The Front Porch Prophet (31 page)

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.

The last of Maggie’s sisters to arrive was Jacqueline Susann Stewart. A.J. called her The Apostate, because she had broken doctrine by not naming her children after authors. She and her husband Geoffery had named their large brood Glen, Peter, Carol, Russell, and Zachary, or Zack for short. The name for the imminent sixth child had not yet been determined. Interspersed among the entrances of Maggie’s sisters and their families were the arrivals of the other guests. Estelle came over for breakfast wearing her pink flannel robe and furry slippers. She bore a huge lime Jell-O mold infused with chunks of carrots, celery, cheddar cheese, and bell pepper. She had outdone herself, and as A.J. accepted the offering, he was forced to concede the Indian pudding hadn’t been that bad, after all.

“Estelle, you shouldn’t have,” he said, meaning every word.

“Better get that in the icebox,” noted Estelle as she loaded scrambled eggs onto her plate. “We don’t want it to get too warm.”

“No, that’s for sure,” he agreed as he slid it way in the back of the refrigerator, out of sight but not quite out of mind.

More guests arrived throughout the morning and early afternoon. Doc Miller and Minnie whisked in with a bottle of fifty-year-old brandy and a vegetable tray. Minnie had made certain the assortment contained white radishes, which were one of A.J.’s favorites when served with a little salt. Hoghead landed with twenty pounds of Swedish meatballs, each a small study in Hong Kong tastiness. He was accompanied by Dixie Lanier, drive-in patron and recent divorcée after her husband, Pitt, accidentally shot her in the head through the side of the trailer while squirrel hunting. Pitt had been truly sorry over the incident and had begged Dixie for forgiveness, but the twenty-two slug buried just behind her right ear was not a transgression she could pardon. So she cut Pitt loose and sent him back to his mama’s house to hunt squirrels. Dixie and Hoghead seemed to make a nice couple, and since the old cook was not a hunter, maybe the relationship would blossom.

The Folly filled as other visitors wandered in. Slim Neal came bearing deviled eggs, and in recognition of the general gaiety of the day, he had left his sidearm in the cruiser. Jackie came with Bernice Martin on one arm and a sweet potato casserole on the other, and A.J. was touched to learn he had turned down double-time-and-a-half to come to the revelries. Charnell Jackson was there with his German chocolate cake, and Ellis Simpson arrived with Raynell, the children, and four bowls of potato salad. Brickhead and Cyndi Crowe arrived with their brood and with Cyndi’s famed baked beans. Billy from the Chevron came. He was no one’s idea of a cook, so he brought several cases of cold drinks, belly-washers for the children, as he put it.

Bird Egg showed up, and when A.J. saw the old retainer, he had to take double. Bird was scrubbed clean. He was shaven and barbered, and he appeared to be sober, although he smelled quite strongly of mouthwash. He was wearing a suit, mostly, and the fact that it looked like it had been excavated at the boneyard did not detract in the least from the gesture.

“Bird, you look sharp,” A.J. complimented. The sleeves of his suit coat stopped about two inches above his bony wrists. “You must be here looking for women.” Bird Egg produced a hangdog grin and stared at the floor, shuffling a bit, looking shy. A.J. made a mental note to steer him clear of the opposite sex, lest misunderstandings occur. “Who’s watching the beer joint?” A.J. asked.

“Eugene and Wormy stopped by awhile ago. Told me to shut ’er down and take the day off.”

“A day off with pay?” A.J. quizzed. “That’s like having benefits. Next you’ll be going on the insurance plan and signing up for the 401K.” Bird Egg guffawed before wandering off in the general direction of the Swedish meatballs.

Diane arrived with her boys, Cody and Ransom. Truth was conspicuous by her absence, but A.J. suspected that his luck would not hold. The boys were subdued, which was understandable given the circumstances surrounding their father, but they seemed to forget their troubles as they joined in play with the other youngsters. A.J. had talked to his older two about being particularly nice to the Purdue boys, and why, and the girls had taken a solemn vow to see to it that they had a good day. As the children all went off to romp, A.J. sidled up next to Diane.

“I sort of figured you’d be coming with Truth,” he ventured, hoping something had come up. Sometimes things just worked out, and maybe this was one of those times.

“She’ll be along in a while,” Diane said. She seemed to be in good spirits. A.J. sighed before broaching a delicate subject.

“Your ex-husband may be coming,” he began, wishing he had thought to soften her up with some Swedish meatballs before venturing into the minefield.

“It was nice of you to invite him,” she said cheerfully, missing the entire point.

“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.

“I was going to do it, you know,” she said. Her voice was sad, and she was looking him directly in the eye. “I was going to be nice.” He could sense it was important to her that he understand this.

“I know you were,” he answered. “I knew it all the time.” She sat next to him, and that was where Truth discovered them some time later, two old friends sharing the sweet sadness of daring to breathe.

“Are you okay?” she asked Diane with concern in her voice. Diane nodded.

“She’s a little low,” A.J. offered. “I think it was the lime Jell-O.” Truth bent down and pecked her cheek.

“Maybe we should go,” Truth said kindly.

“Yeah, I guess we should,” Diane answered. She stood. “I’ll go get the boys.” She looked at A.J. “Thank you,” she said, then left. Truth sat down in the chair Diane had vacated.

“What about the Finn Hall?” she asked, her tone friendly. He thought about it one last time.

“I’ll do the job,” he said, offering his hand.

“Fair enough,” she said, and they shook. “How much?” she asked.

“Not a penny more than it’s worth,” he replied. The shrewd real estate genius and the idle country boy took each other’s measure. Then she nodded.

“That sounds reasonable,” she said. Diane caught her eye from across the room, and she stood to go.

“I’ll call you Monday,” A.J. said. “My wife is tired of me being unemployed.” Truth nodded and left to rejoin Diane while A.J. sipped a taste of Doc’s good brandy and considered his new career. It could be worse, he supposed. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and took another nip. Yes, it could be worse. He noted that the afternoon was waning, and many of the guests were making ready to leave. He stood, stretched, and threw a few sticks of wood on the fire. He was standing with his back to the flames when Hoghead came up to make his farewells.

“I’ve got to go, A.J.,” he said. “But it was great. Did you get any of my meatballs?”