Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “Sure, honey. I’ll be on the lookout for it.”

  I left a message on Ms. Patrick’s voice mail and hoped she’d retrieve it in time to forward the information. Then I ran upstairs, showered, and dressed in a blue skirt and white blouse. I had a matching jacket that turned the outfit into a business suit but left it in the closet. I put on low black heels and slipped the letter from Savannah into a small black purse.

  “May I borrow the car keys?” I asked Mama when I returned downstairs.

  “You look fancy,” Emma said.

  “Like a woman preacher,” Ellie added.

  Our church allowed women to exhort the congregation. Mama rarely exercised the privilege, but when she did, her eyes blazed with the fire of God so that chills ran up and down my back.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Callahan to repent,” I said, turning around in the center of the room. “I wore this outfit several times when I gave a presentation at school.”

  Mama reached over and touched the fabric of the skirt. “That’s a nice blend.”

  “Is it modest enough?” I asked a bit anxiously.

  “Yes. You look very professional.”

  “I’d hire you,” Emma said. “And get you to sue Ellie for breaking the porcelain figurine that Aunt Jane brought back from her trip—”

  “Emma,” Mama interrupted. “Open to 1 Corinthians 6 and read what Paul wrote about Christians suing each another.”

  “I was joking,” Emma protested. “I forgave her the next day.”

  “I know, but it’s a good time to learn a lesson about lawsuits between Christians.” She turned to me. “Take the van. Don’t worry about putting any gas in it.”

  WITH A FAMILY OF SEVEN, a large passenger van was a necessity, not a luxury. Daddy selected the model, and Mama chose the color. She loved blue, and our vans were always somewhere between navy and azure. We didn’t take long trips. Common destinations were town, church, and the homes of relatives. One of the boys washed the van on Saturday, but it couldn’t stay spotless to the bottom of the dirt driveway. A light coat of red Georgia clay immediately coated the back bumper and created a film across the rear window.

  I turned left onto Beaver Ruin Road and followed it a mile to a freshly paved two-lane highway. The highway zigzagged across the hills of north Georgia, making sure no crossroad was left out. I knew every curve and dip of the route well enough to navigate it in a driving thunderstorm. I reached the edge of town. Powell Station had a single main street with two red lights, a business district three blocks long, and a U.S. post office. For travelers, it was a forgotten slow spot in the road. To me, it was the hub of our lives.

  Oscar Callahan was the only lawyer in town and jokingly claimed a monopoly on a business that didn’t pay well. However, he’d made enough money to build a large home surrounded by a fifty-acre pasture where Angus cattle grazed in idyllic contentment. Kyle thought the lawyer’s stock was the best of the breed in the area.

  The basis for Mr. Callahan’s success was his representation of workers injured in the small manufacturing plants, textile mills, and chicken processing facilities scattered across the region. If a worker sprained a knee, hurt a hand, or ruptured a lumbar disc, Mr. Callahan got the case. Insurance defense lawyers from Atlanta came north to litigate against him at their peril.

  I first met Mr. Callahan when I was ten years old and Mama took me to his office for a field trip. He took an immediate interest in me, and that first field trip led to other visits during which we talked about everything from the U.S. Constitution to what it was like inside the county jail. When I graduated from high school, he sent me a check for a hundred dollars along with a note telling me I could become a lawyer if I wanted to.

  Mr. Callahan’s roots in Powell Station ran deep. His grandfather was one of the most famous preachers in the early days of our church. The lawyer and his wife attended a more traditional congregation, but he understood people like my parents and me.

  I parked the van in front of a corner building at one of the two traffic lights. Mr. Callahan had remodeled the plain brick structure years before and installed nice wooden double doors with his name, “Oscar Callahan—Attorney at Law,” in large brass letters across the top. The building was painted white. Even after the paint began to chip, it was a classy place. Everybody in town considered his office a landmark.

  The inside of the building was cool on even the hottest days. It was the coolness of the interior that impressed me as a little girl. Our house didn’t have air-conditioning, and we survived summer with fans that did little more than circulate the heat. The church sanctuary was air-conditioned, but people supplemented the anemic system with funeral home fans. Mr. Callahan didn’t concern himself with what he had to pay the electric co-op. The oversized cooling unit behind the building never stopped humming.

  Thick, deep carpet covered the floor beneath my feet. A leather sofa and eight chairs lined the wall. Neat rows of sporting, hunting, and women’s interest magazines were displayed on a coffee table. Mrs. Murphy, a gray-haired woman, sat in the corner of the room behind a dark wooden desk. A man in overalls was talking to her. I stepped toward her desk but kept a respectful distance.

  “Either Harriet or I will call you as soon as your settlement check comes in and set up a time for Mr. Callahan to meet with you,” Mrs. Murphy said to the man.

  “When do you think it will get here?” the man asked. “My wife’s got her eye on a new double-wide, and we don’t want it to get away.”

  “Within a couple of weeks.”

  “That might be too late.”

  “Who’s selling the trailer to you?”

  “Foothills Homes.”

  “I know Mr. Kilgo. Would you like me to call and let him know what’s going on with your case?”

  “Yes’m.”

  The client turned away, and Mrs. Murphy smiled at me.

  “Here’s your fax,” she said, handing me a few sheets of paper. “He just got off the phone, and I’m sure he would like to see you. You look great, very professional.”

  “Thanks.”

  Beyond the reception area was a library that also served as a conference room. Opposite the library was Harriet Smith’s office. In her early forties, the secretary had worked for Mr. Callahan over twenty years. Beyond the secretary’s office were a file room and two smaller, unfinished offices, one of which Mama wanted me to occupy upon graduation from law school. Mr. Callahan had never brought up the subject during the short stints I’d worked at his office organizing files. However, he’d agreed to serve as a reference on my résumé.

  The door to the lawyer’s office was open, and I could see his feet propped up on the corner of his desk. A tall man, Oscar Callahan was sixty years old with a full head of white hair and intense, dark eyes. It was easy to imagine his grandfather as a fiery preacher. Mr. Callahan looked over his gold-rimmed reading glasses and rose to his feet.

  “Welcome, Tammy Lynn,” he boomed out. “It appears the transformation into sophisticated lawyer is well on its way.”

  Mr. Callahan motioned for me to take a seat. The lawyer had large hands that he used to emphasize points in conversation. He laid his glasses on his desk and pointed at the papers in my hand.

  “Did you get your fax?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Is it from Savannah?”

  “Yes sir,” I answered in surprise.

  Mr. Callahan nodded. “Joe Carpenter called me about you the other day. We were in law school together. He’s a tight-lipped blue blood from the coast, and I’m the wild-eyed son of the red clay hills, but we’ve always gotten along fine. I’ve seen him at bar association meetings over the years. Did he offer you a summer job?”

  I held up the papers. “Yes sir, I think so, but I haven’t read the terms.”

  “Well, an offer is like bait on a hook. It doesn’t count for anything unless a fish bites it. Look it over while I finish reviewing this medical report.”

  Mr. Callahan put on his glasses and resu
med reading. I looked down at the three sheets of paper in my hand. Even the fax cover sheet had a classy look. I turned to the next page, titled “Summer Clerk—Offer Memorandum.” My eyes opened wide at the amount of money I would be paid. The weekly salary would be greater than what I would make in two grueling weeks, including overtime, at the chicken plant.

  The impact of a legal education on my economic future struck me like never before. If the law firm paid this much to a summer clerk, the compensation for first-year associates would be even more. I quickly calculated a likely annual salary in my head.

  The rest of the memo was related to dates of employment, a prohibition against working anywhere else while employed by Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, an agreement that all my work product would belong to the firm as well as receipts from billings, and a confidentiality clause as to both terms of the offer and any proprietary information obtained during my employment. I wondered what in the world I might learn that would be valuable enough to sell. When I glanced up, Mr. Callahan was peering over his glasses at me.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  I started to hand the fax to him, then stopped.

  “I’d like your opinion, but I can’t show it to you,” I said. “It has a confidentiality clause.”

  The older lawyer laughed. “Consider me your personal attorney for a few minutes. A confidentiality clause doesn’t prohibit consultation with a lawyer. I’ll review it pro bono.”

  I sheepishly handed the offer sheet to him. He read it in a few seconds.

  “The price of raw legal talent is going up,” he said. “That beats hugging dead chickens, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And they’re going to toss in a name change for free.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” the lawyer said with a chuckle. “Everybody knows your mother as Lu; no one calls her Luella.”

  “Except my grandmother and Aunt Jane.” I paused. “Mama and Daddy think the different spelling of my name was a mistake by the law firm.”

  “Do you want to confess your sins to me?”

  I remembered my comment about telling Mr. Callahan to repent.

  “I can use it for the summer, then go back to the correct spelling.”

  “Don’t worry about it. T-a-m-i has a nice look to it. I’ve never been fond of Oscar but couldn’t come up with an alternative.”

  “You’ll always be Mr. Callahan to me.”

  The lawyer laughed. “I’m sure I will.”

  “What else do you know about the firm?” I asked.

  Mr. Callahan handed the fax back to me. “As you can see from the letterhead, the Braddock firm has been around for a hundred years. Samuel Braddock is a descendant of the founder. I don’t know Nelson Appleby and told you about Joe Carpenter. How many lawyers are there? Sixteen or seventeen?”

  I glanced down at the letterhead and counted. “Fifteen.”

  “I did a little research for you,” Mr. Callahan said. “According to the firm website, less than half are partners. The rest are associates hoping they get invited to join. The firm’s representative clients include a couple of shipping companies, several banks, blue-chip corporations, large foundations—the cream of the crop.” Mr. Callahan smiled. “I doubt any of their lawyers would be interested in representing a man who rips the rotator cuff in his right shoulder while unloading a trailer in one-hundred-degree heat.”

  My face fell. “Do you think it would be a bad place to work?”

  The lawyer held up his hand. “No, no. Don’t let my bias on behalf of working folks taint you. I shouldn’t have said that. There are many honorable places to land in the law. One of the best pieces of advice I ever received was to dabble in a number of areas, find what brings the most personal satisfaction, and become an expert in it.”

  Listening to Mr. Callahan’s practical wisdom made me wish he would offer me a summer job. Even if he paid me chicken-plant wages it would be plenty of money for me, especially since I could live at home.

  “It’s a long way from Powell Station,” I said, hoping my wistful comment might lead the conversation in that direction.

  “You’ve gone a long way from here already. And I bet you’ve taken the best your family has to offer along with you. If you take the job in Savannah, folks are going to meet the kind of person who made this country great in the first place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mr. Callahan looked past my right shoulder. He stared so long that I turned and followed his gaze to an old photograph of his grandfather on the wall. Preacher Callahan didn’t look like he knew how to smile.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” the lawyer continued, his eyes returning to mine. “You’re different, and it won’t take long for anyone to find it out. Most people focus on the externals: the way you dress, the fact that you don’t go to movies, the obedience to parents, the way you honor the Lord’s Day by not doing anything on Sunday except go to church meetings. They don’t realize that what makes you special is on the inside—your integrity and strength of character. That’s rare, especially when joined with your intelligence.”

  Mr. Callahan’s words made me uneasy. It sounded like an invitation to pride. I kept silent.

  “Is it all right for me to share my opinion?” he asked.

  “Yes sir. That’s why I’m here.”

  The lawyer tapped his fingers on his desk. “Just the answer I expected, and although my ideas don’t always line up with your beliefs, hear me out. When I look at you, I appreciate what my grandfather and those like him stood for. The strict ways don’t work for everyone, but in your case they do. And I’m open-minded enough to acknowledge the good done by God’s grace when I see it.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “So, what are you going to do about the job?” the lawyer continued. “Could I work for you?” I blurted out.

  Mr. Callahan smiled. “That’s not the bait in the water. But to be honest, I thought about it after Joe Carpenter called me. I even prayed about it.”

  My eyes opened wider.

  “Does that surprise you?” he asked.

  “No sir. I mean, I guess it does a little bit.”

  “I believe in prayer,” the lawyer said. “What does the Bible say? God blesses the children of the righteous to how many generations?”

  “A thousand generations.”

  “Did they teach you that in law school along with the rule against perpetuities?”

  “No sir. It’s in Deuteronomy.”

  Mr. Callahan nodded and spoke thoughtfully. “Well, I’m only two generations removed from a very righteous man, and all my life I’ve felt the stirring of his influence in my soul. When I prayed about offering you a job, the Lord told me to ‘ask for a continuance.’ When does a lawyer request a continuance?”

  “When he’s not ready to try a case.”

  “Or when the case isn’t ready for the lawyer to try.”

  I mulled over his words for a moment before responding. “Do you think I have to learn more before I’m ready to make a decision about coming back to Powell Station?”

  “Maybe, but don’t treat my opinion like someone standing up at the church and saying, ‘Thus saith the Lord.’ I don’t claim infallibility or divine imprimatur. And it’s not just about you. I need time to decide what I’m going to do over the next few years. Someday, I want to spend more time feeding my cattle than fighting with insurance companies. Unless I simply close the doors when I retire, I need to bring in a younger lawyer or two who can develop rapport with my clientele in preparation for taking over my practice.”

  I knew the meaning of patience. Instant gratification wasn’t part of my upbringing.

  “Yes sir. Can I share what you’ve told me with my parents?”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “I’d expect you to. And if you need Internet access or use of the fax machine while you’re home, come here.”

  “Thank you.”
>
  I stood up. Mr. Callahan spoke. “Don’t let go of the good planted in you.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As I drove home, I couldn’t shake a deep longing that, in spite of his comments, Mr. Callahan might offer me a job. It would be a gracious next step along the path to independence. As I rounded a familiar curve, I appealed the lawyer’s decision to a higher judge.

  “Lord, could you tell him a continuance isn’t necessary?”

  AFTER SUPPER THAT NIGHT, Daddy, Mama, and I returned to the front porch. After making sure neither of the twins was eavesdropping, I told them about my meeting in town. I left out the part about praying that Mr. Callahan might change his mind. Mama started to interrupt a few times, but Daddy put his hand on her arm.

  “That’s it,” I said when I finished.

  “So, the Spirit still moves on his heart,” Daddy said. “Why would he wander from the fold?”

  “His mother didn’t like our ways,” Mama replied. “And a family that isn’t of one mind is a house divided. It will fall.”

  “But he’s aware of his heritage,” Daddy answered. “Do you think Pastor Vick and some of the elders should visit him?”

  Mama was silent for a moment as they rocked back and forth. “It would be a glorious homecoming.”

  I stared across the darkening yard, not sure what my parents’ interest in Oscar Callahan’s spiritual pilgrimage meant to me. I needed them to make a decision. The Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter job offer wouldn’t remain outstanding indefinitely. If I didn’t accept it, and Mr. Callahan didn’t change his mind, my summer would be spent with thousands of dead chickens. I cleared my throat.

  “What about Savannah?” I asked.

  “We’ll seek the Lord about it tonight,” Daddy said. “And tell you in the morning.”

  Daddy’s comment wasn’t a religious put-off. He and Mama believed in praying until they received a definite answer. I’d seen the light shining beneath their bedroom door in the middle of the night when an issue of importance to the family required guidance from the Lord. People at our church would tarry at the altar as long as it took to find peace.