tread on the asphalt when he roared away.
A.J. came to the conclusion he was confused on the subject of women. He did not know where he was going wrong with Maggie. He had twice demonstrated his willingness to fight for her honor, and she wasn’t impressed. He had shown his undying devotion to her by making a nuisance of himself, and she didn’t seem enchanted by the gesture. He had declared his intentions and had been told to go away. He just didn’t get it.
A.J. deliberated as the night waned. He considered getting good and drunk, but that avenue seemed low. He supposed he could make the grand gesture and do away with himself, but the plan seemed limiting. He tarried on the idea of finding Pootie and beating him up. He knew it would make him feel better, but he didn’t want to lose his parking spot, so he grudgingly let the notion fade. When the whistle that marked shift change blew, he was toying with the idea of buying a new Mustang and drafting three riding companions, because at least Pootie had been allowed the privilege of a couple of dates before getting the heave-ho, whereas A.J. had been forced to take his heave-hos straight up. They were a little dry that way, a trifle laborious to swallow.
The night crew began to file out of the mill, and with them came Maggie. A.J. got out of his car and leaned up against the dent he had made the previous evening, as if attempting to hide the evidence. She paused when she saw him, a diminutive half step of indecision. He felt a trickle of sweat trace his spine. His mouth was as parched as baked sand.
“I thought I told you to quit hanging around,” she said to him when she came up. She spoke in a no-nonsense tone, but behind the message lingered a lack of absolute resolve, as if she had found a bit of charity for the pitiable wreck before her. He was looking at her shoes.
“Well, what you said was to quit being here at night,” he said lamely. He was a drowning man holding a broken spar, hoping to get off on a technicality. “This is morning.” A small point, admittedly. She leaned next to him on the Hog Farm.
“Listen to me,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy, and I know your heart is in the right place.” Her voice was relaxed and sensible. “The problem is, I think you’re looking for something that I’m not. I don’t want a steady boyfriend. We could go out once in a while, maybe, but you’ve got to let me have a little room. Okay?”
“Would you like to go get some breakfast?” he asked. She did not respond for what seemed a lifetime. Then she sighed and spoke.
“Okay,” she said. “Just breakfast. I’m sort of hungry anyway. But this is not a date, understand?”
“Absolutely,” he replied, holding the door for her. When she climbed in, he continued. “Maybe after we eat we could go for a swim at the quarry.”
Having overcome geography and Pootie, A.J. still had one more river to cross, and that wide river was Emmett Callahan. As the courtship progressed, it became apparent Emmett was less than enthralled by the long-haired boy in the ragged Chevy who was spending more and more time at the Callahan household. He was protective of his daughters, and A.J. was frankly not what he had in mind. In later years, A.J. would come to understand the point of view, but at the time it had made for a tough swim.
Emmett’s campaign of discouragement was not subtle, but it was creative. One evening while A.J. was catching a few winks in the back of the Hog Farm-parked in Maggie’s driveway after a late date-Emmett had the old Impala towed. Another time, A.J. noticed a lively odor and upon investigation found several sacks of Callahan garbage in the trunk of his car. Once, Emmett performed a citizen’s arrest on A.J. and held him until the Alabama equivalent of Slim arrived to haul him off. Admittedly, A.J. was soused, but the incident did little to enhance their relationship.
But A.J. toughed it out and slowly honed Emmett’s rough edges. Nothing worth having was easy to obtain, and such was the case with Maggie Callahan. In later years as her sisters all married, A.J. would listen to his brothers- in-law lament about Emmett and he would smile. He had taken the brunt, had taken the drawknife and slowly shaved the bark off the gnarled hickory that was Emmett Callahan, and all who came after were standing on his shoulders.
On the night A.J. proposed, he and Maggie were sitting on the broken dam that held back Lake Echota. The dam was at an isolated site and had been built during the Great Depression by a diverse group of young people with poor prospects who became dam builders because there was nothing else for them to do. A.J.’s granmama and her husband had met and married while working on the project. Their initials were discretely written in the concrete, a lasting memorial to true love, Portland cement, and the WPA.
“What’s wrong, A.J.?” Maggie asked. “You’ve been quiet all day.” The west end of the dam was in ruin, and the water roared through the breach. They sat in the causeway on the east side, trailing their toes in the green, cool water. The day had been a pearl, and the only mar on it was the sunburn Maggie had acquired in an area where the sun does not normally shine. Hopefully, she would not have to explain it to her mama.
“We need to talk about something,” he blurted out. The words were abrupt, not at all what he had in mind. He stood and looked out over the dam, silently pledging to throw himself into the cataract if he screwed this up. He knew a spot where the rusted rebar would be bound to impale him.
“Tell me what it is,” said Maggie with concern in her voice. She arose and stood next to him.
“I need for you to marry me,” was his reply. A soft breeze brushed the surface of the lake. He studied the far shore. His fist was in the pocket of his denim cutoffs, clenched around an engagement ring. He intended to fling it far if she declined to wed.
A.J. risked a quick peek out of the corner of his eye at Maggie. She was looking at him and smiling. She took his hand and squeezed it gently, and he removed the ring from his pocket and placed it on her finger. Her eyes widened a touch in surprise, but she was still smiling.
“Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you, Farm Boy?” she asked. The ring was too large, so she slipped it on her thumb for safekeeping.
“You haven’t said yes,” he pointed out.
“Yes,” she responded.
Thus their paths merged, and from that point on they traveled the same road. They spent the remainder of the summer and autumn preparing for their leap of love and faith, and they pledged their troth on a cold January day in a simple wedding attended by family and friends. John Robert was the best man, and Maggie’s maids of honor were her many sisters. The reception was catered by Granmama, who made the fanciest dishes she knew: cocktail wieners in barbecue sauce, cheese balls, and little cucumber sandwiches. The cake was made by Maggie’s sister, Eudora Welty, and it was magnificent even if the layers did bear the vaguest resemblance to coffee cans, which is what she had used for pans. Emmett Callahan gave his daughter away and in deference to the solemnity of the ceremony only glared momentarily at A.J. The rings were exchanged, the veil lifted, and the kiss given and received. And then it was done. The two became as one in the eyes of God and the governor of Georgia. They became the current incarnation of a devotion that spanned the long ages of the world, a fidelity destined to last until the end.
Now, years later, A.J. softly kissed his sleeping wife. He dressed quietly and went downstairs. He poured a cup of coffee brewed by John Robert. Then he stepped on the porch to greet his father. The elder Longstreet was busy cleaning the fish he had brought home the previous evening. They had spent the night in a bucket of water and now were taking the final step to becoming full-fledged members of the food chain.
“Morning, John Robert,” A.J. said, settling down in his rocker. He knew that John Robert had been up for some time; he was an early riser even by A.J.’s standards. Back when he was employed, A.J. would arrive home from the sawmill around four in the morning, and invariably he would be greeted by his father, who would be busying around on some small project or other while waiting patiently for the sluggards of the world to arise.
“Thought you were going to stay in bed all day,” John Robert replied. The sun had not yet risen. His razor sharp knife flashed with quick, sure movements.
“I’m getting lazy since I became unemployed,” A.J. said, taking a sip of coffee. It was painfully strong.
“I heard about that yesterday in town,” John Robert grunted. He finished filleting the last fish and laid the grayish-white squares of bass in the pan along with the others. They would make a fine supper that evening, served fried alongside cabbage slaw, salty fried potatoes, and hush puppies made of sweet yellow cornmeal. Admittedly, the fare would be better for the soul than for the heart, but no one lived forever. “They didn’t waste any time,” John Robert continued, rinsing his hands in the bucket.
“No, they didn’t,” A.J. agreed, taking another sip of coffee. “They are very efficient people.” He felt a coffee ground on his tongue and spit the offending particle over the porch rail. John Robert made coffee in the old way, by boiling a handful of grounds in a pot that had been timeworn when Granmama was still a slip of a girl. The resulting
