Lookaway, Lookaway

by Barnhardt, Wilton

  Said Mr. Haslett, “You get your college liberal types who might want to protest a Confederate shrine, so a shrine on private property might not be such a bad thing. I suppose we can vote as a committee to allow this development deal.”

  By February, the family house on Providence Road had become command and control, a barely functioning chaos. Preservation Committee members came in and out of the house at all hours (according to Alma, who was beckoned to provide hospitality regardless), small crises erupted and the phone rang into the night (according to his mother), otherwise habitable venues were turned into war rooms, maps and posters and battle diagrams draped over sofas and propped themselves against lamps …

  “I’m putting everyone to work!” Duke Johnston declared, enlivened by a steady flow of coffee. “You’re the English major,” his father pronounced, hands on Joshua’s shoulders, pinned to the chair at the dinner table. “Be nice to get something back from my exorbitant investment in a Chapel Hill education.”

  “Dad, I think you know I did nothing but drink and spend money on expensive restaurant meals and home décor while I was in Chapel Hill.”

  “I was indeed aware, but I have always hoped that you might have brushed against the English language from time to time.”

  Josh, conscripted, was in charge of Written Materiel.

  April 19, 1865 … the War was winding toward defeat for the Confederacy and Richmond, Atlanta, and Columbia lay in ruins. Charlotte was now the only major city of consequence left standing in the South. Sherman burned Jackson, Mississippi; left three buildings standing in what was once Oxford; dismantled and razed the whole of Meridian, pulling down churches, schools, private homes. From Chattanooga to Atlanta to Macon, he famously plundered in a 60-mile-wide blight of scorched-earth destruction.

  Then he turned to South Carolina. “I almost tremble at her fate,” wrote Sherman, the her being South Carolina, “but feel that she deserves all that seems in store for her.” After Orangeburg and Columbia, which Sherman watched burn to the ground, it was Charlotte’s turn, and the city braced itself for the inevitable William Tecumseh Sherman treatment.

  Gold and silver were buried in backyards, jewels hidden, women and children packed off to points north and west (the famed diarist Mary Chestnut was sent to Lincolnton), while the men formed militias. Norfolk had fallen long ago but its famous ironworks, the forges that made artillery, shells, bullets, had been relocated to Charlotte, and the trains that steamed to and from Charlotte were laden with arms for the final battles of the long conflict. Columbia was merely ninety miles away—how could Sherman resist Charlotte?

  Yet General Sherman could not resupply himself or his colossal army or the phalanx of freed slaves forming another army behind him. So after a feint or two in Charlotte’s direction, he headed east for the sea.

  For the moment, Charlotte’s rail supremacy remained untouched. Foodstuffs, clothes, medical supplies, all were transported along the most important rail link left to the ravaged South, the line that had supplied General Lee before his surrender at Appomattox, the line that now shipped supplies to the cities smoldering in Sherman’s wake. And this mighty iron highway had but one vulnerable passage, the longest river bridge on any north-south railway, the trestle over the Catawba River at Nations Ford, ten miles south of Charlotte in Fort Mill, South Carolina.

  “It’s just too terribly exciting, isn’t it?” Mr. Johnston said, clapping his hands. “And Joshua, it’s properly ‘Nation Ford.’ A colonial-era Indian reserve was made for the Catawba Nation; Fort Mill was built to defend them against the Shawnees, who kept attacking. Somehow the Ford picked up the s after the War.”

  Union General George Stoneman, whose rogue operations and sneak attacks throughout the South had made fearsome legends of “Stoneman’s Raiders,” steadily advanced down the Catawba River Valley with a goal of destroying this essential trestle. A band of Raiders under Colonel William J. Palmer, with just four hundred men, crossed the mountains, marched through the foothills, and traversed the river valley, encountering skirmishes at Morganton and at Statesville.

  The Charlotte Home Guards, valiant men who for years had dreaded the war finally coming to their community, who had trained for just such an assault, built fortifications on the Charlotte side of the river; Confederate General Sam Ferguson and the Third South Carolina Cavalry made their way to Charlotte.

  His father weighed in: “Not much of a force, but we’ll not advertise that. Or what a slowpoke Ferguson was. He marched his South Carolinians to Charlotte doing God knows what, while Palmer slipped easily past him to the bridge. Did Ferguson imagine Palmer was going to march the Raiders right down Tryon Street? Of course, Claymore Ferguson, his ancestor, will come with the Ashley Dragoons from the South Carolina Third—oh that will be quite a show. This website is not the place to question General Ferguson’s failure to go straight to the trestle.”

  Josh and his father spent the morning writing and rewriting. Finally, their ramble came to the Skirmish itself. Shots were exchanged. Palmer set fire to the trestle, and that put an end to the rail link. The Skirmish at the Trestle … over in a few minutes, from what it sounded like. Fortunately, his father and his cohorts were planning for this historical profundity to play out over an entire weekend.

  Duke and his confederates had checked the train timetables to make sure the proposed cannon display did not coincide with the afternoon hundred-car freight runs. Norfolk & Southern were anything but cooperative. No person shall walk upon the tracks; any occupation of the bridge over the Catawba itself will be considered trespassing and the person subject to immediate arrest. In fact, N & S assured them they would have an extra cadre of railroad cops on duty for the weekend.

  None of that stopped the Skirmish plans from turning baroque. “Major” Badger wondered if a stuntman could be hired. Five Yankees could take the bridge, brandishing explosives, but before they could do their dastardly work, the Charlotte Home Guards would heroically appear on the bank and impressively pick them off. Oh, the four non-stuntmen could fall on the trestle, but the stuntman could stagger to the edge and plummet forty feet into the river. Didn’t they make Hollywood movies down in Wilmington now? Couldn’t someone find a falling-off-a-trestle specialist? A month was put into this project only to learn that no stuntman was interested in plummeting into the rocky two-foot depth of the mighty Catawba. They could perhaps fasten a giant foam landing cushion to the nearby rocks but that … that sort of lowered the tone, somehow.

  What about, Colonel Haslett suggested, one of those stationary fireworks displays from the trestle? Pinwheels and fountains of sparks and a few noisemakers booming away from the top of the bridge? The families and kids would love that!

  “Mr. Johnston,” said the representative of Norfolk & Southern, this time making a quite serious home visit, standing in the Johnston family foyer. “Under no circumstances is anyone ever to set foot on the railroad trestle, a railroad, I might add, in constant use through the day and night. Every bit the vital link in 2008 that it was in 1865.” Josh drifted away from the scene, leaving his father to it when the railroad lawyer pulled out papers, injunctions, cease and desist court orders. He heard mild defeat in his father’s tone: “Oh really now…” and “You think all this bother is necessary?” and “Why don’t we sit down and talk about it over some of Alma’s legendary chocolate chess pie?”

  A final hush-hush secret mission was undertaken to bribe the nearest stationmaster to turn a blind eye on the day of the event. Attempts to appeal to Southern Civil War sentiment failed, mainly because the line manager had strict orders and, inconveniently, was African-American. Very well. The railroad didn’t object, did it, to the trestle being illuminated in red shimmery lights in the evening to suggest its being burned down? The line manager gave the go-ahead for that, receiving the thanks of a grateful Confederacy. They offered him free entry passes for the whole family. He politely declined.

  Duke Johnston and the high command surrendered on all plans i
nvolving the trestle; there was a note of sour grapes when Major Badger said, “Well. Why even bother illuminating the trestle? What are we celebrating—its destruction by Yankees?”

  “We’ll stick with the cannon,” said Colonel Haslett.

  Joshua knew, from his homework, no cannon were fired in the historic fateful half hour in question, but it would be nice to see cannon go off. Contentedly, Joshua sat at his computer, in his boyhood bedroom, polishing and typing and answering e-mail queries from as far away as Worcester, England. And when Dorrie and his father were in his Civil War Study hashing out the web design downstairs, Josh sneaked a look at charlottedownlow.com. He smiled. There was a message from Nonso.

  * * *

  CDL had a following of twenty thousand members but some of them were white worshippers like Josh. The gamut of North Carolina’s African-American closeted world was here, professionals, church deacons, married men, athletes, teachers, the hunky guy at Home Depot, the assistant vice president at First Union. Many profile photos did not show a face since this was “on the down low,” and some went straight for the crotch shot, letting it all hang out.

  “Damn, the black thing is surely true,” Dorrie observed.

  “Yep,” said Josh.

  Josh couldn’t care less about endowments. That was the inevitable sneering summation of his gay acquaintances when they found out Josh was into black guys. Oh, their expressions (and sometimes extended banter) would say, another size queen.

  When Josh was growing up, their housekeeper Alma’s son Jeffrey would come over and he and Josh, both the same age, would play cowboys and make forts and sit on Josh’s bunk bed looking through picture books on rainy days. Nothing was as important as Jeffrey coming over—he asked every morning if Jeffrey was coming to the house, and since Alma only came three days a week (but varying days), mostly Josh was disappointed. At Mecklenburg Country Day School there were just one or two black kids at that citadel of white privilege, including his lab partner, Ronny. Josh manipulated his teacher, his classmates, the planets and the stars, to end up “by chance” being assigned Ronny as a lab partner in seventh grade. Ronny was his first love and was oblivious. Then there was Calvin Eakins Jr.

  Josh remembered that Calvin’s school-age pursuits were mainly devoted to martial arts films and white girls but, during a sleepover or two, Calvin prodded Josh for some hormone-driven homoerotic touching and rolling around. It was all Josh could do to put up a mild resistance as if he didn’t want to do this more than anything. I don’t know, Josh remembered saying, aroused to new extremes.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Calvin whispered in the dark bedroom, prodding without any malice. “You’re a hundred percent fag.”

  Josh’s love of African-American boys was primal, congenital, conceived in utter innocence of sex stereotype, some mystery in the beautiful skin itself that drew him, would always draw him as close as he was allowed to get …

  Calvin was now residing on Josh’s sofa, rarely leaving the living room, never more than a few yards from ESPN. Josh discovered Calvin had ordered some pay-per-view without asking but, aside from that, he was a pretty low-key houseguest.

  “Lakers versus Celtics in five minutes!” Calvin yelled from the sofa, a room away. “Anybody in the mood for a pizza?”

  “You paying?” Dorrie yelled back. Silence. “Thought so,” she said, before whispering to Josh, huddled at his laptop, “Any estimated time of departure?”

  Josh shrugged.

  “I hate to think you actually blew that loser in there—”

  “Sssshhh!”

  “Okay then,” said Dorrie, “show me your Favorites.”

  On CDL you could click and drag a profile to a door graphic on the left (a closet door, presumably) labeled MY FAVORITES. A click on the door would bring them up.

  “Um. There’re some weird choices in there that I cannot justify to you.”

  “I’ll withhold savage commentary about the miscreants you’re in negotiations with.” Then she grabbed the mouse and clicked on the closet door before he could stop her. The standout was a Nigerian boy with the most out-of-proportion blinding tooth-filled smile to his lean oval face.

  “Whoa, look at him,” Dorrie marveled. “It’s like one of those racist minstrel-show posters. Somebody go get dis chile a slice a watermelon!”

  “How could anyone not want to see that first thing in the morning?”

  “Africans have great teeth,” Dorrie said. “Then we got dragged over here and started eating American crap and it’s dentures by the time we’re forty.”

  “I think he’s adorable.”

  Nonso was from Lagos, Nigeria, and the six photos revealed a slender, chiseled body and his skin was purple-blue dark, which made the perfection of the big smile all the more striking.

  “And … oh no, kid. Uh-uh. Sorry to say, he is a certified nutjob,” Dorrie pronounced, while reading:

  HELLO AMERICA HE MAKE ME CRYING SO MUCH WHEN I WANT REMOVE MY PROFILE FROM HERE . . HE WAS SO ANGREY AND HURT IN SAME TIME WITH ME … I NEVER BEEN SEE HIM BE LIKE THIS . . YES HIS REALLY LOVE ME SO MUCH . . AND I BELIVE IN THAT

  HERE IS SOME FROM HIS ROMATIC EMAIL FOR ME------->>

  -------((My Dearest Nonso,

  How I love you from afar. I wish I could snap my fingers and make you appear beside me. Meeting you online has been one of the highlights of my life. You made me smile during the darkest times of my life. You made me laugh when all I wanted to do is cry. You are so much more than just a friend to me. Words can not even begin to say how much you being in my life means to me. Always know I am with you in spirit.

  Love you always, forever and a day.

  from Bob

  !!!!!!!SO THAT IS WHY I BACK AGAIN HERE!!!!!!!!!I

  ^^

  NOW FOR ABOUT ME

  ---->>((PLEASE TO READ MY PROFILE))<<------

  1/ IAM SINGLE

  2/ SEMPLE YOUNG

  3/ SO VERY HANDSOME

  4/ HONEST AND SERIOUS AND

  5/ VERY ROMATIC

  6/ VERY SWEETY ANF FRIENDLY

  7/ SO SINCERE

  8/ I VERY VERY SINCETIVE

  9/ HERE IAM FOR FIND TRUE LOVE

  10/ NON WASTER OF THE TIME

  11/ ENOUGH OF HURTING ME

  12/ BE HONEST AND SERIOUS WITH ME . . OR . . LEAVE ME ALONE.

  13/ IAM POOR BOY BUT HEART IS VERY VERY RICH

  OTHER SEID OF ME/ WELL IAM VERY LOVLY ONE . . WHO LIKE JOKE AND LAUGH . . VERY ROMATIC. SOME GUYS HERE . . THEY THINKING IAM VERY SADLY ONE . . YES THAT TRUE . . BECAUSE IAM LONLEY . . looking for white americcan boy for reall love.

  my life nothing without love.

  “I thought they spoke English in Nigeria,” Dorrie said, engrossed.

  “He’s from some tribe,” Josh began, not sure which one or why it didn’t speak English. “Hey, the Skirmish at the Trestle. You really think—”

  “I’m still reading the African Queen here. Don’t try to change the subject.”

  some time i meet gays here but only SECRET life here. no desco here … some groups gays make it partey some time here . . but i dont like go there.because i know they what looking for . . I WISH have even a old man from usa who is very honest and serious for find about true love.not just sexy sexy … my dream is to study in USA and learn my better englsh.

  ---->>((… U KNOW SOME TIMES WHEN IAM BED . . I THINKING WE GO TOGATHER OUTSIDE AND SHOW THE USA GAYS PEOPLE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU. HOW NICE WHEN HAVE SHOWER TOGATHER . . HOW NICE WHEN I LOOK AT UR BEATFULL FACE IN SLOW PLACE WITH BLUE CANDLES AND VERY SLOW MUSIC …

  IAM SO SORRY FOR LONG MASSEGE . . AND ALSO SORRY FOR MY ENGLISH BECAUSE DONT HAVE GOOD SPEAKING . . but WILL LEARN IN USA NO NAUTY FOTOS OR SEX ON TELIPFONE OR SEXY THING ON SEX CAM.… YOU MUST KNOW IAM FOR LOVE.

  nonso

  “Whoa,” Dorrie said at last.

  “I wanna get in the stream.”

  “You are NOT getting in that stream.”

  Josh was quiet a moment. “I�
��m not sure why he posts his profile in Charlotte. He may want to come to school here. I was thinking of sending him a link to—”

  “I absolutely, as your Designated Black Friend, forbid you from taking up with him, if he somehow makes it over here. We cannot have that kind of hysterical gay drama in our lives.”

  Josh sighed. “I don’t think there’s much of a chance of Nonso being admitted to our exclusive social circle.”

  * * *

  By mid-March Dorrie’s Skirmish at the Trestle website had garnered 95,000 hits. Cynical as they were, even Dorrie and Josh looked forward to it, checking the site daily to gauge its popularity, and answer queries.

  —Officers are expected to bring sufficient troops to justify their rank.

  —Any brigade, battalion or unit commander directly disobeying the order of their respective overall commander will be subject to removal from the event.

  —Officers have a responsibility to know the medical condition of the men in their commands!

  “I imagine,” Josh said, “this is a mecca for three-hundred-pound armchair warriors out there in the heat, clad head to toe in wool when it’s eighty-five degrees. The death toll will exceed the death toll of the actual skirmish.”

  “Your dad said they’ll have an ambulance driver hiding in the bushes somewhere.”

  —Unit colors must be full size and correctly constructed according to each army’s standards. Unit colors will be carried during battle scenarios only with the approval of event military staff.

  —No tent camping is allowed in the parking area. Hookups for RVs will not be available.

  —Bedding straw will be provided for purchase by the event host.

  The farm collective that owned the land on the other side of the river was gung ho. They would lease their field for the campers and RVs and modern campsites and set up concessions. The farmer’s son would drive a shuttle bus back and forth to the north side of the Catawba River, so he needed to be specially insured and indemnified, too. More details, more contracts, more paper, more stacks of paper, more lost stacks of paper, more doomed cries of “Alma!” and “Jerene, darling!” asking where the lost stacks of paper had run off to.