Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “I’ll pray too,” I answered.

  “It’s right that you should,” Mama replied. “A cord of three strands isn’t easily broken.”

  4

  MOSES JONES LIVED IN A WATERFRONT SHACK ON AN UNNAMED tributary of the Little Ogeechee River. Years before he’d selected a place so marshy and uninhabitable that no one would have an interest in disturbing his privacy. No mobs of angry white men looking for a scapegoat threatened him.

  It took several months to build his single-room dwelling with scrap lumber and plywood. When he finished, it rested on stilts four feet above the ground. Twice hurricanes damaged the house, but each time Moses scavenged enough lumber to rebuild.

  It was a ten-minute walk through the woods to the lean-to where he kept his bicycle beside a narrow road. Every Monday morning, he pedaled into Savannah where he spent the day collecting aluminum cans to sell at the recycling center. He didn’t pick up cans alongside the road. Moses had an arrangement with several bars and pubs that allowed him to haul away their beer and soft drink cans in return for cleaning around the back of their buildings. Included in his wages at one of the pubs was a free meal. The high point of Moses’ week was sitting on a delivery dock savoring a plate piled high with spicy chicken wings.

  After he sold the cans, Moses would buy a few fishhooks and fill up a plastic bag with free food from the community food pantry. Clothes and shoes were castoffs that couldn’t be sold at a local thrift store. He washed his clothes once a month at a Laundromat. People mistakenly considered him homeless. They didn’t know about his shack in the woods. He never begged or panhandled.

  The old man’s most expensive regular purchase was the kerosene that powered his stove, heater, and lantern. He’d strap a five-gallon plastic container onto his bike rack and fill it with fuel at a hardware store. Five gallons of kerosene would last a long time in the warm summer months when he only used it for cooking, but in the winter he had to buy more. Winter was hard on animals and hard on Moses.

  Fish and an occasional squirrel he caught in a metal trap were his sources of fresh protein. Moses liked fish coated in cornmeal and quick-fried; a gray squirrel grown fat on acorns from live oaks provided a different taste in meat. He drank water boiled in a large pot and poured into milk jugs. Alcohol hadn’t passed his lips since he’d worked years before as a bolita runner for Tommy Lee Barnes.

  Moses slept on eight pillows wrapped in an old sheet and laid on the floor. It was a lumpy mattress, but it was a lot easier hauling pillows through the woods than trying to carry a mattress. He had a folding table and two aluminum chairs, but he never had guests. It had been five years since his last visitor, a duck hunter who surprised him one morning. The hunter stopped for a brief chat then moved on. There weren’t any ducks in the area, and the hunter didn’t come back.

  In good weather Moses cooked outside, which kept his shack from getting smoky or burning down. He kept the kerosene lantern for emergency use and rarely lit it. Except when he went night fishing, he lay down to sleep at dark and woke at dawn.

  The old man kept his most prized possession, his johnboat, locked and chained to a tree. The key to the rusty lock hung on a leather strap around his neck. In winter Moses slept in the shack, but the rest of the year he liked to spend several nights a week on his boat. When he finished fishing, he’d tie up at a dock of one of the many houses that lined the waterway in every direction. He preferred the docks as moorings. Too many times, he’d tied up to a tree only to have a snake, spider, or an army of ants invade the boat in the middle of the night.

  After he found a spot for the night, he’d remove one of the seats in the johnboat and roll out two rubber mats that he placed on top of each other in the bottom of the boat. He’d stretch out on the mats, drape mosquito netting over the edge of the boat, and watch the stars overhead while the boat gently rocked in the river. The faces in the water couldn’t see over the edge of the boat, and after so many years, the memory of innocent blood running off his hands into the river rarely played across his mind. He felt at peace.

  However, like a hidden log just beneath the surface of the water, Moses’ habit of tying up at the river docks concealed an unknown danger.

  AFTER PUTTING ON MY PAJAMAS, I took my Bible and journal downstairs to the front room. I turned on a small lamp and knelt in front AFTER of the sofa. God could speak quickly, or he might make me wait. To set a timetable for an answer would be disrespectful to his sovereignty. God was merciful, but prayer wasn’t always meant to be a desperation plea by someone wanting a quick fix to a thorny problem.

  Divine guidance about a summer legal clerkship with Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter would have to come indirectly. Savannah, Georgia, didn’t appear in the sixty-six books within the black leather cover, and the references to rabbinical lawyers, especially in the New Testament, weren’t very complimentary. Any impression I received would be closely scrutinized by my parents.

  I started by spending time thanking God for his past love and faithfulness. Although completely sufficient in himself, the Lord, like any parent, appreciated the thanks of a grateful child.

  As I thought about God’s goodness, I remembered a time in high school when I didn’t have the money needed for a weeklong trip to Washington, D.C., and the deposit for the trip was due on a Monday. Without telling anyone except my parents, I prayed for the funds, and after church on Sunday morning a man in our church gave me a check for the exact amount I needed. Remembering how I felt at the time, a wave of emotion touched me, and I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. More instances of God’s goodness came to mind. I momentarily pushed aside the reason for my private prayer meeting.

  I loved the Psalms and decided to quote Psalm 100 from memory, placing special emphasis on the verse about entering his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise. A civil courthouse was light-years from the place where David worshipped the Lord with all his might, but while meditating on the vast differences, a prayer welled up within me. I knew the next words from my mouth would be important.

  “Lord, wherever I go, may I make the court of law a place of praise.”

  It was a beautiful thought. To find a place of holiness in the midst of a secular courtroom was something I’d never considered, and I marveled at a new facet of God’s greatness. I might not shout “Hallelujah” in a judge’s face, but my soul, like Mary’s, could magnify the Lord, and my spirit could rejoice in God, my Savior. And the truth was even greater than that. Wherever I set my foot, not just a courtroom, could be a place of worship.

  My mind raced ahead. The practice of law itself could be a place where I praised the Lord. I repeated, “Lord, wherever I go, may I make the court of law a place of praise,” several times, pausing at different points for emphasis until each word was a brick laid on the solid foundation of faith. My tears returned. The prayer fit my life’s journey. Since I was a little girl, I’d been called to live a holy life— every thought, word, and deed sanctified to the Lord. Now I could glimpse how this might be fulfilled in a new way in the future.

  Lifting my hands in the air, I began to walk back and forth across the room. This was the time to tarry in secret. Not to rush. Praise offered in the night bears fruit in the day. I sat on the couch and made notes in my journal. When I finished, I peeked around the corner and saw the light shining underneath my parents’ door. I didn’t have an answer to my summer job question, but I was content. I’d received a greater good.

  Before getting into bed, I stepped quietly over to the bunk bed, gently laid my hands on the twins, and asked that the grace poured out on me this night might also be theirs. Giving was always a part of receiving.

  “GOOD MORNING,” Mama said when I came into the kitchen with a half dozen fresh eggs. She stared at me. “What happened to you, Tammy Lynn? You’re radiant with the joy of the Lord!”

  “Yes ma’am. Last night—”

  The twins came bursting into the room in the heat of an argument. Emma accused Ellie of switchi
ng a pair of good socks for a pair with holes in the toes.

  “I know the good ones are mine!” Emma said. “I put them in the top drawer when I folded my clothes.”

  “We both have a good pair and a bad pair,” Ellie responded. “She’s gotten them mixed up.”

  Mama pointed upstairs. “Go back to your room and come back when you have this worked out.”

  The twins stomped out. Mama turned to me. “Wait till your daddy is here to tell me. He’s going to stay a few minutes after breakfast so we can talk.”

  It was an oatmeal morning. Mama had fixed a huge pot that we dished out and garnished with fresh fruit, raisins, brown sugar, and nuts. Emma and Ellie returned after sorting out the sock controversy. Daddy and the boys joined us. I sat quietly and ate my breakfast.

  Several times Mama glanced at me. Nothing excited her more than the move of the Spirit in a person’s life, especially for one of her children. After breakfast, she shooed the twins from the room. Mama scooted close to Daddy and spoke.

  “Walter, let her go first.”

  Daddy looked surprised. “Why?”

  “Just listen.”

  I quietly told them what happened the previous night. At first Mama gave a slight nod or two, but by the time I finished, she’d gotten up from the bench and began walking back and forth across the kitchen, much as I’d done the previous night. When I finished, Daddy pointed at her and grinned.

  “The twins are going to get some good preaching during Bible study this morning,” he said.

  “I can’t sit still when the Spirit is moving like this,” Mama said.

  “So, you think it was the Lord?” I asked.

  Mama looked to heaven and raised her hands in the air.

  “That’s a ‘yes,’” Daddy answered, rising from the bench. “I’ll get my Bible.”

  He returned with the tattered Bible he used at home.

  “You know most of this by heart, but I want to read it,” he said, turning the pages.

  He began in Matthew 6, just before Jesus’ reference to the lilies of the field. I loved listening to Daddy’s voice. He read the Bible as if it was a letter from a loved one. He finished and looked at me.

  “The most important thing is to seek first the kingdom. That’s what you did last night. I told your mama that if your heart was fixed on the Lord, it would be the sign we needed.” He paused and looked at her. She nodded. “You have our permission to take the job in Savannah if that’s what you believe you’re supposed to do.”

  It was a serious moment. I felt a shift in responsibility for my life to my own shoulders. A touch of fear gripped me.

  “But what do you think I should do?”

  “Exactly what you did last night,” Mama answered. “Hear his voice and obey it.”

  “He didn’t say anything about the job.”

  “What is in your heart to do?”

  “My heart is desperately wicked,” I began.

  “Stop it!” Mama commanded. “Don’t abandon your faith.”

  Daddy spoke more gently. “Have confidence in God’s goodness.

  Isn’t that what you felt last night?”

  “Yes sir.”

  I looked at their faces. I knew they loved me. I knew Jesus loved me. I shut my eyes for a few seconds. No visions appeared behind my eyelids. I opened my eyes and looked at Mama.

  “What does your heart tell you?” she insisted.

  I tried to look past the darkness at the core of my being and spoke slowly. “I think God has opened a door for me to go to Savannah, even though I don’t know what’s on the other side.”

  “Then finish out the semester and go to Savannah with our blessing,” Daddy said.

  Mama hugged me. “You’ll be back. I know it.”

  AFTER DADDY LEFT FOR WORK, I called Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. As the phone rang, I imagined what the firm’s office might look like. With fifteen lawyers and support staff, it would be too large for a grand old house converted into a law office. Most likely, the firm was in a modern office building. The receptionist transferred me to Ms. Patrick.

  “This is Tami Taylor in Powell Station,” I began. “Thanks for faxing the information about the job.”

  “I hope you’ve made a decision. There are other deserving candidates.” I took a deep breath. Even with Daddy’s permission, I felt tentative. “Yes ma’am.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence. “And?” Ms. Patrick asked.

  “I’d like to accept,” I responded quickly before fear jumped on my back.

  “I’ll notify Mr. Carpenter. Any questions about the terms of the offer?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Then sign it and mail it to my attention. Will you need help finding a place to stay?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Would you like to live alone or with a roommate?”

  I hesitated. Alone would be expensive, and I needed to save as much money as possible. But a roommate could be risky. In college, I shared a dorm room with a teammate from my high school basketball team. We were different, but she respected my beliefs. She wore headphones while listening to her music and never brought a boy into the room while I was there. I kept the room immaculate and helped her pass freshman English and chemistry for nonscience majors.

  “A roommate would be fine if we have a chance to talk before making a decision,” I replied.

  “One of the summer clerks is a girl from Atlanta. Do you want her name and number?”

  “Yes ma’am.” I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from Mama’s nightstand.

  “Here it is,” Ms. Patrick said in a few moments. “Julie Feldman. She’s finishing her second year at Emory.”

  I swallowed. Feldman sounded Jewish. Our church believed the Jews were God’s chosen people, but I’d never had to choose one myself. Ms. Patrick rattled off a phone number and e-mail address that I scribbled on the sheet of paper.

  “Give Julie a call or send her an e-mail. She’s already been down to look for a place to stay.”

  “Are there any other summer clerks?”

  “Yes, a young man who grew up in Charleston. He’s attending Yale.”

  My eyes opened wider. The thought that my neophyte legal work would be compared to that of an Ivy League law student was instantly intimidating.

  “Okay. I’ll get in touch with Julie.”

  Ms. Patrick spoke in a more pleasant tone of voice. “Call if you need help or have other questions. You’ll have a great time in our program. Summer associates get to sample everything Savannah has to offer.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I hung up the phone. Ms. Patrick might be upbeat about everything Savannah had to offer, but it sounded ominous to me. Social pressures to conform were constant, but never welcome. I didn’t relish the prospect of a future laden with the smorgasbord of sin. Not that I feared temptation. Doing the right thing was easy compared to defending my conduct to skeptics. I glanced at the slip of paper in my hand and decided not to contact Julie Feldman until I returned to school where I had constant Internet access. I’d made enough quick decisions about my future in the past twenty-four hours.

  Mama and the twins were in the front room. I quietly watched them for a minute from the doorway. Emma and Ellie had their heads close together as they shared a science book. The sock dispute had vanished like the morning mist above the ground outside. Mama was sitting in a rocking chair reading a devotional book.

  I’d loved my homeschool years with Mama. I wasn’t naive about turning back the clock, but the refuge of home always seemed more precious when thinking about the hostile world at the end of the dirt driveway.

  I spent the rest of the morning with Mama and the twins. The routine of the day restored my equilibrium. After helping fix bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for lunch, I mailed the summer clerkship agreement to Savannah. Turning toward the house, I absorbed every detail of the scene. I hoped my anchor in the hills of Powell Station was strong enough to hold me fast in
the murky waters of Savannah.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, I took two pillows to the front porch and positioned them on the swing so I could lie down comfortably.

  The swing creaked as I shifted my weight. Flip and Ginger, hearing the sound of the swing, ambled around the corner of the house and took up their customary positions in the dirt beneath the porch.

  I studied the massive poplar tree in our front yard. The new leaves showed no sign of the stress that would come with the onslaught of summer’s heat. I wiggled my toes, which appeared as large as the trees on a distant hill. Before I realized it, Emma was tapping me on the shoulder.

  “Wake up!”

  I blinked. “Was I asleep?”

  “Don’t pretend you were praying,” Emma said. “Is Mama going to let you live in Savannah this summer?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ellie standing just inside the house.

  “Ask her,” I responded.

  The twins ran toward the kitchen. I got out of the swing and followed.

  Emma and Ellie were firing questions at Mama when I entered the kitchen. They knew that if they could persuade Mama to change her mind, it would negate my plans. Arguing with me would be a waste of time.

  “Fix the spaghetti sauce for supper while I talk to your sisters,” Mama said to me.

  She took the girls onto the back steps. In a few seconds it was quiet. I opened two jars of canned tomatoes, added other ingredients from the spice pantry, and placed the pot of chunky sauce on the stove to simmer. Mama and the twins returned. She looked at me.

  “Did you promise Ellie that she and Emma could visit you in Savannah this summer?”

  “No ma’am,” I said, and then continued quickly when I saw Ellie about to explode. “I told her a trip might be arranged if you and Daddy gave permission. I don’t even know where I’m going to stay.”

  Mama turned to Ellie. “Is that what she said?”

  “I’m not sure. I was sleepy.”

  “A trip to Savannah isn’t like a drive for a picnic at the park. And I don’t want to be like Jacob and have all my children leave and go down to Egypt. Unlike Canaan during the time of Joseph, there isn’t a famine in Powell Station.”