The Front Porch Prophet

A.J. was in a bind. He wanted to ease Eugene’s anguish and bolster his troubled spirit, but he had no tools adequate to the task. He was not trained to handle raw emotion from hopeless souls. But the fat was in the fire. Eugene was going to die, and there would be no quarter. He reached over and took Eugene’s hand. It was a totally uncharacteristic action, but it was all he could think of. At first there was no reaction, but after a moment he felt a slight returning pressure. And so they sat in silence for a long, stony time, secret brothers staring into the blaze, each with his own thoughts.

After an interval, A.J. heard a vehicle making its way up the road and Jackie’s vehicle rolled into view. Eugene removed his hand and placed it in his coat pocket. Jackie parked next to A.J.’s truck and joined the boys at the fire.

“Man, it’s cold,” he said. He blew into his hands.

“There’s some coffee in the cabin,” A.J. offered.

“And soup,” Eugene said distantly, although his voice had lost its steel edge.

“I think I’ll get us all a coffee,” Jackie said. “Coffee, Gene?” he asked his brother. Eugene nodded absently.

“That Jackie will just talk your leg off,” Eugene said after Jackie had entered the cabin. “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” He had joshed Jackie for years on his lack of vocal acumen. He washed down a little more medicine with a lot more bourbon before lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag and closed his eyes. When they reopened, they had a softer look, glazed and watery around the edges.

“The thing about morphine is this,” he expounded. “It’s great.” He looked over at A.J. “Just absolutely, fucking great. If I had known it, I would have been a junkie years ago.” They heard the door shut, and Jackie made his way over to them with three steaming Styrofoam cups.

“Here’s the Joe, boys,” he said, handing out the fragrant vessels. They all sipped appreciatively for a moment.

“Sure is cold out here,” Eugene offered in Jackie’s direction. He was as high as government spending, feeling good enough to pick at his oldest brother.

“Man,” Jackie agreed, oblivious to his brother’s wiles. He finished his coffee. “Mama’s tired,” he said to Eugene. “She says she wants to stay, but I’m going to take her home.” He looked at A.J. “Are you going to be around awhile?”

“Absolutely.” A.J. thought she needed to go home, as well. She was not a young woman, and all of those years she had lived with Johnny Mack had each counted for more, like dog years. Jackie pitched his cup on the fire and went to get his mother. Eugene and A.J. watched as the cup melted away.

“Jackie is not an environmentally sound man,” Eugene noted, as if it saddened him that his own brother was part of the problem and not the solution.

“Not like me and you, for sure,” A.J. agreed, and threw his cup on the pyre. Eugene’s followed.

“Maybe later we can spray some deodorant into the air,” Eugene suggested. Jackie and Angel made their way to the fire. She was carrying a tray.

“Eat your soup and then we’ll talk,” A.J. said quietly when they walked up. Angel placed the meal on the cable spool.

“Eugene, I made you some soup,” she said. “I want you to have some of it before it gets cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. She looked over at A.J.

“Make sure he eats,” she advised. He could hear the concern in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he echoed. She looked frail in the cold light of afternoon, tottery and infirm. She bent down and kissed Eugene on the cheek.

“I will see you tomorrow,” she told him. Then Jackie took her arm and led her to the Bronco. A.J. and Eugene watched as they left the clearing, then A.J. uncovered the soup and handed the bowl to Eugene.

“Here. Eat a bite and I’m off the hook.” Eugene complied. Then he surprised A.J. by taking two more spoonfuls before putting the broth down. He looked around on the cable spool for a moment. Then he sighed and shook his head.

“She took my cigarettes again,” Eugene said with resignation in his voice. A.J. looked, and sure enough, they were absent.

“She’s good,” he said as he walked to his truck and removed the carton he had brought.

“She’s driving me crazy,” Eugene said.

“It could be worse,” A.J. pointed out. “Estelle Chastain could be your mother.”

“There’s no call for that kind of talk,” Eugene said, shuddering. “I need a drink,” he concluded, reaching for the remnants of the sour mash on the cable spool. He drained the bottle. “I hope you brought more,” he croaked.

“I did,” A.J. assured him. “But I’m considering putting your whiskey and cigarettes up until you learn moderation.” Eugene cast him a look that would soften lead.

“I have to put up with that kind of shit from Angel,” he said. “You, I can kill.”

“You seem to have your old good humor back,” A.J. noted.

“I slept too long, and my feelgood wore off,” came the simple reply. He directed unfocused eyes at A.J. “A man in my condition does not need for his feelgood to wear off.” A.J. had to take that one on faith but did not mistrust a word of it. He nodded.