Cyndi looked at the terrified form of Conley. She was taken aback, but not as much as she might have been, for she had once heard those words from another source: Eugene. Since his survival would have been virtually impossible if he had committed to her requirements, however, their love had gone unrequited. So Cyndi knew Conley’s rough request had been the result of some extremely bad advice, and that he meant no harm.
Many thoughts crossed Cyndi’s mind as she looked at Conley. He stood there quaking, and her heart went out to him. Because she had traveled the hard way, she was capable of great compassion. She saw before her a lonely man who had tried valiantly to win her affections. She, too, knew the bitter taste of loneliness, and she did not want to end up with a succession of rogues the way Louise had. Realistically, she knew her prospects were limited; small towns are not kind to women with checkered pasts. What she wanted was a lifelong companion, a partner to share her joys and sorrows, someone to love. She didn’t think it was too much to ask.
And then she realized with a slight startle that standing in front of her was the most decent man she had ever known. The epiphany rolled over her like the coal train had run over Skim. Impulsively, she reached and raised his chin so that their eyes met.
“What it would take, Conley, is for you to marry me. Love me, love Hope, and never hurt us or leave us. Work hard, bring your check home every week, and build a home and a life with me.” She had not intended to say any of this, not even remotely, but sometimes words operate of their own accord. His eyes said yes before his mouth did, but Conley always was a little slow of speech.
They married shortly thereafter, and Conley was as good as his word. He treated Cyndi like a queen and Hope like a princess, and he and Cyndi built a fine life. Cyndi, too, was as good as her word, and Conley was afforded plenty of opportunities for intimacy. Thus it was that presently along came Rita Sue, Tammy Faye, Brandy Starr, Sweet Melissa, and the twin boys, Starsky and Hutch.
A.J. snapped from his reverie and noted the sun climbing the sky. He looked at his watch. It was just after seven in the morning and he needed a cup of coffee and a friendly ear. John Robert was off on a hunting trip, and Maggie and the children were gone on a trip to visit Maggie’s sister, Eudora Welty. She was entering the bonds of holy matrimony that very afternoon after a painfully long engagement to a history professor named Carlisle Davenport, of whom A.J. suspected a lack of intellectual rigor.
A.J. dropped the truck into gear and headed up Eugene’s Mountain. The Purdues were notoriously early risers, and A.J. discounted the possibility of awakening Eugene. Thanks to the recent grading job, the trip to the cabin was quick.
The clearing appeared to be the scene of catastrophic events.
Eugene’s Jeep was totally obliterated, and A.J. was forced to weave around large pieces of it. The Lover was up on its side and was missing some critical components. The hackberry tree was reduced to a splintered stump. Craters pocked the area. The door to the cabin opened, and out stepped Eugene wrapped in a blanket. Beside him limped Rufus, bandaged but still malicious. He made a start for A.J., but the sudden movement seemed to cause him pain. He abandoned the assault and sat down to nurse his wounds. Eugene absently patted him on the head.
“Don’t worry, boy,” he said to the dog. “You can attack A.J. twice next time.” Eugene moved slowly, and his breathing was labored. He was favoring his right arm, and his eyes had dark circles tinged with yellow. He shuffled to his chair and sat. He was fully dressed and wrapped in a blanket, but still he shivered. On the cable spool was a large quantity of marijuana along with the usual collection of medications, spirits, and firearm supplies. In addition, there were three hand grenades piled carelessly in a bowl. A.J. knew what had destroyed the clearing. Eugene spoke.
“I didn’t know if I’d see you today. I thought you might still be a little pissed.” He shifted in his chair, wincing with the movement. He seemed to be searching for a comfortable spot that was always just one step ahead. He looked bad.
“I wasn’t pissed,” A.J. replied, taking a seat. “I had to go rinse out a few things and take care of some long overdue correspondence.” He gestured to the carnage in the yard. “Someone run a little air strike in here? Slim finally figure out who got the bus?” Eugene picked up one of the grenades and handed it to A.J.
“These are great,” he said. “That bit about pulling the pin with your teeth is a crock of shit, though.” He pointed at the remainder of one of his incisors. “Broke this one. Hurt so bad I dropped the damn grenade. By the time I found it, I was a little pressed for time, and I barely got it thrown out of here. Almost blew up poor old Rufus. He took some shrapnel, but I got it out.” Rufus looked over at the mention of his name. A.J. felt a little bad for his canine foe. It must be difficult to be Eugene’s dog.
“Where did you get them?” A.J. asked, hefting the lethal object. It was heavier than he thought it would be.
“Bird Egg brought them to me. He’s been coming up a couple times a week with supplies, and he thought I would enjoy them.”
Bird Egg was an institution, a man whose mission in life was to never draw another sober breath. He was a local boy who had gone off to help Douglas MacArthur stamp out the Asiatic Hordes, and he had returned from the Korean peninsula with strong aversions to bitter cold, sudden death, and heavily armed yellow people wearing tennis shoes. He was currently in charge of Eugene’s beer joint and was the perfect man for the job. His duties included selling beer and liquor, playing cards, breaking up fights unless he was personally involved, and paying off Red Arnold, the ancient and venal county sheriff. He took no wages other than what he drank and ate, and he even left his substantial poker winnings in the general fund.
“Where did Bird Egg get hand grenades?” A.J. asked, handing the pineapple back to Eugene.
“I have an associate from Fort Benning who occasionally lays his hands on some interesting war surplus items.”
“War surplus?” asked A.J. “You could get thirty years for receiving stolen government goods.” Eugene rolled his eyes, and A.J.
realized his warning was foolish, given the circumstances.
“I’ll take it,” Eugene commented. He stood, pulled the pin, and hurled the grenade into the woods.
“Duck,” he said. He hit the deck gently, as if he were in slow motion. A.J. was not nearly as graceful as he kissed the floorboards. When the explosive went off, the porch shook, and bits and pieces of the forest landed in the clearing. A.J. was slow getting up. His ears were ringing, and his body tingled from the force of the blast. Eugene was grinning from ear to ear. “I just love these things,” he said. “Now you throw one. We can blow up your truck. I’ll buy you another one.”
“I like my truck.”
“Your problem is that you don’t know how to have fun,” Eugene said as he settled himself back into his chair. He attempted to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking badly and he couldn’t manage. A.J. lit it for him.
“How is Bird Egg doing?” A.J. asked, changing the subject. He had not seen the old man in a while.
“He’s been stabbed again,” Eugene replied. “I found out about it yesterday. Red came up to tell me. He also told me that I’m closed down for a week.” He gazed at one of the craters in the yard.
“That’s no big deal,” A.J. said. “He’s always getting stabbed or shot. It’s a tradition with him.” It was true. Bird Egg had been winged often during his long, checkered time. He was opinionated and tended to incite strong emotions in others.
“This time it’s a big deal. Termite Nichols stuck a
A.J. felt a small wave of sadness lap at him. Too many constants were changing, belying the illusion of permanence. He hated change, and it seemed everything was in flux. The way things were going, Maggie would probably meet a handsome academic down at Eudora’s wedding, one with patches on the elbows of his corduroy jacket who made quotation marks with his fingers. He would suggest he and Maggie “have coffee,” and that would be the old burrito for A.J. Maybe he would get the kids on alternate weekends. Eugene spoke.
“Do you ever wish you could do something different? You know, that you could go back and do just one thing over, do it better maybe, or maybe not do it at all?”
“I wish I had gone to sea,” A.J. replied without hesitation. “I wanted to see the world, and smell the salt air on the midnight watch, and ride out a hurricane, and find out if it’s true what they say about Chinese girls.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t, and now the time is gone.” John Robert had sailed four of the seven seas in his day, and it
