It may have been the pressure of being on fire probation that caused Eugene to lose his perspective that day, or it may have been the large quantity of cold beer he had consumed. Or it could have been the fact that he was often foolish, a theory many felt held water, A.J. chief among them. In any event, A.J. was talking to T.C. Clark and Skipper Black, accomplished fire-watchers both, when up stormed Eugene with murder in his eye.
“Right here in front of the whole damn town,” he said, voice full of menace. “Did you think I wouldn’t see? Did you think I didn’t know what was going on?” He had moved in close to A.J.
“What do you think is going on?” A.J. asked. He figured Eugene was drunk, which he was, and that he was having his little joke, which he wasn’t.
“Don’t try that shit with me!” Eugene spoke loudly. A small crowd had gathered. “I saw you and Diane together. I saw you touch her arm!” Now A.J. knew what the fuss was about. Eugene had seen him talking to Diane a few minutes earlier. During the conversation, A.J. had apparently inadvertently touched her arm. It was Eugene’s opinion that payment for the transgression was due.
“You’re not serious, right?” A.J. asked. “I touched Skipper’s arm a minute ago, too. Do you think I’m screwing him?” Skipper was uncomfortable with this analogy and brushed at his arm as he edged away.
“What I think is that I’m going to break your damn head!” Eugene yelled, sounding like he meant business.
“Eugene, nothing happened,” A.J. said emphatically. “Diane was asking about a job for her brother. Period.” Diane’s brother had a history of being discriminated against by various employers, most of whom seemed to unfairly want some work out of him between paydays.
“Period this,” Eugene said as he swung a roundhouse right that loosened one of A.J.’s molars but did not knock him down as Eugene had intended. Then Eugene had troubles of his own as A.J. smacked him open-palmed over both ears before dealing him a sharp blow to the sternum. Eugene hit the ground hard but was back up in a moment, barreling into A.J.’s midsection. A.J. went over backward with Eugene on top, and they rolled around and swore at each other for another minute or two until several of the boys hauled them apart. Slim Neal arrived and sent them both home; he wanted to run them in, but the big storage room in back of the library that was used as the lockup was occupied at the moment by all three members of the Ladies’ Literary Society, who were having their weekly book chat.
Now, three years later, A.J. was sitting on Eugene’s porch, and they were slowly becoming accustomed to being in each other’s company again. “I may have been… hasty… at the barbecue,” Eugene said, coming as close to an apology as he was genetically able. He looked away as he spoke, up at the sky over the clearing. The moment passed by silent agreement, the tension dissipating like leaf smoke in the fall, an acrid memory on the wind.
“Forget it,” A.J. said, realizing the magnitude of Eugene’s gesture. “But next time I’m trying to tell you something, listen.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Eugene said vacantly as he continued to study the sky. Then he turned and looked at A.J. “How about a drink of bourbon?” he asked.
“No, it’s a little early in the day.” Eight to ten hours early, in fact.
“How about a beer, then?”
“A beer would be all right,” A.J. said. He really didn’t want anything, but his grandmother had raised him to observe the social niceties. He went inside to get the beer. He came back out with two and handed one to Eugene, who opened it and downed about half.
“Nice housekeeping,” A.J. said as he sat back down and opened his beer. “There’s something alive in the sink. I would have killed it, but I thought it might be a pet.”
“It’s hard to get good help these days,” Eugene explained. “I tried to get Diane to straighten up while she was here the other day, but she didn’t seem interested in the idea.”
A.J. choked on his beer.
“I bet she loved that,” he said, coughing. He watched while Eugene topped off his half-empty beer bottle with most of the remaining bourbon. He then opened up two of the pill bottles, removed several tablets, and washed them down with the alcohol. A.J.’s curiosity got the best of him. “Got the flu?” he asked. Eugene’s answer was evasive.
“I have to take them every four hours. Doc Miller said it was very important to be punctual.” Eugene was gazing again, seemingly preoccupied. A.J. could not fathom what was on his mind, but he supposed Eugene would spill the beans in his own good time.
“What did Doc say about washing the pills down with boiler-makers?” he asked Eugene.
“We didn’t actually cover that,” came the reply.
“Probably just as well,” A.J. conceded. Doc was known to have a touchy streak. “So what’s the deal?” A.J. waited for his answer. The silence grew long and oppressive.
Finally, Eugene sighed. When he spoke, his voice was lifeless, as if a rock were talking.
“I have cancer. I’m rotten with it. It’s terminal.” Eugene stared at his lead-poisoned hackberry tree. His words hung over the clearing like a gas attack over the Argonne. A gentle breeze blew through the branches, but the words would not dissipate. Overhead, a contrail made slow progress against the backdrop of soft sky. A.J. heard Rufus down the mountain, barking. The scene etched itself into his consciousness, the sights and sounds permanently fixed in blacks and whites and shades of grey, as if Currier & Ives had come to high Georgia to find a little work and had walked up to the clearing in their tight Victorian pants and top hats to capture the moment forever. A.J. did not know what to say, so he said nothing, and stillness reigned.
Finally, Eugene took a ragged breath and turned to A.J. “But
I’m not dead yet,” he said. He began fumbling with his reloading supplies. A.J. was subdued as he retrieved the can of gunpowder for his friend. Eugene quickly and efficiently reloaded the spent cylinder. Then he offered the Colt to A.J. “Ten dollars says you can’t hit the tree six out of six.”
“I don’t feel like shooting your tree,” A.J. said. He knew he should respond to Eugene’s revelation, but his mind was blank. Impending death was not his strong suit, and the episode had taken on aspects of the surreal. He looked over at Eugene, who was staring down at the Colt in his lap.
“How long?” he asked. It was the inevitable question.
“Six months,” Eugene replied. “Maybe less. Doc Miller says he can’t be sure. It started in my pancreas, but now it’s all over.” He spoke matter-of-factly, like he was talking about an outbreak of crab-grass. He looked at A.J. “Of all the things in the world that could have killed me, I never thought it would be my fucking pancreas.”
“You’re not taking Doc’s word for all of this, are you?” A.J. asked. He felt the need to find a solution for Eugene’s problem. “You need to let someone else take a look.”