Gone To Southwood: The Community You've Always Wanted

Chapter 1

I Started With Nothing and Still Have Most Of It.

The bumper sticker was clever, but for the former Reverend Brent Barrows it registered as a cruel epitaph on this bankrupt day. The court had charged.; Justifiable would have been the verdict. It had been justified months before he pulled the trigger, if he had gotten the chance. All Brent looked for was opportunity.

Nothing, to the 10,000th] power was still zero—that was what he had left. The zeros ticker taped themselves across his mind as he drove the back roads far away from everyone who would recognize him.

Starting with zero, he had amassed digits short of a fortune. But he had built a treasure. Ministry, wife, children, grandchildren, dreams, a vision, a few strategies. They were gone. Taken, stolen, thwarted, blocked, neglected away. The one thing he feared most now identified him. Alone. Friends hadn't understood. In their confusion, they stayed away. Now, the single seat in the cargo vehicle was adequate. He packed all his assets and belongings and still had space in the van for a place to sleep.

The Reverend was gone from his name. He decided he didn't need it. The call was not abandoned, the vision was as clear, but the benefits of designation no longer existed. The scars were still red, the wounds were still raw; the dreams smelled of mothballs. Briefcases, laptop, an old sound system and a letter shared space in the red and white vehicle with assorted rust spots. For decades, there had to be a desk, and a sound system. A place to write, and a sound system—in the event someone would let him sing his songs.

When You've Got Nothing Left But God—You've got enough to start again, had been his signature song in concerts, revivals, but mostly in his soul. Now, he would see. Doubt could not kill the faint hope.

The letter was addressed to the Chief of Police of a town close to the edge of the world. If the world were flat, the town would be the jumping off place. A workable deal: the former evangelist, television teacher, pastor was the new caretaker of Southwood. Self-pity was only dwarfed by sarcastic rage.

Southwood would have fit into Barrow's largest dream and biggest aspiration with its mammoth house, barn, machine shed, an enormous train depot next to tracks untouched by wheels for decades all sitting on eighty-five acres of rolling grass and timber land. Amidst the zeros, Barrows thought how hideously this came now when it didn't matter. A few years ago it would have been useful. God's Kingdom might have been able to use such an asset.

Barrow's benefactor was a lawyer who had a client needing someone to occupy the land; Brent needed a place to be. A workable deal. Southwood would be the ultimate hiding place.

Chief Thompson expected him. The town had been changed by WalMart since Barrows and Troupe sang in the high school gym. It had been thirty years. The parking lot and police station looked almost the same as the night he parked the tour bus across the street from that police station because it appeared to be the safest place in town. That was before Chief Thompson's tenure, but his predecessor had welcomed the singers to the stage and then to the parking lot. It was no touring bus he parked this night.

Brent Barrows, he announced to the officer at the desk. Is Chief Thompson available? He's expecting me. The cop could as easily have been identified as an insurance agent or barber. He surely had no fondness for donuts, nor penchant for hassling strangers.

Brent Barrows? The officer stared, measured and didn't move. Did he want an explanation for the visit? His non-movement made Brent tense.

Chief Thompson is expecting me, was repeated. No movement.

Brent Barrows? Behind the question was a penetrating view of brain files—where do I know that name from? No quick answer. Coming up with zeros had become contagious. The cop continued to stare. What he saw was a sixty-five year old slightly built man with graying long hair around a face with more wrinkles than an Alabama road map. Glasses tinted brown to hide the constant dark circles and blood shot eyes. Once the glasses were glare resistant for television use, but now hiding those eyes was more important.

Sir?

Brent's question startled the officer into another question. Ever been to our town, Mr. Barrows?

Once. Probably before you were born. Why do you ask?

"Well, Sir, I was rummaging through my parent's attic a few days ago, and found an old album of gospel music. Cassette. Actually, a couple of old vinyl records too. Had a name like yours on it. That you?

Brent self-consciously laughed. Depends. Did you like the music?

Some of it. One song particularly struck me as powerful. Listened to it half-a-dozen times or more—'Nothing Left But God.' That you singing?

Barrows felt light headed. He sagged against a table and then into a chair. He would not be anonymous here. He needed to hide, get lost somewhere. A place where questions had answers and no one would know about the unanswerable ones.

Sir? You alright? Can I get you something? Water?

Thanks. I'm okay. Long story—long time ago. Road shakes. Should have taken more rest stops, Brent danced until his emotions faced the realities. Glad you liked the song, it always seemed to reach past all the crap and touch heart hurt.

Yes sir, it does that!

A voice that began in an adjoining room strode down the hallway and entered.

My guess is that you are Reverend Brent Barrows. I'm Billy Thompson. Been expecting you. Billy Thompson's hand felt like a bushel basket into which Brent reached his own hand.

I'm kinda rushed here. I've got the keys to Southwood. It's quiet out there. And rundown as Miss Goodwin's shoes—but it's, well, quiet, like I said.

Except when we have to go out there to chase the kids out after one of their keggers, the desk officer added.

You met Charlie, I see. On any other night, I'd have him run you out there to show you around, but I haven't had supper—the wife likes me home for supper and I like to be there for supper. Know what I mean? Want to see my kids. We're short handed. Gotta keep the shop open.

Billy Thompson may have liked donuts. If police chiefs had a gaping shirt between buttons contest, Thompson would have been a strong contestant. His eyes revealed, however, he was not the Southern Sheriff as portrayed in bad movies. Brent thought that after all the years on the job this cop still believed he could make a difference. He also knew he would never want to be on the wrong side of this human mountain.

Listen, Chief Thompson checked back in. Listen. Charlie will draw you a map. You won't get too lost. You'll find Southwood, signs or no signs. Charlie, draw him that map. I'll get those keys.

Charlie had not taken his eyes off Barrows, which made the new resident self-conscious and jumpy every time the deputy reached into his jeans pocket or into his shirt for a pen.

You make lots of records?

A few.

I'd like to talk to you sometime about that. I get by Southwood on rounds—if you don't mind, I'll stop. It wasn't a request as much as a statement.

Being tense was what Barrows thought he did best, but he was beginning to relax. He wasn't sure about Charlie's motivation, but suspected he would be glad to have anyone who was breathing to visit him here at the jumping off place. The men shook hands. Charlie explained the map and wished Brent good luck. The good luck wish had an edge to it that caught the newcomer's imagination and tweaked his anxiety.

The map worked. Thompson had been right. There was no sign. Even in the bright moonlight, Brent could see he was also right about the rundown. He felt curiosity and compassion about Miss Goodwin's shoe collection. Misplaced compassion he would find.

The huge house was slightly visible at the end of a long curving driveway, guarded by a steel fence, protected and shielded by live oak trees and scraggly hedges and untrimmed shrubs.

Leaving the motor running and lights on high beam, Barrows tried the gate and examined the log chain held together by a heavy-duty padlock. Next to the driveway was a small gap through which he could slip. An asphalt apron outside the gate provided enough room to park the van.

With flashlight and key in hand, Brent Barrows walked toward the dark house. Bravery at night had never been his strength.

"This is where Chainsaw Massacre was filmed," he said to himself. He changed his mind about examining the house half way up the front steps when a furry creature scampered across the porch. Feeling foolish that he had run all the way back to the van, he climbed in and locked the doors. Morning, he prudently decided, would be soon enough to examine the foreboding dwelling. Who knows what or who dwelt there?

It didn't take long to make his bed in the van. After checking all the locks and self-installed bolt locks, it didn't take long for the new resident to fall asleep. Nor, did it take long to awaken, sit up and feel the cold sweat. Brent Barrows recognized the shakes. He had often wondered if what he was feeling was akin to D.T.s. The shakes came, and the crazy, fever-like dreams. Where was he? Truck stop? He heard no diesel engines. He heard very little. Cautiously opening the drapes, he saw oak trees. It was Southwood. He collapsed back onto his pallet and returned to his dream.

Columbus was the next exit in the dream. Brent needed to stretch his legs. It was early for dinner, but he had to break this thinking. He didn't want to block Felicia out of his mind. His absent wife could not be dismissed.

Morrison's Cafeteria. The billboard said two miles. The family had eaten there. Inside the mall, he remembered. He found a parking place close to the mall entrance.

His legs would not cooperate until he stretched and moved his body's major muscle groups one-at-a-time. About halfway to the entrance he remembered exactly where he had parked their tour bus on the last tour. They had a rule. The group would hit a mall and go different directions just to get away from each other for a while. It would only be minutes and they would be walking together. Only the adults would eat at Morrison's. The kids had their own idea about a good meal. It was he and Felicia walking the cafeteria line.

The very thing he had stopped to put a stop to was all he could think about. He selected baked seafood, three hushpuppies, greens, two kinds of beans and iced tea.

Felicia put vinegar on the greens that day that was now a memory. The sun had come in through the ceiling level stained glass windows and made her blue eyes sparkle. He remembered his mood of that distant day and how she reached across the table with her warm hand and spoke power through her touch.

Then the question caught him broadside. It had been terrifying at the cafeteria, and now in his dream. No steel side rails to protect him. What if he never saw Felicia again? He first felt the shakes at the cafeteria on the way to Southwood, and then the tears. He put his fork down, took off his glasses, picked up the cloth napkin and held it over his face. Stopping in a place with such strong memories had been a mistake. He diluted the meal with large swallows of iced tea. The deep fried hushpuppies stuck in his mouth. He couldn't chew and for sure couldn't swallow. He would taste the onions for two days, but right now he just wanted them gone.

It wasn't his first panic attack. He just had to get out! Brent would have run had he not had to pay for his meal. Forcing himself to be methodical, he asked for a take-out box. The fish. The beans. Black eyed peas. He had eaten them cold before. Calculating the length of the checkout line, he moved toward the door. Dizziness swept through him as he grabbed his chair.

This is only anxiety, he said out loud. It is unpleasant, it doesn't feel good, but it will not kill me, it will not harm me. I am able to do what I must. He exchanged conversation with the cashier to distract himself from the panic and stepped into the mall where the walls began to close in and air became less available. His eyes would not focus correctly.

God, I don't know if I can make it to the van, changed to, God! In Jesus' Name. I am walking confidently! It didn't feel confidently. He forced his legs to walk swiftly without breaking into a trot. He walked as if drunk. Staggering, grabbing light posts to steady himself. He needed to be where he was safe, or where a safe person would be near. But who would that be?

Halfway to the van he sat down heavily on a park bench.

Breathe, Brent. Breathe. The old habit of holding his breath was working diligently with his diaphragm pulled up under his rib cage. Hyperventilation would follow. This is to stop, now. I take authority over my body. My emotions are lying to me; my body is acting in accordance to what my mind is interpreting. My emotions are sending the wrong commands. Thank you body for acting correctly to alert me, but there is no danger. Thank you emotions, but you're wrong. There is no tiger, there is no one to slug.

Brent breathed in through his nostrils to the count of four, held his breath to the count of four and then pursed his lips to hiss his breath out slowly. His stomach muscles were tight and the diaphragm would not expand during the first few deep breathes. He was sweating, his heart pounded, face flushed, fingers cold.

My body is calming. The Lord is my fortress, of whom shall I be afraid? He is restoring my soul. I speak peace into my mind, body and emotions. The anxiety level receded. Disassociation is normal in panic attacks, he kept telling himself. He disliked the feeling of being outside oneself and out of touch with reality when anxious-panicky. To combat that, he pulled himself back by feeling the grass beneath his shoes, focusing on the flowers and listening to the song of a mockingbird. Coming back to now, being present to now, grounding himself in the present moment.

Brent used his bag of tricks and made up new ones to take control. At times he could float through such an attack without anyone knowing. He didn't always have to run. He always wanted to run. This time, he did. Depletion—weariness—followed each episode accompanied by a feeling of unreality and being just a little off the bubble. His body was shaking. It was a normal reaction to the flood of adrenaline. This was no time to sit and calculate all the what ifs…? Hormones had prepared his body to move. Picking up his take-out he jogged. It wasn't a straight line. He walked around the van flapping his arms like a bird trying to take flight, then he drove to the one piece of shade on the asphalt and closed his eyes. He slept thirty minutes.

Feeling depleted, afraid, knowing there was no place to hide, no safe person and that he was alone, he experienced separation anxiety that had been his life-long companion. Too far from what was once home to slither back, the only option was to finish his journey.

While waiting for stamina and courage to fill his mind and body, a man spoke to him.

My name is Dan McAllister. Excuse my intrusion. Something I can do to help? You appear to be distressed.

Brent looked around. The man wore a starched long sleeve white shirt and gray trousers with black wing tipped shoes. Not the image of a thug. But then, Brent wasn't exactly relaxed and ready for company.

Uh, no. I think I'm going to be all right. Thanks. Feeling a bit anxious and overwhelmed. Thanks. I'll be fine.

I thought I recognized the symptoms. Here's my card. I've got a few minutes left before a meeting. Mind if we talk?

Dan McAllister. Houston. The card listed addresses and phone numbers.

Keep it. I work for TexPet—the petroleum company. I have a presentation in a few minutes at the Hyatt over there next to the mall. He pointed to the Hyatt. The sign welcomed TexPet. I was going over my notes and feeling on the verge of hyperventilating, came out to walk off excess nerves, and saw you in the vehicle with your eyes closed. Something told me you might need to talk to someone.

Brent opened the door to step onto the parking lot exposing the box next to the driver's seat on which his Bible was lying open.

It wasn't a something, it was a Someone who sent me over here, Dan said with an expression of joy. You're a brother in Christ! We need each other right now to have a prayer of agreement. I'm here to pray that God will steady you and you're here to pray that God will help me. Trust me. I know the anxiety/ fear/ terror thing inside and out. When stress climbs, anxiety rides along and looks for a way to express itself.

I was eating dinner at Morrison's, got sucked into a series of 'What ifs…' and had to get out of there, Brent started to explain.

Couldn't swallow. Thought you weren't going to be able to breathe, wondered if you would die before you got back to something feeling familiar. You wanted to hide. You felt exposed, vulnerable on the parking lot, your safe person is miles away. Right? the stranger asked.

"You have been there!"

Oh, yes! Sorry to rush. I've got to get back to the meeting. Can we have that prayer? Dan gripped Brent's hand in a handshake, his way of laying on of hands, and prayed.

"God of creation, you placed the elements deep in the earth that we now pump out as oil. You have refined this process meticulously. We are amazed at what You do. You have made our bodies to respond to pressures, worries and given us warning systems when we are overloaded, or not processing correctly. My new brother is where I've been so many times. He needs your touch. Holy Spirit, I ask you to reach deep into the reservoir of his soul and spirit and heal that which caused him to feel what he is feeling.

I speak peace to his body, I speak truth to his emotions, I speak wholeness to his mind, and strength into his will. I thank You for walking and riding with him. Amen.

When Dan didn't release his hand, Brent realized it was his turn to pray.

Thank you for sending Dan to be Your resource to me. You know the challenges of his day. Anoint him to deliver his presentation with power, humor and clarity. Give him favor in the eyes of those who listen. I ask You to enable those who listen to hear a voice beyond his, and see You. For any needs he is wrestling with that only You and he know about, fill him with the Holy Spirit. Thanks again, Lord, for bringing us together. In Your Name, Amen.

No sooner had Brent finished, Dan began to move toward the Hyatt.

I need your phone number, email. Have a card?

Brent hadn't needed a business card for months. He quickly scratched old numbers and inserted the only Southwood number he knew. With a grunted, incoherent explanation, he handed McAllister the card.

There's a story behind the new address. We'll talk. Gotta go. The sound of firm wing tip shoes on the parking lot grew faint as Brent calculated what had just occurred. The necessity of having a person with whom you can share your inner life became mandatory in his mind as he watched his brother-in-Christ disappear into the Hyatt.

Thanks, Lord. That was a God-thing. Weird, but welcome. You can do that anytime You want to.

Slowly, Brent opened his eyes. He didn't move. He remembered where he was and recalled yesterday's trip and dinner at Morrison's. He tasted hush puppy onions, and felt again the peace replacing panic after praying with Dan McAllister.

Well, that was strange! The shakes were gone. He opened his briefcase and made a note to let his Houston friend know the telephone and email numbers. Assuming Southwood had electricity and telephone connections.

Chapter 2

Mockingbirds at dawn. What a thoroughly civilized way to start a day. Brent would have stayed longer on the pallet had he not had to find a bathroom, desperately needed to brush his teeth and wanted a cup of coffee. The morning sounds cleared his head and made him feel at home. There had been no reason to pull the curtains closed in the van, but he had. He had thought of several reasons to keep his weapon close at hand. The shakes had provoked him.

He didn't like to sleep in his clothes, but neither did he like to have to rush back to the police department without them. Already, the humidity was high and the long sleeves cumbersome.

Chief Thompson was right. It was quiet and more than a little spooky. Brent carried his weapon as he approached the house and cautiously stepped onto the porch. He assumed what he had seen the night before was a raccoon or a possum, but with an over-active imagination in high gear he looked around. Something could jump out from a hiding place at any moment.

Porch secured, he spoke into his wristwatch. Barrows laughed at himself and his fear threshold. He lowered his shoulders, took two deep breaths as he looked around the porch. Corinthian columns reached to the porch at the second floor. The second floor porch sagged just above the door. It didn't take a structural engineer to see a cracked weight-bearing beam. That would have to be fixed soon. Plaster crumbled from around bricks on the pillars, several floor boards were rotten and the raccoon had a large enough hole not to have to suck in a gut to slide into its hiding place.

Antebellum? Probably not. The dwelling wasn't that old, but it had been constructed to replicate what it would look like if it were. Barrows remembered hearing folks went bankrupt trying to pay for the upkeep of these old structures. Real money pits. Hard to imagine what it would cost to put this building in pristine condition.

Before he had opened the meaningless screen door, the former preacher had fallen in love with the house. He sat down on the top step and cried. He was home. In a few minutes, astonishingly few, he loved the place that suddenly felt like the Home Place—the place he had been looking for his entire life. His emotions did not embarrass him; he was concerned how this three-story mansion would ever become habitable.

Well, Beulah. Let's see what other surprises you hold. He reached into his jeans for the front door key assuming the lock had long since been a non-necessity. While walking to the front door, he saw that the windows across the front of the house were relatively new aluminum clad white Pella brand windows. Each had screens and not one window was cracked, let alone broken.

Brent lifted an eyebrow and whistled. Already another question, perhaps another secret. The screen was torn away from the top of the wooden screen door, but the bottom half was covered with quarter-inch weathered plywood. Someone had tacked it there to keep Mr. Raccoon out. The screen swung open missing the sagging second floor porch by a fraction. He had watched the top of the screen door and absent-mindedly reached to unlock the door.

Wow! There were two doors. Solid core, with brass doorknobs in the middle of each steel door. The porch was junk, but the rest was beautiful. Someone else had loved Beulah. It was a Beulah Land for someone and he was willing to bet that the door would not squeak when opened. A bet that he would have won.

The rush of stale air from the closed up house nearly staggered him. The stench of mice grabbed him. Brent retreated to the steps to give the house a minute to herself to breathe on her own.

Houses will fall in upon themselves if not occupied. Something like self-imposed structural suicide. At first glance, this one felt abused, neglected and occupied with spirits of those who once lived there. Again, tears came to eyes that hadn't seen much beyond a porch and doorway. Maybe it was about how empty he felt, how unoccupied his own self.

Coffee would be good, he said to himself. The advantage of isolation is talking to yourself. The laughter gave way to seriousness as Brent Barrows walked across the front porch and realized he hadn't even walked around either corner of the porch that bordered the house.

Beulah, one day, we will sit on this porch when the floor and railing are more solid. We'll drink our morning coffee out of real china cups, listen to the mockingbirds and contemplate what God is trying to build us to be. Okay, Friend?

Walking to the double door, the man who had been in town less than one day and had not even been inside the house, realized he was acting and feeling crazy. But, when you've looked for home all your life and recognize it at long last, there is room for crazy.

Just because he felt at home didn't mean he had suddenly gained brazen bravery. Brent stuck his head inside, slowly looked around checking for human or animals—alive or skeletal. There were no holes in the—suddenly, he was startled. Look at the beautiful hardwood floor!

Oh, Beulah!

A welcoming foyer did its job. The shabby outside appearance camouflaged a mansion. A curved staircase wide enough to drive a chariot led to the second floor.

Maybe mint julep, he murmured.

Cautiously, each door was opened, contents examined. Barrows had several tics. He responded to beauty or wonder methodically by smacking his lips or exhaling a vocal Whew!

Three large empty rooms, a dining room with a chandelier waiting to be hung, a great room, which he guessed could seat 150 people, and the kitchen. Beulah's earlier lover had fit the galley with a beautiful stove, microwave, dishwasher, a commercial refrigerator and an icemaker. Only where they serve ice tea do homeowners get that serious about icemakers.

The quick look at the floor revealed the source of the mice smell. Two of them lay in the kitchen. Dust covered everything, and flies. Thousands of them. Beyond numbering. Made him wonder if this was what Egyptian houses looked after the plagues. Dust, lice, flies. Thank God, there were no frogs. Or worse.

Brent opened the kitchen exit door. The porch reached 360 around the house. Three sides under a canopy of the second floor. That kitchen exit led into an abyss twenty feet deep.

Walking past light switches and water faucets, the new caretaker tried them. None worked. He hoped the kitchen exit abyss did not double as a bathroom. For the first time of the examination, Barrows realized he still clutched his weapon with a whitened hand. He was ready to do battle. While loosening his grip, he was not yet willing to be disarmed.

Whoever built the curving staircase knew how to use tools and the proper wood to use. Tentatively, Brent crept up the stairs and walked to the far left end of the hallway to examine each room by turn. Bedrooms, he guessed. Six of them, separated by a bathroom at the head of the staircase.

Swinging the door open, Brent looked and gasped. Looked again and shuddered. He forced himself not to run, and not to scream. A maple bed with matching chest of drawers, nightstand and washbasin. Built-in closets. A quilt covered the bed and the body. Maybe it was not mice he had smelled. A professionally lettered sign sat on top of the body. Margret.

Have you ever been petrified with fear? Unable to move? So scared you forget to breathe? That is what Brent was experiencing. Just as his pulse began to slow down, something moved in the corner of the room. Involuntarily, he raised his weapon to defend himself and screamed ferociously. It was the only living mouse left in the house.

You are the caretaker. You are responsible for what you find here. If someone is dead in that bed, you'll have to call the police. No one is going to do this for you. He thought through the possibilities. If that were a body, there would be a horrible odor—unless…. He saw a wooden hanger in the closet, which he used to slowly lift the corner of the quilt. The body was a large down-filled pillow.

Margret?

Six bedrooms, each furnished. While the kitchen was state of the art, and only a few years old, the bedroom rugs, wallpaper, paneling and curtains looked like they belonged in the 50s, 60s, or 70s. Each bed had a name sitting on the quilt-covered pillow and layered with flies.

The bathroom was not finished. The tub/ shower was in place as were the two sinks. The stool had not been attached nor had the doors been hung on the vanity. Brent shifted his weapon to his left hand as he opened the door to what he guessed would be a master bedroom. He guessed right. This room stood above the dining room on the main floor, which would be the logical place so the fireplaces on each floor could use the same chimney.

He opened every bedroom door and vinyl clad window for cross ventilation, Brent retraced his steps to and through each room. Some of the rooms had adjoining doors, and he saw, now that he was breathing adequately again, that three rooms could easily be an apartment. He made that smacking sound with his lips, which caught his attention. The one door he had not opened because it was locked must lead to the third floor. He had only the front door key. Third floor would have to wait.

Brent had walked down the staircase facing the front door. Halfway down, he heard a car drive through the gate. Whoever it was, was not getting out of the car, nor turning the engine off. Only the police knew who he was. Only the police had expected him. Anyone else would assume he was trespassing, or breaking and entering.

I haven't even had coffee or breakfast and already I've been scared out my wits more times than I should be. He sat on the steps and waited. Maybe they would just go away. If not, maybe the Lord would come. Second Coming.

Back to shallow breathing, rapid heart beat. Out of his memory came the time he and his wife were scheduled to sing in a rural South Carolina church. The church had one major piece of history that had become their reason for being. Before electricity arrived in that part of the world, they used lamps for evening events. One Christmas program turned tragic when a coal lamp fell onto the manger straw. Many children perished in the fire. Next to the church is a cemetery with a huge common grave. Visit the church; you visit the grave. Hear the preacher, you'll hear the story. The Barrows had