The Appalachian Chronicles: Shades of Gray

  Chapter XXII

  11:00 pm

  While I was standing next to the dumpster, Anna appeared, walking toward the RV. “Anna,” I called. She turned to look but kept walking and turned back toward the RV when she did not see me. “Anna,” I called, again.

  She turned again and peered through the darkness, moving her head from side to side. “Ian?”

  “Over here.” She walked toward me, but I stayed out of the light.

  “Where are you?”

  “Here, by the dumpster.”

  “How nice,” I heard her say. Then she caught a glimpse of me and asked, “What are you doing out here?” When she got closer, her eyes grew wide and she exclaimed, “You shaved!” After taking a closer look she laughed. “Looks like you had a difficult time of it, too.” Numerous pieces of toilet paper were still stuck to my face.

  I took Anna’s hand and pulled her into the shadows.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

  “I’ve got to talk to you, but wait a minute.”

  “Okay,” she said warily. Then she looked at me and whispered. “Have you stopped bleeding yet?”

  “Probably.” I reached up and began rubbing my face to get the paper off.

  “Here, let me.” Anna pulled my hand down and removed the bits of paper from my face. “It’s really you under all that hair, isn’t it?”

  “How did you recognize me when you first saw me today?”

  “I’d know those eyes anywhere,” she said. Then she added, “Truthfully, I wasn’t sure until you spoke my name.”

  “Shh,” I whispered.

  “What is it?”

  I raised my finger to my mouth. Anna and I stood quietly and watched Junior walk from the RV back to the battlefield. When he was well beyond the range of our voices, Anna asked, “Why all the secrecy?”

  “You won’t believe what I saw tonight.”

  “Try me.”

  “You know many of the guys out there are just ordinary guys, but some of them….” I proceeded to tell Anna about the different men I had talked with. She agreed that Ben had reason to be proud of his heritage and laughed along with me when I told her about Dexter and Reg and their friends. She had once watched them perform their hand-to-hand combat routine and regarded the act as pure spectacle. She, too, found it easy to believe that the men of the Virginia 1202nd might be found enjoying their fellowship at a hunting lodge or fishing camp as well as they did at a Civil War reenactment.

  Then I told her about the men in the Union camp. She listened intently and occasionally nodding her head in agreement as I repeated comments made by Isaac, James or Gilbert. She thought that Gilbert’s suggestions for improving the general authenticity of reenactments was clever and amusing.

  As I ran out of things to say about my visit to the Union camp, I wondered what I would say next. I was hesitant to talk about what I learned while inside the inner sanctum or while eavesdropping behind Leland’s tent. Attempting to redirect the conversation, I asked, “So, how was dinner?”

  “Dinner was fine,” she replied, before quickly directed the conversation back to the reenactment. “So what else did you find out?”

  “What else?” I asked – trying to stall.

  “Yes, Ian. What else did you find out inside the camps? Don’t hold out on me.”

  I looked down and said, “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course I do,” she responded. “Besides, just a few minutes ago you couldn’t wait to tell me.”

  I began talking about the men inside the circle of tents and Anna became somber. As I described the spontaneous question-and-answer session and the music she listened intently. But when I explained to her how some reenactors insisted that the Civil War was fought over the question of sovereignty and had little or nothing to do with slavery, she interrupted me and said, “You know what’s wrong with them – they’re like little boys, defeated little boys.”

  “Okay,” was all I could say before she continued.

  “Like some boys, they can’t tell the difference between real and imaginary threats. You know what motivates them?”

  “What?” I asked, although I knew she would have continued without my reply. She was clearly agitated.

  “They are threatened by people who are different than they are and they segregate themselves to avoid having to accept others. Neanderthals.”

  Anna paused as if waiting for me to respond. I stood silently and she said, “I’m sorry, I’m just angry.”

  I was disturbed too, but I preferred to talk dispassionately about what I had seen and heard. “I understand your anger,” I said.

  “I would hope so.” She took a deep breath as if to release some of her frustration and continued, “You know, Ian, I have to wonder if they’re happy with their own lives. Why else would they be so willing to go to great lengths to justify their beliefs even when those beliefs seem to represent a big step backward? They’re like the remnants of a wildfire that’s been beaten down time and again, flaring up every now and then until it either runs out of fuel or someone puts it out for good.”

  “That’s quite an analogy.”

  “It’s true?”

  “How do you know it’s true?”

  “I just do.”

  “That’s not good enough.” I paused, waiting for Anna to reply. When she didn’t, I continued. “Look, most of these guys are out here having fun or honoring their ancestors. At worst, there’s a few that seem to want to question the commonly accepted history. Is there anything wrong with that – especially when there are many credible historians who would challenge their position. It’s like an ongoing debate.”

  Anna was unmoved. “You’re just being contrary,” she said. “People like that never seem to face up to the reality that the problem lies within. It’s too easy to blame others. What worries me most is that the problem is widespread and it perpetuates itself from generation to generation. They deal with their unhappiness by trying to change the world to fit with their own self-image – often to the detriment of others.

  “I’ve always believed that education was the key to overcoming mistakes and limitations of the past, but people, like some of the ones out there, make me think that things will never change. I’ve always believed that each generation has the responsibility to move humanity one step closer to living harmoniously.” She sighed as if weighed down by the frustration she felt and added, “Ian, I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m too idealistic.”

  “Of course you are,” I teased.

  Anna gave me a weak smile and said, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  All I could say was “Uh-huh.” I stood there considering whether I should tell her more. I knew that if I said more about what I had seen she would become angrier, so I suggested, “Why don’t we take a walk?”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  We walked to the road and turned in the direction of Anna’s house. I was still thinking about the conversation I’d overheard between Leland and Junior. Anna must have sensed my preoccupation.

  “So did you find out anything else?” she asked.

  “Well, not really.”

  “That wasn’t very convincing.”

  “Oh… oh, it’s nothing.”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Ian, if there’s more, I want to hear it. I won’t be surprised by anything you might tell me.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “How can it be any worse?”

  “Well,” I said and began by reminding her about our conversation with Owen and then started talking about what I had overhead in the tent. “I assume you know what a catechism is?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “These men are distributing them to cities in the South. They’re meant to educate children about the Civil War.”

  “Do you know what’s written on them?”

  “Well, I happen to have a copy.”

  “With you?”

  ?
??Yes.” I opened the Confederate jacket and pulled out the catechism.

  Anna snatched the paper from my hand and started to read aloud. When she finished reading all questions and answers she dropped her hands and said, “I can’t believe this.”

  “I know. It is hard to believe they’d go to such extremes to indoctrinate children into some kind of neo-Confederate world – but hey,” I said weakly, “doesn’t the church do the same sort of thing?”

  “No,” replied Anna, “their methods might be the same, but their motives are different. One would like to believe that what the church does is based on love and wanting people to learn to work together and care for one another; what these guys are doing is entirely different.”

  I shuffled my feet. Anna cut her eyes at me and asked, “That’s not all, is it?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I can just tell.”

  I repeated the words that Leland’s son said, although I made it clear that he wasn’t allowed to finish his statement. Anna immediately sat down with her back against a tree and continued her angry discourse. “That’s horrible, that man has crossed over the line. The poor little boy doesn’t even know what he’s saying – he’s the living proof, Ian! He’ll grow up to be just like his father and he’ll teach his children to think the same way.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” she responded. “How can you say that? You know that’s what’s likely to happen.”

  I nodded.

  “I have to talk to my father,” she said. “He’s got to put a stop to this.”

  “What can he do? He can’t prove anything; he’s only got my word to go on.”

  “Maybe he can have their lease voided.”

  “What about the others?” I asked. “You know, like Ben and Reg.”

  “They’ll find other places to go. It’s not like it’s difficult to find a reenactment.”

  “So will Leland and Junior.”

  Anna looked up at me and said, “I would make it right for everyone if I could – God knows I would. But I can’t just sit around and do nothing when my home is being used as a recruiting center for a white supremacist organization. And to think there are hundreds, probably thousands more like that boy. I’d like to go over there and tell his father a thing or two.”

  “He’d deny everything.”

  “He probably would.” Anna stood up, “So what can we do?”

  “Do? I doubt that we could do anything that would make a difference.”

  “Well, they won’t be back next year. As I see it, any participation in reenacting is a tacit approval of the hatred that motivates white supremacist. In my mind they’re all guilty of perpetrating hatred – even if only by association.”

  “No pun intended,” I responded.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Come on, let’s walk,” I said.

  “Good idea. I can’t think of the last time I was this upset.”

  “And too think you can thank me for that.”

  We walked silently on the road toward the Foxharte’s home. After a few minutes we began to talk again. We talked mostly about thru-hiking. “It’s a good thing that you’re doing for your brother,” said Anna.

  “It’s not just for him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I needed a break,” I answered.

  “Are you on sabbatical?”

  “Yes.”

  “When do you have to be back at work?”

  “September.”

  “Nice break.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you still like living out West?” she asked.

  “Not as much as I used to. It’s a forward-thinking place. Certainly, there’s a greater emphasis on environmental issues. But it’s crowded and expensive; and, it’s, it’s just not home.”

  “You miss Virginia.”

  “Yes.”

  Anna nodded and said, “I would too. You know, Ian, it’s strange.”

  “What is?”

  “Part of the reason I love Virginia so much is because of its rich history. Yet, at the same time, I’m embarrassed by some of the history.”

  We walked out of the trees that, from the battlefield, blocked the view of the Foxhartes’ house. I looked up and the night sky was clear. Other than the stars the only visible light came from the house and a sole window in one of the barns. I told Anna, “I really like this farm.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s that light in the barn?” I asked.

  “It’s probably Zeb.”

  “Zeb,” I said sounding startled. “I forgot to tell you, I thought I saw him out there.”

  “How would you know him?”

  “I think he gave Max and me a ride down from the mountain today. We rode in the back of a truck just like yours – except it had two Confederate flag stickers in the back window.”

  “That was our truck. I scraped those stickers off this morning. Zeb must have picked you up when he was returning from Lexington. Daddy had just bought the truck and sent it to be serviced. Zeb picked it up.” Anna paused for a second. Then she said, “So, Zeb’s participating in reenactments.”

  “I can’t be sure it was him.” I recalled that earlier in the day Anna had expressed some misgivings about Zeb, but that didn’t stop me from saying, “I thought you might be dating him.”

  “Zeb,” she exclaimed. “Don’t be silly. I told you I was seeing a therapist.”

  “Oh, that’s right. So who is this therapist?”

  “His name is Drew.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “I met him after Mom had her first surgery, but I didn’t really get to know him until Daddy started rehab.”

  I wanted to know if Anna loved him, but I couldn’t think of any tactful way to ask her. Finally I just said, “So?”

  She looked at me and shrugged her shoulders, “So?”

  “You like to leave the hard part for me, don’t you?”

  “Hard part – what are you talking about?”

  “Come on, Anna.” I stopped walking and turned to face her. “Do you love him?”

  “Oh, that. Well.” She paused. “I don’t know. I mean I do like him a lot.”

  “He’s the guy you were with tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get rid of him?” I said, revealing a mild agitation.

  “I didn’t get rid of him; I simply told him the truth. I told him that I’d run into an old friend and that I wanted to get home early – that I wanted to spend some time with my friend.”

  I sensed that my questions were an annoyance so I changed my approach. “‘Some time with an old friend.’ ‘Old friend,’ I guess that’s me.”

  Anna looked at me. I poked out my lower lip and she laughed. “You silly boy.”

  Relieved to hear her laugh, I realized that pestering her about Drew was not a good idea. Besides, I knew I shouldn’t be surprised that she was seeing someone. I didn’t say any more about Drew; instead I said, “Thank you – for thinking about me.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  I reached for her hand and slipped my fingers between hers. She smiled.

  Looking into the northern sky, I said, “You have almost as good a view of the stars here as we have on the trail. No light pollution.” I pointed overhead and said, “There’s the Big Dipper.”

  “Can you find Ursa Major?”

  When I first hiked the trail I learned a lot about the stars and constellations. I looked at the Big Dipper and pointed toward other stars surrounding the cup, “There’s the Great Bear’s head, his body and his feet.”

  “Ian, I’m impressed.”

  “I know something about the stars,” I pleaded.

  “Do you know the names of the stars in Ursa Major?” Anna asked.

  “No, but I have the feeling I’m about to learn.”

  Anna pointed at the Great Bear’s tail, “That’s Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda…” After
Anna named all the stars she began talking about how the Great Bear and the sub-cluster of stars commonly known as the Big Dipper had been important to different cultures throughout history. “The Big Dipper,” she said, “is not a true constellation, but it is one of the most recognizable groups of stars in the sky. It’s been identified as a wagon, a plow and a bull’s thigh, and the Chinese consider it a symbol of government. Native Americans say that the bowl of the Big Dipper is a giant bear and that the stars of the handle are three warriors chasing the Bear. When the Big Dipper is low in the autumn sky the Indians say that the hunters have injured the giant bear and the blood caused the color of the leaves on the trees to turn red.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s my favorite story about the Big Dipper.”

  “Didn’t runaway slaves use it to find the way north?” I asked.

  “Yes, the slaves even sang a song called ‘Follow the Drinking Gourd’ which contained a code that gave details about how to escape to Canada. Supposedly, a black man named Peg Leg Joe went from plantation to plantation teaching the song to the slaves.”

  “Where did you learn that?” I asked.

  “Astronomy class. My professor also thought that the song ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ was a coded song.”

  I interjected, “Swing Low?”

  “Yes. He said that the Big Dipper was the chariot and in the springtime it’s low on the horizon in the early evening. As the evening progresses it swings up into the night sky and shows the way ‘home’.”

  “That’s strange,” I said.

  “It’s not strange. It’s sensible.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s strange that I often hear Max whistling the tune in the mornings. And, I was humming it earlier tonight, though I didn’t realize it at first.”

  “Oh,” replied Anna.

  I was intrigued, but I forgot my own curiosity and said to Anna, “I wish I had taken astronomy.”

  “Can you find the North Star?” she asked.

  “Of course.” I pointed to the one side of the cup of the Big Dipper and moved my hand along the same line. “There.”

  “What more does a thru-hiker need to know?”

  I stopped walking and looked straight up. The Milky Way, that broad band of heavenly illuminated night sky that stretches across opposing areas on the horizon, was visible. I lowered my head and saw that Anna was looking overhead as well. I stood quietly, admiring the silhouette of her long neck and the womanly lines of her body, waiting for her to look down. She lowered her head. I slid my fingers through her hair, and leaned forward to kiss her. She resisted, lightly placing two fingers on my lips. “Not now,” she said compassionately. “Today has been a bit overwhelming.”

  I first noticed that she said “Not now” and wondered if that meant maybe later. But I did not pursue her tentative response; instead, I repeated, “Overwhelming?”

  “Well, yes. Hasn’t it been that way for you? I mean, we just run into each other and then” – she paused – “the revelation about these reenactments. I can’t stop thinking about that boy.”

  “You’re really are upset, aren’t you?”

  “Yes – very,” she replied.

  “You make me feel like I should do something.”

  “I might have wanted that a few minutes ago, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s not up to you.”

  “Who then?” I asked.

  “I sometimes doubt that anyone can make a difference. It’s ashamed that some people struggle all their lives for power, when all they really want is to feel important. People will try all kinds of things to feel important – gaining power is just one of them. Those who are not successful look for excuses and sometimes the easiest excuse is to blame others. That’s what those white supremacists are up to, and unfortunately others behave the same way. It seems like the innocent people are the one’s that get hurt – I mean really hurt – by the struggle between races.

  “I know a professor who worked at Kennedy University who lost his job after he turned down a minority applicant for graduate school. The applicant had a 2.1 undergraduate GPA, low GRE scores and had already received C’s in two graduate courses he’d taken as a special student. Had he already been in the program he would have been on probation for having the C’s and a GPA below 3.0. Anyway, after my friend made his decision someone from Affirmative Action showed up and asked him to reconsider. At first he agreed to admit the applicant, under certain conditions, but within minutes of leaving the meeting he realized he’d been pressured into doing something that wasn’t right. If the applicant had been accepted, the door would have been open to anyone with an undergraduate degree to enter the program, regardless of GPA, standardized test scores and even after demonstrating an inability to succeed in graduate school. Anyway, after my friend backed out of the arrangement the Affirmative Action officer contacted someone on the Board of Visitors. The next year my friend’s tenure application was turned down.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he find out that the Affirmative Action person had gone to the Board of Visitors?”

  “He also had a contact on the Board. In fact, his contact offered to testify on his behalf – if he had wanted to file suit. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to put his Board friend in that position and he said he really didn’t want to be associated with an institution that was politically corrupt.”

  “Good for him,” I said.

  “Yes and no,” replied Anna. “He’s now struggling to keep open a small bookstore in Charlottesville – the victim of a one-upsmanship power struggle. Have you ever wondered how many innocent people have been hurt by that kind of behavior?” She sighed. “I don’t know how much longer I can live here. I love this place; but I’m almost ashamed to say that. I’m losing tolerance for some of the people that live here.

  “I live here, in the middle of nature’s bounty. There’s little one can do in life that’s more inspiring than to climb up to the peak of Sharp Top and look down into the valley. At sunrise, or sunset, in the middle of a day in early Spring when the leaves on the trees in the valley have opened and the those on the mountaintops haven’t come out yet, you feel like you’ve been invited to sit next to God and look down at his creation. And then, there are the people who live here. Most of them are generous and kind and thoughtful, they understand what a gift it is to live here. But there are others, like the members of the local white supremacist group. I’m sure some of those guys out there are card carrying members.”

  “Umm.”

  “There was a time when my father would have sold this farm to get away from people like that, but now he doesn’t seem to care. He and Mom are enjoying a renewal of their relationship.” Anna sighed, “After we almost lost Mom.”

  I gave Anna a little smile.

  “Daddy’s tried to get me to leave, but I’ve been too afraid – for them. Yet, everyday that goes by, every time I leave the farm, I see things that make me think I’m living in the middle of a place where the civil rights movement turned out differently than it did in most other places. I feel trapped, Ian. And, with everything that’s happened today….” Anna stopped talking. I looked at her and saw her eyes filled tears. I reached out and she buried her head in my shoulder. When she finally lifted her head she said, “I have to do something.”

  A few minutes later, we joined hands and started walking back toward the camp. At first, Anna gripped my hand tightly and pulled me along. We did not speak, and, in our silence, I began to wonder again about the letter that Anna sent to me after Max and I had started hiking. Was she breaking the relationship off for good? Or, perhaps, in an attempt to rekindle our relationship, she was inviting me for a visit. These and other possibilities made it difficult for me to contain my curiosity.

  At some point, I realized that our pace had slowed, and that Anna, while still holding my hand firmly, was now walking beside me. She was smiling and relaxed and seemingly preoccup
ied with positive thoughts.

  The moment seemed right to ask, “So, are you ready to tell me what was in that letter?”

  “Ian,” she laughed, making me feel small. “If you must know. I tried to rewrite the letter tonight, but I couldn’t find the same words.”

  “Were you telling me that it’s over?”

  “Oh, goodness no,” she said. “Is that what you thought?”

  I sighed and said nothing. We took a few more steps and I felt a breeze nip at the hair on top of my head.

  “Ian, do you remember what I said to you when we first kissed?”

  “First kissed? You mean while we were sitting in the porch swing at Nan’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, yes; I was thinking about that tonight.”

  “When?”

  “When I was out on the battlefield,” I replied.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like that. What else were you thinking about on the battlefield?”

  “Oh nothing, really?”

  “I see.” Anna said, as if she didn’t believe me.

  When we arrived at the truck, I said good night to Anna and walked through the trees to the spot where my tent was set up. I looked out at the Confederate encampment. In the dying firelight the Confederate battle flag in the center of the camp was folded once around the pole, slowly shifting from side to side. I used to think it was a pretty flag. “But it means many different things to many different people,” I said quietly to myself. Still standing there, I looked out at the Confederate encampment and the dark battlefield in the distance. I imagined men lined up ready to march up the gentle slope toward the Union encampment. Some would hide behind rocks while others marched side by side, some would engage in hand-to-hand combat, another would carry the battle flag and a boy would beat a drum. At some point they would all sing out in a chorus of shouting and hollering – a Rebel Yell.

  The vision faded and I walked over to my tent, crawled inside and got into my sleeping bag. Max was spending the night in the comfort of Owen’s RV. I could have done the same, but I wanted to be alone.