Walking Through Shadows

by Bev Marshall

  Although I had attended only one other funeral, I knew that this one was most unusual. There was no cloying scent of flowers, no sad music, no appropriate verses from the Bible the minister held up like a torch. The blanket of flowers on the closed pine box looked cheap and scraggly. A few of the white carnations were brown-edged, giving me the thought that perhaps they had been taken from a corpse already laid to rest.

  Except for the toddlers and baby, all the Carruth children carried the box. It looked light and unsteady in their hands as they crept down the aisle after the blistering sermon about sin and damnation was over. By the time we all walked to the cemetery, where a red clay mound awaited Sheila’s body, it had begun to rain and black umbrellas popped open in all directions. Mama looked up at the sky as Daddy ran to the car to get our own umbrella and said, “Oh no. The grave is going to fill up with water.”

  She was right. By the end of the last prayer, dust to dust really meant mud to mud. Poor Mrs. Carruth slipped on the red slick clay and skidded several feet before someone caught her by the arm and lifted her up. I heard her sobbing, and then I looked back at the grave and saw Stoney kneeling there in the mud with his hands held up like he was catching the rain for a keepsake of the day.

  There was no post-funeral feast, but Mama had brought a cake for the Carruths, which Mrs. Carruth, wearing a black dress that was so old it had a purple sheen to it, nodded for one of the older boys to take from her. We had a pie, too, for Stoney, but before we could give it to him, Earlene Barnes walked over to where he stood beneath the lone oak tree in the cemetery. I couldn’t hear what they said, but Stoney’s head was bowed, and when her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, he threw it off, ran to his truck and drove away. I hollered to Daddy to flag him down, but Mama shushed me. “But he didn’t get his pie,” I said, and immediately burst into tears. Mama knew it wasn’t the pie that made me cry, but she pulled me close and promised we would drop it by his house on the way home.

  CHAPTER 27

  LELAND

  I had what I hoped was a brilliant idea for a slant to the Barnes’ murder story that would keep my byline on the front page of The Journal. Actually, I have to give Mother credit for it. On the Sunday night after the Barnes girl was finally buried, we were having our nightly tea in the sitting room adjacent to her bedroom. Mother was reading Willa Cather, frowning over her spectacles, and I had taken out a volume of the collected poems of Byron, Keats, and Shelly. Although I knew it by heart, I was just finishing “To Sleep,” and I closed the book and said the last lines, “Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.”

  Mother looked up and said, “I suppose they laid the Barnes girl in a pine box today, poor as they all are.”

  “Yes, Mother. It was pitiful, really. The family didn’t have the money for a decent coffin. And there wasn’t the usual feasting and visiting after the burial. Everyone left before I had an opportunity to offer my condolences. I found it interesting, too, that Mr. Carruth, the father, didn’t come to the funeral. I heard his wife tell an older lady, a friend of hers, I guess, that she didn’t know where he’d gone off to. And I noticed that she spoke with a swollen lip.”

  Mother pulled the lapels of her rose dressing gown tight around her neck. “How terrible! Oh, Leland, I wish I could stop thinking about those two women.”

  “What women?”

  “The two mothers. Mrs. Carruth and Mrs. Barnes, especially Mrs. Barnes.”

  “Why is that, Mother?”

  “My dear, you might well imagine that, if you should marry some day, someone much different from the Barnes girl, of course, and your wife should be killed, well, think how I would feel.”

  “Tragic no doubt,” I said, but I couldn’t truly visualize such an occurrence in our lives. I had yet to meet someone I felt strongly enough about to want to marry, let alone someone Mother would approve of. Once, when I was ten, just weeks before my father died of a virulent flu, I had brought home a little girl, Charlene was her name, for tea, and Mother had found her mannerisms deplorable, her nails ragged, her hem uneven, her tangle of dark wild hair heathenish. I had taken a second look then, and I saw what Mother did. Charlene was not invited back. Then when I was attending university up in Oxford, I had met a young lady whose sensibilities seemed more in keeping with ours, but she had an annoying habit of saying “I do declare” over and over, which Mother said would surely drive us into the madhouse in no time. Since then, I have settled into a routine that is most comfortable and pleasurable, and I have decided that, when the right woman comes along, Mother will probably know it before I do. Until then, I couldn’t imagine her empathy with Stoney Barnes’ mother.

  Mother closed her book and removed her glasses. “Leland, of course you can’t understand, you’ll never bear a child, but if you could, you would sympathize with the boy’s mother.”

  This conversation was the genesis of my idea to do a piece on the two mothers, and the next morning, I drove out to the Barnes’ farm to interview Mrs. Jane Barnes. Mrs. Barnes welcomed me into her front parlor and served coffee with plain milk and sugar cookies, which were a bit dry, but I complimented her on them anyway. I think she imagined I was bringing a photographer because she was wearing a two-piece dress with lace collar and cuffs, which I’m sure was reserved for special occasions. Her hair was tightly curled around her lightly powdered face, and although she wore no lip color, her lips were shiny with a Vaseline coating. She was of a nervous disposition, fluttering hands, tapping foot, fussing with strands of her hair that escaped a fake jewel hair clasp.

  After twenty minutes or so of a nasal recitation of the history of her family, I was ruing my decision to do the piece, and then Mrs. Barnes led me toward a startling discovery. She had risen from her rocker and brought two photographs from the mantel above the fireplace to show me. “These are Hugh and Earlene’s two boys,” she said.

  I took the wooden frames and said in what I hoped was a sincere voice, “They’re handsome lads.” One of them was. He resembled Stoney Barnes quite a bit. Dark hair, square face, heavy brows that arched over beautiful eyes. The other boy, the youngest, had a jutting jaw, bucked teeth, and oddly shaped ears which I finally determined were upside down, the fleshy lobe sitting high on the boy’s head.

  Mrs. Barnes took the photographs back and looked at them again with a maternal smile. She sighed. “It’s such a shame Stoney and Sheila couldn’t have any children.”

  I sucked in some air. I certainly had no intention of telling her that her grandchild had been murdered along with her daughter-in-law. I didn’t envy whoever would have to give the autopsy report to the family, and I wondered if Stoney Barnes knew that he would have been a father had his wife not been killed. “It is a shame,” I said. “I’m sure your son wishes he had a child, too. That would help ease the pain of his great loss.”

  Mrs. Barnes lined the photographs side by side on the coffee table between us. “Well, he knew that wasn’t a possibility, of course.”

  It took a moment for me to recognize the significance of her words. She, the wife, certainly was able to have one, so it was her son Mrs. Barnes meant. I spoke too quickly and loudly. “He couldn’t have children?”

  She looked away and clasped her hands in her lap, and I saw that I had offended her. “No. The mumps. No, I don’t think I should…it’s not something…”

  “I apologize for my rudeness,” I said. “I’m afraid my question has upset you.” I did feel badly for causing her distress, but I wanted to end this interview quickly and rush over to the sheriff’s office to share this information. I forced myself to ask a few more questions that Mrs. Barnes was eager to answer, and after complimenting her on her refreshments and lovely home, I finally backed out of her drive and drove as fast as I dared on the winding country roads toward Zebulon.

  Lloyd

  When Clyde Vairo drove up in his patrol car, Annette was washing the supper dishes. Rowena had gone in to lie down, saying her pork chops d
idn’t agree with her at all, and I was reading The Lexie Journal sitting at the kitchen table Annette had cleared. She had been pouting over the extra chores Rowena had given her, and I had to agree that her mama wasn’t in the best of spirits these days. Truth be told, Rowena had become downright ornery and stubborn as a mule. I tried to joke with Annette a little, told her the miracle baby was causing all our troubles, keeping Rowena up all night, kicking her because he was mad as hell that he wasn’t gonna get out in time for Santa Claus. Annette didn’t laugh though and she snatched the plates off the table and said she wished she could go live with her grandma until the baby was born.

  I opened the paper then and ignored her banging the dishes. If she broke something, maybe she’d feel better. I felt like throwing a milk bottle ever’ now and then myself. “Daddy,” she said. “The sheriff’s coming round to the back door.”

  I laid the paper down and stood up. “Wonder what he’s wanting this late?” I walked out on the porch and stuck out my hand to him. “Clyde, what brings you out this time of night?”

  “Got some questions I need answered,” he said. “How’s the wife?”

  “She’s all right, I guess. Sit down. This one’s going hard with her. You want some iced tea, coffee?”

  He sat in the far rocker, and I took out my pouch as I sat down beside him. I was pouring the tobacco along the paper when he said what he’d come for. “Lloyd, did you know that the girl, Sheila, was pregnant?”

  “Yeah. Well, I knew she told Rowena she thought she was. She hadn’t been to the doctor yet.” I finished rolling my smoke and lit it.

  Clyde rocked back and breathed in deep. “Smell of tobacco always makes me want one, but then when I take a toke, it don’t taste like it smells.” He laid his head back on the chair. “Well, the girl was right. Autopsy showed a fetus. So Rowena knew and you knew. Did Stoney know? That’s my big puzzle.”

  “I’m not certain on that. Sheila told Rowena she was gonna tell him, but we don’t, neither one of us, know if she got the chance before she died. She was planning on telling him the night she was killed. Rowena was supposed to make a cake the next day, and Sheila was gonna tell Annette and they’d have a little celebration. Of course, it never got to that.”

  “Hmmm. So she must’ve told her husband. She was planning on it.”

  “I guess.”

  Clyde stopped rocking and sat up. “Stoney says he didn’t know.”

  “And you think he’s lying?”

  “I do.”

  “Why would he?”

  Clyde stood up. “Oh, he had a good reason for lying. A real good one. I’ll see you, Lloyd. Gotta get going. It’s late, and you dairy farmers get up before the rooster crows.”

  I went over Clyde’s words again in my mind. Stoney had a good reason for lying. He’d done it! Sheila had told him about the baby, and he’d gotten mad over it, and killed her. Hadn’t he told me he didn’t want any children? But, if he was the murderer, why would he stick around to get caught? It didn’t make any sense at all. I knew though that Clyde wouldn’t have said what he did without good cause, and I decided that I’d send Stoney out to the field when he came back to work. I didn’t want him close to the house until we knew more.

  CHAPTER 28

  ROWENA

  Oh, dear Lord, what will you bring down on this family next? It’s only been one week since we buried Sheila, and now this. What have we done to deserve such trouble as you have bestowed on us? Why didn’t you give us some kind of warning that Stoney was the one we should fear? I sit here in this small church, looking at your portrait above Brother Yarbrough’s head, and your eyes have compassion in them; your raised hands with open palms seem to be saying, “Come to me and I will give you ease.” But you haven’t offered any comfort. You won’t even still this baby inside me that keeps flipping around and pulling on my insides so that I can’t get one decent night’s sleep. No, you’re not seeing to your flock. You aren’t listening to my prayers. I may as well be asking one of the cows to help our family overcome these trials you have given us.

  And here’s Lloyd sitting here beside me with his chin dropped down on his chest. I’m the one who should be nodding off; he is getting plenty of rest. Annette’s eyes are fixed on Brother Yarbrough, strutting back and forth in front of the pulpit like he was in a marching band. Mama said we weren’t going to be pleased with any preacher under thirty-five, and she was right. I miss Brother Westler. Why’d he have to retire? I guess he’s praying on some white sand beach down in Florida this morning. Well, Annette does like our new preacher, and I need to keep my feelings about him inside. Poor Annette. I think Stoney’s arrest upset her more than Sheila’s death.

  ANNETTE

  Dear Sheila, are you up there in heaven? Can you hear me? Are you an angel now, flying above us, seeing what-all has happened? Can you send me a sign to let me know if Stoney killed you or not? I don’t believe it. The sheriff is wrong. He didn’t do it, did he? Brother Yarbrough keeps talking about forgiveness and turning the other cheek. Did you forgive who murdered you? Was it your papa? Mama told me you were going to have a baby, and when she said that, I cried till my eyes swelled up. To think of a little dead baby. It’s too awful. Stoney wouldn’t hurt you and he wouldn’t hurt his own baby either. If you have any supernatural powers as an angel, could you send us some help? There’s too many shadows to walk through now. And I’ve forgotten how to anyway.

  I can feel Mama’s eyes on me, boring right through Daddy’s suit into my head. They both believe Stoney did it. My own parents were the first ones to call him a murderer. They don’t know him like I do. They never saw him kissing you and hugging you, looking at you like you were a special gem that God had sent just for him. But I was with y’all plenty of times to see how it was between you. You wouldn’t have loved him so much if you’d thought for one minute that he was capable of choking another person to death. I wouldn’t love him if I thought that.

  LLOYD

  Love your neighbor, forgive them that do evil. Ha. What horseshit! I say an eye for an eye, and damn them to hell. If Rowena thinks dragging us to church after yesterday’s mess is gonna change my feelings, she better think another thought. Who knows what’s in her mind these days. She says don’t tell Annette about Sheila’s baby, and then she goes and tells her herself. She says we ought to think like Christians at a time like this, and she says she hopes Stoney gets the electric chair. I know Annette doesn’t believe he did it. She’s hanging on to her innocence, not wanting to see the facts as they are. Well, let her. Stoney can’t hurt her in jail, but it’s gonna go down hard with her when he gets convicted. And he will. I’ll have to hire another hand to replace Stoney for the dairy soon. There’s a lot of work to be done on the place, too. I should have told Digger to make sure that back fence was gonna hold until we get it fixed proper. That’s all I need, half my herd wandering out onto Carterdale Road to get killed by an automobile. I’d say with my luck lately, if Brother Yarbrough ever gets to the benediction, I’ll go home to find my Ayrshires dead in the road.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Lexie Journal

  September 16, 1941

  Stoney Barnes Arrested for Murder!

  Stonewall Buford Barnes, age 18, was arrested for allegedly murdering his wife, Sheila Carruth Barnes, on August 31. According to Lexie County’s sheriff, Clyde Vairo, Barnes beat and then strangled his wife, and carried her body to the cornfield owned by Lloyd Cotton, who was his employer at Cottons’ Dairy. Barnes, a resident of Lexie County, denies the allegations, but is being held in the Lexie County jail without bail. His lawyer, William Calloway, a native of Zebulon, who is senior partner in the Jackson law firm of Calloway and Green, told this reporter that evidence he will offer at trial will prove his client’s innocence. — Leland Graves

  Leland

  I had expected my interview with Bill Calloway to be a waste of time. I would listen to him proclaim his client’s innocence in bombastic tones, and I would be back at Mother�
�s in time for dinner, but my day didn’t go as planned. I assumed that Mrs. Barnes had hired him because the local lawyer, Randy White, the court-appointed attorney, had not managed to get bail for her son. I learned from a secretary down at Mechanics State Bank that Mrs. Barnes had been forced to mortgage their house to pay Calloway’s fee.

  The Mechanics State Bank, an impressive two-story building on the corner of Second Street and Locust, is where we met. Calloway was using the offices of his friend, Jeremy Foxx, and Foxx’s secretary ushered me in to the conference room, which was furnished with a mahogany table and forest-green leather chairs. On the credenza there was a magnificent brass lamp. Calloway looked exactly right in the surroundings. When I entered the room, he was seated at the end of the table in front of a stack of legal pads, blue-backed vellum documents, and a silver cylinder filled with pens and pencils. As I came toward him, he rose and offered his hand. He was an imposing man. Fifty-plus years old, solid, a bit too thick in the middle, with a mane of hair, not silver, but white. His three-piece suit, of a dark blue hue, covered most of a lighter blue shirt with long collar points. The red and black striped tie was, in my mind, a fashion misstep.

  His heavy gold ring cut into my hand. “Leland Graves from the newspaper, correct?”

  “Yes. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Calloway,” I said while taking the seat he indicated. His big teeth shone in the dimly lit room, and suddenly I felt small and insignificant in his presence. I gave myself a quick pep talk by reminding myself that Napoleon was several inches shorter than I. “I’ve been assigned to follow the trial, as I told you on the telephone, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about your client.”