Imaginary Playmates
In the years before the American Civil War, Puritan Falls, Massachusetts, was a thriving coastal community that rivaled nearby Salem in terms of wealth and population. However, that was before so many of the village's young men heeded President Lincoln's call for volunteers to fight the Confederates and lost their lives in places such as Manassas, Fredericksburg, Antietam and Gettysburg. After Robert E. Lee's surrender at Appomattox Courthouse, the war soon came to an end, and the Johnnies came marching home. Yet there were no parades in Puritan Falls to welcome home its heroes, for few of them had survived the war.
The quaint seaside village received a second mortal blow when the widows and children of those fallen Yankee soldiers moved out of the area in an attempt to rebuild their lives. With the dwindling population, many of the town's businesses closed, and dozens of farms were abandoned. By 1875 the former maritime community was little more than a ghost town.
Ephraim and Miriam Butler were among the few individuals who not only remained in Puritan Falls but also managed to eke out a decent living despite the hardships the couple had to endure. The Butlers owned a small farm in the Naumkeag Hills area of town where they lived with their daughter Annabelle, a beautiful child who, although somewhat mentally inferior to other girls her age, had a warm and loving nature.
Since her parents' farm was located a good distance away from its nearest neighbor, Annabelle Butler had no other children to play with; however, she had no shortage of friends. Her vivid imagination saw to that. Her handmade rag doll, Miss Gingham, had been her first friend but by no means her last. Young Annabelle made friends with the animals on the farm, the trees in the orchard and the ducks on the pond.
When she was old enough to leave the Butlers' backyard, Annabelle would walk through the woods that separated her father's fields from the land that had once belonged to the Puritan Falls Church. Abandoned in 1868 when its congregation chose to worship closer to the center of the village, the church was a relic of the past, its cemetery untended for more than a decade. The chipped and crumbling headstones were barely visible amidst the tall weeds and young saplings that grew profusely among the graves.
Although Annabelle lacked the benefit of a formal education, her mother and father had, in the long evenings of the harsh New England winters, taught her to read and write. Consequently, she was able to decipher the names engraved on the old headstones—at least on those not worn down by time and the elements.
Those names she read, with the help of her imagination, took on faces and bodies and distinct personalities. The esteemed Dr. Abraham Morris and his wife, Elizabeth, both dead long before the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter, presided over Annabelle's coterie of imaginary friends. In addition to the Morrises, there were many beloved husbands and their beloved wives, men and women who had died without marrying, a handful of reverends who had kept watch over the flocks of the church down through the years, children like herself and even infants whose short life spans had been measured in days, weeks or months rather than in years.
Among the most recent graves were those of the now-forgotten soldiers of the War Between the States, the lucky ones whose bodies had been identified and whose families had arranged for them to be brought home for burial. Annabelle's favorite imaginary friend was interred in one of those military graves: a young man buried beneath the name Lieutenant Matthew Reynolds, of the 10th Massachusetts Light Battery, who had been killed on June 3, 1864, during the battle of Cold Harbor.
Every day, when the weather permitted, Annabelle walked through the woods to visit the old cemetery. She pulled out the weeds around the graves, dug up the saplings and even planted wildflowers on the plots of earth that covered her friends. As she worked, she carried on conversations with the inhabitants of the graveyard.
Since the girl could not possibly converse with so many people at one time, even if they were only imaginary playmates, she usually talked to three or four friends each day, pretending that the others were asleep in their flower-covered "beds." Of course, those three or four friends she chose to speak to invariably included the brave lieutenant from the 10th Massachusetts.
* * *
As Annabelle Butler grew to be a young woman, her trips to the old cemetery by no means abated. She still made regular visits to maintain the grounds as well as to chat with her old friends. Over the years, Lieutenant Reynolds had become simply Matthew, and in her daydreams, he took on all the qualities Annabelle admired most: he was brave, kind, intelligent and loyal, not to mention exceedingly handsome.
Although Annabelle was gradually becoming an adult, her knowledge of life and men was extremely limited. Because she was cut off from normal social life by both her isolation and her childlike mentality, her newly emerging emotions were directed not toward a living, breathing young man, but toward her long-time imaginary friend, Lieutenant Matthew Reynolds.
Before leaving the farmhouse for her daily walk to the cemetery, she made sure her hair was brushed and her clothes were clean and pressed.
"How do I look, Matthew?" she said shyly, showing off the new dress her mother had made for her.
Naturally, there was no reply from the fallen Yankee, but then none was expected.
"Oh, Miss Redmond, look how beautiful these chrysanthemums are on your bed!" she exclaimed, moving down the line of graves. "Yes, Mrs. Lowell, I know that I promised to plant mums on your bed, too. I haven't forgotten. I will bring some with me tomorrow."
The young woman chatted happily for several minutes with Mrs. Lowell and Miss Redmond while she pulled the weeds from the ground above their graves.
"It looks like your bed could use a little weeding too, Matthew."
She always felt shy and frequently blushed when she weeded Matthew's grave as if that simple act were a shared intimacy between the two that she wished the others could not witness. On her knees in the grass, her hands working through the soil that had years ago been shoveled upon the young soldier's earthly remains, she spoke to him in whispers so that the others could not overhear.
"I don't think there was ever a more handsome man in uniform than you, Matthew. You stand so straight and tall with your musket by your side, your dark hair peeking out from under your cap and your blue eyes glowing with courage."
Finished with her weeding, Annabelle stood up and looked down at the headstone that read KILLED IN ACTION, JUNE 3, 1864, COLD HARBOR, VIRGINIA. None of the other headstones in the cemetery held a clue as to the cause of death of the person buried beneath. Only Lieutenant Reynolds' headstone gave details other than his name and the date of his demise. Even the other soldiers' graves bore no reference to whether they had died in battle, in a Confederate prison camp or from one of the many diseases inflicted upon the Union army. Matthew's headstone, like the young lieutenant, himself, was special.
Late one chilly autumn afternoon in late September, with her gardening work completed, Annabelle said goodbye to her invisible, silent friends and headed home, thinking about the handsome fallen soldier along the way.
Killed in action.
What exactly did those three words mean? What had actually happened to Matthew Reynolds on that Virginia battlefield so far away from Puritan Falls? Annabelle knew many soldiers had been shot by Minie balls, others killed by exploding artillery shells and, in rare instances, some were bayoneted by enemy soldiers who had long since exhausted their supply of ammunition. What weapon had so cruelly ended the life of the brave lieutenant? And what of the Confederate soldier who had killed him? Did he, too, die on that bloody battlefield or did he manage to survive the war to return to his home and to those who loved him?
So deep was Annabelle in her reverie that she did not hear the snapping of twigs on the ground behind her. She had no idea that she was not alone in those woods, nor did she realize when she came to the green pastures of her parents' farm, that an unknown presence watched her cross the fields as she headed toward her house.
* * *
The following day held the promise of Indian summer, one more taste of warmth before the long, cold winter set in. Annabelle dressed in a cotton frock and then, just for precaution's sake, grabbed a wool shawl on her way out the door since an autumn day in Massachusetts was likely to turn cold without warning. On her way to the woods, she stopped by the split rail fence and dug up a patch of chrysanthemums that grew nearby. After all, she mustn't forget her promise to Mrs. Lowell.
As was the case on the previous day, an unknown presence kept an eye on Annabelle's every move. He had waited in those woods all night for her. With determination and stealth, he followed her at a safe distance until they were both out of sight and hearing range of the little farmhouse. Then the stranger who had been stalking Annabelle closed in.
The young woman was quite surprised to see someone else in the woods. The man had not come from her house, and she had never before encountered anyone on the grounds of the old church. Although curious about where he had come from and where he was going, Annabelle, in her simple-minded innocence, had no fear of his intentions. Why would she? She had been sheltered and protected all her life and had never been made aware of the dangers that often awaited the innocent, helpless young women of the world.
"Hello," she said in her usual amiable and open manner. "These woods are a long way from town. Are you lost?"
"No, I ain't lost, gal," he replied, inching closer toward her. "I came here to meet someone who lives near here."
"But no one lives near these woods except my parents and me."
As the stranger drew nearer, Annabelle was somewhat repulsed by his odor. He had not bathed for quite some time, and along with the strong stench of perspiration was another sour smell that Annabelle couldn't identify: the scent of alcohol.
"Well, ain't that a coincidence! 'Cause I came here to meet you, little lady."
The stranger reached out quickly, pulled the unsuspecting girl roughly into his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. Annabelle felt her stomach lurch. She pulled away and started walking toward the cemetery.
"I have to go now," she fretfully announced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a futile effort to remove the vile taste of his kiss.
"And just where do you think you're goin'? Up to that old boneyard, so you can sit and talk to yourself again? 'Oh, Matthew, you're so handsome in your uniform,'" he said in a high-pitched, mocking voice.
Tears came to Annabelle's large, doe-like eyes. She wanted to run away from this cruel, dirty, foul-smelling man.
"Your Matthew ain't nothin' but maggot meat, honey. But you just stay right here. I'll show you what a livin', breathin' man is like. 'Cause you sure are pretty even if you are a bit touched in the head, and it's been a long time since I had a woman."
He came towards her again. Had she been smarter, Annabelle would have run toward her farm, screaming for help as loudly as she could. Instead, she ran toward the old cemetery, toward the grave of her brave lieutenant from the 10th Massachusetts.
"Matthew," she cried softly as she ran, "please help me."
Annabelle was easily able to outdistance her pursuer, for he was older, out of shape and more than a little inebriated. But he wasn't worried; there was nowhere for the girl to run to. She dropped Mrs. Lowell's mums in her flight, and the underbrush tore at the cotton of her frock, but nothing slowed her mad dash for the cemetery. She had to get to Matthew before the stranger got to her. Her pace never slackened, not when she reached the edge of the woods nor when she passed through the rusty iron gate of the cemetery, hanging uselessly from one hinge.
Suddenly, there he was just as she had imagined him: standing straight and tall in his uniform with his musket by his side, his dark hair peeking out from under his cap and his blue eyes glowing with fierce courage.
"Matthew, help me, please! There's an evil man after me," the frightened young girl cried as she ran full speed into the dead soldier's waiting arms.
"He can't hurt you now, Annabelle," the brave lieutenant assured her comfortingly.
"Matthew, you're not dead," she noted with amazement. "You couldn't have been killed in action. You're not even hurt."
There was not a mark on him, no wounds, no scars, not even any tears in his uniform.
Matthew then saw the stranger come running out of the woods. He let go of Annabelle and reached for his musket.
* * *
The predator stopped at the gate and stared at his prey. That damned fool of a girl had run and tripped, falling headlong onto a grave and smashing her head on a gravestone. Her bloodied, lifeless body lay on the ground like a discarded rag doll.
What a waste! he thought with disgust.
As the stranger looked at the body of poor Annabelle Butler, her protector materialized before his horrified eyes. A scream of terror came from the stranger's lips, for there stood Lieutenant Matthew Reynolds, but not the dashing young man in the blue uniform that Annabelle had seen. This apparition was, as the man, himself, had so aptly described him, maggot meat.
The drunken stranger stared wide-eyed at the decayed corpse clothed in moldy, faded remnants of the uniform of the 10th Massachusetts and at what had remained of Matthew Reynolds' head, the part of it that hadn't been blown away by a Confederate private back in 1864.
Slowly the skeletal arms, with bits of rotting flesh hanging loosely from the bones, raised the rusted musket, unused since that tragic day at Cold Harbor, and fired.
* * *
"What was that?" Annabelle asked, startled by the loud crack that sounded like lightning overhead.
"It's nothing, dear," Matthew answered, laying his musket down. "It was just a rabid animal that had to be destroyed."
"Look, Matthew," the girl said, indicating the crowd gathering around her, "that loud noise must have awakened everyone."
They all came forward to welcome her: Dr. Morris and his wife, Elizabeth; Miss Redmond; Mrs. Lowell; Mrs. Adams, cradling her sleeping baby in her arms. There were so many.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lowell, I must have dropped your mums," she apologized for breaking her promise. "I'll bring you some more tomorrow."
The others smiled at her warmly, as Mrs. Lowell kindly explained, "Annabelle, my dear girl, you can't go back home anymore. You're one of us now."
Annabelle looked uncertainly at Matthew as he took her hand in his.
"Don't you want to stay here with us? With me?" he asked shyly.
There was no need for her to consider her answer. She had always belonged with Matthew. All the years she shared with him in her imagination had been only a prelude to the eternity they would spend together. Happier than she had ever been in life, Annabelle Butler lay down with her beloved soldier beneath the flowers she had planted and tended so lovingly over the years, unaware that above her two dead bodies were left to mark the grave of Lieutenant Matthew Reynolds of the 10th Massachusetts.
Imaginary playmates? How about imaginary pets?
