering who to go shoot, and you’re not getting anything from me.” He knew Eugene and his willful ways. And as much as he disliked Truth Hannassey, she didn’t deserve being shot. Not fatally, anyway.

“Just tell me if I know who it is,” Eugene obsessed. The subject held morbid fascination for him.

“You know the person,” A.J. said. “Now, let it go.” They fell silent. It seemed that the limited possibilities of the conversation had been exhausted. A.J. was glad to be moving to higher ground.

“Did you ever sleep with Diane?” Eugene asked. A.J. looked at him.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he asked. Eugene was slumped in the chair with his eyes closed. He presented a pitiful picture, unkempt and seedy.

“I don’t know,” Eugene said. “It just sort of popped out. I am curious, though. Did you?”

“Sleep? No, no sleeping,” A.J. said enigmatically. The question really peeved him.

“You know what I mean,” Eugene said. His eyes were still closed, and there was scant emotion in his tone.

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. What I’m having trouble with is that you even asked me something like that.” The fact that he was only technically innocent of a premarital interlude with her was beside the point.

“Diane talks in her sleep,” Eugene stated, almost slurring the words. “One night I woke up, and she was talking to you. Apparently, you were doing a good job.” He fell silent. A.J. felt guilty, and the feeling of culpability was about the stupidest thing he had ever heard of.

“It was a dream, Eugene,” he said. “Her dream, not mine. I wasn’t really there.”

“I know. I just always felt bad that she was dreaming of you. She had a habit of comparing me to you anyway. I wish you would spend more time with your children, like A.J. does with his, she would say. Or, A.J. always treats Maggie nice. You’re a tough yardstick to be measured against.” A.J. was embarrassed for the both of them.

“You know, I’m just as screwed up as everyone else,” he said.

“Oh, I know what a sack of shit you are,” Eugene said. “It’s the women who are confused.”

“Just so we’re clear on that point,” A.J. said emphatically. They fell into silence. The dissonance produced by Diane’s fantasy melted away.

Presently, Eugene started to snore. A.J. attempted to rouse him but had no success, so he stepped inside and brought out a pillow. He arranged Eugene and left him to nap, then went back in the house.

Eugene’s housekeeping skills were poor, and the cabin was a shambles. A.J. decided to remedy the situation. He had time to kill, anyway, since he did not want to leave without saying good-bye. So he set to with a vengeance, and the cabin slowly became habitable again.

Later, he was resting on the porch when Eugene awoke. A small bonfire burned in the yard, fueled by the detritus from the cabin. The scent of pine oil lingered in the air, mixed with the meaty aroma of the stew A.J. was simmering. He was worn out. Cleaning the cabin had been a big job, and he had been forced to employ untraditional methods. First he had shoveled the floors. Then he had dragged the hose in through the back window and washed the place out. It was during the final phase of the project he discovered the letters. He had been straightening the chaos on Eugene’s desk-several planks laid across sawhorses-when he stumbled across a cache of correspondence. Presumably, Eugene was in the process of writing a note to nearly everyone he knew. Some of the letters were finished, sealed, and ready to mail. Others appeared to be works in progress.