that point and knew it, but life is a hard habit to break, so he lingered on.
Since Thanksgiving, Eugene had taken several giant steps in the direction of the Fun Home. First, there were hard bouts of nausea. Then there was incontinence. Finally, the pain quit sand-dancing and heaved its grisly head in earnest. With each new development, A.J. rushed to Doc Miller for the cure. Doc repeatedly reached into his bag of tricks, but he had to reach deeper each time. But Eugene’s torment was stubborn and would not abate.
“I need more morphine,” A.J. told Doc a week prior to Christmas Eve. The old doctor raised his eyebrows.
“What are you doing, washing him in it?” he asked testily.
“No, I’m not washing him in it,” A.J. replied in kind. “Tell you what. Come on up and listen to him moan awhile. Come listen to him scream when he sleeps too long and the pain wakes him up. Then tell me we’re giving him too much.” It was a bad day for Doc to be calling the tough ones from the cheap seats.
“He can’t survive a higher dosage,” Doc said stubbornly.
“And the downside is?” A.J. asked. He found the conversation frustrating. “He’s in bad pain. Nobody is trying to kill him. Just give me the damn stuff.” He stopped and took a deep breath. Doc was not the enemy. “Please,” he said. Doc sighed and left the room. When he returned, he carried a small white paper sack.
“There’s enough in here to put an army mule permanently out to pasture,” he said. “Don’t give him a drop more than he needs to stay out of trouble.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “Christ,” he said, almost to himself. “If there’s ever an autopsy, we’ll both be in jail.”
“There won’t be,” A.J. said quietly.
So it was with Doc’s consent but not necessarily his blessing that Eugene’s pain medication was increased. Thankfully, the result was not immediate death followed by autopsy and imprisonment. Rather, Eugene just slept most of the time, a deep, restful slumber. And this was what A.J. was expecting when he arrived on Christmas Eve morning. He pulled up next to a tired-looking Wormy warming his hands in front of a much abbreviated fire in the middle of the clearing. Eugene had not been out of bed in two weeks and would not likely arise again, but Wormy was not one to alter custom. So the fire persisted, but the La-Z-Boy remained empty.
“Rough night?” A.J. asked, handing Wormy the cup of coffee he had brought.
“Rough as a night in the Waycross jail,” Wormy responded quietly.
“Is he asleep?” A.J. asked.
“Yeah, he’s asleep.” Wormy sipped his coffee.
“Why don’t you take a break?” A.J. suggested. “I’ll stay with him.” He had big doings coming up later in the day, but Wormy needed relieving. The Christmas Eve festivities would have to wait until after he stood his watch. Maggie was heading up Christmas this year anyway. Eugene’s waning days had left A.J. with very little Yuletide spirit.
“Was the drive-in open when you came through?” Wormy inquired.
“That’s where I got the coffee.”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go get a little breakfast.”
“Go eat,” A.J. said. “Sit and tell a few lies with Hoghead.” Wormy nodded.
Gratitude was etched on his features as he headed for town. A.J. entered the cabin to check on Eugene and was surprised to find him wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He looked over and produced a bare hint of a smile. The effect was grotesque on his emaciated features.
“Is it Christmas yet?” he asked. His hand gestured at the small tree Wormy had installed in the corner. It was actually a Christmas bush, but it was the thought that counted. It was decked with an odd combination of handmade ornaments-beer cans on strings-supplied by Wormy complimented by a selection of more traditional baubles contributed by Angel. She still came daily and was due later that evening.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” A.J. said. The room reeked of illness.
“Better give me my present while you can,” Eugene whispered. It was an unadorned pronouncement of fact. A.J. stepped to the tree and returned with the bundle he had placed under it. He handed the gift to his brother. Eugene’s hands shook so badly he had to help him unwrap the offering.
“It is a fine gift,” Eugene croaked. There were tears in his eyes as he hefted the beautifully restored Navy Colt with both hands and sighted down the barrel. “I wish I could shoot it,” he said sadly.
“Have at it,” A.J. said. “I bet you ten dollars you can’t hit that wall.”
“I ought to take your money, but I don’t want to kill Wormy if he walks by.”
“Wormy’s gone to town.” A.J. reached over and steadied the big pistol. Then he cocked it. “I think you need to shoot the wall.” Eugene grinned and squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening. The pistol kicked so much in his unsteady grasp that the hole was more in the ceiling than in the wall, but it was an impressive cavity nonetheless.
“Damn, that felt good,” he said as he dropped the gun onto the bedspread. He had shot his last. “You owe me ten dollars,” he said. A.J. paid up. Eugene clutched the bill like a miser, and A.J. realized how significant his gesture had been, how satisfying it was for the dying man to take one last tenner off his brother. It was a noble gift. But the gods were not in a charitable mood that day, although it wouldn’t have cost them a dime to show a bit of mercy, so the fine moment was cut short. Eugene made a gagging noise. Then he began retching violently. He was doubled in hurt, and the severe vomiting spell caused his bowels to loosen. When it was over, he began to cry. The tears of wretchedness were pitiful to behold.
A.J. began the task of cleaning Eugene hindered by tears of his own. His task was made difficult by the obvious suffering any movement caused Eugene, and by his own notoriously weak stomach. But it had to be done, so he swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and kept to his work. Finally, mercifully, the job was over. Eugene was calmed, clean, and heavily medicated. A.J. was a mess, but life is hard and soap is cheap.
Eugene looked at A.J. His eyes were beginning to unfocus as the chemical cavalry found its way to his brain.
“I never wanted you to have to do that,” he said. His voice was clear. “I’m tired of this shit. I’m ready for it to be over.” He held his brother’s gaze until he drifted off. A.J. looked at what was left of him. It was time to fish or cut bait.
He reached suddenly and retrieved the Navy Colt. He hefted it, felt its cold, blue weight. Then he cocked it and pointed it at Eugene’s head. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and willed his finger to squeeze. The trigger moved ever so slightly, then a bit more.
His arm jerked up at the last instant when the blast erupted, and when the smoke cleared there were two holes in the cabin. He was disgusted with himself for being a coward.
“I’m sorry,” he said to his comatose brother. He dropped the Colt to the floor and sought saner latitudes. He was standing at the fire when Wormy returned. Their eyes met, Wormy nodded, and A.J. left without a word. He was quiet the remainder of the day, not because he had almost shot his brother, but rather because he had not managed the task.
But that was Christmas Eve, and it was now New Year’s Day. A.J. returned to the present and found himself in front of the smoldering remains of the cabin. The afternoon shadows had become long, and he stood close to the glowing ashes for warmth. Nothing in them was recognizable but the unmistakable shape of a gutted school bus. No sign of Eugene could be seen. The fire had done its job well in that respect. A car door slammed. He turned toward the sound and saw that Red Arnold had arrived.
Red was getting long in the tooth, but he still cut an imposing figure as he gaited slowly across the clearing. He arrived at the fire, and he and A.J. stood and warmed their hands in silence. Finally, Red spoke.
“Honey said Eugene was in there,” he said. He had turned around and was heating the Arnold hindquarters. Red’s homespun mannerisms aside, A.J. knew he was being questioned, and that the answers needed to satisfy.
“Yes.”
“Said you ran him off,” Red continued. “Told him to let it burn.” He lit a smoke and left it on his lips. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at the sky.
“He told you the truth.”
“Talked to Wormy yesterday,” Red noted. A.J. was already aware of the chat. Red had come by the beer joint for his Christmas present. “Told me that Eugene was bad. Real bad.” He turned back around and began to warm his hands again.
“Real bad,” A.J. agreed. Red flipped his cigarette into the ashes and peered long at him. Finally, the old lawman nodded slightly.
