Most Current Billy

8/14/2019 Most Current Billy

1/194

I am typing this book from a hand written manuscript. I have my detractors, but I know

what this book is and how long it has taken me to formulate its contents. A lifetime of

careful and interested observation of people and their habits and styles of communication

has led me to flesh out fictional characters with an air of authenticity and I am frankly

delineating some of them as good and some, evil. Most are a combination, just as I have

found in real life. I make my beginning with both confidence and humility, an attitude

born of my experiences with many types of people. The creations springing from my

imagination--are deeply loved by me, even with all their flaws and imperfections.

Creating them has shed light for me personally on why God loves each of us as He does.

He created us out of His imagination! Unlike my characters, He made us from clay and

divine breath. I feel deeply that some form of this divine breath has allowed me to create

this book.

Chapter One

Buried in the Shady Grove Cemetery in Berryville, Arkansas surrounded

by the plots of his wife, children and grandchildren, I assumed William Barrett to be a

prominent war hero who had lived and died in this place. But the silence and the distance

in time mask the reality of the days he lived, breathing fresh Arkansas air into his lungs

and exhaling filthy and angry words that cut into the hearts and minds of his family. And

he hasnt finished yet. Not exactlybut to explain what is going onnow thatis going

to be complicated.

1


2/194

My sudden fascination with old cemeteries puzzles those who know me

and mystifies even me. Driving the mountainous backroads here in the Ozarks brings me

an incomparable peace. Searching for the most hidden and least frequented burial

grounds has become a pleasant pastime, the discovery of them a compelling goal.

Admittedly, it is a strange activity. Few people like to visit the graves of strangers, but I

am drawn to them for the quiet, the beauty, and the repose. It is not morbid to me, but

natural, to consider the names and dates and try to imagine what life was like for the

people who lie at my feet. Sometimes I sense the entire history of a family when I read a

single tombstone. Despite the clarity of the intimate knowledge springing to my mind as

I stand there, I seldom share what I see with others. They might find me odd to say the

least.

I suppose I hope to uncover an interesting bit of history. I enjoy

moments of contemplative silence as I linger at their headstones wondering what

happened to them while they lived. Strolling through these hushed confined spaces and

pondering the loving remembrances engraved on the stones feeds my soul in a way that

organizes my thoughts about life and death and all that occurs between.

As I am hunting for them I chide myself, Your destination is a cemetery!

and although I know that this is ultimately true for everyone, I consider myself more than

an early volunteer. My reasons for doing what I do, alone, on the back roads of Arkansas

are unclear. I answer myself, I guess I want to see where I am going. But I know this

is not the reason. It isnt easy to justify spending otherwise billable hours tracking down

the spots where the dead lie silently as the history of their lives ebbs away.

2


3/194

The narrow gravel lanes and winding pathways of this region are a tangle

in themselves, a mystery worth consideration. What I am really pursuing are the

revelations, those visions that come to me when I stand at someones grave.

I live in a region which does not have history, but holds history like a

secret. The people of the Ozarks understand life and death as equal and balanced values.

The deceased lie in graves protected by the rocky soils of hard times. Their unspoken

statement is Death itself caint kill us. We never complaint in life and we aint gonna

start now. The echoes of such stoicism reverberate throughout the region.

Tourists are drawn to The Ozarks but never know what to do when they

get here. The natives who live and die here know there is plenty to do. Life is painful

and hard for the locals, but has rich rewards which cannot be easily enumerated. They

make music for the visitors, tell jokes to them, take money from them, and send them

away amused, confused and hungry for more. The native always enjoys the last laugh.

Even in death.

As an outsider myself I accept this truth as I drive over the main roads in

Carroll County. Most are two lane black tops, with an occasional passing lane occuring

on a rare stretch of straightaway. These lovely curving roads pass through deep valleys

and then climb to high ridges where you can see down to the canyon below for a few

seconds before the next arching curve begins. Concrete highways are an hour away. The

Ozark Mountains defy the intrusion of super-highway systems, stopping them cold fifty

miles before they arrive. I am glad about this, and I like to drive around appreciating the

beauty while I am alive to tell the story.

3


4/194

I cut through pristine vistas consisting of mysterious dirt roads over low

water bridges and through wooded glens with ancient stone houses hidden in them.

Horse pastures along the way are surprisingly well manicured by comparison to the

decaying barns within. There are abandoned homesteads where the grass is tall and the

daffodils and irises still pop up, evidence of some frontier woman planting dreams that

survived long after her passing. Catching sight of these flowers always gives me hope for

my own effort at bringing meaning to my life. The faithfully returning flowers testify it

is worthwhile to plant for the future while suffering the present.

I envision this nameless woman kneeling in the dirt of her scrabbly yard

watering the ugly bulbs with her tears. In my mind I see her many children playing

nearby, and her husband plowing the rocky soil with mismatched mules. I think she

could not have explained to them why she did this but I believe she is planting her secret

dreams for a better future. She chops at the hard and dry soil with a rusted hand tool, and

perspires at her hairline as she imagines the moist soil of spring with yellow daffodils and

lavender irises rising from it. The hot sun of the present beats down, heating her

shoulders through her dress. She continues to dig, finding spots to bury her treasures.

Once she has hidden each one, she rises from her toil and whispers a prayer, Lord, let

those tears bless my dreams. She lifts her hemline to dab at the perspiration and tears on

her face and neck. Her cheeks, hard and lined by years of effort, soften as she watches

her children at play. It wont be the tears, but the love in her heart that will bring the

flowers out of the ground.

The Spring blooms bear witness the anonymous history of her work is still

valid in the full sunshine of today. In the Ozarks, there are many such farms where past

4


5/194

hopes and broken dreams rest side by side, waiting for someone with better luck to

resurrect them.

Driving the back roads is a popular pastime for the locals because these

secret places are undiscovered by the ever present tourists and still provide a meditative

respite from the crush of modern life. What we affectionately refer to as backroading

begins with newly licensed teens practicing their driving skills and continues (sans

parents) with dating, lovers lanes, and beer drinking. It matures into Sunday drives by

the resulting young families to visit to the old home place and ends with empty nesters

looking for a good deal on farms that have become too much for the old folks to handle.

It is not something we do often, this leisurely cruising, but it remains an

important custom passed along to others. It is rewarded by gorgeous stretches of

unpopulated roads that in some places shrink to a single grassy lane. Miniscule bridges

are common, and blind curves on either end of them present some risk, but the driving

pace is languorous, and traffic accidents are rare. The only threat is to be so caught up in

the reverie of thought amidst the beauty we forget we are driving a vehicle at all! We

become inebriated on the overwhelming scenery of these hills, our spirits raised to a level

of euphoric denial about our own vulnerability as players in the spectacle.

The beauty of these low mountains changes with each season, each one

producing breath-stopping views demanding to be admired and preserved through a

camera lens. There is such abundance that capturing it with the most technical lens could

never convey what the incomparable lens of the human eye can apprehend. As a

transitory observer I may find myself gaping at a deep valley filled with loud autumnal

color, and a faraway chimney puffing wood smoke. I stand mesmerized with the camera

5


6/194

dangling at my side, aware that putting a small piece of technology in front of my eyes

will not enhance the experience. I gaze toward the horizon where toy-like cows appear to

be bleached white against golden meadows lit by the afternoon sun. The tiny cows delight

me, bringing a fresh sense of renewal. I faintly perceive the smell of them, but it is only a

memory drawn from my childhood. (The scent of the air surrounding me is provided by

faintly dusty Queen Annes lace as it brushes against my legs.) The flat white flowers

crowning the tall green stems hide all manner of small animals, snakes and bugs beneath

them. These beautiful native plants crowd the ditches and edge the fence lines alongside

the roads. Standing hip deep in flowers, I am suddenly prompted to get out of the weeds

and into the car before I am devoured by ticks and chiggers. Oblivious to the fact that I

am part of the scenery I move along to the next place worthy of my attention.

I happen upon a low water crossing and catch a glimpse of sun through

the green vines shading each side of the road. At such a moment it is impossible to

decide whether to appreciate the rippling stream, the verdant beauty of the surrounding

woods, or the sky overhead. Hesitation is natural. Suspended in indecision, I catch a

glimpse of an old cemetery through the grid of wire fence just to my left.

Yes! I had to stop. In the Ozarks, to stop is to tempt fate. A woman

poking around aimlessly arouses suspicion. She is perceived both to be at risk and to

pose a threat herself. There is always an ominous and shadowy presence of danger out

here, never fully visible but every bit as real as the pastoral beauty. It lurks nearby,

hidden from view, watching for trespassers.

Living amidst the roadside stands, flapping patch work quilts, and

pumpkin fields, the locals know the devils of murder, incest, and methamphetamine

6


7/194

abuse blight the fabric of these hills like mold. No one knows what to do about it, but a

lone mysterious woman out in the pasture cannot bode well for the precarious balance

between radiant sunshine and dark secrecy. Progressive social remedies do not fare well

against the proofs of traditional customs. Resistance is not personal, nor is it rational.

The shadows are the natural result of light trying to shine where it is not wanted. Love

and fear, good and evil, pride and shame share an uneasy relationship here.

Pulling off the byway and rising to a level spot I read the words above the

cemetery gate. Shady Grove Cemetery. It is situated west of Berryville, Arkansas.

Laid out on a bluff above the well made road, the small cemetery claims a place above

the life that flows past its gates on a daily basis. Old growth trees stand both within and

around it, revealing the inspiration for its name. Sadly I notice Shady Grove is resting in

benign neglect. It is not neglected in the urban sense of the word, with trash and litter

blowing around, but as if the man who took such pride in his work of keeping the grass

cut and trimmed is lying in a nursing home nearby, worrying about the friends of his

youth who lie there in untended silence.

He may be incapacitated, but his title of caretaker is safe. In the delicate

custom of the hills, there will be no vote for a replacement worker before the man

actually dies. It would be like saying, He aint gonna make it. Or, Hes good as dead

already. And it isnt because he would know, either. It is because his wife would know,

and his kids, and his grandchildren. I feel melancholy I have chosen such an awkward

moment for my visit. I am intruding.

I have never been to Shady Grove before. I know nothing of its history. I

am drawn to it in a deeply personal way, and for no obvious reason. For a long time, I sit

7


8/194

in my car and look through the windshield, filled with a peaceful curiosity. The style of

the ironwork is simple in design, but shows pretensions to grandeur in the adorning

whorls and curlicues. The words, Shady Grove are spelled out in iron and rise high

into the air on hand-worked metal side posts that hold the curving arch against the sky,

causing the name to stand out clearly. The iron work is black as tree bark in late fall. The

trees of Shady Grove stand like sentinels behind the arching words and amidst the

tombstones. It is quiet and lovely and absorbs my attention completely.

The light streaming in on me through the windows is filled with history.

Its invisible spectrum emanates from something that had no beginning, and will continue

without age. Although I am a finite individual, I reside within the prism of eternal reality.

Those who lie inside the gate are no different, really.

I learned this in my accumulated years of cemetery strolling. I never

realized that I was training myself to discern spiritually about the essence of revealed

light. This light came to me very gradually in wordless revelations. I never spoke of my

experiences to anyone. At first I did not even think about the visions privately. It felt

very natural, very clean, and ordinary to sense the occasional woman walking by in a

long skirt, soft old fashioned shoes, wearing a shawl. Because she was not visibly alive, I

accepted her presence in my awareness as an imaginary thing.

But over the years, with constant and increasing practice, I began to pick

up more than mere glimpses. I would be passing through some lovely burial ground, and

suddenly at one grave a story would roll out in front of me. I would stop and think and

watch the scenes in the same way a person might stop while dusting to follow something

8


9/194

on television. I never considered the possibility the stories in my mind had any

substance, or my perceptions might be more than pure fantasy.

I have seen old men whittling, lonely for their youth and gazing into the

distance. I have met grinning soldiers from World War I, small and neat from discipline

and pride in their status as soldiers. They melt my heart with their vibrant smiles and

clear eyes when I realize they were lost in the struggle between good and evil. As they

fade, they say nothing, but convey the message they are content with their deaths and

their rewards. An occasional jaunty salute feels like an acknowledgement of my respect

for the sacrifice made on my behalf.

A small girl in a boxy yellow dress and skinny legs comes to me with

flowers wilting in her little hands. She is unaware of the bouquet and her eyes shine with

some kind of fever. She looks delirious and I am troubled by such a countenance on a

four year old child. A bigger boy comes and gently encourages her to walk away from

me. She follows him, but she looks over her shoulder at me and I see the longing in her

eyes as she fades from view.

I have seen thousands of nameless and dull people; people who lived and

died without helping or harming anyone. These people remind me of the servant who hid

his masters talent in the ground. Some of these people are dressed beautifully, some in

mean attire, but in the end are equals, and out of time. The faces are old, young,

handsome, crude, beautiful and plain, yet they have all become commonplace on the

other side. They stand in the crowds of those who have no increase to show the Master.

Infants appear to be sleeping. More specifically, appear to be living. They

stir and purse their lips and settle back into a sigh of sleep. Their fists come together and

9


10/194

settle into quiet. Death does not touch these in the same way as the mature. They are

tender buds waiting for the time of blooming. I never comprehend why they lived such a

short life span, but maybe they will be the people in heaven who will bring us the most

joy. Their fragrance in eternity fills the air around them. I see the old people begging to

cuddle them. In heaven the babies will be the most treasured and protected of all. They

will belong to everyone, blessings from the heart of God, who knows what we need

before we ask.

These thoughts and perceptions are what keep me going back for more.

What it all means is the question that can only be answered in my most private heart.

This answer is too true and too fragile to share, yet it seems I have no choice. I release it

like I would a butterfly and watch it as it flutters and fades awayinto the light that

burns my eyes when I look directly into it.

I hesitate before cutting the engine. Doing so signals intention, and I

know I am in violation of an unwritten courtesy code among locals. It is an overt act

stating you do not plan to move along immediately. You have made a decision to stay

awhile. You are going to change the atmosphere while you are there. Even visiting

relatives might stay in the car in the driveway with the engine running until someone

from the house invites them to stay. It is an unspoken ritual of respect and humility. An

outsider or a stranger is naturally an object of interest no matter what his intention. I cut

the engine, and sense profound solitude and isolation.

More than vaguely uncomfortable, I notice the gate across the entrance is

actually a cattle panel. It does its job, although it aint purty as the man who installed it

might have said. Its plain functionality is in sharp contrast to the intricate ironwork

10


11/194

holding it in place, but still it seems harmonious, serving its probable purpose of keeping

cows off the graves. It is tied shut with a short length of a frayed lead rope. The simple

arrangement is noble in its practicality.

I enter Shady Grove and close the gate behind me. I carry only a camera.

The day has gone from morning sunshine to cool and overcast skies in the afternoon. A

damp breeze scatters brittle leaves across my path and on across the burial plots as I

walk. Dead branches lie heavily on the ground, obviously blown down in recent storms.

An atmosphere of unrest assails me and I no longer feel alone. I sense a stirring from the

invisible residents lying at my feet. I cannot see the spirits, but I know they are there.

The welcome feels mixed, confusing me. I have not felt this is any previous cemetery

quite as strongly as I do here.

Although the cemetery is small, it contains a collection of family names

that are well recognized locally. Gentry. Baker. Hull. Wolfinbarger. Smith. Many of

the larger plots were dedicated to the families of long ago, a provision for the future. The

age of the stones varies, but most show the erosion of time. Moss and white lichen cover

the old markers and many engravings are worn shallow. Also here are shiny granite

stones, more modern in style, more recently placed. These have silk or plastic floral

displays, a visible sign that there are survivors who remember. The flowers represent

living love for those lying beneath the surface of life. I recognize the arrangements from

the racks at Wal Mart, and crazily recall standing next to a woman as she chose one of the

sprays from the shelves before Memorial Day. In concrete reality, I did not see her place

it here, nor did I see her anguished face as she turned back toward the car, anxious to

11


12/194

leave the pain behind with the flowers, but I see her clearly in my mind. I could not

prove it in a court of law, but she knows she was there, and so do I.

I work my way from left to right, front to back, clicking pictures of certain

curiosities, hoping to get a few treasured frames, or even get answers to the questions in

my mind. I linger at one large and ornate structure, reading the phrase she was the

sunshine of our home. I try to envision the woman who elicited such a joyous

description from her husband and family. I quiet my mind for several seconds in an effort

to catch some kind of story about her life, but nothing comes to me. The matter of her

days and times has apparently been settled. The accounting is complete.

Nearby there is a makeshift marker. It is a simple chunk of stone

without engraving. There is no plaque, no name, and no date. Was this person loved any

less? I guess poverty dictated the marker, but I perceive it was placed into the soil with

great love and despair by an inconsolable mate while others looked on supportively.

Perhaps someone lifted him by the shoulders, urging him to leave her and move on with

his life. His angry tears may have fallen over the disparity between the love engraved on

his heart and the bare, unmarked stone he left for her. She was the sunshine ofhis soul,

and the simple burial seemed less to him than she deserved. When she was alive, he gave

her all he had, including himself. Inseparable in life, the two who loved became one

alone. Her passing seemed totally unjustifiable, the rude stone marker insufficient, the

gentle sunshine and concerned mourners irrelevant. I see him rise to his feet with his

shoulders bent and shuddering. As I watch him leave the cemetery, I know he will go

back to their home and never appear publicly again. The despair that engulfs me belongs

12


13/194

to him, but my heart cannot tell the difference. The photo of my story shows only a gray

rock column standing in tall grass with a clump of leaves at its base.

There is an enormous tree just off center in Shady Grove. I see a jumble

of random markers at its base, and decide to shoot a picture. I think about that image

long after. The markers are randomly stacked on top of each other, like worthless bricks.

They are on the ground among the roots of the huge tree, and have small saplings poking

up between them. They seem like orphans clutching at the hem of a foster mother. Who

put these here? Where do they belong? Is it an inventory of stones available for hasty

burials, or are they misplaced markers from plots nearby?

A few feet away I notice a full sized tombstone lying on its back. Ants

crawl across its surface, and down into the grass growing over its edges. The discomfort

I feel is born of the uneasiness of discovering a cemetery in even temporary disarray. I

wonder how a tombstone came to be dislodged from its normal place. It seems unkind to

those who lie here. I have not seen this in any other cemetery. I want to lift it and set

things right, but its ponderous weight warns me not to bother. The weight has little to do

with the reason I decide not to touch it. I have no responsibility in the matter, and decide

to keep it that way.

Continuing along, I gaze out through the ironwork to the surrounding

countryside. There are farms, cattle, and horses and I pick up the presence of poultry

through my nose. Inside Shady Grove I feel insulated from all that. There is no clamor,

no demand, no siphoning away of my energy from the people around me, below me, as

real as I am, but who demand nothing in return for their presence.

13


14/194

I stop at another marker. It is a stone plaque, engraved with words

honoring a Confederate soldier. It says, William O. Barrett, Private, Confederate Army,

Company C, Seventh Regiment, Cavalry born 1840, and died in 1891. It occurs to me

that a real person who fought on the Southern side during the Civil War resides in this

place. I am present here, and so is he, only six feet away. I stand silently, wondering

about his life and times. I see the graves of his family around him and try to imagine

their pride in him while he lived. Moving on from there, and thinking about each one, I

begin to pick up silent fear streaming from their plots. Their chorus of warning reminds

me of the rising hum of locusts buzzing in late summer, their racket nearly deafening

before it subsides and then crescendos once more. I feel this chorus in my skin more than

I hear it in my ears, but I do not understand it at all. I return to the grave of the soldier,

interested in the potential story.

Focusing on the gravestone of the Confederate, I experience amazement

as a very cold and damp breeze blows my hair across my face, obscuring my view of his

plaque. I want a picture of his marker before I leave, but the sharp wind slaps at my coat

and raises leaves which come at me like small, unfriendly animals. Wave after wave of

leaves rustle across his grave, swirling and flattening and lifting again before rolling into

a mass, catching on the opposite fence. Nobody gets to leave, I think to myself.

The sudden change in the atmosphere and the cold dampness of the wind

convey the impression that the soldier below has nothing but ill will toward the living. I

am jolted into a chilling awareness that I am an unwelcome intruder.

Emotionally I am unprepared to process this confrontation. It feels very

threatening and unnerves me completely. Though invisible in the usual sense of the

14


15/194

word, I see him spiritually, as if we were face to face in reality, as if he were alive.

Caught completely off guard, I refuse to accept his apparition as real. For one thing, he is

not dressed in uniform as I had imagined. He is dressed like an aristocrat and is elderly.

I recheck the dates on his tombstone. He was only fifty one when he died, but he looks

seventy. The heavy fabric of his suit coat is smooth and gray, and the cravat around his

neck seems fussy and old fashioned. His heavy eyebrows and unruly hair frame the

sharp blue eyes, making them glow with vibrant color. My cynicism about his sudden

appearance does nothing to eliminate his effect. I am intimidated and surprised and

confused. His anger is diffuse, and has nothing to do with me, yet his cold rage about my

presence at his grave is undeniable. I overcome my nervousness enough to try to

photograph the family plot.

In my haste and tension I hit the wrong button and began making a video

rather than the snapshot I intended. For several seconds I fail to realize my mistake. In

terms of this story, it is fortunate it happened. Who would think a video could be of any

use in a cemetery? What could possibly happen in a place where there is no life?

I played it back for myself a few days later but I could not bear to watch it

more than once. I have it on my camera still and have passed it by each time I review

my photo collection; yet I cannot delete it either. The video captured the sounds within

the silence I thought was therethe chilling sound of the wind, the dry rattle of the

leaves, and the low moan of a faraway cow. It captured not only those, but the sounds

from my life: the scratching coat buttons, the breath, the muttering and my own

footsteps, none of which I heard that day. It provides proof I was there, and what

happened to me was not my imagination.

15


16/194

Perhaps I could conclude by saying It was only the wind. That is what

my parents always said. But things which cannot be explained by plain physics happen

every day. We discount miracles by saying, It was a coincidence. I admit it could have

been the wind, and my mind playing tricks on me. But the wind, the dead leaves, the

video and my mind coincided at the precise moment I encountered William Barrett. One

moment I was lazily dreaming about the past and the next moment I was confronted with

something beyond my typical experience.

I am only telling what happened and how I felt about it. If this had

happened to someone else, they might have scientific proof it was all just an eerie

coincidence. I had nothing but a camera and I even used that incorrectly. I took an

unintentional video and I am afraid to watch it. That is the truth. I was chased away by a

soldier named William O. Barrett as convincingly as if I had been trespassing on a nearby

farm and been hustled off by its owner. Little did I know that his abrupt appearance was

just the beginning of our relationship.

Chapter Two

So, whats been happening with you, Mom? Kathryn asked cheerily. I

love spending time with my daughters. I have three grown children and Kathryn is my

middle daughter. My mind tumbled through the last ten days, trying to come up with an

interesting anecdote that would be suitable for her, her husband Tim and my grandson,

James, who is only two. I remembered fifty things that were going on with me currently,

and the one I decided to talk about was my experience at Shady Grove, carefully testing

the waters of her acceptance and feeling embarrassed about my reaction to what had

16


17/194

transpired the week before. Kathryn, of all my grown daughters, is the most practical and

her husband is the very definition of skepticism. I tried to toss it off as a casual story, but

before I could go into much detail, she stopped what she was doing, looked me full in the

face and said,

Mom. You have to pursue this. There is hidden history there, and he

doesnt want you to know about it. I laughed, uncomfortable that she was able to

discern and accept what I had described without having been there in person. Despite the

video, I had already begun to convince myself my scare had no basis in reality. I was

surprised she took me seriously on such an unusual topic.

Hes dead! What can I possibly find out about a dead man?

I dont care how you do it. Just get the story down and let me know what

happens, she replied.

Well, my guess is he was a terribly violent man, but it seems farfetched

that I could figure that out just by seeing his gravestone.

She said, You didnt just see his gravestone. You saw the entire family

plot. You felt threatened, and you captured it accidentally on film. You know what you

know, and nobody else will be able to tell it like you can. It is one thing to talk about it

and another to write it down. Maybe you saw the story because you aresupposedto tell

it.

I sat down, quietly thinking about her reaction. It was as unexpected as

the message I got from the graves at Shady Grove. I did not necessarily disagree with

her, but it was a Sunday, and I did not want to dwell on it. In the privacy of my heart, the

experience seemed to hold genuine possibility. Yet I had worries and fears of my own.

17


18/194

Would it be worthwhile, or even possible, to discover his secrets? Kathryn left me with

the distinct impression that if I did not pursue it, I would be party to the troubles of the

past. Although I am a completely normal human being, I did not want to invite evil into

my life, be it living or dead. Like anyone else, I have enough troubles in the present

without going into the past for more. Remembering his glowering visage, I wondered

how to proceed. I wondered ifI should proceed.

You know what you know. Her words continued to echo in my mind

and made sense to me. I did know. I knew that day at Shady Grove who the soldier was,

even if not the full implications. I knew he had been an angry man, and had

accomplished his evil undetected by anyone but his victims. What I did not anticipate

was that anyone else would believe me. But truth has a way of surfacing like an oxygen

bubble. The past holds many stories begging to be told, and the innocent blood of murder

victims cries out from the ground itself. Although many decades had passed, these souls

cried out for justice, for consolation, and for revelation of the truth about their lives.

Their cries came from the past, not from the bodies. I make this distinction

because I am not someone who communicates with the dead. In our family, we call that

woo-woo stuff and we have little respect for it. Because it would be easy to become

caught up in deception, we are very careful not to involve ourselves in sances,

channeling, or any kind of occult practices. But there are things we see without complete

understanding, things that bother us, things that keep occurring and will not leave us

alone. My belief in this kind of perception comes from a faith which recognizes a reality

not visible to our eyes. When there is a higher purpose, some of us are given to

18


19/194

knowing things in a spiritual way. Our family is rife with those who have this kind of

vision. I think it is an inherited and learned skill, rather than something genetic.

I thought Kathryn might laugh at me, but she surprised me again by taking

it a step further next time we talked. She insisted I not shrink from the responsibility

which had been handed to me just because a bully with no authority tried to scare me off.

From that moment, my well-ordered and pleasant life took a dramatic turn. Despite my

own misgivings, I decided to share the story being related to me through the visions. I

firmly declare that these visions occurred in my mind just as I am telling them, but I

cannot explain it even to my own satisfaction. In my heart I accept them because I know

the difference between what I experience when I am daydreaming, and what occurs when

I am seeing a vision. Imagination is wishing. Vision is knowing. Imaginations

originate and are directed by the mind of the person having them. Visions are granted

from an external source and cannot be edited by the recipient. In my experience, visions

completely override personal assumptions. They are revealing something of critical

importance, and should be shared. I am a storyteller who can see the past in the same

way a clairvoyant sees the future. I am the reluctant recipient of the story of William O.

Barrett and those who surrounded him during the dark days before, during and after the

American Civil War.

Chapter Two

I went back to Shady Grove the following week, seeking resolution to the

questions in my mind. It was more neglected and less lovely than I remembered.

Leaning stones, fallen stones, and random markers were still lying around. It seemed the

19


20/194

perfect setting for the birth of a story that needs to be told. Shady Grove was isolated,

seldom visited, yet seemed alive with invisible residents who had stories to share. I

decided not to resist, but to follow the path that lay before me, never imagining where it

would lead.

I took more pictures, pausing at each gravesite within the Barrett plot to

absorb the reality, the meaning of each life, and its connections to the others around it. I

felt strongly I was intruding somehow, as if the patriarch buried there was proprietary

about the others in the family plot. In the rustling wind, I could hear his voice rising

above the others as he made an effort to intimidate them into silence. My perceptions

were tentative and unpracticed. Was I hearing? Imagining? I pressed on with my

mission, trying to understand what it was compelling me to listen to their stories. I was

very aware and cautious about the line separating me from the dead. I should have felt

more fear, but my intention on behalf of the family held me fast. Everything about the

Barrett Plot looked right, but felt wrong.

It wasnt the voice as much as an essence of each one that was there with

me. I could tell by the dates of birth and death that many were young and had preceded

William O. Barrett in death. On each grave after the name and dates was an identifier

claiming, Daughter of William O. Barrett or Wife of William O. Barrett or

Grandson of William O. Barrett. I knew from prior experience that the dates of birth

and death might help me uncover the facts, or at least to start a chronology. There were

so many, I had to take pictures of each one for later review.

Normally, the loss of so many would overwhelm me with pity for the

Barrett family who had experienced things personally. But the names on the headstones

20


21/194

seemed to point to lives lived in close proximity to William O. Barrett, who had kept

them in his possession in death as well as life. According to the dates on the headstones,

he had outlived each of them and carved his name on their graves.

Oddly, there was no information on the stones about his wife, their mother,

and grandmother. She had her own gravestone indicating Wife of William O. Barrett. I

began to understand William regarded his family as property with no attempt made to

remember them as individuals with thoughts, feelings, and motivations of their own. In

death, the only identifier chiseled into their stones was the record of having been within

his reach during their lives. This engraving was done at considerable expense and with

careful planning. In my mind, this implied someone who considered each family

members death an opportunity for self aggrandizement. He used the death of family

members as an opportunity to make his own life seem relevant.

As I took photos of each grave and recorded notes about the dates of each

birth and death, I tried to sort out the various relationships, finding a grandfather, mother,

infant child, and a twelve-year-old boy, among others. Not all of the markers held a

voice. Some had a silent essence, as if unwilling to participate. But I could feel their

personalities, and the remnants of certain family spirits harbored more anxiety than

others. I wondered about people who had lived lives of such fear that even in death it

would not loosen its grip. This is a perfect example of what I mean by vision which

cannot be edited. The idea that fears linger after someone dies is something I never

considered until that moment. The entire concept disturbs me. Despite my lack of

understanding, I record my impressions.

21


22/194

The history of the Barrett family seemed laid out for my consideration, but

nothing was in chronological order. When everyone talks at once, it is impossible to

follow any single conversation. That is how I began to see the history. I was chilled by

the multiple impressions I received from each grave. I felt overwhelmed, but also began

to sort out the ones most compelling.

I returned to the grave of William O. Barrett, trying to sense the humanity

of him. He had been in his casket for over a hundred years, yet he still had a powerful

effect. His crazed brutality had been hidden behind a faade of respectability, and he had

been content with things as they had turned out. My presence there did not serve his

purpose, and I felt as if I had just stepped behind a curtain separating the past from the

present. The soldier at the center of the story was malevolent toward me and I felt a

renewed sense of determination to discover his dark secrets. Accountability actually

seemed possible to me!

A friend once told me, You know what is wrong with you? You tell the

truth too much. I had never heard that it was possible to tell the truth too much. I have

always thought that the more of the truth that is known, the better off the world will be.

The friend continued, You tell the truth even when it is not in your best interest. I

thought then, and still believe, truth has nothing to do with self-interest. I am simply

interested in the truth because it is affecting everything going on around us. To bring

order out of chaos takes facts. Truth is the only antidote for confusion. Unfortunately,

truth is not a pain reliever, which explains why many people are reluctant to operate

within its boundaries.

22


23/194

The cruelty impacting the lives of innocent people long ago was not

resolved by their deaths. Neither the victims nor the perpetrator seem to be at rest. It

seems their spirits continue to seek validation, even as they lie in their graves. The truth

of how they passed through their lives and deaths was simply waiting for someone to

listen and believe. The plain reality is without my daughters encouragement, I would

not have been willing to tell this story at all. Her declaration, You know what you

know, proved to be the spark of encouraging light I needed to proceed. Without that

catalyst, I would have been immobilized by fear and self doubt, assuming nobody would

believe what was happening to me.

But the second visit to Shady Grove turned up the volume on the voices

rising from the Barrett family plot. To make sense of the chaotic jumble of material

being manifest would not be easy. It was as if the dead could sense I was interested

enough to try and decided to seize the opportunity to be heard, despite the dimensional

barricades. I was overcome by my own inadequacy. The chorus of voices I heard that

day had notes of desperation, but I felt ill-equipped to help them. Their cries affirmed for

me the importance of making the effort. I decided to begin with the grave of the man

whose name occurred most frequently.

Once my decision was made, the burial plot of William O. Barrett emitted a

stunning silence. His position was clearly one of obstruction and non-participation. I did

not miss the message, but dismissed the thought that someone who has been dead for so

long could affect the actions and decisions of the living. He was a simple bully and full

of fear. I knew I had the advantage. All he could do was intimidate. I was going to

pursue the truth of what happened during his short lifetime and share it with everyone.

23


24/194

Since that day we have been locked in spiritual combat. The more he tries to conceal, the

more I want to know.

Chapter Three

Initiating a search on the Internet, looking for references to the name of

William O. Barrett, I find entries related to the Civil War. He was indeed cavalry, and

was imprisoned by the North after he deserted. The desertion cannot be verified

because many soldiers were separated from their units and were captured while they were

attempting to regroup. Historians report how some soldiers wandered off and simply

went home when they could not find their units.

William was released only after swearing fealty to the Union. This vow

was customary and made as part of the peace agreements between the sides after the

surrender of the Confederacy. Only states swearing loyalty to the union were allowed to

apply for Federal programs for reconstruction. One by one, each of the Southern states

applied for reinstatement, and was allowed access to representation and financial help.

William was described at his release from Union Prison as a slightly built

man of ruddy complexion and light curly hair and blue eyes. This entry amazed me, as

it gave me a solid physical description that correlated with the personal revelation that I

had been given at his grave. I could only surmise that Williams life had been impacted

by his participation in the Civil War and subsequent imprisonment. His anger might be

understandable after being imprisoned and labeled as a deserter, especially if he had

fought valiantly for a cause he believed in. Still, he had little choice but to go home to

24


25/194

his family and begin a new life after joining the Southern effort. I conclude his family

home must have been in Carroll County since he was buried here.

Continuing to search the Internet for births, marriage, and death

certificates, I was only sent on rabbit hunts for his name and the names of family

members. I have spent hours on the desk, searching for evidence of his life and times.

William lived in a time of rich history and great significance forming the

backdrop to the life he led during his fifty-one years on Earth. The only other entry on

the Internet which verifies that he lived and died in Arkansas is the listing of the burial

places of the Confederate veterans which references Carroll County, Berryville, and

Shady Grove. He lived as a horseman serving the Confederacy. The rest of the tale will

come through revelation, interpreted by me personally, using only my intuition. The

resulting story will rise or fall on its own merit. I am driven by a force so compelling, so

alluring, and so fascinating I begin to wonder if I am hallucinating.

When I tell Kathryn I found him on the Internet, she is amazed.

What did it say? she asks. I relate what I have found, and she

comments, He must have been really angry when he had to swear loyalty to the enemy.

Well, he was a pretty angry man in the first place. I wonder if he was a

good soldier, or if he was a deserter, I reply.

Immediately after saying it, a powerful vision came over me, and I

recognized him as a true deserter. Saying nothing to Kathryn about it, I contemplated my

reason for believing this. Two days later, I had more revelation. What was most

interesting about the experience is I was present at its center, as if I were there in person

on the day it happened. I was invisible to everyone present, yet somehow experienced

25


26/194

the story going on around me. Though I have no explanation for how I got there, I will

share what I saw.

Transported back in time to a battlefield somewhere in the Ozarks, I look

around and realize I am in the past. The day is both sunny and cool and seems like an

ordinary day in the fall. The grass at my feet is flattened, dry and golden, an indication of

the pressing weight of many feet passing over it. There is a creek running from east to

west, and I see an encampment of Yankee soldiers on the northern side of the tree line

running along its banks. The trees block my view of the encampment, but I can hear

them moving around and talking to each other.

A much smaller company of Confederate soldiers is coming across the

meadow. They are traveling on foot guarded by others on horseback. They are

unwittingly stumbling into a confrontation with the enemy. I want to warn them, but can

only observe silently. When they get close enough to realize their mistake, they shout

warnings and orders to each other and I get caught up in the ensuing chaos.

The fear of the young men is palpable, and I feel a loss of control about

what is happening. The men in blue charge out into the open, shouting to one another,

ambushing the men in gray. The Yankees have bayonets and some are shooting from

kneeling positions. I hear a cannon go off in the distance. The obvious surprise on each

Southern face turns to grim determination once they realize they are outnumbered. In the

suddenness of the vision, I become disoriented. I look around for William Barrett and see

him wheeling his horse in an attempt to bring it under control. The animal is terrified of

the noise, the smells, and the chaos all around him. He is trying to bolt, and William

struggles to keep him moving back toward his men who are in danger. He pulls the right

26


27/194

rein tightly back, wheeling the horse in a tight circle. The horse turns to the right, but

dances sideways. William pulls on the left rein and the horse circles tightly, his eyes

rolling, showing the whites. His mouth is open, and he fights the bit. The entire exercise

is meant to distract the animal, but he is too far gone to submit.

The cries of men nearby and the acrid smell of smoke from the guns

overwhelm me during the vision, and although I am focused on the horse and rider, I can

see and feel the battle raging around me. The noise of it is deafening. As one gun

reports, my ears ring, and the next blast cannot be heard for the first reaction. I am more

frightened by the terrifying experience than interested in what I am supposed to learn.

Again and again the guns and cannon shots go off, and I eventually find

myself wrapped in a kind of silence. The battle continues. My vision is blotted out by

smoke, and my eyes are burning. I feel dirt flying up from pits dug out by cannon balls

hitting the ground nearby. I feel the moist crumbs as they hit my skin. Glancing aside I

see someones blood, heavy on the golden strands of grass at my feet. Small red dots of it

sparkle brilliantly. They are still quivering with life. In shock I think, Lifes blood on

dead grass and the sun is still shining knowing the image is fraught with meaning, but

I have no time to dwell on the anguish in my heart. There is imminent danger. I pick up

the stinging sound of bullets flying in the air around me. I am driven to distraction by the

sound.

An occasional terror stricken face emerges from the smoke, but the

confrontation between the battle lines becomes blurred and soft, even as the men clash

directly. Shock has turned each face white with fear. A man is lying on the ground with

bullet holes in his leg and shoulder, but he is still firing his gun at Union soldiers.

27


28/194

Generalized trauma mutes my ability to distinguish differences between individuals while

at the same time heightening perceptions about the enemy in general. The insanity of

such an event! The color of the uniforms helps to orient me. Kill anyone in blue, one

side thinks, and the opposing side must be thinking, Shoot anyone in gray.

I struggle to stay focused on the horse and William, watching to see what

is happening to them. The danger is real. Horse and rider are aware of it, but neither

seems to know what to do. The horse rears very precariously on his hind legs, squatting

and nearly falling backward. Finally, because William can do nothing to force his horse

into the danger without unseating himself, he gives in, allowing the horse to bolt.

William is vaulted in the direction the horse has chosen. The horses hysteria is the fuel

firing his legs and it is burned off as he runs. Together they charge over the uneven

ground until the battle sounds become faint and finally silent. I follow them closely and

my fear subsides. The headlong rush of the horse in wild panic begins to quell within the

first five hundred yards, but William urges him to keep going, both now in accord, racing

wildly away from the battlefield and his men. He asks nothing of his horse but speed,

distance, and preservation. The steady and rapid pounding of horses hooves on dusty

ground fills the void of silence around us. I momentarily think of the battleground and

sense a very different kind of quiet. It is the silence of defeated humanity. I push away

the brief glimpse of the field strewn with the bodies of Williams comrades.

In this way, I learn William O. Barrett deserted at least once. Though I have no

other evidence, I see the truth of the situation and understand the circumstances. I also

know his courage failed the test of battle, and he left his friends behind. I can revisit the

vision as I like, but the facts will not change. I can see the story in more detail, but I

28


29/194

decide I have seen enough. The hellish noise, chaos, and uselessness of war between

human beings drowns me with grief and despair. Introspection resolves nothing.

No history book could ever explain what I experienced in that skirmish on the

battlefield. In the fury of battle, love and compassion cease to exist. All available energy

is focused on remaining alive. I conclude the horse had the best idea. He could not know

he carried a deserter on his back. He only knew life was worth preserving, and it was his

own life he was concerned about. A horse carries no weapon and his only recourse is to

run. But a soldier has other options.

Days pass as I write down the story of my experience on the battlefield. Just as I

finish the first draft, I get confirmation about the story from an unexpected source. My

grandson Colton has gone to his room and brought me a toy. It is a stuffed horse that I

gave him about six months ago. I had been visiting some friends, who tossed it onto a

burn pile. I rescued it, beating the coals off its mane and tail. They laughed at me, but I

said, I have a grandson who will love that horse!

I took it home and sent it through the wash and presented it to young Colton

who loved it for only a week or two before tossing it aside. It has lain in the chaotic

darkness of the toy chest until today.

The horse he holds out to me is brown, with a black mane and tail, just like the

horse in the vision. He is a bay and has felt the touch of fire. My grandson smiles. I take

the horse in my hands, impressed by the obvious spiritual signature. Colton stands

wordlessly before me and I try not to convey my sadness about the war as I gaze into his

sweet and happy blue eyes. He smiles back at me with total innocence, unaware of what

I have just experienced. His face is so full of light I let go of my despair.

29


30/194

My grandson mysteriously brought the horse to me at the precise moment the

vision ended. William Barrett and his horse have been released from the darkness of the

toy chest. I look down at the horse in my lap and experience the blurring between the

past and the present. I know the future will change for me because past, present and

future time periods are one and the same.

I do not understand it and I cannot explain it, but I accept the truth of it. Days

pass while this possibility processes in my heart and mind. There is so much more to life

than what can be seen or held in the hand. The past, present, and future coexist. I am

recovering from a bloody ambush as if I had been there physically. I keep thinking about

the young soldier and his big bay horse. In the physical present I cannot predict what will

happen next, and I worry about Williams future as if I am part of the past.

I am hopelessly lost on the back roads of my subconscious mind. My feeling

of disorientation becomes a familiar place, and I reside there privately, aware that other

people might not understand such dislocation. In some ways I believe I have more clarity

than I normally do, but the disquieting thought of losing grip on reality drains my energy.

Chapter Four

Naturally, I begin to wonder about Williams past, where he came from

and how he came to be involved in the war. In the battle, he looked very young

compared with some of the others. He had a regal bearing about him, and he rode his

horse like a seasoned horseman. As I go about my daily round, I try to imagine what he

was like as a child, and I wonder about his family of origin. William Barrett appeared to

30


31/194

be a person of substance, a man with life experience, yet he was clearly just a youth. The

disparity between his age and his demeanor is what intrigues me. For days I think about

him, wondering about him in the same way someone might remember a new and exciting

acquaintance. I want to know more, and I have to keep reminding myself that he is not

an actual person of flesh and blood, and that I do not inhabit the nineteenth century, but

the twenty first! Is William real? Is he a fantasy? Maybe because I cannot discover

more, I become ambivalent about the entire experience. I talk to my family and friends

about William and they listen with great interest, but they cannot understand how his

story became part of my reality. I am bombarded with awareness about his life, and I am

restless with my own.

The Berryville Public Library is within walking distance of my home, but like

all modern humans, I drive there because I am in a hurry. I plan to spend some time in

that sanctuary of quiet, researching the Civil War. Maybe if I see some photos, or find a

passage about the use of horses in the war, I will begin to understand my visions.

I pore over heavy books full of facts, maps and battle stories. For hours I soak up

histories of civilian experiences, letters from soldiers, and read incomprehensible and

conflicting stories about generals, battle plans, victories and defeats. I sit back, my hands

grimy from handling the books and my mind fatigued about the history of America. My

face certainly shows disappointment and sadness. My enthusiasm for the story is waning.

Nothing within the books has shed light on the Barrett Family. I check out an Arkansas

History book and head home, convinced I must keep trying.

Emerging from this exercise into the full sunshine of my life, I am jolted

once again into present reality. The courthouse across the street with its metal detector

31


32/194

doorway, the public square with its stoplights and traffic, and the Revenue Office full of

government employees are all evidence of my presence in the world of today, yet the

reality of the Civil War feels very recent.

In the minute it takes me to drive home, I plan supper for the family. I

know they will meet me at the house in about an hour. Arriving home, I wash my hands

at the sink, and hurry to gather the meat, vegetables and rice, and shake together a hot pan

of delicious food in twenty minutes. What I am unable to do is shake the story of

William Barrett. As each family member arrives, he expresses appreciation and comes to

me for a hug, but I know each one is just looking to see what is on the stove, and I am

preoccupied with William. My daughter Teale immediately senses something is amiss.

So, where is William today?

Stunned she hit my own question so squarely, I limply respond, What?

Well, last time we talked he was wheeling his horse around, and running

away. I just wondered where he ended up. She says this as she samples the broth in the

pan. It seems normal to her to come home and check on things like this. I stand there,

appreciating her, loving her and wondering how she came to be my youngest daughter,

and how time works in such a way she now has boys of her own, and I am a grandmother.

This realization is just as mysterious to me as watching William galloping around in the

nineteenth century. All of it seems unreal and amazing and beautiful. The tapestry of life

is rich with intricacies, its scarlet threads woven tightly into mysteries for us to ponder.

Teale, last time I saw him he was whipping his horse and I dont think

even he knew where he was going. What made you ask that?

32


33/194

Oh, I dont know. I was at work today and kept thinking about him and I

was hoping you might have had more revelation. I guess I got caught up in the story. I

even told my boss about it and she wants to know, too.

Really? You were talking about this at work?

Yeah she says, in that tone implying Duh, obviously.

I cannot believe you think he is real.

She huffs and turns away, dipping into the stew again. Mom, I am as

interested in what happens to him as you are. But I cannot see it for myself. I have to

wait on you to tell it to me bit by bit.

What that means is you believe what I have been saying. You believe I

am having visions about a real person, and you want to know about him. This is just the

fuel I need to keep going.

Dish up a plate and eat, Teale, I say, smiling with renewed energy for

the pursuit of the story. I know that if she is waiting to hear the next chapter, one will

arrive and I will capture it.

At the precise moment she takes the plate from my hand, I am mentally

transported to the front parlor of a house in Tennessee. I recognize a younger William.

He is lounging on the divan. He looks about sixteen or seventeen years old, based on his

size and demeanor. He is superbly handsome but he is slouched and sluggish in his dress

clothes. He is hot and feeling lazy. He is facing the fireplace mantel with his back to the

entryway. The house is standing open in the hope of catching a breeze. The heat inside

the house is stifling despite the open doors and windows. His hair is damp and curly

around his face.

33


34/194

I hear the tap, tap, tap of his someones cane on the polished wooden

floor in the hallway. Immediately I am afraid for William. The unseen presence in the

wide passageway has an intimidating aura even before he is visible. I see William

become as still and silent as a wild animal in the woods. In this vision, I am given

awareness as well as ability to see. I know in advance the presence in the hallway is a

man and is Williams father. I see by Williams reaction his fathers approach causes

more resentment than fear. He conveys resignation to the facts of his daily existence. He

rolls his eyes and then looks at his hand without moving his head even slightly. His

hands are small, very young with just a trace of manhood. They are the hands of a

gentleman yet to be. He is wearing a gold monogrammed ring on his finger. W. B. O.

The B was at the center, the W and O, smaller at the left and right of the B. I think to

myself, In a few years, the ring will fit. I wonder about the initials and imagine they

stand for his fathers name that he carries. I wonder if the ring was passed down to him

by his father. The name Othello passes through my mind, but is so odd I dismiss the

thought. I am not at the center of this vision, and I can move within it and around it. I

can move in for detail and out again for perspective. When out of my body like this, I

have unbelievable freedom of movement. If interested in a specific detail, I can go closer

with just a thought and take a look without disturbing the living participants.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The soft rustle of clothing and heavy scuffing from boots

accompanies his fathers approach. He finally appears in the doorway. With his back to

the hallway, William tries to remain invisible, but his curly hair shows just over the top of

the sofa. In the visions, I cannot predict what will happen. I am on full alert, observing

every detail, trying to absorb all the nuances of their relationship.

34


35/194

The tapping stops and his father just stands there, filling the room with his

gaze. I watch him as he stands unsteadily and leans heavily on his cane. His attention

goes directly to William and his eyes pierce through the shirt at the middle of his sons

back. The man in the doorway carries anger like a banner. His hands twist on the head of

the cane, and his shoulders are tight in the grey dress coat. His tie is loose at the neck,

and his shirt is partially unbuttoned. His hair is grey and unkempt, and his eyes are

seeking a target. His lips are rolled slightly inward, giving his face a menacing aspect.

There is no trace of kindness on him. Though I know I am not visible, I am very afraid.

As his father enters, the floorboards creak uneasily and the tension in the

space lifts me to a point of view much higher in the room. I float there, wondering what

will happen. Even though William is as fully present as his father, there seems to be no

space left for him. His father stands there saying nothing, but his attention is riveted on

his son.

The long silence of his father is apparently normal. It is meant to intimidate and

control. William knows the man standing at the door to the room: He knows he is

squaring his shoulders. His fathers thin frame leaning forward on the cane seems

heavier than the one hundred forty pound reality. William knows the cane is not a

medical necessity, but an affectation of fashion. He resents its presence as much as the

medicine bottles he finds in vases, under beds, and in unused fireplaces all over the

house. Williams thoughts about his father are conveyed to me telepathically. I do not

understand how this is happening, but I accept it with great interest and curiosity. His

surly and resentful thoughts include the name Othello.

35


36/194

Even the birds outside suddenly fall silent. No horse whinnies, no dog barks, and

no insect sings its song. It is as if no creature wants to draw attention to itself. His

fathers presence must be flowing out of the room through the open doors. The lazy

general atmosphere has been changed in an instant to a thick and unpleasant mix of

anticipation and fear. A single fly crawls up the wall and becomes still, waiting and

watching.

Like a legalistic preacher Othello allows the silent moments to pass heavily before

he speaks, and when he does finally speak, he says only one word: William.

The posture, the sharp tone of voice, the cane, the boots, the timing, and the silent

vacuum of space before and after the sound of his name communicate so much that is

never said. The tone is a rebuke. A threat. A call to inspection.

Once the tension in the air is disturbed by the spoken name, William rises from

his hiding place and turns to gaze at his father. The heat in the room suffocates me and

the anxiety I experience is nearly insufferable. Observing the two men facing each other,

I realize there is no escape for any of us. What is going to happen has already begun.

Yes, Othello, He answers. There is sarcasm and mockery in his voice.

As in the case of his fathers one word statement, Williams yes along with the

spoken name, holds a much larger message. It is impertinent, spoken with his guard up

and an awareness of what will happen next. I am terrified, and have no idea how to

anticipate his fathers reaction to such disrespect. Through it all, there is a faint note of

hopefulness in the younger voice. I can no longer apprehend what William is thinking.

Distracted by that single note of vulnerability, I am removed to a time and place even

further back in his history, when William was a child overflowing with optimism.

36


37/194

I am upstairs in the same house moving between two rooms that appear to be a play

space and a sleeping area. The rooms are at the front of the house, and filled with

sunlight. The first thing I notice is the heavy enamel paint on the door and ceiling

moldings which are massive and shiny with reflected light. The walls sparkle with the

joys of childhood. Delicate pastel scenes from nature appear to be hand painted, but are

so faded they could be printed wallpaper. The floor in the play area is bare, and the room

is furnished very sparingly. Curtains billow at the windows running the length of the

room and the scent of grass is in the air. Toys line the walls, sprinkled here and there in

casual disarray. Books are lined neatly on low shelves in the far corners. Small wooden

chairs are painted white, their rockers and spacers scuffed with years of use. I spot a

child sized rocking horse, complete down to its saddle and bridle, idle at the center of the

room. An upholstered chair sags heavily at one of the windows, with a ragged quilt

coverlet thrown over it. Someone supervises the child from that location. The chair is

out of scale and makes a statement in itself. It is the chair of a hireling.

The bedroom is smaller and more heavily furnished, a room designed for

tranquility and comfort. There is just room enough for a four poster bed and a highboy

dresser separated by a hand knotted Oriental rug on the polished wooden floor. Inside the

doorway to the bedroom is a child sized sofa upholstered in royal blue silk, which

matches the colors in the rug. Its chubby legs are made of hardwood in imitation of the

full sized furniture of the day. The windows are open and sheer curtains filled with

sunlight move gently in the breeze. Heavy curtains match the pastels in the wall

colorings, and can be drawn across the windows to darken the room for sleeping. I can

make out a faded horse chase galloping over the green meadows on the walls. It is a

37


38/194


39/194

to let them be known. Maybe this is what frustrated the white people most. Silence can

be argumentative. It controls any situation, directing outcomes by its judicious

application.

The child is William at age five. His father, a young man, appears at the door with

a suit of new clothes for the birthday boy over his arm. Looking in at the scene he says

brusquely,

Kayna, after today your services will be needed elsewhere. My son is passing into

manhood and will not require a nursemaid.

Without waiting for a reaction from either of them, he lays the clothing on the

little sofa beside his son and disappears as quickly as he had come. Kayna and William

race to one another, instinctively realizing that something even worse than his mothers

death has just occurred. Their mingled tears are like rain on a sunny day, and the birthday

joy of the innocent child is ruined. Kayna drops to her knees, and holds the naked child

against her heart as if to claim him as her own. The little white torso that she holds in her

chubby arms seems part of her. The words tumbling from her lips are unintelligible,

comforting, grieving, and encouraging. The sounds from her mouth come from a

faraway place and a faraway time. It is a song of Africa. The soft melody and words are

balm for their shared agony. The naked baby bird in her arms has fallen from its nest

and has no mother. Nature will take its course, and human intervention is futile

Providence seems crucial, but neither dares to ask for Gods help. Their embrace is

frantic, the rending of their hearts unjustified. Each of them knows only the loss of the

other.

39


40/194

I stand at her back, touching her shoulder, adding my sorrow to hers, but she is

inconsolable and unaware of my presence. My fingers touch the rough cotton of her

dress, and bump against the strap of her apron, ironed flat by years of repeated

maintenance. Kaynas skin is warm beneath the fabric, and I feel empathy for her and the

boy whose lives are being torn apart, but my concern changes nothing.

The man clothes are put on, the horse led up to the front of the house, and the

birthday boy is lifted onto the new saddle. Holding the reins as he had seen the grownups

do, William seems surprised by how wide and how heavy they feel in his small hands,

which he opens and closes repeatedly. He is comparing them with the leather on his

rocking horse upstairs.

I was feeling sympathy for him just as the horse startled at something, lunging

forward slightly and stepping sideways. William dropped one of the reins. The stirrups

had not been shortened so his new boots had nothing to rest on and he tumbled into his

fathers arms. Othellos smiling eyes looked as blue as the sky above them and the

affection there felt like sunshine to me. Before William had time to soak up the security

he needed, Othello tossed him quickly back onto the horse. The reins were handed back

to the child and a barn servant led the big horse away.

The mixture of delight, fear, surprise and disappointment overwhelm the little

boy. But his instability on the slippery new saddle is nothing compared to my own

disequilibrium. I am astonished a father would take such a risk with his only son.

I follow along as the small boy on the bay gelding was transformed during the

next five minutes from a very large toddler into a still, solid man-child. Seizing the thick

leather, loosening his legs and straightening his shoulders he tried to show his father his

40


41/194

gratitude for the gift of the horse. Still too nervous to turn and wave, he gazed out

between the ears of the animal, past the dull black hair of the handler and on down the

drive past the willow trees and magnolias and flowerbeds into the pastel painting of his

imagined future. I remember the horse and rider from the battle scene, and think of their

destiny as I watch them go.

The bay gelding settled into a unity of purpose with the boy above him and before

William and I knew what was happening, the man leading them unhooked the lead rope

and allowed the horse to pass quietly beside him, leaving the horse and rider to teach one

another about the world ahead. I follow helplessly as the vision unfolds.

Once William realized he was alone on the horse, he tightened the reins, in fear at

first and then when the horse eased to a stop, felt a surge of pleasure and power.

Releasing the tension on the reins and gingerly leaning forward, William gave the animal

permission to move once more. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Each time the boy asked

something, the horse obeyed and Williams smile grew more confident.

The time for returning was now. Lightly lifting the reins in both hands, and then

dropping them into his lap had little effect. He tried again and again. The horse sensed

the confusion in the signal, stopped, and turned his head as if to ask for clarification. The

boy could not believe the size of the horses face! He froze in the saddle.

Unimpressed by the child on his back, the horse dropped his head and began

to nibble on the grass, pulling the reins completely out of Williams hands. Gripping the

saddle with all his strength, the boy lifted his face to the sky and screamed,

Kayna! Help me, Kayna!

41


42/194

Dogs, stable boys, and father all arrived at once, instinctively responding in

efficient harmony, each participating in the rescue. William reached for his father,

anticipating the strong warmth of his embrace but drew back when he saw the cold rage

and the set of his jaw, tight with embarrassment. Simultaneously rescuing the boy in his

trouble and rejecting him as a person, his father swept him off the saddle and shook him

saying,

NEVER, EVER, let go of the reins! If you drop the reins, you drop your authority

along with them. A man who cannot maintain control of his horse will never control

anything. He set the child down, mounted the horse and rode off in disgust.

William cried, and even worse, lost control of his bladder, wetting his new man

pants and fearing his father would be even angrier with him, ran home to Kayna.

I hoped she would help him change into clean clothes, give him some food to eat, and

listen to the story of his attempt at manhood.

I followed him as he ran crookedly up the front steps, nearly falling, and then ran

across the planks of the veranda and through the open doors into the entryway.

Kayna! Kayna! Help me! I got a horse! Poppas mad and he took it away!

Running up the stairs to his room, his play nursery, and down again into the

kitchen, he cried,

Kayna, where are you? Kayna! Kayna!

No answer. I hover inside the front door watching him search for the loving

security he needs so desperately. He looks in every corner of the house. The beautiful

little boy in clothes too big for him finds nobody. He stands still in the dining room with

tight fists dangling impotently at his sides. His hairline is moist with sweat. His small

42


43/194

shoulders do not show through the coat on his back. The hard leather of his riding boots

shines in the sunlight coming in from the windows. He is absolutely still for many

moments. He does not cry. He turns his face dryly to the light streaming in from outside.

I feel such sadness for him, but when he turns fully to me and I see his face, I am

shocked. His blue eyes are burning with the kind of anger I have very rarely seen in the

eyes of an adult. It is the anger of comprehension. Someone he cannot trust is in control

of his life. He has the mistaken notion of paranoia. I observe the precise moment when

the boy takes on a new and dangerous persona. Without Kayna or his mother to protect

him, he would have to be as cruel as the world itself just to survive. Without warning

William shoves a tall porcelain vase onto the hardwood floor. The trembling painted

floral shards rock and still themselves in the silence that follows. In the eyes of a child

barely five years old, the anger appears ancient and borrowed. I watch the subtle changes

in Williams demeanor as Evil settles heavily into its nest. I am sickened and resentful.

Although William has no awareness of my presence, the glittering eyes of the beast see

me plainly. I turn away from them and in doing so, return to the present. I join the crowd

who were not there to help William make a better choice.

Chapter Five

I return to the living room of confrontation with full awareness of their shared

history. The memory of his fifth birthday and its losses and memories of the insufferable

pain that followed during his formative years colors every exchange between William and

his father. William could never fully comprehend why he was unacceptable to his father.

43


44/194

He learned that avoidance provided the best option for living with him. If he had known

his fathers history, he might have understood why he acted the way he did. But his

father was never one to spend time in self-introspection. He had nothing to share with

anyone.

Othellos parents thought his name would make him sound educated and refined. Its

full effect could not be measured, but it did cause him to feel set apart from other boys.

All his life he alternated between ignoring the taunts of boys with plainer names, and fist

fighting in his own defense. Perhaps if he had been born more affable and relaxed, the

name might have served to set him up as a leader, innately suited to use his unique name

to gain authority and loyalty.

But in reality, Othello was not physically strong, and shrank from opportunities for

rowdiness and boyish communication with his peers. Ignored by girls and abused by

boys, he fell into a secure spot as teachers special protg. He grew intellectually, but

remained emotionally young no matter how many birthdays passed.

The result was a physically mature man, leaning on a cane and racked by an opium

addiction, widowed suddenly just as he was entering into middle age. He was obviously

well educated but never pondered the difference between an external education and an

internal one. He memorized long passages of Greek, Shakespeare, and the Scripture, but

knew not how these words applied to him personally. He was a complete fraud, but did

not know it.

Left alone with the responsibility for a plantation, its slaves and his sons

education, he was secretly terrified. He did not miss his wife even slightly, but he did

44


45/194

blame her for his situation. If she had not died, escaping her responsibilities, he would

have been more comfortable in his role as husband and father.

Jenny OBrien had been beautiful and had maturity and education. She had

grown up at Whispering Oaks as an only child, sheltered and doted on by her parents.

After their passing, she became a capable and beloved manager of the plantation. When

she met and married Othello Barrett, everyone thought he was a brilliant choice. New to

the area, he had been the center of attention at social gatherings, giving the impression he

was a man of confidence and learning.

She had never enjoyed the kind of relationship with Othello she had hoped for.

His long quotations under the shelter of the moss strewn oaks overhead had swept her

trusting heart into his arms and into the deep unfathomable abyss of his dark internal

soul. Once they were married, Jenny began to understand that Othello would not be the

person who would love her and take care of her. Even more sadly, she began to

understand her situation was of her own making and the reality of her married life could

never be revealed to anyone. Digging deeply into her reserves of strength and creativity,

she carved out a life for herself that could be tolerable if not rewarding.

Her daily presence was one of constant motion. She would rise early, gathering

figures and communicating with property managers, animal handlers, and house servants.

As she passed Othello, she would stop suddenly, kissing him on his head or his cheek,

and move on before he could complain. Her obvious energy and efficiency was an affront

to his position as head of household. He could never admire her, or enjoy her company

after the marriage settled into a division of his responsibilities and hers.

45


46/194

He felt it was his responsibility to appear each day to fine-tune her efforts. His

superior intelligence was never in question, in his own mind or in hers, but she would not

always follow his direction. It was as if she felt he had every right to comment, but she

was under no obligation to obey. Her gift was empathy for all living things and their

management. His gifts centered on books, political argument, and criticism without

contribution. Her effectiveness always went to his credit in any of his public

conversations. This suited him and cost her nothing.

The baby boy growing up like a sapling between them was a blend of the two.

Ironically, each parent was annoyed that the child was so much like the other. In the

custom of the day, his rearing was left to the nursemaid, Kayna.

When Jenny died quietly after a minor chest cold, Othello felt relieved but also

resentful she was no longer there to take care of everything. He made the decision to take

all traces of the mother out of the child. The house, the servants, grounds and animals

were all his to enjoy and manage. Except for the child, it belonged to him alone, but he

was neither humble nor grateful. When his rage needed a target, he found her son to be

both willing and convenient. His coarse brutality laid the foundation for Williams fierce

and angry disposition in his adulthood.

During the years after his mothers death and the loss of Kayna, William began to

seek solace in the company of the horses and barn slaves. In this arena, the boy was

relaxed, cheerful and at peace. He busied himself with the tools of his chosen avocation,

handling the grooming of his favorite horses, the repairs to the tack, and occasionally

even putting on the horseshoes. There was nothing in the care and feeding of horses he

46


47/194

could not or would not do. He could be himself and his energetic and playful side which

came from his mother blossomed in that arena.

Othello would observe his son while he worked with the horses. Jealously, he

recognized the genius in his training style. Inwardly he worried about the boys potential

and his general lack of drive for politics and social graces. Although he appeared to be

perfect in every way, the picture of health, immaculate dress and sure confidence,

William fell short in his fathers eyes and they both knew the day would come when the

lessons whipped into the boy would become the crystalli

Documents

Most Current Billy