Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “But it meant the whole family got to be together,” Emma said.

  “Go upstairs and straighten up your room,” Mama told the girls.

  “I’m sorry if I caused a problem with my mention of a visit,” I said when they left the room.

  “It was a helpful diversion, she replied. “They love you so much the thought of your absence hurts. A trip to see you gives them something else to think about.”

  I stirred the sauce. “Do you think the whole family could visit? It would be a chance for the twins to see the ocean for the first time.”

  Mama lifted a huge pot of water for the noodles onto the stove. “Goodness. That would be a big undertaking. You know how busy summer is around here.”

  THE JOB IN SAVANNAH was the major topic of conversation at the supper table. My role in the decision didn’t come out, but I saw Kyle and Bobby give each other a knowing look. It made me wonder what secret dreams they held about the future. A wave of fear washed over me that they might not be seeking God’s will. It would crush me if a member of our family became a prodigal.

  “I’ve sought the mind of the Lord about this,” I said as a quick lesson to my siblings. “It’s not an act of selfish independence or rebellion. Daddy and Mama are going to give me their blessing.”

  “And I’ll be blessed if I can take your spot at the plant,” Bobby added with a hopeful glance at Daddy.

  “I’ll mention it to Mr. Waldrup,” Daddy said. “But are you sure you want to work inside on the line? I could try to find a place for you as a catcher.”

  The catchers went into the chicken houses, grabbed the birds, and crammed them into cages for transport to the processing plant. It was hot, nasty, physical labor.

  “Did working on the line bother you?” Bobby asked me.

  The days standing in the chill of the plant with razor-sharp scissors in one hand and chicken guts in the other were a numbing blur.

  “The language of some of the women is bad,” I replied. “But the chickens don’t have much to say, and the smell is better than what you’d face as a catcher.”

  “What do the women say?” Emma asked.

  Mama shook her head, and Emma plunged her fork into her spaghetti.

  5

  SUNDAY MORNING, OF COURSE, WE WENT TO CHURCH. I PUT MY hair in a tight bun and helped the twins get ready in their long dresses that reached to their ankles. Everyone in our van had assigned seats. I occupied the referee position between Ellie and Emma. It was about three miles to the church. The sanctuary was a large redbrick building with opaque white windows. Families similar to our own streamed into the parking lot. It was the one day during the week when normal looked like us. We took our usual seats about a third of the way from the front on the left side of the sanctuary.

  Pastor Vick, a large man with a bald head and a booming voice, spoke with an eloquence that made my advocacy professor at the law school look like an oratorical amateur. This morning, he preached from Ezekiel 47. Daddy read the Bible with tender love; Pastor Vick could make the meekest verse echo with the thunder of Sinai. His text came from Ezekiel’s vision of the river flowing from the temple in Jerusalem.

  He measured a thousand cubits, and he brought me through the waters; the waters were to the ankles. Again he measured a thousand, and brought me through the waters; the waters were to the knees. Again he measured a thousand; and brought me through; the waters were to the loins. Afterward he measured a thousand; and it was a river that I could not pass over: for the waters were risen, water to swim in, a river that could not be passed over.

  Pastor Vick then described the apostate condition of the Israelites in a way that left no doubt as to the parallel for the present. That part of his sermon was always easy to hear. But then he turned his attention to the people sitting in the pews. Rhetorical questions were his most deadly bullets.

  “That was their abominable condition, but what about you? Are you satisfied with dipping your toe into the river of God’s glory and pretending you’ve sold out to Jesus? Is knee-deep water enough for you to play in and call yourself committed to the gospel? Do you believe you’re righteous because the water laps around your waist?” Pastor Vick let his eyes scan the entire congregation. “Are any of you willing to cast yourself into the river of God where only Jesus can hold you up? Who will go into deeper water?”

  My stomach quivered; a familiar feeling that meant an arrow shot from the pulpit had found its mark. I glanced sideways at Mama. Her attention was riveted on the front of the church. As Pastor Vick continued, my uneasiness increased. The river of God was both fearful and wonderful.

  “The river is wide, the river is deep,” Pastor Vick continued. “And only those whose eyes are fixed on Jesus can enter its waters. If that describes you this morning, the altar of God beckons you.”

  At the invitation, I was one of the first people to walk down the aisle and kneel in prayer. Being away at school for most of the year, I didn’t have the option to hold back until another Sunday. I had to respond when the Spirit moved. One of the elders laid his hands on my head and prayed a long blessing. I rose to my feet encouraged. Outside the church, Mama gave me a hug.

  “Watching you blesses me,” she said simply.

  It was the highest compliment I could imagine.

  MID-AFTERNOON, THE FEMALE LAW STUDENT giving me a ride back to school picked me up. Everyone stood in a line in the front room for a hug. My suitcase waited beside the door.

  “Let us know your exam schedule,” Mama said. “So we can pray.”

  “We love you,” Daddy added, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of happiness and sorrow. I could see him swallow after he spoke.

  Kyle and Bobby gave me obligatory brother hugs. The twins grabbed me so tightly that I had trouble breathing.

  I carried my suitcase to the car and put it in the trunk. I didn’t look back until the last instant. Mama, Daddy, and the twins were standing on the front porch watching the car drive away, taking me back to the outside world.

  I LIVED ALONE about a mile from the law school in Athens. My one-room apartment was a converted motel, but I’d joked to Daddy that it wasn’t fully saved. It contained a stove, a compact refrigerator, a couple of cabinets, and a three-foot countertop with a sink. I brought in a twin bed, a small wooden table picked up at a garage sale, and a webbed lounge chair where I sat to read. My computer was on a desk in front of the single window that provided a view of the parking lot.

  After the sun went down and the Sabbath was over, I turned on the computer and sent an e-mail to Julie Feldman, introducing myself and asking about her living arrangements for the summer. I closed my eyes and prayed before clicking the Send icon. I didn’t want to be selfish or wasteful with money, but I liked the peace and quiet of living alone. It made life so much simpler.

  None of my classmates at the law school knew the depth of my religious convictions, and their ignorance was my bliss. In Pastor Vick’s terminology, I lived among the Babylonians without defiling myself with their idols or offending them with my differences. I didn’t belong to either the Young Democrats or the Young Republicans; both groups were far from the truth. I was simply the girl with long hair who wore skirts and dresses to class and baggy sweatpants when playing basketball or going out for a run.

  When I unpacked my suitcase, I found letters from Emma, Ellie, and Mama. I’d left them notes hidden in places where they might not be found for a couple of days. Emma had drawn a picture of me with red hearts around the border. Ellie drew me as a scarecrow running away from a giant Chester the chicken. I saved Mama’s letter for last. She expressed her thankfulness for my sensitivity to the Lord, passed on a few words of encouragement, and concluded by reassuring me that every thought of me brought her joy. Even though I’d just been home, the letters made me homesick.

  I studied for a couple of hours and checked my computer. I had an e-mail from Julie Feldman. My heart went to my throat as I moved the cursor to open it. I immediately noticed there was an att
achment with pictures.

  Hi, Tami,

  Got your e-mail. Look forward to a fun time with you this summer at B, A & C. Wish you’d called sooner. I just signed a lease for an apartment in an older home near Greene Square. I’d gone back and forth about taking a beautiful (but pricey) place overlooking the river that would have been great for two. The woman who owns it is going to be in Spain for the summer. Can you imagine that!

  I’m sending pics and details of two other places I found and a photo of me taken a couple of months ago. Lynn Bynum is the leasing agent who helped me. Gerry Patrick at the firm knows her. The apartment on Price Street is not far from me. Call quick if you want to take one of these. There’s a lot more about me on MySpace.com. See you in a few weeks.

  Julie

  I read the e-mail four times. I’d heard that some of the students at Emory could be snobby. Julie sounded nice enough, although her definition of fun was likely the same as Ms. Patrick’s invitation to sample all Savannah had to offer. It was a relief not having to decide whether to room with someone for the summer.

  I clicked on Julie’s picture and watched it load from the top of the screen to the bottom. She had black hair that fell to her shoulders, a full figure, and wore glasses that made her look very smart. Her Jewish ethnicity was apparent in her face. Dressed casually in a blue sweater and jeans, she was sitting on a bench in front of a huge tree on the Emory campus. There was an open book in her hands that was the same civil procedure casebook we used at Georgia; however, Julie was holding the book upside down and staring at an unknown object in the distance. It was a posed shot, but the purpose of the photo with an upside-down book and faraway look in her eyes wasn’t clear. I didn’t try to access Julie’s myspace.com page. I avoided the personal side of the Web because it was so full of lies and perversion.

  I opened the photos of the places mentioned in the e-mail. There were multiple photos of the two apartments and a PDF file giving the specifications of each. The apartment near Julie’s place was the second story of a detached garage, and the second location was an end unit of a block of townhomes. I was shocked to discover that one month’s rent for the townhome equaled three months at my apartment. The garage apartment was even more expensive. I quickly closed the files. I would need to phone Ms. Patrick and find out about a cheaper place to live.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING at 5:30 a.m. I rolled over and opened my eyes. There were no chickens to tend, but I enjoyed getting up for an early morning run and loved breathing the fresh air of a new day. On even the coldest days of winter, I bundled up for a forty-five- minute jog that included a mile-long section alongside the Oconee River. While I ran, I rejoiced. It wasn’t a time for intercession, and I didn’t try to make it serious. I simply enjoyed the world God created and the physical strength he’d given me.

  I covered the last half mile in a sprint that made my heart pound. When I finished, I walked across the parking lot, breathing heavily, with my hands on my hips. I drank two large glasses of water while I cooled off, showered, and dressed for the day. The runner’s rush and the glasses of water curbed my morning appetite, and I didn’t cook a complicated breakfast. Fruit, yogurt, and a hard-boiled egg were typical. While eating, I prepared for the day’s classes. Information learned in the morning stayed with me better than what I studied at night. Most law students didn’t crack a casebook in the morning and dragged themselves to class on a skid of strong coffee. I’d never finished a cup of coffee in my life.

  After my first class, I went to the placement office and told the job placement director about the Savannah offer. She congratulated me and wrote down the information for her statistics. The placement office had rooms with phones and computers for students to use in job search activities. I closed the door and phoned Ms. Patrick.

  “Your acceptance of the job arrived in the mail this morning,” she said.

  “Really?” It was amazing that an envelope could travel from Powell Station to Savannah in less than two days.

  “Did you contact Julie Feldman?”

  “Yes ma’am.” I told her about my e-mail from the Emory student. “The places Julie sent me are not in my budget. I need to save as much money as possible.”

  “I’m looking at your résumé and see that you’ve worked with the elderly.”

  “Yes ma’am. I enjoyed it.”

  Starting in college, I’d found part-time work as a sitter for older women in nursing homes. Some were demanding; others docile. It was easy work that allowed time for study when my clients slept. One reference on my résumé was a woman whose mother I’d cared for.

  “Would you be interested in staying with an elderly woman in Savannah?” Ms. Patrick asked. “Her daughter is a client of the firm and told me recently that her mother needs a live-in caregiver to spend the night. The mother is self-sufficient, but she’s reached the age where it’s better to have someone around the house on a regular basis. She lives in a beautiful old home a few blocks from our office. I don’t know what the family would be willing to pay, but the daughter mentioned room and board if I could think of a woman to help.”

  A free place to stay within walking distance of the office sounded like a sign from heaven.

  “Yes ma’am, but I don’t want to violate my contract with the law firm. I promised to devote all my efforts to firm business.”

  Ms. Patrick laughed so loudly that I felt embarrassed. “I appreciate your integrity, but you’re a summer clerk, not a first-year associate. Seventy-hour workweeks aren’t part of the plan. This is your last opportunity to enjoy a law office without any responsibilities. When I talk to Christine Bartlett, I’ll tell her what you’ll be doing at the firm so she can take that into consideration.”

  “What’s her mother’s name?”

  “I don’t know her first name. I’ve always called her Mrs. Fairmont. She’s an interesting woman.”

  Interesting could mean a lot of things, and staying with a woman in her own home would be a lot different from the controlled environment of a nursing facility. I immediately thought about the use of alcohol. I had no intention of becoming a dying alcoholic’s barmaid.

  “And I’m sure they would have a lot of questions for me.” I paused. “I’d have a few too.”

  “Do you want me to pursue it?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said quickly. “But I know from experience that compatibility is important. You can pass along Mrs. Frady as a reference. She’s listed on my résumé.”

  I’d stayed several hours a week with Mrs. Frady’s mother for over a year until the eighty-six-year-old woman died. I’d fought off bedsores, spooned chipped ice into her toothless mouth, brushed the old woman’s hair, given simple manicures, decorated her room, and tried to make her last days on earth as pleasant as possible for a person trapped in a body that deteriorated before my eyes. So many people thanked me at the funeral that I was embarrassed. Any Christian should have done the same thing.

  “She’s kind. Her mother and I hit it off from the start.”

  “I’ll call Christine and get back to you.”

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON I checked my e-mail at my apartment and immediately noticed a message from an unknown sender with the subject line “My Mother in Savannah.”

  It was from Christine Bartlett. She wanted to talk to me as soon as possible and left both an office and a home phone number. I didn’t have a cell phone and made my phone calls through my computer connection. I looked at the clock. It was almost suppertime, the telemarketer time of day. I would eat and call later.

  I ate in silence. The TV in the room wasn’t plugged in; however, it was impossible to escape invading noise from the people living on either side of me. I used earplugs at night, but during the day, I sometimes tuned out distractions by daydreaming. Tonight I imagined that I was eating at home, sitting between the twins with Mama at one end of the table and Daddy at the other. Emma and Ellie were talking about our laying hens, and Bobby asked Daddy if he’d talked to Mr. Waldrup about a summer jo
b. Mama had a slightly sad look on her face that I took to mean she was missing me. I missed her too.

  I washed the dishes in the tiny sink. Compared to cleanup following a meal at home, kitchen duty in my apartment couldn’t be called work. After a few minutes, I returned to the computer and placed the call. Mrs. Bartlett answered on the third ring. She had the smooth accent of the coast.

  “Is this a good time to talk?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, Ken and I are relaxing with a glass of wine on the veranda at our place on the marsh. Let me put you on the speakerphone so he can hear as well.”

  I heard a click and some background noise.

  “We’re both here,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “Gerry tells me you’ll be moving to Savannah in a few weeks to work for Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “You’ll love Samuel Braddock. He’s one of the sweetest men in Savannah. He was Daddy’s lawyer. He could have retired years ago but still works like a junior associate.”

  A male voice spoke. “He lets Joe Carpenter run the firm. Joe is a good lawyer, but I can’t say he’s one of the sweetest men in Savannah.”

  Mrs. Bartlett spoke. “Nonsense, I’m sure you’ll love working there. Gerry told me all about you, and I took the liberty of calling Betty Lou Frady. We had the best talk.”

  “I enjoyed caring for her mother; however, she was in a nursing—”

  “And she went on and on about you. Says you’re tall and carry yourself like a New York model. So many young women these days slouch around and don’t stand up straight enough to carry off a decent debut. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “I’ve got several young men I want to introduce you to while you’re here this summer. My boys are grown and married, and we have two grandchildren, although I try not to look too much like an old granny. Stay out of the sun. I used to think a tan was a sign of good health. Now, I’m fighting the wrinkles.”