Free will, or destiny? Sometimes it depends on which God you serve. Southern cultures collide and come together in a small town in Arkansas. Both the past and present collude with magical realism offering a completely believable protagonist in young Billy Dee. No young'n should have to deal with issues of drug abuse and neglect, but then, this is the South, and you learn early on to man up. Billy Dee has lots to ponder on as he navigates the differences of those he loves and those who love him. Comic books and a love of the Blues, a Bloodhound named Beaudreau, Boo to his friends, what more could you need?
Free will, or destiny? Sometimes it depends on which God you serve. Southern cultures collide and come together in a small town in Arkansas. Both the past and present collude with magical realism offering a completely believable protagonist in young Billy Dee. No young'n should have to deal with issues of drug abuse and neglect, but then, this is the South, and you learn early on to man up. Billy Dee has lots to ponder on as he navigates the differences of those he loves and those who love him. Comic books and a love of the Blues, a Bloodhound named Beaudreau, Boo to his friends, what more could you need?
Chapter One             Â
It was the third week of April, and the spring rains were mostly over. The damp mushy ground leading up to the game trail was still a pain in the butt to navigate but the boy was in no hurry. Exploring is in the DNA of little boys and when you are eight years old you tend to take your time. It was his hope to tramp high enough above the neighborhood known locally as the Ridge to leave behind the picture-perfect manicured homes of the lower Ridge where real families and well-to-do retired folks lived. Heâd been waiting patiently for this window of clear weather in hopes of exploring the woods along the crest. Maybe get a birdâs eye view of Lake Norfork with the fishermen scoring an early afternoon catch from their vanity boats. They mostly took bass out of the lake, and it was good eating, but not as good as the trout from the river.
Soon enough he was following the rocky game trail and the farther he went the thicker the woods became until only a thin trickle of daylight filtered down through the canopy making the narrow trail almost a twilight dark. Twice he spotted deer. Some skittish does with a couple of babies, fawns, he thought they were called. The deer were not at all spooky, they were everywhere and very shy. Still, he anticipated he might as easily come across a wild pig, a black bear, or even a copperhead snake, oh my! He whistled softly and forged on ahead.
The woods Billy Dee belonged to, body and soul, are known as the Ozarks. Geographically they are known as a plateau. Comprising forty-seven thousand square miles extending into four states although mostly confined to Missouri and ArkansasâThatâs a lot of real estate.
In times past the semi-nomadic Osage Indians traversed the lower Missouri and northern Arkansas woodlands in regular sweeps to hunt and forage before the European settlers, the Irish, Scots, English, and Germans, descended in the early eighteen hundreds. These peoples brought not only their bodies but their cultures, mythologies, and folklore. They brought their gods and their demons. What they didnât realize was the Ozarks were not just an old forest but an ancient one having its own legion of gods and demons.
Primeval both in appearance and appetite they were the among the oldest mountains on the North American continent. Some scientists promoted the theory they were millions of years old, but really, do we know for sure? What we do know is there is no comparison with younger ranges like the Rockies.
The woods of the Ozarks seem to envelop and smother you with their decaying age. Trees so close together they stifle you with claustrophobic branches often covered in clinging vines and hanging spider webs, especially the cedars, always reaching to touch your face or the back of your neck, constantly moving ever so softly, whispering with the breeze, hinting at ancient secrets only you might hear, and yes, there are things within that will hurt you. Not all of them are readily identifiable.
Interspersed throughout the woods are rivers, large and small, though probably none so famous as the White River. With over seven hundred miles of coastline, it wanders from the Boston Mountains in northwest Arkansas, traveling north into the lower part of Missouri before swinging an arc and re-entering Arkansas on its southeastern journey to the mighty Mississippi. There was a time this would have been an uninterrupted travel adventure of unsurpassed wilderness and beauty, a bounty of fish, wildlife, and native culture would have played out their interactions without benefit of civilized behavior. Times have changed.
***
The old woman waited with a sense of calm. She was in no hurry to confront the inevitable. Her peace had been made with the woods a long time ago. Peace with the house was another matter for a later time. She had foreseen the boy coming today and she now awaited his arrival. Patiently she sat in a modern style slider on the wide front porch. An assortment of pots filled with spring flowers and tender herbs were situated in pleasing groups here and there. The winter screens had been taken down and stored for the summer leaving the porch open to the breeze and the still anemic April sunshine. Sipping a cup of strong Irish breakfast tea, she waited. She thought the Scots made better whisky, but the Irish knew their tea.
It was Saturday, the first dry one in weeks. No doubt, the boy was anxious to be outside, away from the too familiar confines of his home. A few more weeks and school would be out for the summer, after which she expected he would come often. Yet today would be his first visit. An introduction to his destiny, so to speak. The boy, of course, knew nothing of these musings. He was just out and about, exploring the world in little boy fashion, that being what little boys do best.
***
Billy Dee was getting tired. He was sure he had never ever walked this far in his whole dang life. When he went to the White River or one of the many nearby so-called towns, he always hitched a ride on the Hwy 62 Bypass. It was only a quarter mile or so from his house. It was not a particularly busy highway but there was always enough traffic he could get a ride. It was a good way to get around and nobody, at least in his mind, thought too much of it. Tiny towns held together by country roads and mostly decent folks. Mostly. It wasnât that he didnât know there were bad people, but he thought he had good instinctsâwas that the right word? and so far, so good!  However, you couldnât hitch a ride in the woods. You had to hoof it.
As he walked, he let his thoughts pleasantly drift to the White River. The swift running waters fascinated him. He sometimes sat on a high bank for long stretches, pondering the riverâs mysteries. Occasionally he found an accessible pool of almost calm water, perfect for skipping stones, but such were few and far between for young boys.
The White River was famous for world class trout fishing either from the wide and flat river boats, fly fishing in waders, or just off the bank with old fashioned rod and reel. Something to tickle the ambitions of any fisherman no matter their level of expertise or affordable gear. Often, he encountered one of the local lads casting off the bank. Some of them he had come to know by name. On a good day they might let him cast a line. If it was a really good day, they would give him a lift back to the Bypass with a beauty of a trout to boot. Better yet, if his mama was doing fine that day, she would fry it up with eggs for supper. Now that was grand!
Between the river, the game trails, or just walking around town, he always found someplace to go, to get away and just be himself, whoever that was. He looked down and skirted around a dead groundhog. His daddy called them whistle pigs and the memory made him grin. It looked to be a fresh kill and nibbled at around the edges, maybe by some big crows or other opportunist. On closer inspection he noticed a couple of drag marks and figured maybe a coyote had gotten interrupted at the feed.  That thought made him slightly nervous. Absently he patted his jeans pocket for his cell phone, then remembered he no longer had it. Not that he was overly scared or afraid, but it was nice to know you had options if you found yourself in a jam. Regrettably, his mama had said they had to cut expenses and they couldnât afford the extra phone, so heâd had to give it up. End of story. It wasnât so much a loss because he missed the phone function. He didnât ever call anybody, but it was a whiz at taking pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. Silly looking bugs, beetles, and exotic looking insects were all fair photographic game. There were even bright colored mushrooms (Google said donât even touch them, let alone put them in your mouth, can you spell d-e-a-d?) if you knew where to look. Sometimes he found a dead snake or other critter you wouldnât get intentionally close enough to if it were alive. Later, he would look up his finds on the internet. Google had become a trusted friend. Maybe when school was out, he could find some sort of summer job and give his mama the extra money so he could have his phone back. It didnât hurt to think ahead.
Billy Deeâs daddy had once told him, âThe farther you go, Son, the farther you have to come back. And you always have to come back.â
 He took a few minutes to rest. If the woods didnât break soon, he would likely turn around. It was warm enough now to take his hoodie off and tie it around his waist. He drank from a water bottle tied with a piece of heavy twine through a belt loop on his jeans. Itâs hard to give up when youâre eight years old. âCome on,â he told himself out loud, âyou can do this.â Â
He thought he must be getting near to the top. There was enough breeze he could faintly smell the lake. His mama always said he had a great snooter. And besides, heâd been waiting for weeks to try this trail. He wanted to see the lake from an eagleâs eye view or at least as close as he could get to that. The fishing boats, the docks, and landings, maybe even the Panther Bay Bridge which crossed the lake from Hwy 412 north to Gamaliel, (heâd hitched there once, was not impressed). He was sure it would look like a big picture painting akin to the ones he saw on the postcards at the gas station mini-mart. He knew the Norfork dam itself was to the south and he wouldnât be able to see that, but hey, you took what you could get. What he didnât get was that he was on the wrong ridge altogether for the view he was seeking.
 Minutes later, walking and daydreaming, Billy Dee was surprised to find he had walked smack into a clearing. Actually, it was somebodyâs yard. Somebodyâs yard with a big ass dog on duty. Yep, he was sure of it, the dog was the bigger of the two of them. They stared hard at each other, stock still and silent, maybe fifty feet apart.
A womanâs voice broke the spell. âYou come here, Beaudreau, leave that boy be.â  Reluctantly the big dog turned and trotted back toward a porch where he joined his mistress and gave a doggie grumble before lying down at her feet. Absently the woman reached to scratch his head between two long drooping ears. Turning her attention back to Billy Dee, who had not budged so much as one inch, she nodded to him and said, âCome closer boy, Iâve been expecting you.â
Itâs plumb amazing really how much peripheral information an untrained mind can absorb and process in a heartbeat and still be useful. The practical response for Billy Dee was to ask a very pertinent question straight out. âMaâam,â he called out. His voice seemed a bit too high. He swallowed and tried again. âMaâam, does that dog bite?â
The woman shook her head and hollered back. âOf course, he bites. Heâs a dog. All dogs bite. But he wonât bite you, Billy Dee. So, come on over here and letâs have a look at you.â Â
The entire scenario bordered on the absurd to Billy Dee. Everything seemed a bit odd. A little, no, make that a lot, off kilter and yet he no longer felt apprehensive. No longer fearing the big red dog he walked straight on towards the porch as if he belonged there. And perhaps he did.
***
The moon was rising, and a few faint stars were out by the time Billy Dee reached his own front porch. He was butt dragging tired as his daddy would have said. Some more of the farther you go spiel. He hoped his mama wouldnât be mad at him for being late and getting home past dark. He really, truly Lord, hated it when he made her mad but lately couldnât seem to find a way not to.
He let himself in as silently as a cat burglar but neednât have worried. Right away, he saw she wouldnât have known or cared when he showed up. She was sprawled half on the floor and half on the sofa. There was spittle at the corner of her mouth, and she was snoring. A tiny square of tin foil with burned char lay on the floor near her knee. A couple of empty Bud Light Lime bottles (her favorite) were nearby. There was a dime store heavy glass ashtray on the overturned crate that served as a coffee table. It was full of Eagle Menthol cigarette butts and part of what looked like (what he thought was called) a blunt. Wacky Tobacky, at least thatâs what his daddy called it. He tried, really tried, to stop the scalding tears from coming. They came anyway. They always did.
A modicum of guilt is a good thing as it reinforces oneâs moral compass. If you steal a piece of candy or tell a fib, you should feel guilty. You make peace by acknowledging the error of your ways and resolving to do better. You move on from it. But guilt can also be a terribly ugly and destructive demon having the power to destroy an individual as the human psyche is not equipped to harbor guilt for unsustainable periods of time. It just isnât. Period. Guilt is capable of gnawing at your vitals until life itself has no value. Granted, just as there are some who deserve, for a fact, to feel guilty for their actions, there are also eight-year-old boys who donât even know what they might have done wrong. Please, God, what about them?
Billy Dee wanted so very much not to see the ugly mess on the floor and the haggard looking creature that was not his mama. He thought she looked like a zombie in a movie. No! he screamed in his head. His mama was pretty. She was alive with bright blue eyes and dimples on her cheeks when she laughed. His mamaâs hair was that mystical blend of red and blonde, and looked like the campfire flames he remembered from when his daddy had taken them camping at the state park in Bull Shoals a lifetime ago. They had slept all together in a queen size sleeping bag in a tent and told him ghost stories until he was fast asleep snuggled between them. His mama had nice skin and soft hands. She giggled like a silly girl when you told her a good joke. His mama smelled like pretty flowers on a sunny day. His mama ⌠Tears ran freely down his cheeks as he struggled to gain control and reconcile the zombie-looking creature with the stench with his, sometimes, loving mama. The real mama that was burned into his memory.
At last Billy Dee turned away, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. He stood for several minutes with his back against it, breathing as deeply as he could. His eyes were closed, and he made a conscious effort to unclench his fists. A few minutes later, he faced the mirror, washed his face and hands, and combed his hair. He returned to the living room and methodically began picking up and bagging the offensive debris. This was not his first rodeo, as his Texas mama was fond of saying. Gently he laid a tattered blanket over her shoulders but opted not to otherwise touch her. On to the kitchen where he dragged his stepstool in front of the sink and washed an assortment of scattered dirty dishes. Then considering the chores done, he snagged a Dr. Pepper from the fridge and found an unopened sleeve of Ritz crackers in the pantry.
Taking what he considered his dinner, Billy Dee went to his room at the back end of the single wide trailer that was their rented home. His room was eight feet by ten feet. Eighty square feet to call his own, that belonged to him alone. It was neat and tidy considering it belonged to such a young boy. An old army cot with an ancient quilt served as his bed. There was a two-drawer chest (yard sale, four dollars and change) and a paint chipped three-shelf bookcase overflowing with little boy books and treasures. It was only here, in this room, he let his guard down. It was here he sat on his cot, hugging his skinny shoulders to himself, and allowing the pain to come. Allowing the guilt to come. It was here he cried, and prayed, to the God he didnât believe in.
âPlease, God,â he silently begged. âPlease let my daddy come home. Take my mama instead.â
And there you have it. The epitome of guilt.
Young Billy Dee lives under a cloud. His mother is an alcoholic. His father is in prison. They have little money. But Billy Dee tries everything he knows to keep his mother from diving into the abyss.
He often turns to his neighbor, Ella May, a Black woman who's kind and loving to him. She makes hot chocolate for him; she has a collection of blues music that inspires both her and Billy Dee. She also has a collection of interesting comic books. Whatever song is playing in her house seems to fit the mood or the occasion, whether it's Robert Johnson at the Crossroads or Bonnie Raitt singing a John Prine tune.
Things go from bad to worse for Billy. He loses his mother (I won't say how) and is suddenly all alone. Ella May takes him in. Her act of kindness is unusual, since she's a Black woman and Billy Dee is White in Arkansas in the South. But they make it work.
Billy Dee meets Maddy and her red hound dog, Beaudreau (also known as Boo), in her house along the ridge. She seems to know a great deal about Billy Dee and his family, specifically, that the family's heritage is in Scotland. She tells Billy Dee that he will have to go to Scotland one day. He goes to live with Maddy and Boo, where he discovers that Boo can. talk to him. The dog becomes Billy Dee's best friend.
This novel combines magic, imagination, soul-searching, and coming-of-age in an interesting way. I think readers will like the approach the author takes.
The plot and action in this book are slow at the beginning but start rolling as the novel progresses. The book's entire concept, as well as the characters, come alive on the pages. I will, however, say that I was bothered by a number of issues with punctuation (e.g., in dialogue, when a person is speaking and a paragraph ends, there is no quotation mark; there is one when that same person continues speaking in a new paragraph), and grammar, as well as typos (e.g., Billy was spelled Billie in one instance). It's difficult for me to get over those things when confronted with a solid story and plot line.
I suggest that this book would be much stronger if it were to have a good editing and proofreading done. I did not do a fine-tuned editing job on this, nor did I carefully proofread it. But the plot and concept of this novel are strong and interesting, and what would improve it in my opinion would be another run by editing and proofreading.