The End or the Beginning of Something

By John Bennett

 

On Sunday morning Mr. Barnes caught sight of a migrant caravan marching up Highway 3121 and approaching his land from the south. It was the end or the beginning of something. Invasions from countries across the globe had been long expected, and so even in the midst of this panic, Mr. Barnes couldn’t help but gloat. He called his son in New York and laid it on thick.

Go on, guess who done predicted it, said Mr. Barnes. Hannity. Tucker. Fox News.

Oh, come on, Daddy, not now, said Robert. I’m worried about you. About you and Mama.

Normally, Mr. Barnes would have teased his son a bit longer - anything to keep them talking - but now it was too late. For once, Robert seemed uneasy about a crisis back home in Louisiana and had offered to help. He said he’d call friends in New Orleans and send them north.

Shoot, what’re they gonna do? asked Mr. Barnes. Roads are blocked, and the National Guard’s stretched thin. It’ll take hours, probably, for ‘em to reach us, boy. Ain’t no saving -

The call dropped; he dialed again: nothing. Outside, Old Glory flapped in the wind, and Mr. Barnes tucked his iPhone into his pocket and bowed his head beneath the Wal-Mart flagpole he’d placed in the middle of his North Carthage yard during a more peaceful time.

 

He prayed, Lord God, at least you done prepared us, he said, concluding his invocation. Hallelujah.

The caravan forged ahead into a clearing and began darkening the hills around Mr. Barnes’s property with migrants from along the border that had dispossessed landowners across the Southeast and confiscated thousands of acres of American farmland.

For months, Mr. Barnes had read and shared rumors on Facebook; but despite Robert’s allegations, he was no racist or conspiracy-theorist, no right-wing nut — he was an independent, a seeker of truth, and a patriot.

See? You, see? said Mr. Barnes. That boy, he ain’t never believed me. He ain’t. Margie!

He shuffled inside the house and hurried to the living room where Margaret rocked back and forth in her chair and giggled at a private joke. She quieted herself as she detected his voice.

Good morning, said Margaret. Good afternoon. How are you today, Jeff? How are you?

Listen up, Margie, said Mr. Barnes. Them migrants, they’re here now! They’re outside!

But Margaret just smiled at him and blinked twice and stared until Mr. Barnes shook her.

Margie! Margie, you listening? said Mr. Barnes.

Did you take your medicine? Did you?

Oh, yes, Jeff. Them migrants. Them migrants, I remember ‘em, she said. Here now? Oh.

She halted her rocking and twisted in her seat to glance out the window behind her.

But how did they get here? Margaret asked her husband.

I don’t remember that part. I —

Oh, Margie, just forget it, said Mr. Barnes. All I know is we done predicted it. We knew.

They listened to bootheels trampling grass as the migrants jaunted from the hillsides and loped in a mad dash for the valley and for the fatness of the land

.
Mr. Barnes could envision the destruction: the fences cut; the lowing cows chased into the woods; the garden stripped of its bounty. It would be worse than the Civil War, or the recent summertime droughts: the end of North Carthage as he’d always known it, and of him and his ancestors’ 150 years in this place

Margie, you know we gonna need to prepare ourselves, said Mr. Barnes. Are you ready?

Yes, I’m ready, but let’s go get Bobby first, said Margaret. Can we? You know we oughta.

Aw, Margie, you know better than that. Roberts in New York. It’s just us, remember? Us.

Us? repeated Margaret with evident displeasure. You mean Bobby ain’t coming? He ain’t?

Heck, Margie, of course not, he’s a thousand miles away. Don’tcha remember? Don’tcha?

A thousand miles? Margaret whispered. A thousand? Whatcha mean, Jeff? A thousand?

From outside in the yard emerged the ominous clack, clack, clack of boots trotting up the driveway and drawing nearer to the house. Mr. Barnes ushered Margaret to the window: he peeled the curtain back at its corner and peeked out and showed her the astonishing nightmare that had stalked his waking life for as long as reports of the migrants had circulated in the news.

See, Margie! said Mr. Barnes. We gotta go! Get in the utility room and lock the door. I’ll knock when it’s safe, and I promise you’ll be all right. We done planned it, remember? Sure did.

Uh-huh, we done planned it, said Margaret. Yes, yes. We did, ain’t we, Jeff? We was ready.

Mr. Barnes took his wife’s hand and led her inside the utility room and brought her some pillows and a blanket from the couch and a protein bar from the pantry and a bottle of water from the fridge.

He closed the utility room door and wrangled chairs from the kitchen and constructed a barrier in the hall, a makeshift obstruction. He leaned against the door frame: panting and dizzy and sweating through his shirt. He had the spirit of a younger man, if not the stamina to match.

Margie, stay in there! Mr. Barnes bellowed through the door. It’s gonna be OK. Trust me.

He crossed the hall and entered the office at the back of the house and unlocked the gun safe he used as a filing cabinet for insurance, tax returns, and his son’s school records. From deep inside, he removed his beloved 30.06, cradled it, fed it a few shells. Robert would never approve.

Daddy, you don’t hunt, why do you still need a gun? Robert had asked him during his last visit. Y’all are so scared down here, it’s plain embarrassing. Its fear run amuck. It’s paranoia.

Mr. Barnes shrugged. You’ve changed a lot, son, was all that he could answer. Sure have.

He heard a crash in the hall.

Bobby, is that you out there? yelled Margaret from inside the utility room. Hey, Bobby!

Mr. Barnes cocked the bolt of his 30.06, gripped the rifle’s stock, balanced the gun’s weight throughout the length of his arm, and steadied its barrel mere inches above the ground, carrying the weapon into battle as country boys from all corners of the nation had done since time immemorial.

In the kitchen an unarmed migrant with the beginnings of a mustache was busy ransacking the pantry; he jumped seeing Mr. Barnes and cursed him in a foreign tongue.

No, no, you don’t, said the old man. No talking. Put your damn hands up. Put ‘em up!

The migrant obeyed the order, and Mr. Barnes raised his gun, flipped the safety switch, and aimed at his opponent. He could not ignore how much this young man resembled those homeless bums who lingered at gas stations in Monroe.

This thought reminded Mr. Barnes of the parish’s other problems: the young'uns on dope, the unmarried teens with baby showers, the iglesias cropping up, and the boys on ATVs littering beer cans and pilfering tin from the church.

Hey! shouted Mr. Barnes. Put them hands up! Put ‘em up, you hear? And keep ‘em up!

But now, the young man hurled at Mr. Barnes a mouthful of distasteful expletives until an explosion from the 30.06 interrupted his jeremiad and dropped him to the floor. Mr. Barnes, for his part, was flung backwards by the gun’s recoil, and as he dusted himself off, the migrant slumped into a spindly pile of limbs and collapsed into an oozing puddle of freshly-spilled blood.

What was that noise? exclaimed Margaret. Is that our Bobby coming home? Is that him?

She pushed out of the utility room and through the stacked chairs that Mr. Barnes had installed for her protection, and as she entered the kitchen Margaret spotted on the bloody linoleum the groaning, crumpled remains of the young man writhing like a baby in its crib.

Margie! said Mr. Barnes. Get back in the durn utility room! Get back in there! Go back!

Margaret, though, merely ignored her husband’s fury and squatted to the floor and situated herself alongside the shivering body of the wounded man and ran her trembling hands through his black hair and eased his head into her lap.

He moaned as she moved him and brushed his bangs and dabbed his wet temple with her sleeve. He clenched his fists, unclenched them.

Water, said Margaret. He needs water. Oh, my Bobby Boy, I’ve missed you. I sure have.

Margie, said Mr. Barnes. I tell you, that boy is not your son. He ain’t Robert. He’s just —

Jeff! Jeff! Water, please, he needs it! said Margaret. Please help! Our Bobby needs help!

Mr. Barnes propped his gun against the wall and peered outside at the migrants in the yard. He ducked reluctantly into the bathroom, turned on the sink, filled a cup of cold water, and returned it to his wife.

Margaret was overjoyed by the favor and pressed the cup to the young man’s lips and lifted his head and allowed him to drink. She spoke to her son in a soothing voice.

Oh, Bobby, she said. Bobby Boy, we’ve missed you a lot. We’ve missed you. We sure have.

Margie, now listen here, this is ridiculous, said Mr. Barnes. That ain’t Robert there: this is some durn migrant come on our property trying to seize it. Look outside at that horde. Look

Shh! said Margaret. Our Bobby Boy’s here, and he is resting now. He’s resting.

Mr. Barnes retrieved his 30.06 and rocked back and forth on his heels, imagining the roar of the engines and the jeers of the migrants as they commenced with the confiscation of his farm.

He squeezed his eyes shut and contemplated his future: his barns torched; his two Dodges repossessed; his horses and Brangus cattle tattooed and herded onto trailers bound for sale; his pine and hardwood timber clear-cut for profit; and this, his homeplace of 45 years, bulldozed and occupied by roaming gangs and renamed La Plaza de la Revolución. He figured it up as 242 acres sliced into segments for mobile homes. Over my dead body, thought Mr. Barnes. No way.

He cued his son’s voice: Daddy, it ain’t their fault, they’ve been exploited. You, me, Mama: we’ve had so many opportunities that they ain’t never had. Our farm, our family, this country: what about the rest of the world, Daddy? What about their needs? What about -

Son, you better hush up, said Mr. Barnes. I’ve worked my whole damn life for this farm, and I’ve struggled, too, and so has your Mama. We don’t owe the world nothing: you listen to her, son, take a listen. We could use some help ourselves, so when you coming home? When?

He tightened his grip on his 30.06 and sensed again the onset of the dizziness.

Hey! said Margaret. Hey, our Bobby Boy, our Bobby Boy’s talking! He’s talking!

Mr. Barnes lowered his gun and approached the body of the wounded migrant. The man wrestled with his injuries and eased himself up onto his mangled shoulders. He groaned softly.

What? said Mr. Barnes. What did you say? I couldn’t make it out. What was it?

He said he was sorry, said Margaret. Our Bobby Boy, he’s sorry. He said he loves you.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Margie, he ain’t said that shit! said Mr. Barnes. Jesus Christ.

The young migrant, understanding a little, smiled and crossed himself with his right hand and closed his eyes for the last time of his life. He laid his head in Margaret’s lap. He didn’t stir.

Mr. Barnes felt queasy now, as if he could vomit. He prayed silently, and he cursed.

Margie, he asked, is this the way it all ends? Do you know? Does anybody?

Oh, Bobby, Margaret said. Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, we sure did love you. We sure did.

Yeah, we sure did, said Mr. Barnes. We sure did. Me especially.

There came a knock at the door and a shadow on the threshold. Mr. Barnes didn’t answer.

Bobby! exclaimed Margaret as she heard the knock. My God, he’s back! He’s home!

Mr. Barnes laughed and welcomed the return.

It ain’t your Bobby Boy, said Mr. Barnes. Naw, it ain’t him. Or maybe it is. We’ll see.

He raised his gun, pressed his finger to the trigger, and opened the door.

 

 

John Cody Bennett from US is an English and World History teacher at The Birch Wathen Lenox School in New York City. He is a graduate of Sewanee: the University of the South, and a Fulbright scholar from Louisiana. He has published fiction in Across the Margin, the Bookends Review, The Militant Grammarian, and others, and is currently pursuing a Master’s in History at the City College of New York.