everywhere, for a period of time stretching specifically from the Big Bang to the Second Coming. It was agreed that the operation would take place the following morning. Until then, a mechanic would go over the crippled ship with a fine-tooth comb. Maniac would follow Eugene and Wormy to Chattanooga in another helicopter, and if they were alive after the landing he would bring them back to Eugene’s cabin.
“Wormy, you don’t have to do this,” A.J. said as Colonel Monroe walked to the truck. “You don’t owe that man anything.”
“It’s hard to explain,” Wormy replied. “I put it in the road, and it’s up to me to fly it out.” He sounded apologetic. A.J. slugged him lightly on the shoulder. Rufus growled.
“Take care of yourself up there,” A.J. said. “And for God’s sake, don’t fly over my house.” Wormy nodded sagely.
“Because of the crazy guy, right?” he said.
“What damn crazy guy?” Eugene asked.
“Never mind,” said A.J. He turned his attention to Eugene. “If you happen to get your killing tomorrow, is there anything you want me to take care of?” He knew the arrangements thanks to the purloined letter, but he didn’t know them with authorization.
“There are a lot of things I want you to do,” said Eugene lightly. “Charnell Jackson has the scoop. Get with him.” A.J. turned to leave. “Look at it this way,” Eugene said to his retreating back. “If I get it tomorrow, it takes you off the hook. I won’t need that favor we talked about.”
“What favor?” Wormy asked.
“Never mind,” said Eugene, reaching for some squab.
A.J. did not attend the big fly-out the following day, but he did keep his family home.
“Why don’t we have to go to school today?” Emily Charlotte asked.
“So a house won’t fall on you,” came A.J.’s reply.
“Like it did on Plug?” asked Harper Lee.
“Like it did on Plug,” A.J. confirmed.
“Boy, that dog had a big penis,” J.J. observed.
“I am always amazed at what passes for conversation around this house,” Maggie said.
A.J.’s precautions were not necessary. Wormy’s number was not yet up, and the helicopter did not crash, although the landing gear fell off over Dalton, which made for an interesting landing in Chattanooga. The touch down was so dicey, in fact, that Wormy was not inclined to fly home after reaching
“My mama didn’t raise no fool,” was his comment. So Eugene and Wormy caught a cab over to Car-O-Rama, and after some hard bargaining they became the proud owners of a 1988 Dodge Caravan with “Mom’s Taxi” emblazoned on the bumper sticker in front.
A.J. heard the full story the following day as he walked around Mom’s Taxi. He could understand Wormy’s decision to remain on the ground, but he was having difficulty with the choice of vehicles.
“Was this the only one they had left?” he asked. That would explain it.
“Don’t start,” Eugene said. “Wormy liked the bumper sticker.” Oddly, at that moment they heard a vehicle bouncing up the road. Visitors other than A.J. were uncommon.
“Sounds like you have company coming,” A.J. noted.
“Is my hair all right?” Eugene asked. As he spoke, Jackie Purdue’s vehicle came into view. Sitting beside him in the cab was Angel.
“Your family has come to call,” A.J. said.
“Shit,” Eugene said under his breath. “I’m not ready for this.”
“No, but Angel is,” A.J. said. He greeted Jackie, hugged Angel, and left. This was family business, and he wasn’t family. Not officially anyway.
CHAPTER 12
I shouldn’t even mention this, but I’m sentimental.
Jackie really wants to jump your bones.
– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to Estelle Chastain
THE THANKSGIVING SEASON HAD ALWAYS SEEMED accelerated to A.J., a time of quickened and scarce days. This year, however, he did not have a job to pilfer his hours, so he took advantage and began his preparations early. His festive demeanor became contagious, and John Robert soon caught turkey fever. Between them, they left no detail uncovered, no stone unturned in their quest for the perfect celebration.
The guest list was discussed and refined, and they finally agreed to just invite everyone they knew. They spent a full day compiling the menu, and another day combing the countryside for the turkey, ham, and standing rib roast. Side dishes, casseroles, and desserts were delegated to members of the guest roster based upon their specialties. The exception was Estelle Chastain, whose forte was cornmeal boiled in molasses. She called the resulting gruel Indian pudding, and it was vile.
“What is this?” A.J. had asked Maggie some years back after his first and last mouthful of the substance.
“Estelle calls it Indian pudding,” Maggie said. “She says it is an authentic Pilgrim dish.” Her spoonful had stopped in midair pending the outcome of his taste.
“I think she must have used canned Indians,” A.J. said between gulps of cider. The flavor was insistent and would not leave him.
“Well, it is hard to get fresh ones this time of year,” was Maggie’s reply as she carefully laid a slice of bread over her portion. Since that time, Estelle had always been assigned a dessert.
Once the bill of fare was in order, A.J. and John Robert set their sights on the banquet hall. The Folly was scrubbed, waxed, and buffed. Curtains were washed, starched, and ironed. Windows were cleaned inside and out. Woodwork was oiled, and Granmama’s silver was polished. By a week before the event, the house was perfect.
“It’s going to be great!” A.J. told Maggie.
“You’re obsessing,” she noted, not unkindly.
“What makes you say that?” he asked defensively.
“I saw those little chef’s hats you bought to go on the ends of the turkey legs,” she replied. “I also found the family’s Pilgrim costumes-which I, incidentally, refuse to wear-hidden in the sewing room.”
“Oh.”
“It looks to me like everything is prepared,” she continued. “You and John Robert have done a wonderful job. Take the day off. Go see Eugene. You haven’t been up there in a couple of days. Check on him, and renew his invitation for dinner. Ask Wormy to come, too.”
“Well, I don’t know,” he began. “I have some baking to do, and-”
“I’ll do the baking,” Maggie interrupted. “Eudora and Carlisle will be in from Atlanta later today, and she’ll want to help. Now go. Pick up some wine.” She pecked his cheek and shoved him out the kitchen door.
He took a slow drive through town before heading up to Eugene’s. In truth, there was very little left to do, and he was glad for the day off. Obsession is hard work and can only be performed at full speed for short periods of time. It was early in the day, and he stopped at the Judge Not That Ye Be Not Breakfast Anytime Drive-In for a bite. He sat down at the empty counter hearing the clatter in the kitchen as Hoghead prepared the lunch special. A.J. hoped it was chili-mac.
“What’s for lunch?” he hollered. Through the round window in the swinging door, he could see Hog slam down a large baking pan.
“A.J., how are you doing?” Hoghead asked breathlessly as he whisked through the door. “I didn’t hear you come in. We’re having turkey pie.” Turkey pie. A.J. didn’t really care for the turkey pie at the drive-in. He had viewed
