The Front Porch Prophet

wife’s breasts were concerned. When Howard Hoyt and Security arrived, Clyde was bound head to foot in a length of winding and was standing on a pallet raised ten feet in the air by Rocky’s forklift. There was a strip of heavy denim looped around Clyde’s neck, the other end of which was tied to a ceiling joist directly above. Rocky had decided to hang the scoundrel, which was better than he deserved, and Clyde had not handled this reversal of fortune well. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed, although it appeared at the time that Howard left Clyde standing on tiptoe somewhat longer than was absolutely necessary before he was cut down and fired. Rocky had to go to the regional hospital for an evaluation but was pronounced sane. He was allowed to come back to work with a write-up in his file and a stiff warning about hanging management.

As for A.J., he had enjoyed his fill of textiles and did not take advantage of the employment opportunity that Howard Hoyt had offered. Eugene urged A.J. to come help him run a little import business he had started, and A.J. was intrigued at first. But ultimately he took a pass when he discovered that Eugene’s fledgling enterprise consisted of high-speed runs in the Lover to Denver, where the old Chrysler was loaded with as many cases of Coors beer as it would hold for transport back to Cherokee County for resale at three times its purchase price.

“You’re missing the boat,” Eugene said in an exasperated tone when A.J. informed him that he appreciated the offer, but he felt he wasn’t cut out for the occupation. Instead, he hired on dragging slabs at a little sawmill down in the valley. The work was unpleasant but not intellectually demanding, so he had plenty of time to think. And what he thought about was Maggie.

CHAPTER 4

Don’t investigate my demise too thoroughly.

– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to Red Arnold, Cherokee County Sheriff

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON ON THE FOLLOWING SATurday when A.J. rolled into the clearing for his second visit with Eugene. He parked Johnny Mack’s old bulldozer next to Eugene’s Jeep, which had deteriorated appreciably during the previous week. He left his bat on the dozer and climbed down. He and Rufus had already enjoyed their reunion for the day, and it had gone poorly for Rufus. The big canine left the encounter visibly shaken, as if the sight of A.J. banging the Louisville Slugger against the track of the Cat while yelling It’s showtime! had upset him. A.J. had not intended to offend his foe’s sensibilities and almost certainly would have veered away before impact, but Rufus hightailed it before A.J. had the opportunity to explain. For a large dog, Rufus was extremely fleet of paw when the need was upon him.

It had taken most of the day to reclaim the road, and A.J. was tired. He walked slowly to the porch where Eugene sat, quietly rocking. The scene appeared much as it had the week before, with one notable exception. The Navy Colt lay on the cable spool with its barrel split and flared. The proud old gun’s Jeep, tree, and Fox shooting days were over. They had come to an end as all things eventually must, saddening A.J. in a way he could not readily explain. He sat down heavily next to Eugene, who was busy loading his replacement weapon of choice, a twelve- gauge pump shotgun that looked vaguely familiar.

“What did you do to Rufus?” Eugene asked conversationally. “He came tearing through here awhile ago like he was on fire.” He raised the shotgun and sighted down the barrel. “Pull,” he said. Then he shot the Jeep.

“Rufus doesn’t like the bulldozer,” A.J. explained, reaching for a beer in the cooler on the floor. “I may need to make Johnny Mack an offer on it.”

“Pull,” Eugene said, again shooting his faithful vehicle. “You need to quit scaring my dog like that. He might get skittish, and I like a dog to have plenty of spirit.”

“No problem. He’s loaded with spirit.” A.J. took a sip of his cold beer. “What happened to the Colt?”

“I guess it was too old to work for a living,” Eugene said. “It was a fine gun, and I hated to see it go.” He sounded melancholy. “Pull,” he continued, blasting away at the Jeep. “You want to take a crack at it?” he asked. “You used to be pretty good with this shotgun.” A.J. thought he had recognized it, and now he knew from where.

“Is that it?” A.J. asked, accepting the shotgun from Eugene. He hefted the gun and sighted down the barrel. “Yeah, this is it. I had almost forgotten about that night,” he said absently, remembering. He looked over at Eugene. “You nearly got us both killed.”

“Killed? No. Seriously injured, maybe.”

“I should have just shot you,” A.J. said. “I could have told everyone it was an industrial accident.”

“An industrial accident with a shotgun?” Eugene asked dubiously.

“We were in Sand Valley, Alabama. I could have sold it.”

On the night in question, Eugene and A.J. were cruising the Lover across the state line in Alabama where, everyone knew, the romantic pickings were easy. They were young bucks at the time and accepted as hard scientific fact the supposition that Alabama girls put out. Alabama boys knew better and were all trolling in Georgia where, in theory, the damsels were waiting impatiently for love.

Eugene and A.J. rolled into Sand Valley around midnight, having heard about a set of twins living in that small town who were wild and could not be satisfied. The boys weren’t equipped with names or addresses, but such is the nature of the decision-making process when optimism and testosterone are involved. They were apparently of the impression that these girls would be at the outskirts of town, holding a sign written in lipstick that read: FRISKY TWINS LOOKING FOR GEORGIA BOYS-NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY, or something to that effect. Unfortunately, this had not occurred. Quicker Georgia boys seemed to have beaten them to it, so they ended up parked by the depot splitting a bottle of very cheap wine before they undertook the long ride home.

After they finished the bottle, A.J. stepped behind the depot for a moment to relieve himself. While he was indisposed, he began to hear strident conversation from the front of the depot. The discussions seemed urgent, but their raucous tone did not prepare him for the scene that greeted him when he returned to the Lover. There in the middle of the street was Eugene, engulfed by four of Sand Valley’s farm-raised, corn-fed finest.

The misunderstanding had occurred over remarks made by Eugene regarding the boys’ mamas and sisters. These comments had been good-natured jest, an icebreaker of sorts, but the boys took it all wrong and hostilities ensued. Eugene was briefly holding his own, but sheer weight of numbers was destined to bring his downfall. A.J. had to act quickly, so he reached into the Lover and removed Eugene’s old twelve-gauge pump shotgun from the back floorboard. He cocked and shot it in the air, twice. Then he aimed at the melee in the street. All was quiet in Sand Valley, Alabama.

“Let him up,” A.J. said. He was in deep water, but no better ideas had occurred to him, so he guessed he was stuck with the one he had. The largest of Eugene’s assailants disengaged himself from the pile and stood. He and A.J. recognized each other at the same moment.

“Longstreet,” he said, drawing the name out slowly like an incantation, his voice dark and full of menace. “You’re Longstreet.”

“Yeah, you big son of a bitch, I know you, too,” A.J. replied with his shotgun still leveled at the crowd. The other three continued to hold Eugene down. “I told you to let him up.” A.J. spoke in a quiet tone that in no way reflected the panic he was feeling.

He was on enemy turf facing Mayo Reese, who stood six-feet, six-inches tall and weighed about two-hundred eighty pounds on the hoof. They had encountered each other on one previous occasion, when Sequoyah met Sand Valley on the gridiron in a preseason exhibition arranged by their coaches. The match was semilegal since the teams were from different states, but Southern high school football coaches are entities unto themselves provided they posted winning seasons, and both coaches decided the game would be a good way to toughen the boys up.

They had squared off on a hot and humid August night. Sequoyah dressed out seventeen gladiators for the game including the three boys who never got to play, so it was another iron man night for A.J. and Eugene,