Cornelius Vanvig

Barbara Ellen

Her name has been lost to history just as mine soon shall be. But she is with me still even after all these years. I feel her presence here among the tangled vines of IV tubes, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, the inhaling and exhaling of the respirator, all the lights that blink on and off like stars letting the staff know I continue to cling to life. The nurses and orderlies care just enough about their jobs to try to keep me alive a little longer, and relatively clean and comfortable. They feign that they care, but I can see the cold indifference in their eyes. I am but one of many waiting to die in the rooms that line the corridors of this nursing home with its smells of urine and formaldehyde.

She comes when no one else is around, when my curtains grow dark with dusk or I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back asleep. I am the only one who can see her. Her hair remains just as long and black as it was in my childhood. Her skin is white with the smell of lilacs and cool to the touch no matter how hot it is outside, and her eyes are like two aquamarines glowing with the blueness of her soul.

When I’d come in from the tobacco fields out of the broiling afternoon sun, she’d be there in the house to give me a cool drink of well water, loosen my boots, place lunch on the table before me, her delicate little hands the size of apples. She’d rub the calluses on my fingers and palms with the naive admiration of a little sister, feel the pumped muscles in my arms, and say she’d wish she was out there in the fields helping me.

“Dang, Barbara Ellen, you’re crazy. Don’t nobody want to be baking in them fields but the farmer who owns them. We’re just hired hands, only in it for what he’ll pay by the hour.”

“Don’t you try to tell me what to do, Mr. Smarty Pants,” she said, mimicking Mama. “I can do anything I want. You can’t stop me.”

“Come on, take a look at me. My arms are as red as the bricks in the county courthouse. With your fair skin, you’d turn into a radish or a blood beet out there. Besides, that kind of work just ain’t fit for a girl.”

With that remark she got madder than a hornet and turned away from me with a quick jerk of her head indicating her contempt. I knew her anger wouldn’t last long. It never did. She’s got more spunk about her than most people, and an arrogant certainty she can do whatever she sets her mind to do no matter what obstacles are put in her way, and no matter what the consequences might be.

When I lay on my bed for my afternoon nap she’d often come into my room and curl up beside me. We’d talk a bit about whatever was on her mind. She liked to dream big dreams, think thoughts that took her well beyond our little house. Some days she was going to join the circus and travel through all the states in the Union and bring us back a souvenir from each. Other days she was going to be the first woman to fly around the world in an airplane, or move to Washington and start a bank only for women, or be the first female professor at the University in Charlottesville. It was wild talk for a poor girl from Spout Springs.

“Where do you get these nutty ideas from, anyhow? There’s no way any of us are going to do anything like what you are talking about. You’ve got some kind of imagination.”

“How can you just lie there like a log and not think of all the places you’d rather be, or things you’d rather be doing?”

“The day goes faster in the fields when you keep your mind focused on the job at hand. Let your thoughts wander and you’re libel to cut your hand wide open with a knife or get flattened by a wagon or kicked in the head by a horse.”

“Then that’s why you have me. To be the part of your mind that dreams, helps you see the real you. Don’t you ever imagine you can fly out of your body like a ghost and look down on yourself and all the people you love as you hover about in the clouds, and at those moments you can see things for what they really are. See things as they should be.”

“Leave me alone, girl, I need to get a little sleep before I have to go back out to the fields.”

“I keep telling you, Bill, you need to leave here, but you just don’t listen. You need to get out of this place before something bad happens to us, and you’re going to take me with you.”

“What a load of crap. Nothing bad is gonna happen to us. Now stop worrying and go to sleep. I’ve heard enough of your silly talk for one day.”

I’d fall asleep on that old mattress with my arm draped over her waist. No matter how hot it was outside, her skin always took the heat away from my body as if I was swimming in a cool spring, or laying in a stand of ferns. I’d always fall asleep first and wake up first. Often she wouldn’t even nap, but would lie there beside me in the room listening to the rhythm of my breath, dreaming with her eyes open, her lips moving silently with whatever was going through her mind at the time.

Then I’d rise and head out to the fields to top the tobacco plants until sundown, row after row of plants oozing tar from the top of their stalks, my hands growing dark with their juice as the sky reddened into night. We’d stop when the sound of crickets grew into a steady hum, and the bats swooped down over the fields from God knows where to catch insects in mid-flight. I’d pump well water over my head, lather up my hands with lye soap, eat dinner and go to bed before starting all over again the next day.

When the tobacco was barn-cured and aromatic as a fine stogie, we’d sort it into flyings, lugs, leaf and tips, and bind it into different bundles. Farmer O’Brien and I loaded the parcels onto the wagon for the all-day trip to the Lynchburg Tobacco Market where he’d barter or auction for the best prices he could get. He was a quiet man, who spoke only when he had to and then stuck strictly to business, rarely mentioned anything personal about himself. He always smelled like a mixture of sweat and dirt, even when he came to church dressed in his Sunday best. His wife was as skinny as a stick, bore him no children, and her face always looked pinched and puckered every time I saw her as if she were in pain. Some of the kids called her “praying mantis” because of the way she held her hands in front of her like she was ready to pounce on her husband and devour him whenever he came near. O’Brien’s face would visibly shrivel in her presence, take on a hardened expression, and his natural shyness was further reduced to a series of grunts and groans.

When I got home that night, she cornered me in my room after finding about my upcoming overnight trip. The topic had come up at the dinner table in a brief conversation with Pop when he asked me to pass the mashed potatoes. Mom chimed in with her usual warnings about keeping my head on straight in the big city and to always remember where I came from. I could see Barbara Ellen standing behind them rolling her eyes.

“How could you not tell me,” she huffed later when we were alone. “You promised.”

“Promised you what?”

“You know what.”

“I didn’t promise you anything. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. You can survive without me for a couple of days. So what’s your gripe?”

“What do you think I am, an ignoramus?”

“An ignor-what?”

“You heard me. I know what you’re doing.”

“Ok, then, tell me, what am I doing?”

“You’re running away from all of this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re going to go to Lynchburg and stiff that dumb old farmer, take his money and catch a train to Richmond or New York or San Francisco or Minneapolis. And you aren’t gonna take me with you, like you promised.”

“I ain’t gonna do no fool thing like that. Why do you go around trying to plant those kind of ideas in my head? There’s no place for any of them to take root. There’s only empty spaces up here.”

“Well I’m coming with you tomorrow. You can’t brush me off that easy and you aren’t leaving me here by myself. It’s our destiny to leave together. I’ve dreamed it.”

“Come on, Barbara Ellen, you’re only eleven. What do you know about destiny? You just got a bunch of mixed up ideas swirling around in your head getting you all confused. Nothing’s gonna happen tomorrow or any other day.”

“You aren’t fooling me. I am going to be on that wagon tomorrow to make sure you keep your word.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. O’Brien isn’t gonna let you do any such thing. Now get on to bed and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

She stared daggers into me, then shook her finger saying, “Remember, I know your destiny. I know what you are going to do even before you even think about doing it.”

“Yeah, right.” I said as she slammed my door without so much as a goodbye or good luck.

Her complete conviction in her own words was kind of spooky and in moments of weakness I would almost believe her. But that night I slept as soundly as I’ve ever slept before. I hit the bed like a rock and didn’t remember a thing until I woke the next morning before sunrise.

Barbara Ellen was nowhere to be seen. I tip-toed out of the house, boots in hand, quiet as a sparrow. Outside the kitchen door, I sat on the stump tying my boots, and looked all around in the dawn light to see if I could spot her lurching about. But all I could see was a lone deer browsing along the edge of the woods, and a few turtledoves fluttering up into the sky as I started down the dirt road. The sun chalked its reds and oranges across the horizon. Knowing what a pig-headed and stubborn girl she could be, I was surprised I hadn’t spotted her yet. Any moment I half expected her to leap out from behind a bush or a stand of grass and join me as I walked toward the O’Brien place. But the morning dawned strangely serene.

Farmer O’Brien growled, “you’re late,” as I stepped up into the wagon and he coaxed the horses into a slow trot. The smell of tobacco engulfed us as I cast a glance over my shoulder for any signs of stowaways. But all I could see were the tightly wrapped bundles we’d spent the week binding together. Surely, if she was here, she’d give me some kind of subtle sign, and trust me not to give her away. My anxiety began to wane as the sun climbed over the horizon. It had all been just idle talk. She wasn’t tagging along with me and I wasn’t running away. The thought had never crossed my mind.

The twenty-five mile trip would take O’Brien and I practically the entire day to complete. We drove mostly in silence except for the few dull-witted comments he’d make every now and then about the weather, or someone else’s crops or the number of farmers who were being forced to sell the family farms, and how people like me were tomorrow’s hope for carrying on the traditions. Nothing that would interest a boy of my age. I mainly just listened to his monotonous voice and agreed with what he was saying. This was my first trip to the auction house, and I was determined it wouldn’t be my last.

When we finally hit the city it was late afternoon. The roads changed from dirt into cobblestone and the houses huddled close together, clustered in rows of fours and fives with alleys in between. People milled about the streets, socializing, walking in and out of shops and bars. We turned off of Main Street onto Water Street, which followed the course of the James River, to drop off our goods at the auction house.

Once our tobacco bundles were tagged and labeled, we took our overnight bags and walked over to the Westover Hotel. Farmer O’Brien had booked a single room for both of us, with a common bath at the end of the hall. “They serve supper here at 7 in the dining room, then we’ll see what trouble we can get into,” O’Brien said dismissing me for the moment.

After dinner we left the dreary hotel, with its faded floral wallpaper and shut-in smells of dust and mildew, and crossed over several streets, before cutting through an alley. There we found ourselves standing before a disheveled three-story clapboard house, grey with neglect. A sign swung on tenuous hooks above the doorway, the words written in red paint: Ma Rainey’s. Where we stood in the street, we could hear the singing of drunken voices accompanied by a piano.

O’Brien grasped my shoulders and turned me until I was looking him square in the eye: “Boy, whatever happens here remains between us. Do you understand?”

Swallowing hard, I stammered, “Yes, sir,” uncertain what he was talking about.

“You’d better understand that. And never forget it. The city is a completely different place than the country, and don’t nobody in the country need to know what goes on in the city. Now don’t you forget that, ” he said, finally loosening his grip on me. Then he unexpectedly slapped me on the back, and said “follow me, I promise you a night you’ll never forget.”

We stepped inside the smoky house. The walls had been torn down to enlarge the rooms. A staircase divided the house in two and was cordoned off by a red felt rope. A man in a dress suit and white gloves stood blocking any access to the stairway and the rooms upstairs. With his head he motioned to the right and O’Brien headed in that direction. We took a seat at a hand-made wooden table. A large waitress in a low-cut dress waddled over. O’Brien ordered for us something I couldn’t make out and the waitress returned with two frothy mugs of warm beer.

“Tonight is my treat, boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I always admired those first class manners of yours. He sure does have some fine manners, don’t he, Nancy?” O’Brien said laughing with the waitress.

“And with those boyish looks and sandy curls you know he is gonna be mighty popular with the girls. If he is still unclaimed by the end of the night, I just might have to give him one for free. What do you think of that?” she asked, casting a big grin full of crooked yellow teeth my way.

I tried hard not to grimace, “That would be wonderful, ma’am.” No sooner had the words gotten out of my mouth than they both burst out laughing and uneasily I joined in, feeling the redness rise in my face, though I knew the joke was on me.

“Drink up, I believe the flies are thirstier than you are, and I certainly don’t want to waste my money on them.”

I took a long pull off of my beer and swallowed. It was the worst tasting drink I’d ever had. Getting to the bottom of this mug and any others that followed was going to be a chore. With O’Brien’s glistening eyes fixed upon me, I raised the mug again and took another long draught, swallowing slowly, trying not to shudder. O’Brien was starting to shake off those things that made him so miserable and cranky as he called out for a refill.

After a couple of more beers, he called over two not-so-young ladies to keep us company. Abigail, or Gail as she wanted to be called, sat beside O’Brien and was just as buxom and full-figured as his own wife was thin and scrawny. Nell slide in beside me. She did not have the worn beauty of Gail, but was more slender with a homely look about her. When I looked into her eyes I could see that same weariness that I saw in my mother late at night when she could at last relax a bit from the day’s work. They both seemed agelessly stuck in mid-life.

Nell put her hand on my leg and I felt her warm, sour breath against my ear. I knew she could feel my trembling beneath her hand. She probably thought I was just another hick with a few bucks in my pocket to spend. O’Brien ordered a round of drinks for everyone and I was starting to get a little dizzy with all this attention. Nell was now trying to rub my shoulders to loosen me up. I brushed her aside and asked her to stop.

“So where are you from,” she tried to make a little small talk.

“About twenty miles east of here.”

“I hear there is good farming country out that way. Is that true? I also hear there are lots of prime bulls out that way, some of the best in the state.”

“Well, we grow tobacco and are here for the auction tomorrow. We don’t have nothing to do with cows.”

“I bet it gets hot and lonely out in those fields with nothing but you and them tobacco plants.”

“It’s not too bad. You get used to it.”

“So is that guy your father?” she asked shifting her eyes to look at O’Brien.

O’Brien was whispering to Gail as if they were long lost friends, making eyes at her and growing more red-faced with each drink. I paused to watch them for a minute before answering.

“No, just my boss. I’m here to help him.”

“Now, don’t nobody around here do nothing for free so you must be getting paid something to come here.”

“Yeah, he’s paying me.”

“They say it’s gonna be a good year for prices, so you should ask him for a little more to spend on your Nell to make this a really special night.”

“We’ll have to see how things play out,” I said, trying to evade her obvious line of questioning.

“You know how it works. The friendlier you are to me, the friendlier I’ll be to you.” Just then a bit of the wine she was sipping from ran down her chin. She wiped it off with her index finger and licked it like a lollipop. The more I saw of her, the more I wanted to escape into a different time and place, wake up inside of someone else. I could feel myself drifting out of this noisy barroom, back to the quiet of my own room, back to our house where the crickets were all that could be heard this time of night, back to the face of Barbara Ellen who I knew would scold me for being in a place like this, for letting myself get put into this situation.

“Don’t tell me this is your first time,” Nell continued to pry. “Oh my God, it is!” A big smile bloomed across her face. “This is going to be some kind of fun.”

I felt myself becoming less and less a part of this conversation. “Don’t be silly. I’ve had a couple of girlfriends back home, and we know something about the birds and the bees back in the country.”

“Then how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” I lied.

“Whatever you say, honey. It doesn’t matter to me.” The more she squeezed my arms and rubbed my shoulders the further I felt myself slipping out of her reach, as if she wasn’t touching my body at all, but some statue of unfeeling granite that I had left in my place.

As Farmer O’Brien and Gail rose from the table together, he leaned over and whispered in my ear: “You’re on your own from here. I’ll see you in the morning.” I watched them head toward the steps. Nell gave me that look like it was our turn next. But I began asking her questions about herself, where she came from, how she came to this town, how long had she been working here, where her family was. Her attitude toward me grew noticeably colder, less like I was a new play toy to break in, and she kept trying to avoid answering my questions. But I pressed.

“I’ll be back in a minute, sugar, you just stay right here. I’ve got to go powder my nose.”

She walked through a doorway by the far side of the bar without looking back. I used this opportunity to make my getaway. I stepped from the stale, smoky air of the bar into the humid evening air and walked back to the hotel, my eyes staring straight ahead ignoring all the sounds and bustle around me as someone might follow after me calling my name. Whether it was Nell chasing me down from the bar, or Barbara Ellen with her dark hair flowing in the night begging me to take her with me wherever I was going, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to answer anyone’s call. I only wanted to retreat deeper into my own solitude, nestle into the darkness of my room and pretend I was at home, sitting by myself out in the fields surrounded by the nightly of crickets as the dew slowly works its dampness into everything and the moon catches its sheen as it begins to peek over the treetops.

But for now I had to settle for the darkness of my hotel room. The sounds of the street below would have to lull me to sleep as I imagined I was watching the stars revolve in the heavens above me. I fell asleep without the comfort of Barbara Ellen’s voice seeding the empty fields of my mind with her dreams and aspirations. But my thoughts were on her. I missed the sparkle of her eyes, her perky spunk, her very being urging me to make more of myself than I could possibly ever achieve on my own. I pictured her laying in bed at home, her imagination running in wild, crazy circles trying to guess which direction I was heading to escape from our claustrophobic life. But I could never be as ambitious as her. It just wasn't in me.

I woke late the next morning, and was surprised Farmer O'Brien had not pounded on my door demanding to know where I was. Skipping breakfast, I headed to the warehouse where the auction was already underway. I spotted Farmer O'Brien standing in the shadows on the far side of the warehouse, directly opposite the doorway. He was leaning against a support beam, looking pale and haggard, more worn out than I'd ever seen him in the fields. He said nothing to me as I took my place beside him other than the auction was going well. As the auction unfolded, it was apparent there was more demand from the buyers of the cigarette and cigar companies than what the farmers could supply this year. Spot droughts had caused much of the crop to wither in the fields or put out stunted leaves that would produce little flavor or aroma. We were lucky the rains hit our fields at the right times during the growing cycle and our leaves were some of the finest in the state. Farmer O'Brien would have a pile of money to bring home to his shriveled wife. It would be a good winter for them both, with room for a few luxuries and maybe a few more trips to town.

The auction ended a little past noon. As O'Brien went to settle his account, I fetched the wagon and lined up with the other helpers outside of the warehouse. O'Brien barely showed any emotion as he took the reins from me and eased the horses homeward. I could see the bulge of the money in his pocket and then something I'd never seen before: a pistol tucked into his belt by the small of his back. I didn't say a word about it, and had already reconciled myself to the fact that I would get nothing more for the trip than our agreed upon price, no matter how good his fortunes had been. We retraced our path from the previous day in silence, barely passing anyone, not mentioning a word about the night before. All I could think of was getting back home and away from O'Brien for a few days, settling into some chores around the house while the younger children were getting prepared to return to school.

We didn't get home until around 10pm. The last part of the journey, the moon lit our path like a beacon. O'Brien, in his usual fashion, didn't drop me off at my house, but drove straight to his barn and had me unhitch, water and feed the team. As I walked home, I could see the lights of our house from across the fields and sensed something wasn't right. By this time of night the house should be pitch black. I picked up my pace, advancing from a slow trot to a run. When I came to the screen door, I saw Mom sitting at the kitchen table, her face buried in her hands. I was panting so hard I couldn't go inside right away. I waited for the pounding of my heart to subside, my breathing to slow.

At the sound of the door creaking open, Mom looked up with a desperation in her eyes that I hadn't seen before.

“She came after you, you know. She tried to follow you. She was carrying her bag with all her clothes in it thinking she was running away with you.”

“Mom, is she ok? I didn’t think she would actually try to follow me. You know how she says things she doesn’t really mean, and its hard to know when she is really serious about something. I looked around for her when we were leaving just in case she was going to try something crazy. But I didn’t see her.”

“Well, she couldn't have been more than 10 or 15 minutes behind you. We looked all day for her when she didn’t come to breakfast and finally found her that afternoon five or six miles down the road. She was lying in a ditch crying. We almost drove right by her, but luckily your Dad spotted her. She was burning up with fever. The doctor doesn't know what it is, doesn't know anything else to do but give her some aspirin and keep cold cloths on her head.”

“I'm sorry, Ma. I had no idea that she would really do something like this. It is usually just talk, and then she forgets all about it. Or moves onto the next thing.”

“She's been asking about you. She's probably asleep, but it's ok for you to peek in on her. It will do her good just to sense that you are home.”

“Everything will turn out alright. I know it will, Ma.”

“We all hope so. But for some reason I am truly fearful this time.”

I crept down the hallway, opened the door just a sliver and a beam of light fell across her face as she lay in bed uncovered. I could see the sweat beading on her forehead, running in rivulets down the sides of her cheeks. Her eyes opened, and I heard her whisper my name: “Is that you, Bill?”

I knelt by her bedside, stroking her black hair that was moist with her fever. “I'm back, Barbara Ellen. Just like I told you I would be.”

“You dummy,” she whispered as a pained smile blossomed on her face. “You should have kept going. There's no future for either of us here. I keep trying to tell you that, but your head is just too thick.”

“I couldn't leave you here. I had to come back to make sure you were ok. Why did you go and do a dang fool thing like try to follow me? It was never gonna be anything more than an overnight trip to Lynchburg. There’ll come a time when we can escape here and be rid of this place once and for all. Maybe go to San Francisco or Denver, as far away as we can, and you can come up with some idea to make ourselves rich.”

I could see the light growing dimmer in her eyes as I spoke. Her disappointment in me made me want to babble more nonsense to fill the silence between us.

“Barbara Ellen, it just ain't our time yet. I'll take you away from here, I promise, in a few years when we are both a little older and more ready for it. Momma still needs you to help out around here a bit longer, and Dad needs another good two to three years out of me in the fields to help him get this place paid off. Then he and Mom can have some piece of mind, and we’ll leave here without our conscience weighing us down, and blow like the wind wherever we want to go in this country.”

“Blow like the wind,” she repeated, her voice getting raspy and weak. “I like that.”

“Now you go on and get some sleep so you have the strength to shake this fever, and we can do just what I talked about. This is a little secret between us, and you are not to go blabbing your big mouth all over the place about it, you understand?”

“Yes,” she murmured. I could see her pale eyelids beginning to sink almost translucent over her bloodshot eyes. I kissed her damp forehead and reapplied the wet cloth that had fallen off.

When I turned to leave I saw Mama standing in the doorway. She gripped my arm as I slipped through the doorway and softly whispered: “I don't think I can take losing another one, especially this one.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say except: “We'll just have to find a way to pay the doctor bills. Whatever it takes to make her better. I'll work as many jobs as it takes to pay the bills.”

“Bless you, you are a good boy” was all my mother could manage as she stroked my cheek with tears brimming in her eyes. She slipped past me into Barbara Ellen's room and I saw her kneel by the bed with her hands folded in front of her.

Twice a day for several weeks the doctor came by. Once in the morning on his way to the office, and once in the evening on his way home. Her situation took many unusual turns. Some days she seemed to be improving. Other days it seemed as if the fever would consume her like a forest fire. The doctor had never seen anything like it in all his years of practice. Whatever cures he tried would show some effect for an hour or two, a day at most before the same symptoms returned. But in the meantime, her body was slowly wasting away, turning pale and becoming so thin you could almost see her skeleton beneath the flesh. We all prayed, but it seemed God's answer was to let life remain in her for a few days longer than He would have otherwise. The preacher prayed over her, tried to cast the devil out, but the fool didn't have a clue as to what he was doing. This was not the work of the devil, but of God himself calling her home. It was her desire to remain with us and our desire to hold onto her longer that kept breath moving in and out of her lungs. God in His mercy granted us these last special days with her.

The only coffin we could afford was a box made of yellow pine. My Dad's friend, Jed the carpenter, took extra care with it and dovetailed the joints and put fancy handles on it he had left over from some of the cabinet jobs he did. Though they didn't match, our family appreciated the thought and feeling he put into his work.

Mom had Barbara Ellen dressed all in white, a frilly dress I hadn't seen before. I don't know if she bought it special for this purpose or if she already had it around somewhere. She packed blankets around the body, propped her head up on the same pillow that we often used to lay on for our afternoon rest. Needless to say, she looked beautiful, like an angel, and we all knew she had already become an angel. This body that we touched and knelt before as we prayed was now just an empty reminder of what she had meant to all of us, the life and spark she brought into our house that would now be missing.

No one blamed me as much as I blamed myself for what happened. I was the one who let that silly girl run on with her crazy notions and ideas. I should have stopped when she suggested coming with me. I should have cut the conversation off right then and there. Mom and Dad never said a harsh word to me about it, but they knew whose fault it was.

Someone had gathered up what few flowers were in bloom that time of year and encircled her coffin with yellow and white arrangements. The preacher entered and walked to the pulpit dressed in his best black suit. His words from that day still stay with me: “No one knows what God's purpose is in taking one so young from us. No one will ever know or understand it in this lifetime, as long as we live on and are a part of this earth. Only when each of us attain heaven will we finally comprehend the purpose of this tragedy, know the wisdom of God's plan for each of us who remain as we question what could have been done differently to save this precious life that touched us all so deeply. Trying to find answers to these questions is a futile activity. We should trust in the Lord, not question his intentions. His plans are beyond those of us on this earth. Our purpose here is to live our lives as righteous and upright as possible no matter what trials and tribulations He may place in our path.”

The carpenter's nails sealed her image away in my soul forever. When the dirt fell against the coffin lid, it was the final confirmation she wouldn't be waiting for us at home when we returned, she was gone forever, and our time with her was over except for the memories that lingered in our minds.

For three more years I remained in that house, moving about rooms that now seemed tinier, more spartan, more bare, as if that one event by itself had shrunk the house to a fraction of its original size, had diminished its occupants into something less than we had been before. It was almost impossible to breath inside its walls. I spent most of my time outside in the fields with Farmer O'Brien, or doing odd jobs for anyone who could pay me in cash or food. Once I’d made things right for Mom and Dad, helped pay off the doctor and the mortgage on the house, it was time for me to go my own way.

My last words to Barbara Ellen played like steeple bells in my head as I hitched a ride into Lynchburg with all my belongings packed in a satchel. I took a small room in a boarding house with a Christian lady who ran everything with a military precision, found a job at a glass factory making bottles for the many cure-all medicines of the time where it was warm by the furnaces in winter, but sweltering in the summer. I saved as much money as I could, attended the church around the corner every Sunday, where I prayed for my parents, my other brothers and sisters, and the soul of Barbara Ellen. Often at night I could feel her walking beside me, urging me to move on, do more with my life.

Soon I met a young, red-headed Irish girl who had grown up near me in the country, but I didn't know her when I lived there. She was plain like me and her aspirations weren't more than I could handle. We began spending all of our time together. Marriage followed, then a family. When the glass factory began to run into trouble, I moved on to the shoe factory, which at the moment was experiencing boom times. The hiring line circled around the block and for some reason they picked me and a handful of others from among the hundreds they screened. I quickly rose to foreman and my paycheck grew into something to be proud of, but as my daughters came I couldn't bear to name any of them Barbara Ellen. That was a name and a story I kept all to myself, not even telling my wife as we grew older, happy with our lives together, not even as she passed on into the next life, leaving me alone in the house we'd bought together our first year of our marriage and in which we shared so many memories.

When my daughter's visits to check up on me became less and less frequent, Barbara Ellen began to come back into my life, first in dreams where she was the same spunky little girl she had been so many years ago. Nothing about her had changed: her girlish beauty, the raven black hair that fell like a waterfall down the middle of her back, her skin so soft to the touch, and her endless chatter about whatever thoughts were running through her mind. I began to see her when my eyes were open, initially at night and when others were not around, then she started to appear before me at any time. I wondered if it might just be my mind playing tricks on me after all these years, my guilt taking me back to a time I would give anything to be able to change, or if she came to me at those times when she sensed I needed her help. It didn't really matter. She was back, and that was what counted.

When at last my daughters decided to put me in St. John's nursing home and sell the house, I didn't fight them. I knew deep down their decision was right. I was barely able to take of myself, and cooking was a sometimes adventure in pyrotechnics. It was better to move me where someone else could look after my basic needs, see that I was fed, clothed and bathed without risk of injury.

Weeks later, when the shock and newness of the move began to wear off, Barbara Ellen began to appear once again in my room. This time her figure was clearer and sharper, not the washed gray she was earlier back at my own house. The aquamarine of her eyes was so blue I felt like I was looking through a clear mountain stream, down into the depths of her soul, and there I could see my true self without all the worldly clutter, with the defeats and disappointments stripped away. My senility didn't prevent me from recognizing that the reflection I saw in her eyes was what I could have been if only she had lived, continued to fill my head with ideas, to keep me from settling for what was easy and convenient.

* * * *

This time I know I’m the one who must follow her.