Barefoot to Avalon

by David Payne

  I’m sorry, George A., sorry I wasn’t a better man, a better brother to you. Nothing worked out as we hoped, and my plan to save you—which boiled down to teaching you to be another David—didn’t work out so well even for its owner, small wonder you declined it. And what I failed to grasp was that even if you wished to save yourself, perhaps you simply couldn’t. And in the last act, you came to get me home and died along the highway.

  And the sickness that I saw in you was in me also, and even as I judged you and judged Margaret, Stacy and I acted out a version of the same thing in our marriage, and as your path led to that house in Buena Vista so mine has led me to this recognition, and it’s taken me a lifetime to get here, and the strange thing is this truth which I resisted longest and found most shaming tonight feels like my treasure, a jewel, if a dark one. I wanted others to see the brightness in me, the goodness and commitment, but the darkness is what changed me and the brightness didn’t, which is why I think in Shakespeare and in folklore the jewel is depicted hidden in the forehead of a toad, not a unicorn or an angel. The dark jewel comes out of the mud and is mud in substance and by unbearable heat and pressure the mud is turned to consciousness, and consciousness to spirit. And maybe that is what we’re here for, I don’t know. My answer may not be your answer, but that’s the ball I’ve rolled into the roundest shape that I can roll it.

  And here tonight I’ve left the shadowed grove and stepped out on a windy outcrop, I can see the things I might have been and perhaps deceived myself along the way I was, but wasn’t. I’ve been true to one thing and one thing only and after what it’s cost, was it a good or reasonable investment? I cannot say so, I can only say that I would not have given up the passion I’ve felt and the reckless service I have paid it. I’ve been on my way here since that day beneath the elms and maples and I’m sad tonight because I feel it ending.

  I’ve arrived wherever I was going, I’m here, wherever here is. I thought the view would be spectacular and magical, but in fact it’s gray and fogbound and the sea rolls on indifferently beneath me and the crows and choughs that wing the midway air are unimpressed by my performance and unaware I’ve made one. And it’s been quite a voyage and there may be others but there’ll never be another like it, and I don’t want to end it, because when I let this go I’ll have to let you go, too, George A.

  As dark falls, I see you at the border of a world that isn’t this world anymore, not on this side, but on the far one, having crossed the finish line before me. Now you raise your hand and go. Go on, little brother, it’s time. I’ll see you when I get there.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank all those who helped and supported me through the writing of this book:

  My wonderful agent and friend, Tina Bennett, who served as ground control to me on this voyage, reading scores of versions and hundreds of pages through the eight-year composition process, patiently enduring my wrong turns, my obstinate attempts to explore and colonize several uninhabitable planets, always steering me back to the brother book, to George A., even when I wanted to escape.

  My gifted editor, Elisabeth Schmitz, who—with Katie Raissian’s shrewd and capable assistance—exhaustively edited the book twice, bringing to bear her considerable experience, insight and instinct and managing to be both rigorous and kind.

  My friends and early readers, Bob Richardson, Naeem Murr, Craig Nova, Suzannah Lessard, Cathy Smith Bowers, Patricia Powell, Elizabeth Strout, Fred Leebron, Terry Vance, Lee Smith, Ron Rash, David Ferriero.

  The members of the Global South Working Group in Chapel Hill, who saw many of the early chapters as they came: Jim Peacock, Katherine Doss, Fred Irons, Dan Duffy, Jack Raper, Hodding Carter, Patrick Inman, Cece Conway, Vann Joines, Samia Serageldin, Robin Miura, Tom Rankin, Jill McCorkle, Randall Kenan, Shannon Ravenel, Lucinda Mackethan, Minrose Gwin, Lucy Daniels, Roger Spencer, Clay Whitehead.

  The creative writing department at Hollins University, where I completed chapter 10 while serving as writer-in-residence.

  Jeff Brush and Jen Jerde at Elixir Designs, Svetlana Katz, Tucker Petree, Chip Petree, Susan Payne, Polly Beere, Sharon Wheeler Frank Burleson, Walt Havener, Maura Payne.

  Morgan Entrekin, John Mark Boling, Deb Seager, Judy Hottensen, Charles Rue Woods, and the whole extraordinary Grove Atlantic team.

  The therapists and members of my group in Chapel Hill, who helped me to untie so many knots.

  James Seay, Kate Schwob, Peter London, Randy Lombardo, great friends of my youth, and still.

  My brother, Bennett, who joined me in the insurrection, my tall, clear-eyed children, Grace and Will, their mother, Stacy, whom I thank for them.

  My mother, Margaret, who opposed my purpose honestly and then, after reading the first draft, gave me her generous support.

  And Kate Paisley Kennedy, who brought a new love into my life and walked the line with me and made it fun again.