The Front Porch Prophet

He reached suddenly and retrieved the Navy Colt. He hefted it, felt its cold, blue weight. Then he cocked it and pointed it at Eugene’s head. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and willed his finger to squeeze. The trigger moved ever so slightly, then a bit more.

His arm jerked up at the last instant when the blast erupted, and when the smoke cleared there were two holes in the cabin. He was disgusted with himself for being a coward.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his comatose brother. He dropped the Colt to the floor and sought saner latitudes. He was standing at the fire when Wormy returned. Their eyes met, Wormy nodded, and A.J. left without a word. He was quiet the remainder of the day, not because he had almost shot his brother, but rather because he had not managed the task.

But that was Christmas Eve, and it was now New Year’s Day. A.J. returned to the present and found himself in front of the smoldering remains of the cabin. The afternoon shadows had become long, and he stood close to the glowing ashes for warmth. Nothing in them was recognizable but the unmistakable shape of a gutted school bus. No sign of Eugene could be seen. The fire had done its job well in that respect. A car door slammed. He turned toward the sound and saw that Red Arnold had arrived.

Red was getting long in the tooth, but he still cut an imposing figure as he gaited slowly across the clearing. He arrived at the fire, and he and A.J. stood and warmed their hands in silence. Finally, Red spoke.

“Honey said Eugene was in there,” he said. He had turned around and was heating the Arnold hindquarters. Red’s homespun mannerisms aside, A.J. knew he was being questioned, and that the answers needed to satisfy.

“Yes.”

“Said you ran him off,” Red continued. “Told him to let it burn.” He lit a smoke and left it on his lips. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at the sky.

“He told you the truth.”

“Talked to Wormy yesterday,” Red noted. A.J. was already aware of the chat. Red had come by the beer joint for his Christmas present. “Told me that Eugene was bad. Real bad.” He turned back around and began to warm his hands again.

“Real bad,” A.J. agreed. Red flipped his cigarette into the ashes and peered long at him. Finally, the old lawman nodded slightly.

“Damn shame,” he said. “Eugene was a good boy.” A.J. had to agree. He had had his ways, but plenty of worse specimens had strolled down the long corridors of time. Red began to walk to his car. Halfway there, he stopped and turned. There was a rueful smile on his lips.

“If Slim sees that bus, he’ll be wanting to shoot somebody,” Red observed.

“He does tend to be high-strung,” A.J. allowed. “If you can keep him out of here a day or two, I’ll take care of it.” He intended to dig a pit with the dozer and fill it with the remains of the cabin and its occupant. Then he proposed to raise a large mound. It would be a funeral ceremony in the old style-about two thousand years old, in fact-but he figured it would be just odd enough to appeal to Eugene. Red nodded and climbed into his car. He U-turned and headed for the lights of the big city, leaving A.J. alone in the twilight with the ashes of his brother.

A.J. had arrived at the clearing that New Year’s morning struggling with a sense of premonition, and he had been somewhat out of kilter since blowing the hole in Eugene’s wall. As he pulled up, he saw Jackie sleeping in his truck, so he fully expected to encounter Angel when he entered the cabin.

“A.J., you look pale,” she had said with concern. “You better sit down and have some of this soup.” Death, taxes, and Angel’s soup were the three constants of life.

“Maybe just a small bowl,” he agreed, banking on its medicinal properties to clear his head.

Eugene awoke and was bathed and medicated by Angel with help from A.J. Then he went back to sleep. Wormy checked in but had to immediately leave. He was having labor difficulties down at the beer joint. Bird Egg was plastered and in the spirit of the season was attempting to give away all of the stock. He had plenty of takers.

“We really should let him go,” Wormy said. Management was coming easier all the time to the former pilot.

“We don’t pay him,” A.J. pointed out. “How can we fire him?” Wormy shrugged in the time-honored tradition of middle management and left to go keep an eye on the grizzled retainer before he literally gave away the store. Angel and Jackie departed shortly thereafter, but not before securing A.J.’s promise to remain until Wormy returned.

So he sat at Eugene’s bedside and read the 1941 Yearbook of Agriculture, which he had removed from under one of the legs of Eugene’s kitchen table. At his feet sat Rufus, who had apparently temporarily forgotten that he hated A.J.