The Front Porch Prophet

“Think of this as a baseball bat with bark on it,” he advised the dog. Rufus blinked and resumed his nap. Wormy had been a calming influence on the old canine, and most times he was content to merely glare and rumble.

The last month had not been kind to Eugene. The dark circles under his eyes looked like twin shiners, as if he had unwisely made rude remarks to burly boys in a bar named Smitty’s. The contrast with the yellowish tinge of his skin was stark. He had passed gaunt and was now skeletal. He slept a great deal, but it was difficult to say whether this was because of his condition or due to his treatment. He was on the downhill slalom, gaining momentum exponentially while barely dodging the trees. A.J.’s heart told him that it would not be long. He left his brother sleeping and walked on to the cabin. He intended to brew some coffee, thinking that Eugene might like a cup when he awoke. He opened the door, and there stood Angel. She looked as if she had been crying, and she gasped and put her hand over her heart when she saw him.

“A.J.!” she said. “I didn’t hear you come up. You startled me.” She sat down on the tall stool next to the stove. A small pot of vegetable soup was bubbling, and he could smell cornbread baking.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said apologetically. “I figured you were gone, or I would have made more noise. Jackie didn’t forget you, did he?” He put the coffee on to boil.

“No, he came. But Eugene was having a bad morning. Jackie helped me get him comfortable, and then I sent him on to work. He said he would be glad to stay, but you know how much it upsets him to miss a day. He was working the short shift today, and ought to be back soon.”

They sat briefly silent while Angel stirred the soup. She looked over at A.J., and he could see that the tears were flowing. There was a quiet dignity to her sadness. They were on the hard way now, no mistake, and there was little he could do to comfort her. She stood and stared out the kitchen window at her son.

“I wish he would come in,” she said. “It’s cold out there.” She smiled a blue smile. “He always was a little stubborn. Sort of like his daddy.” A.J. decided to leave that one right where it was. Perhaps he would discuss Eugene’s paternity on a day less mournful and joyless.

“Headstrong,” he agreed. He stood by her and looked out the window. Presently, Eugene stirred. “Looks like he’s waking up,” A.J. said. “I’ll go see if he wants some of that soup, or maybe some coffee.” He walked out into the yard and dragged up a chair. Eugene looked over as his brother sat, and he offered a whisper of wisdom.

“Here’s your chance,” he said. “Rufus is asleep.”

“I’ll pass,” A.J. replied. “If I can’t take him out face to face, it wouldn’t be right to sneak up from behind.” He nudged Rufus with his toe, and the big dog snarled ominously in his sleep.

“You are a noble man,” Eugene observed before knocking back a fair slug of bourbon followed by a small sip of one of his medicines. He coughed a moment before regaining control. “Rufus, on the other hand, is not. His preference is for you to never see it coming. Remember that.” A.J. nodded his appreciation for the advice, although he had not been unclear on the subject to begin with. Eugene shrunk deeper into his coat and grew motionless. Finally, just as A.J. decided he had dropped back off, Eugene spoke.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked. There was a bleakness in his voice, a timbre of defeat. It gave A.J. a chill. “Angel seems to have hidden mine again.” A.J. lit one for Eugene and tossed the rest of the pack on the cable spool.

“Well, they are bad for you,” he offered lamely. “And she is your mama.”

“I know,” Eugene said. They were quiet for a while. “What time did Angel and Jackie leave?” he asked. He seemed to be feeling particularly bad at the moment.

“I don’t know when Jackie left,” A.J. answered. “Angel is inside. She’s making you some soup.” Eugene considered this information for a moment while enjoying his borrowed cigarette. He smoked it to the nub, flipped it in the fire, and lit another.

“Angel is of the opinion that soup will cure my cancer. Every time I turn around, she’s bringing me some soup and hiding my fucking smokes.” Eugene’s voice was quiet, yet his words were harsh. A.J. didn’t know what to say. Angel’s soup wasn’t that bad, and he could always slip Eugene another carton of the Surgeon General’s bane.

“Well, she wants to help you,” he said. “But she doesn’t know what to do.”

“Like I don’t fucking know that,” Eugene snarled. He seemed to coil, as if about to strike. “But there’s not a goddamn thing that she can do. In the meantime, I don’t have time to be hunting up a damn cigarette.” A.J. knew that his brother was right. There was nothing anyone could do. Nothing at all. “I don’t want to die,” Eugene said. His voice caught, and he grew quiet.