The Front Porch Prophet

“Yeah, I’m a nice guy,” he said, regrouping. “The thing is, he doesn’t know about you and Truth. He’s still sort of… pining away for you, and I’m thinking that he might get… upset.” He saw her eyes flash like black lightning.

“A.J. Longstreet, are you telling me that Truth is not welcome here?” Her dander was up.

“No, I’m not saying that,” he responded. “What I’m asking is that if he does come, you and Truth cool it. There’s no use killing him on the spot.”

“Let me tell you something,” she began, “I feel really bad for Eugene, but my life with him was over long before he got sick. I spent fifteen years trying to be what he wanted me to be, fifteen years of feeling like shit because I wasn’t quite the little Barbie doll he wanted, and I’m through doing that for anyone.” She was breathing hard, and her eyes shone when she continued. “I know you’re trying to help him, just like you always try to help everyone. But I am who I am, and I feel like I feel, and if you and Eugene don’t like it, you can both kiss my ass.”

A.J. considered her words, and he had to concede their validity. The simple fact was that she was right. He had been out of line. Her life was her business, and he felt bad for upsetting her, even though his intentions had been pure.

“Truce,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m wrong. You’re right. I apologize. Don’t hit. I swear I won’t be this stupid again for weeks.”

“You’d better make it months, after this one,” she replied. Her tone was still stern, but her eyes signaled a reluctance to kill. Just to be on the safe side, he decided to leave her vicinity and stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

John Robert saw him and hailed him to the smoker. A.J. waved at Marie Prater as she came down the walk. Since she possessed the only good back in her family, she was carrying a large casserole dish while her disabled husband and boys shuffled dutifully behind.

“How goes life at the sawmill, Marie?” he asked.

“Life as we knew it has changed for the worse,” she replied. Her voice sounded as tired as her eyes looked. A.J. felt for her. His professional demise had been relatively painless, but she was obviously suffering. He looked over at John Robert.

“How are those loins coming?” he asked his father. “We’re running out of Hoghead’s meatballs.”

“The meat is ready,” John Robert said as he speared the roasts into his pan. “Let’s go feed the company.” As they walked back to the Folly, A.J. saw Truth’s Mercedes wheel in at the end of the driveway. She exited the car and waved him over. He walked up, and she turned and smiled.

“A.J., I have two cases of wine and some turkey pie,” she said. “Can you help carry some of it?” She was as nice as a walk on the beach at twilight, which he had to admit was preferable to her previous incarnation as one of the Horsewomen of the Apocalypse.

“I’ll get the wine,” he volunteered. He was about to hoist the Chablis when he noted the arrival of Mom’s Taxi.

“I’ll be right along,” A.J. said to Truth, who had already started toward the house. The van door opened and out stepped Wormy. He walked over to A.J. Eugene appeared to be asleep in the van.

“I was just kidding when I told you to load him up and bring him anyway,” A.J. said.

“No, he was in pretty good shape when we left,” Wormy said. “He sort of faded out at the beer joint.” He shrugged.

“How much help did he have fading?” A.J. asked.

“About a quart,” Wormy admitted. He looked as if he was in pain. A.J. sighed. He had apparently wanted this day for Eugene more than Eugene had desired it for himself. He supposed he was a fool for even making the attempt.

“Take him home, Wormy,” he said. “I don’t want his boys to see him this way.” Wormy nodded, as if he agreed. “I’ll bring you both a plate tomorrow,” A.J. continued. Wormy hung his head in disgrace. His shame was a burden upon him. A.J. patted him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault. He’s a hard man to control. You couldn’t stop him if he wanted it. Now, go on.” Wormy plodded slowly to the van, started it, and left. Eugene never moved. His last Thanksgiving was a bust despite A.J.’s best efforts, a total failure rivaling the first and final voyage of the Titanic. It was a pity.

Later, A.J. sat in the parlor in his favorite chair and viewed the fruits of his labor. Some of his pleasure was diminished because of Eugene’s lapse, but it was still a good day. Family and friends were all talking, eating, and generally making merry. It was Thanksgiving at the Folly, and he had gone the extra lap to make it memorable, an observance that would be held as a standard for years to come. He broke from his reverie. Standing before him was Diane. He had not talked to her since rousing her ire earlier in the day.

“Where’s Eugene?” she asked. “Truth told me he was here awhile ago.”

“He was feeling pretty bad,” A.J. lied. “He made his regrets and went home to bed.” She considered this, and he was unsure whether she believed him or not.