The Front Porch Prophet

“Wormy thinks it’s sacred now,” A.J. pointed out. He had no illusions that they had solved the Big Imponderable, but Eugene seemed to feel better as a result of the conversation. “Speaking of Wormy, where is he?” A.J. asked. “And Rufus?”

“They went hunting.” Eugene settled back in the La-Z-Boy.

“It’ll be squirrel stew for you, this evening,” A.J. observed. Eugene hated squirrel about as much as he loved deviled eggs.

“Wormy never shoots anything,” Eugene said. “He just likes to walk around in the woods.” Shots rang from the west. A.J. looked at Eugene.

“Squirrel stew,” he said.

“I’ll eat the eggs,” came the response.

A.J.’s mind snapped to the present, to the cold New Year’s Day in front of the remains of a burning cabin. The blare of a siren and the roar of an engine under strain indicated visitors. He arose from his station on the ground, peeved at the intrusion. The last thing he wanted was a dose of Honey Gowens and the fire brigade, but the encounter was inevitable. The fire truck thundered into the clearing piloted by Honey and manned by Skipper Black, Luther Barnette, Ellis Simpson, and Hoghead, who had shut down the Jesus Is the Reason for the $3.99 Mexican Feast Drive-In when the call to action came. The wagon rolled to a halt and Honey and Hoghead leaped from the cab. Slower to respond were Skipper, Luther, and Ellis, who were nearly frozen and mostly beaten to pieces. Hanging on the back was good duty in the summer months, but the spots were less coveted during the cold season.

“We saw the smoke from town!” Honey yelled breathlessly as he yanked at a hose reel. Hoghead was shrugging into his fireman’s coat, and the boys on the back were grimacing as they slowly disembarked.

“Hold up, Honey,” A.J. said. “It’s a total loss. Let it go.” It didn’t seem decent to wash Eugene’s remains into the woods.

“I don’t know,” Honey replied, looking skeptical. He was not a man to go home dry when he had come to shoot water.

“Let it go, Honey,” A.J. repeated. Honey looked at his grim demeanor. Then he looked at the cabin. Slow reality dawned on the careworn quencher of flame.

“Shit,” he said quietly. “Was he in there?”

“He’s still in there,” A.J. said. “It was burning when I got here. I guess he was smoking in bed. I couldn’t get him out.” This version was not the gospel truth but was fairly close by some standards, and there was no sense in burdening Honey with details that would make him unhappy.

“Damn,” Honey said quietly. There was not much else to say.

“I’m going to stay here until it burns out,” A.J. said. “How about sending Red Arnold up here when you get back to town.”

“What about Slim?” Honey asked.

“God, no,” A.J. said. He pointed at the wreckage. “You can see the bus now. I don’t want him trying to arrest Eugene’s ashes.” Honey nodded. The motor coach had slipped his mind.

“You want me to stay with you?” Hoghead asked

“No, but I appreciate the offer. I’ll stay here with the dog until Red comes.” It was decent of Hoghead to volunteer, but A.J. needed solitude. The fire brigade reloaded and departed without incident, although the three junior members of the corps looked a mite mutinous as they began the return leg of their excursion. Alone again, A.J. squatted back down on the hard-packed red clay. His mind took flight and came to ground eight days earlier in the same clearing. He had journeyed up on Christmas Eve to wish the boys well. Eugene was pretty much dead by that point and knew it, but life is a hard habit to break, so he lingered on.

Since Thanksgiving, Eugene had taken several giant steps in the direction of the Fun Home. First, there were hard bouts of nausea. Then there was incontinence. Finally, the pain quit sand-dancing and heaved its grisly head in earnest. With each new development, A.J. rushed to Doc Miller for the cure. Doc repeatedly reached into his bag of tricks, but he had to reach deeper each time. But Eugene’s torment was stubborn and would not abate.

“I need more morphine,” A.J. told Doc a week prior to Christmas Eve. The old doctor raised his eyebrows.

“What are you doing, washing him in it?” he asked testily.

“No, I’m not washing him in it,” A.J. replied in kind. “Tell you what. Come on up and listen to him moan awhile. Come listen to him scream when he sleeps too long and the pain wakes him up. Then tell me we’re giving him too much.” It was a bad day for Doc to be calling the tough ones from the cheap seats.

“He can’t survive a higher dosage,” Doc said stubbornly.

“And the downside is?” A.J. asked. He found the conversation frustrating. “He’s in bad pain. Nobody is trying to kill him. Just give me the damn stuff.” He stopped and took a deep breath. Doc was not the enemy. “Please,” he said. Doc sighed and left the room. When he returned, he carried a small white paper sack.