The Front Porch Prophet by Raymond L. Atkins Read Free Book Online Page B

first time he and Maggie had seen the house.
    “I want it,” Maggie had said as they walked through the creaking, moldering foyer. “Look at that stained glass! Look at that stairway!” She turned and looked at A.J. “We have to buy it.” A.J. thought that ten or fifteen skilled craftsmen could have it whipped into shape in a couple of decades or so, if their luck held and it didn’t rain too much.
    “Who are you going to get to fix this dump up?” he had asked, but it was token resistance. The deal was done from the moment they walked through the door, and he knew it.
    “I didn’t marry you for your good looks,” Maggie replied, folding her cruel arms around his poor, doomed neck. The house continued its decline momentarily as she kissed A.J. Then they drove down to the bank and arranged to buy it.
    They found the bankers to be motivated sellers; they had been in possession of the property for several years and had pretty much given up on ever finding buyers. Then in had walked A.J. and Maggie. The Longstreets signed a promissory note stating they would pay the bank some money every year if they could manage, and that the house should be paid for in twenty years, if that was convenient.
    Now a sense of calm descended upon A.J. as looked at the old place. The anxiety brought about by his reunion with Eugene drifted away. He was in his element. He got out of the truck and walked slowly to the house, which had shaped up well. Maggie had been a stern taskmaster while bringing the Folly back from the brink of ruin, and they both had put in many long hours on the project. She stood double duty as construction superintendent and general laborer, and A.J. did everything in between.
    A.J. walked past the porch and patted one of the columns. He rounded the corner and saw Maggie and their five-year-old son, J.J., planting chrysanthemums in the side yard. Gardening wasn’t coming naturally to the boy, and Maggie was down on her hands and knees trying to help him. Several of the unsuccessful attempts lay scattered about.
    It was a Longstreet family tradition to butcher fifty or sixty dollars’ worth of flowers each fall and again each spring. These ritual sacrifices were not a pagan rite marking the passage of the seasons. Maggie just wanted a pretty yard. Unfortunately, the ground in the vicinity of the Folly stubbornly refused to support any plant that might possibly bloom. A.J. was the son of a farmer and took personally the fact that he could not get anything worthwhile to grow around his house. He had fertilized, aerated, rotated, watered, and chopped, and still no flowers. Finally, he gave up.
    “This must have been an ancient vampire execution ground,” he had told Maggie. “The earth has been scorched and sown with salt.” He went on to suggest that they continue to buy the plants, anyway, and then just throw them away on the way home, thus cutting out all the work in the middle. “Some farm boy you turned out to be,” had been her reply.
    “What’s up?” A.J. asked as he sat on the ground. Maggie turned and smiled.
    “We’re killing these flowers,” she explained, gesturing with her trowel. “And what we haven’t murdered outright,” she continued, hiking a thumb in J.J.’s direction, “he has tried to eat.” At the moment, J.J. was intent on tamping the dirt around his latest attempt.
    “How did the flowers taste?” A.J. asked his son.
    “They tasted nasty,” the boy answered.
    “They probably needed salt,” A.J. said, tousling his son’s long blond hair. “Run on in and wash up. We’ll kill more flowers tomorrow, but right now I need to talk to Mama.” J.J. frowned and crossed his arms. Going in was not what he had in mind. A.J. looked over at Maggie. “This boy needs a haircut,” he said conversationally. At the mention of the dreaded word, J.J. jumped up and ran toward the house. His little arms were over his head in a protective gesture.
    “He sure hates a haircut,” A.J.