The Front Porch Prophet by Raymond L. Atkins Page B

strong concoction had kept many a sailor alert during the midnight watch. But Sequoyah was not the icy North Atlantic, and it was only recently and with great effort that the coffee drinkers in town had prevailed upon Hoghead to discontinue his practice of tossing a handful of eggshells and a pinch of salt into each potful.
    “A.J., how have you been?” Johnny Mack asked pleasantly, stirring the contents in his cup. “Is your family all right?” He placed his spoon on the counter and reached for a homemade doughnut, referred to as
collision mats
by Hoghead and kept handy on a plate.
    “Everyone is fine, Johnny Mack,” A.J. replied. “I need to ask a favor. I need to borrow the Cat this weekend. I’ve got a little job I need to do.”
    “You can use it anytime you need it,” Johnny Mack said. “It’s already loaded on the trailer and hitched to the dump truck. Just come on out and get it. Angel will be happy to see you.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You getting around to fixing that bank behind your house?” Johnny Mack was not being nosy, much. He just seemed to be interested, and A.J. was of the opinion that it was a bad time for the old man to be developing social skills.
    “No,” A.J. replied. “I need to borrow the Cat to clean up the road on the mountain.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Johnny Mack spoke.
    “Are you talking about
his
road?” he asked.
    “That would be the one,” A.J. replied. Johnny Mack’s shoulders tensed. His hands formed fists that resembled small hams.
    A.J. watched Johnny Mack strive with his demons. It was his theory that every person had a few snakes in the head, but it seemed to him that the Purdue variety was a more evolved breed of reptile. Finally, Johnny Mack’s fists unclenched, but his features were still grim. From the kitchen came the clatter of pans and a high-pitched noise that may have been Hoghead whistling a tune.
    “You can’t borrow the Cat,” Johnny Mack said. “Not for him. You know how I feel.”
    “I’m not borrowing it for him. I’m borrowing it for me.”
    “The last I heard, you boys weren’t getting along,” Johnny Mack observed. “I heard you roughed each other up pretty good at the firemen’s barbecue. Why are you all of a sudden worried about his road?”
    “I just need to fix the road. It’s hard for Diane to get the boys up there to see their father.”
    “So Diane asked you to fix it?”
    “Not in so many words.”
    “A.J., you are trying real hard not to tell me something. I’ve known you since you were a boy, and I know when you’re not saying something that needs to be said.”
    A.J. opened his mouth to speak but noticed the quiet and immobile form of Hoghead. He had been wiping the counter but was now poised in mid-wipe, listening raptly.
    “Hoghead, this is sort of private,” A.J. said, gesturing toward the kitchen while raising his eyebrows. Hoghead looked confused. Then his eyes lost their glazed look.
    “You don’t need to worry about a thing,” he said, winking at A.J. and giving him the A-OK sign with his hand. “There’s nobody back there. You go right ahead and tell Johnny Mack what you need to tell him.” There he stood, as immovable as the smokestack of the old
U.S.S. Blackhawk,
aboard which he had served faithfully for many a year. It was no mystery to A.J. why the old cook had never risen to the rank of Admiral of the Ocean Sea. Exasperated, he pointed first at Hoghead, then at the kitchen. Hog got it that time, but he seemed hurt as he shuffled back to his domain, muttering as he progressed that you didn’t need to hit
him
over the head with a board, that was for sure.
    Back at the counter, A.J. sighed and waded in. “Eugene is very sick,” he began. “He’s not going to get well. I’ve promised I’ll come see him from time to time, and I need to be able to drive up the road to do that.” It was quiet in the diner. Johnny Mack was staring at the floor. Finally, he swallowed