“Don’t try. Do.” A.J. pointed out in the yard to the sleeping figure by the bonfire. “He doesn’t have long. This could be the last time he gets out. If he won’t come, pick him up and put him in the van.” Wormy looked at Eugene and nodded.
“All right. I’ll get him there somehow.” He took another sip. “You’re right, though. He’s sliding. And it’s taking more of everything to keep him out of pain.” He lit a smoke. “More booze. More pills. More morphine.”
“What do you think about all that?’” A.J. asked.
“I think it’s his business,” Wormy said without hesitation. “I say let him have at it. I’ve seen a lot of people die, and there is no good way to go about it.” The wisdom of the ages as spoken by an alcoholic helicopter pilot. A.J. decided to broach a subject that had been lingering since Eugene had taken his latest downward turn.
“I know you like Eugene, but it’s starting to get a little rough now.” He considered how best to continue. He wanted to convey that if it was time to hat up, no one would think less of Wormy for going. “If you, uh…”
“Don’t,” Wormy said. “I finish what I start. It’s kind of like flying the helicopter out of the road after the crazy guy shot me down. Anyway, Eugene is my friend just like he’s yours.”
“Okay, then,” A.J. said. “I won’t mention it again.”
“Anyway, I’ve got no place else to be and nothing else to do,” Wormy said. “After he goes, I’ll be moving on. I don’t know what I’ll be doing, but it won’t be flying.”
A.J. thought about this for a moment. An obvious solution occurred to him.
“Don’t tell Eugene I told you,” he said, “but he’s leaving the beer joint to me when he dies.” Wormy nodded, as if to say it made good sense to him. “I don’t want it,” A.J. continued, “so I’m going to give it to you. You seem to have a knack for the work.” Wormy held up his hands, warding off the compliment and the largesse. Both were much too grand in his scheme of things.
“I’d just screw it up,” he objected. “And what about Bird Egg?”
“You have to keep an eye on Bird Egg until he goes to the big card game in the sky,” A.J. said, resolving another problem. He was on a roll. “After that, it’s all yours. How can you screw it up? You buy alcohol, sell it for more than you bought it for, pay off Red Arnold every now and then, and play poker the rest of the time. It’s not brain surgery.” Wormy looked doubtful. He seemed resistant to making the executive move. Then his eyes lit up.
“We can be partners,” he proposed. “You be the boss, and I’ll run the business. We can split the money.” This wasn’t quite what A.J. had in mind, but it looked like it was the best he was going to be able to manage. He supposed he could reserve his half for charitable works, like sending the children to college. One thing was for certain; he would have to present to Maggie her new status as the bootlegger’s wife in the best possible light.
“Okay,” he said to Wormy as he held out his hand. Giving him half a beer joint was better than giving him no beer joint at all, at least for the time being. They shook. “We’ll try it for a while. Once you get your confidence up, you can buy me out.” Wormy nodded.
A.J. felt a little better. In one fell swoop, he had dispensed with the problems of what to do with Wormy, Bird Egg, and the beer joint. He looked at his watch. The day was long into afternoon, and he needed to be going. He stood and clapped Wormy on the shoulder. They walked out to the bonfire. Eugene stirred, and it seemed he might awaken. Then he settled into a deeper doze.
“I think he’s out for a while,” Wormy said.
“If he’s still asleep Thursday, he’ll be easy to load,” A.J. observed. Wormy nodded. Apparently he hadn’t thought of it. A.J. exited the clearing. He could see Wormy standing by the bonfire looking to be deep in thought, perhaps on the subject of the load out if Eugene did not awaken. A.J. knew he would ponder the problem until he had worried a solution.
That night, he sat with Maggie at the kitchen table and talked about the Finn Hall. The house was filled with the aromas of holiday baking, and the three pies currently in the oven-one pumpkin and two cherry-were adding to the already mouthwatering composite of smells. Maggie and Eudora had baked themselves haggard, and their offerings were stacked casually throughout the kitchen. Eudora’s new husband, Carlisle, had not contributed to the ovenfest. But he had grown weary, nonetheless, while reclining on the sofa watching bad movies and eating cheese puffs. So he and Eudora had retired early, ostensibly to sleep.
“Sleeping, my foot,” said A.J., as they heard a crash from upstairs. John Robert and the children were gone to the drive-in, so unless there was a large badger wandering the second floor, he knew what was up.
“Hush,” Maggie said. “They’re newlyweds.” They heard a yell.
“Damn,” A.J. said.
“Don’t talk about it. That’s my sister up there.” They heard one more yell, a loud one, and then it grew quiet.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a cigarette,” A.J. said.
“Quit it,” she said.
“I’m going to have to get with Carlisle tomorrow and get a few pointers,” he continued.
“I hate to break it to you,” Maggie said, “but Carlisle was the one making all the noise.”
“All right,” A.J. said. “You go, Eudora.” This was getting better all the time.
“But feel free to get with Carlisle on those pointers,” Maggie added. She got up and removed the pumpkin pie from the oven. The scent of nutmeg wafted across the room. “A few more minutes on the cherry pies and we’ll be done,” she said as she regained her seat. A.J. started back in on the subject of the Finn Hall.
“I just don’t know about Truth,” he said. “She seems human now, but what if she reverts?”
“Then you quit,” Maggie replied. She looked at him and continued. “But I have to tell you that no one besides you seems to have much of a problem with her.”
“So you’re saying it’s me?” he asked incredulously.
“Some of it is you,” she confirmed. “If you keep your ego reeled in, you two can get along. I think you really want the job.”
“I do,” he said.
“So do it,” she said. “Truth is very mellow these days. She’s in love.”
“With Diane?”
“With Diane.”
“I can’t believe you invited Truth over for Thanksgiving,” he said.
“I was simply being polite,” she said absently, checking her pies. “I don’t see what the problem is.”
“The problem is Diane and Eugene and Diane’s girlfriend all sitting at the same table. Eugene will slit his own throat.”
“You fret too much,” she replied, pulling the cherry pies out of the oven. Their aroma was heart-warming.
“If they kill each other, I’m not burying them,” A.J. stated emphatically. It had been bad enough with Plug.
“Let’s go to bed,” was Maggie’s reply as she turned off the light. She patted his head when she walked by, obviously not gravely concerned over the upcoming Thanksgiving Day Massacre. He stood and left the darkened kitchen, heading for a nod.
The big day finally arrived, and A.J. was up before dawn but not before John Robert. When he arrived downstairs, his father was outside stoking his smoker with seasoned hickory. He had decided at the last minute to add a couple of smoked pork loins to the menu, just to be on the safe side. It was a chilly morning, and A.J. could see John Robert’s breath rise in steamy puffs as he closed the firebox door and began to walk toward the house. He noticed a small limp on the older man, a little hitch in the get-along he had never seen before. John Robert stepped onto the porch and entered the kitchen.
“Just about ready to smoke these loins,” John Robert said as he removed the meat from the refrigerator.
“I saw you limping,” A.J. said. “Did you step on a nail?”
“No, I’m just a little stiff on the cold mornings these days.” John Robert carried his roasts in a pan. “I’ll be back,” he said as he backed out the door.
A.J. watched his father gimp across the yard. Because of Eugene, issues of mortality were on his mind, and the sight of John Robert shuffling to the smoker saddened him, but he shook off the moment. He had a turkey to roast and a house full of people circling, ready to land. The larger meanings of life and the absolute futility of it all would have to wait until he had more time.
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
