The Front Porch Prophet

“So do it,” she said. “Truth is very mellow these days. She’s in love.”

“With Diane?”

“With Diane.”

“I can’t believe you invited Truth over for Thanksgiving,” he said.

“I was simply being polite,” she said absently, checking her pies. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is Diane and Eugene and Diane’s girlfriend all sitting at the same table. Eugene will slit his own throat.”

“You fret too much,” she replied, pulling the cherry pies out of the oven. Their aroma was heart-warming.

“If they kill each other, I’m not burying them,” A.J. stated emphatically. It had been bad enough with Plug.

“Let’s go to bed,” was Maggie’s reply as she turned off the light. She patted his head when she walked by, obviously not gravely concerned over the upcoming Thanksgiving Day Massacre. He stood and left the darkened kitchen, heading for a nod.

The big day finally arrived, and A.J. was up before dawn but not before John Robert. When he arrived downstairs, his father was outside stoking his smoker with seasoned hickory. He had decided at the last minute to add a couple of smoked pork loins to the menu, just to be on the safe side. It was a chilly morning, and A.J. could see John Robert’s breath rise in steamy puffs as he closed the firebox door and began to walk toward the house. He noticed a small limp on the older man, a little hitch in the get-along he had never seen before. John Robert stepped onto the porch and entered the kitchen.

“Just about ready to smoke these loins,” John Robert said as he removed the meat from the refrigerator.

“I saw you limping,” A.J. said. “Did you step on a nail?”

“No, I’m just a little stiff on the cold mornings these days.” John Robert carried his roasts in a pan. “I’ll be back,” he said as he backed out the door.

A.J. watched his father gimp across the yard. Because of Eugene, issues of mortality were on his mind, and the sight of John Robert shuffling to the smoker saddened him, but he shook off the moment. He had a turkey to roast and a house full of people circling, ready to land. The larger meanings of life and the absolute futility of it all would have to wait until he had more time.

Thanksgiving Day at the Folly was not a fixed event. Rather, it was a continuum through which the various participants flowed, each bringing according to means and taking according to need. The first to arrive were Eudora and Carlisle, who had come two days earlier and intended to remain for the week. The next to arrive were the Alexanders-Carson McCullers; her husband, Karl; and their two boys, John Steinbeck and William Faulkner. He liked Maggie’s younger sister and her husband, and the boys were good lads, although John was underrated by his peers, and it was often difficult to place William in time. They arrived around nine o’clock, bearing the makings of the Thanksgiving breakfast-country ham to fry, sausage balls to bake, and enough eggs to stock a henhouse. The biscuits would be conjured by John Robert. Hugs and greetings were exchanged, and the boys ran off in search of their cousins.

“Stay out of the guest room,” A.J. hollered at their retreating backs.

“What’s going on up there?” Karl asked. He was a quiet, slow-talking man.

“Eudora and Carlisle are taking a nap,” A.J. replied as he sliced the salty, cured ham.

“Taking a nap at nine in the morning?” Carson queried.

“Never mind,” advised Maggie, cracking eggs into a large green bowl.

Next in was the Smith family: Maggie’s sister, Agatha Christie, and her husband, John, as well as their children, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Madeline L’Engel.

“Uncle A.J.!” Ray yelled as he grabbed a leg and held tight. He was a sweet child but a loud one. “Are we having turkey?”

“No, baby, there was a problem with the turkey,” A.J. said as he tousled the boy’s hair. “Rogues from Texas broke in last night and got it.” Ray looked concerned. “Don’t worry, though,” A.J. continued. “We’ve got plenty of hot dogs.” The boy looked askance for a moment. Then he grinned and ran out of the room. He knew well the ways of his uncle.

Carlisle wandered in looking pale and drawn. He appeared to be having trouble concentrating. A.J. poured him a glass of orange juice and handed him a jelly biscuit. There was no use in letting him get poorly.

Mary Shelley Hensley and her husband, Gary, arrived around noon, accompanied by the matriarch and patriarch of the Callahan clan, Emmett and Jane Austen. The Hensleys didn’t have any children and intended to keep it that way. A.J. considered childlessness an abnormal condition, but to each his own. Gary and Mary were nice people despite their decision to not breed, and they were quite well-to-do, a condition easier to achieve in the absence of progeny.