The Front Porch Prophet

The committee by the log pile adjourned with no clear consensus. Truth exited the scene after first being cited by Slim on a zoning violation for owning a structure too close to the right-of-way. Wormy received a ticket for illegal parking before riding to the jail to borrow the phone and check in. He was terminated by his superior, a former Army colonel called Maniac Monroe. This was a term of endearment imposed on him by the relatively small number of survivors of his various commands. Colonel Maniac had no patience with extenuating circumstances, bad luck, or the quiet of peacetime. He believed that heads and excrement should both roll downhill, away from colonels and others in charge.

Back at the flattening, A.J. began to disentangle animal from vegetable and mineral. He was about through when he heard a shrill whistle coming from the Folly. In addition to being stellar women named after famous authors, the Callahan girls all excelled at the fine art of whistling for effect, and Maggie was the most proficient of the lot. When she placed her two pinkies on her lower lip and blew, the resulting sound demanded respect.

A.J. answered his summons. He entered the kitchen and saw Estelle drinking tea at the table. She had gathered her dignity and was handling her bereavement well. He watched as she poured about a tablespoonful of tea into one of the exquisite Nortake cups that Maggie brought out on solemn occasions. A.J. called them the Death Cups. Then Estelle poured about a slug and a half of brandy in with her spot of tea. She tossed the mixture back in one quick flick, shuddered, and began preparing the next installment. A.J. eased up close to his wife.

“Why don’t you just heat up the brandy bottle and put the tea away?” he whispered. He received another bump in the ribs to remind him to be nice. Estelle gulped another one down before speaking.

“A.J., I can’t go with you to bury Plug,” she said with a quaver. “I just couldn’t stand it.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll put him in deep, so a possum can’t get to him.” A.J. could not help it. He was well meaning but blithering when it came to bereaved women. This time, thankfully, it did not seem to matter.

“I think we should bury him next to Parm,” Estelle said. She blinked a tear.

“Well, sure, Estelle. Whatever you want,” A.J. said. He did not think Parm would care. Over the years, Estelle had augmented his gravesite with a goodly number of extras-the funerary equivalent of cruise control and stereo-and A.J. felt sure the deceased had become inured to additions to his eternal home, a place A.J. called The Parm Shrine.

At the head of the mound was a statue of a Parm-like figure locked in mortal combat with a Hun-like creature, and neither appeared happy over their timeless embrace. At Parm’s feet was an eternal flame. It wasn’t actually perpetual-there were no gas lines out at the cemetery-but it was a reasonable facsimile made by A.J. out of the guts of a camp stove. Estelle lit it each year on Armistice Day, the Fourth of July, and the anniversary of Parm’s relocation to a better place. In A.J.’s opinion, a dead guy with his feet in a camp stove who had a Hun standing on his head ought not object to having a flat dog snugged in next to him. It was actually sort of the next logical step.

There was, however, a small problem; it was against the law to bury the animals with the people in Sequoyah. A.J. did not have it in him to break Estelle’s heart, so he would simply have to work it out.

“Everything I love goes away,” Estelle sobbed and nipped at her tea.

“We love you, Estelle,” Maggie said, patting her shoulder. “We love you, and we’re not going away.” Estelle nodded and sniffed, gratitude etched on her features. A.J. left. He had a dog burial to fake. He went to Estelle’s yard and finished loading the truck.

“Let’s go, Plug,” he said as they left.

His first stop was at the landfill, where he unloaded most of the porch and all of the dog. He buried poor old Plug on a slight rise overlooking some appliances. Then he tapped a little cross into the ground, a monument made of sticks and duct tape erected in memory of the best friend Estelle had left in this world.

“You were a hound,” he eulogized. “But you deserved better than this.”

He got back in the truck. His next destination was the cemetery. On his way, he stopped at Billy’s for some gasoline. Wormy was there, killing time and drinking a Coke. A.J. was surprised when Wormy threw his duffel bag into the truck.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“The graveyard,” A.J. replied. Wormy gave a thumbs-up. A.J. kind of liked the downed aviator, and he figured that Wormy would love what was coming up next. They arrived at the burial ground and drove up close to The Parm Shrine. Then they got out.