The Front Porch Prophet (10 page)

“I don’t know,” A.J. replied. “Maybe she could, maybe she couldn’t. There weren’t too many live ones left to choose from by the time Johnny Mack showed up. Who knows what the appeal was? Love? Security? A way out? Maybe she was just hot for him in his soldier suit.”

“No, I think she just felt sorry for him.”

“Charity sex between Angel and Johnny Mack?”

“I’m not talking about sex. They have never had sex.”

“So the stork brought you?”

“I don’t know who my father was,” Eugene said. “But I know it wasn’t Johnny Mack. He stepped on a land mine right before entering Paris. It was mostly a dud, but it took out what counted. It was actually Angel who helped nurse him back to health.” Eugene calmly related this as if telling an interesting anecdote about two strangers.

“You’re telling me Johnny Mack stepped on a mine and, uh …” A.J. was caught by surprise.

“He blew his dick off,” said Eugene matter-of-factly. “She married him anyway, and I was born ten years later. The math is not that hard.”

“Maybe they did artificial insemination,” A.J. offered, piecing his way through this mystery.

“They didn’t have that back then,” Eugene said, as if he actually knew. “Anyway, there’s nothing to work with. It’s all gone.” All A.J. could do was shake his head. He had always known that Eugene was a bastard but hadn’t realized it was the literal truth.

“When did you find this out?” A.J. was morbidly curious. He recognized this shortcoming in himself and vowed to change. Tomorrow.

“I’d had my suspicions for years. You just don’t grow up in a house with a man who has no dick and not get the feeling something is wrong. You ever take a shower with John Robert when you were a kid, or maybe take a leak on a tree together?”

“Sure.”

“We didn’t do that sort of thing. I’ve never seen him with his pants off. I sat down with Angel one day and asked her what the deal was. She hemmed and hawed but finally came across. She wouldn’t tell me who my father was, but she admitted the dastardly deed. She thought I would be upset. I told her it suited me just fine that Johnny Mack wasn’t my father. As a matter of fact, I was happier.” Eugene began to hum a quiet tune. Eventually he turned to A.J. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked.

“Since you brought it up, if Angel married a man she knew couldn’t dance the waltz with her, why did she dance the waltz later with someone else?”

“Dance the waltz? Come on, Victoria. If you mean
fuck,
say
fuck.”

“We’re talking about your mama. Have some respect.”

“Boy Scout,” Eugene said, rolling his eyes. But he seemed to take the point. “I have a theory. Angel got Jackie the hard way courtesy of a Nazi. So I don’t think… dancing was very high on her list when she met Johnny Mack. She may have even married him because he couldn’t dance. I don’t know. Later on, her biology caught up with her, and she began to want to do the old two-step again.”

“Who all knows about this?” A.J. had until tomorrow to be morbidly curious and wanted to find out more while there was time.

“You, me, Angel, Jackie, and Johnny Mack. Assuming, of course, he understands how these things work. My real father, whoever he is, may or may not know. Who can say?” Eugene stood up, stretched, and started toward the yard, stumbling a bit when he stepped off the porch. He walked to the bulldozer, climbed up, and started it.

“I’ll be right back!” he hollered as he headed down the trail. A.J. walked to the remains of the Jeep for a smoke. The porch was still too combustible for his comfort. He wondered what Eugene was doing. He knew he would have issues to address with Johnny Mack if the Cat went off a cliff. He heard Eugene down the trail, making a great deal of noise. Then the Cat hove into view, and A.J. was amazed at what he saw. Eugene was pushing the Lover up the path. As he got closer, he waved A.J. to the side and shoved the old Chrysler right in beside the Jeep, as if he had been looking for a good parking spot and finally found one.

“Tell me you’re not going to shoot it,” said A.J.

“I’m going to shoot it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want it to outlast me,” Eugene replied as he climbed down from his perch. The effort winded him. A.J. had almost forgotten the central issue during the discussion of Angel’s unusual dancing habits. Now it was back on his mind, and it was depressing. Still, he hated to see the old Lover end up like the Jeep and the tree, riddled and abused.

“It’s your car, but it deserves better,” A.J. said.

“Don’t we all?” came the reply. A.J. looked at the Lover, the Jeep, and the remains of the tree across the clearing. He thought of the Navy Colt.

“If you keep getting rid of things that might outlast you, I’m going to get nervous,” A.J. observed. “Maybe I ought to hog-tie Rufus and get us both out of here before it’s too late.” Eugene looked at him with an odd smile.

“You’re getting paranoid. I
would
like to see you hog-tie Rufus, though. I don’t know which way I’d bet on that deal. You’re smarter, but his teeth are sharper. If you use your bat, I think you might have a little edge.”

“If I use your shotgun, I might have a bigger edge.”

“That would be poor sportsmanship. What would Coach Crider say?”

“Coach Crider dropped dead, which saved someone the trouble of killing him,” A.J. said. Coach had died of a heart attack while expressing a difference of opinion with a referee. He had spit in the official’s face a bare moment before he collapsed, so it was actually the first time in Georgia high school football history that a dead coach was ejected from a game for unsportsmanlike conduct. It was a sad moment, a true low point for the team, and the boys had not played well the rest of the contest. “Anyway, I have never claimed to be a good sport.”

“No, you haven’t,” Eugene said. “But you are.” He lit a cigarette. “What are you going to do with Rufus after I’m gone?” The question caught A.J. off guard.

“I wasn’t planning on doing anything with him. Why don’t you give him to someone? Maybe Jackie. He has a lot of dogs.” It was a sure bet that A.J. didn’t want him.

“No, Rufus would kill all of them, and some of them are good dogs,” Eugene said. “Jackie would have to keep him tied. I’d rather see him dead.”

“What do you mean by that?” A.J. asked, suddenly wary.

“After I’m gone, I want you to shoot Rufus. Nobody is going to want him, and he’s getting too old to live wild. I don’t have the heart to do it myself.” A.J. sighed.

“Last week you asked me to kill you. This week, it’s Rufus. Next week, you’ll be wanting me to gun down Diane and the boys. Why are you doing this to me? I don’t like killing. I don’t even hunt! If Rufus walked up right now and keeled over, I wouldn’t shed a tear, because I really hate your dog. But I don’t want to kill him!” A.J. had become upset. “Why do you keep bringing up this kind of shit?” he demanded.

“Because you’re all I have,” Eugene said quietly, meeting A.J.’s eye. “Because I need the help.” He paused for a long moment. Then he continued. “Because I know you can do it when you have to.” A.J. stiffened. The clearing was as silent as the grave. A.J. walked to the bulldozer and climbed aboard. He fired up the old machine and sat there momentarily. Then he climbed down and walked back to Eugene.

“You son of a bitch,” he said in a quiet voice that roared like a train. “You swore on everything you held sacred that you would never talk about that. You’re a lying son of a bitch.”

“No, I’m not,” Eugene said. “I just don’t hold anything sacred anymore.” He sounded as if he might cry.

A.J. headed for the dozer. Without another word, he left the clearing.

A.J. WAS HAVING A BAD WEEK. EUGENE HAD INITIATED
the process on Saturday by reminding him of an incident he had tried to forget. The human mind was a devious organ, however, and it chiseled in stone that which would be best left unrecalled. In fairness to Eugene, he had not dredged a memory that had been successfully entombed. It was always with A.J., coming to him in the quiet moments. Still, Eugene had sworn never to mention it, but mention it he had. In this regard he had proven faithless, and his breach of trust had upset A.J. For Eugene possessed the truth. Of the two of them, one was a killer. Of the two of them, one had beaten two men to death with the Louisville Slugger and had shot a third. Of the two of them, A.J. owned the bat.

Most people never foresee their dates with destiny, and A.J. was no exception on that fateful day years past. He and Eugene had decided to try their luck at a trout stream that ran on the mountain to the north of Sequoyah. Their wives were both out of town, and Eugene and A.J. had decided on a fishing trip to while away the afternoon. Actually, Eugene had proposed another plan, a scenic tour of some of the finer topless clubs of Atlanta. But A.J. vetoed the idea, although it had been touch and go for a moment when Eugene described the Panther Club, a bistro that featured nude interactive water volleyball.

They met early in the day. It was a fine morning, and the air held a hint of summer. They left their vehicles and began the long hike to the trout stream. Eugene carried the rods and a large tackle box. A.J. ferried his bat and a backpack loaded with food and a six-pack of beer. They walked briskly, exchanging easy conversation.

“I can’t believe it,” Eugene said. “We could be chest deep in wet, naked women right now. But no, you want to go on a fishing trip. I can’t believe it.” He sounded disgusted.

“You’re married,” A.J. responded. “If you want wet, naked women, take a shower with Diane.” He swatted the bat at a movement in the leaves beside the trail.

“This is different,” Eugene explained. “A little variety in wet, naked women never hurt anybody. These are nice girls. Girls just working their way through college. Girls helping their sick mamas. It’s a look-but-don’t-touch deal. If you touch, some big guy breaks off your hands and throws you in a dumpster.” He had a patient, instructive tone.

“So we drive to Atlanta,” A.J. recapped, “pay a twenty-five dollar cover charge, rent a bathing suit for another twenty-five, and get in a pool with naked but pure college girls with sick mamas who want to play volleyball?”

“There! Now you’ve got the idea!” Eugene seemed excited.

“Send Diane to college, and then take a shower with her,” A.J. suggested. “Her mama’s already sick.”

“I don’t know why I even try,” Eugene said, disgusted again. “You’re hopeless. Saint fucking A.J. I don’t know why I even try.” He shook his head.

“I’ll take off my shirt while we fish,” A.J. said, “but that’s as far as it goes. If you touch me, I’ll have to break off your hands.”

They walked until they entered a small depression not far from their destination, where they decided to take a break. A.J. passed a sandwich and a beer before securing his own. They could hear the rush of the stream in the distance. It was a pleasant scene, a moment of peace in a world of bother. A.J. reclined, intending to let the trout work up an appetite. The aroma of marijuana floated from Eugene’s side of the swale. He closed his eyes and drifted.

His eyes snapped open when he heard voices from beyond the ridge at his back. Then he heard a shrill scream followed by loud cracks of rifle fire. He bolted to his feet and looked at Eugene. Then he grabbed his bat and scrambled to the top of the small embankment with Eugene matching each step.

The scene in the clearing below burned into their corneas. They saw three hard-looking men in camouflage garb armed with automatic weapons. They were ranged around a young woman who sat on a log in front of a small tent. About ten feet away sprawled a motionless figure, the apparent recipient of the rifle shots. The woman was staring at the remains of her companion.

“Goddamn,” whispered A.J. “They shot him in cold blood.” It was unclear whether the man had been running or fighting, but it was a moot point since dead is dead, and he was certainly that. The largest of the scoundrels walked to the poor boy and nudged him with his toe, then laughed and rejoined his companions. They all three looked down at the girl. “Oh, shit,” A.J. breathed.

“What are we going to do?” Eugene hissed.

“I think we are going to die,” A.J. said.

“The next time I want to go to the titty bar, we’re going to the titty bar,” Eugene whispered fiercely. “Wait for me. I’ve got a gun.” He slid down toward their trappings.

A.J. knew good advice when he heard it and was going to wait, but delay was removed as an option when one of the men grabbed the girl’s long, black hair and dragged her to her feet. With his other hand he clawed her shirtfront, violently exposing her. She struggled and was backhanded to the ground. Then he dropped to his knees and held her wrists with one hand while fondling her with the other. The second man knelt and began to undo her jeans while the third unzipped his own.

A.J. knew the time for waiting was past. Live or die, Eugene or not, he couldn’t stand by and watch the scene unfolding below. With no conscious thought, he was up and moving toward the campsite. He ran fast and quiet and was among them before they were aware of his presence. Upon his arrival, their cognizance increased dramatically.

A.J. came in screaming and swinging. The man who had ripped the girl’s shirt turned just in time to receive all of the Louisville Slugger across the bridge of his nose. He was dead when he toppled over. A.J. then swung in the opposite direction and caught the second man in the temple. He was fueled by fear and rage, and he was a big man swinging hard ash. The smack of the bat echoed through the forest, and the man knelt lifeless for several seconds before gravity brought him low. The lone survivor started for his rifle, but at that moment Eugene began shooting his .22 pistol. The shots confused the brute, and he stopped. A.J. threw the bat at him and knocked him down. The man came up with a rifle, which he tried to aim at A.J., who grabbed one of the weapons no longer needed by the departed and beat his adversary to the draw by a whisper. Their eyes met and they froze, the other’s rifle partially raised and A.J.’s locked, loaded, and aimed at the black heart of his quarry. He had the drop, and to his right, Eugene also held a bead.