Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “How is your mother’s health?” I asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

  “She was doing great until the first of the year. Living alone and walking to her volunteer job every day. Then they diagnosed her with, what is it, Ken? It’s not Alzheimer’s.”

  “Multi-infarct dementia.”

  “It sounds horrible, but she just has moments when things don’t click right. My brother and I think it would be nice if someone stayed with her at night. The cleaning lady is at the house three or four times a week, and her gardener checks on her every time he comes by to water the flowers and take care of the bushes, but that doesn’t cover the evening hours. She keeps one of those things around her neck at night in case she falls and can’t get to the phone, but her problems are mental, not physical.”

  “Does she remember to check in with the monitoring service in the morning?”

  “Half the time, I don’t think she calls them. She’s so fixated on getting that first cup of coffee that nothing and no one can stand in her way. We both drink it black and strong and love Jamaican blue. That’s probably one reason her heart is acting up.”

  “What’s wrong with her heart?”

  “It races away every so often, but she’s never had a heart attack. The biggest problem is her high blood pressure. That’s the cause of the multiproblem thing.”

  “What medications is she taking?”

  “Goodness, I don’t know what they’re all for. Of course, she takes something for high blood pressure, a pill to regulate her heart rate, and a blood thinner, but the doctors are always switching things around so much that I can’t keep up with them. All that information is written on the door of the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. Gracie, the woman who cleans the house, fills up Mother’s pillbox on Monday.”

  “How often do you see her?”

  “I pick her up for lunch every week or so. For years she was so wrapped up in her own social circle that she didn’t have time for mine. Recently, her friends have been dying off left and right. I’ve taken her to two funerals in the last six weeks. It’s sad when the fabric of life begins to unravel. I never want to get to the place where I embarrass myself in public. Better to go with dignity.”

  “Christine,” Mr. Bartlett interrupted. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to invite Ms. Taylor to meet your mother?”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Bartlett responded. “I’ve enjoyed this chat on the phone, but there’s nothing like meeting in person. I realize you’ll only be here for a short time this summer, but we still need to convince Mother that it’s a good idea to have a live-in caregiver.”

  “You haven’t asked her?”

  “Not yet. I’m still planning my strategy. The last time she had a houseguest was when Nicholas Harrington moved in and tried to convince her to marry him. My brother had to fly in from Majorca to settle that problem and send him on his way. I can tell her she’s doing you a favor by letting you spend the summer. That will keep her from suspecting the truth.”

  “I think it would be better—”

  “Could you come this weekend?” Mrs. Bartlett continued. “Friday evening would be perfect. Ken and I will put you up at a bed-and-breakfast around the corner from Mother’s house. We’ll have a light snack at her place on Saturday morning, and after we all meet, you and I will slip away for a private chat in the kitchen. If everything is a go, you can ask Mother to let you spend the summer with her.”

  “I wouldn’t feel comfortable inviting myself—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll set everything up. I know how to get her to do what I want.” Mrs. Bartlett laughed. “She taught me how to get my way, so I learned from the mistress of manipulation. She doesn’t even recognize her own tricks when I use them on her. Did Gerry give you the address for the house?”

  “No ma’am. And I don’t feel comfortable deceiving your mother about the reason for my interest in staying in her home.”

  “How sweet,” Mrs. Bartlett responded. “Mrs. Frady told me you were a deeply religious girl. I think that’s admirable. Mother has a lot of antiques and valuable artworks. Everything’s insured, of course, but irreplaceable. Before we found Gracie there was a bit of petty thievery going on at the house.”

  “My concern—”

  “And we’re not deceiving Mother,” Mrs. Bartlett continued. “Just creating a scenario that will work for her good. A circuitous route is often the best way to get from A to Z, and half an explanation cuts down on needless anxiety. Haven’t you found that to be true when working with the elderly?”

  “Yes. I guess so,” I said, remembering my conversation with my parents.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll do everything with integrity.”

  “Okay, but I’ll need to arrange transportation.”

  “You’re not flying, are you?”

  “No ma’am. I don’t have a car. I can try to find a ride to Savannah, but we’re just back from spring break, and most students at the law school will be staying on campus this weekend.”

  I heard muffled voices; then Mr. Bartlett spoke. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll arrange for a rental car. What time are you finished with classes on Friday?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “And your address?”

  I gave him the information.

  “I’ll have a car delivered to your place at three on Friday and e-mail you the information about the bed-and-breakfast,” he said.

  “And I’ll be by to pick you up Saturday morning so we can go to Mother’s house together,” Mrs. Bartlett chimed in. “What’s your cell phone number?”

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  “How in the world do you survive without a cell phone?” Mrs. Bartlett didn’t try to conceal her shock.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Frady told you I was punctual and reliable in my care for her mother. We worked out a satisfactory arrangement for communication.”

  “But no cell phone? Why would a young—”

  “I look forward to meeting you,” Mr. Bartlett cut in. “We’ll get in touch with you at the bed-and-breakfast.”

  Mr. Bartlett ended the call.

  I spent a few moments imagining the ongoing conversation between the couple before Mrs. Bartlett calmed down and took another sip of wine. If she thought the absence of a cell phone was an indicator of a radical lifestyle, she was in for a few more lessons once she got to know me better.

  6

  NOT MANY PEOPLE IN SAVANNAH REMEMBERED MOSES’ FACE OR knew his name. Those who did were dying without anyone to take their places. Only a handful of longtime residents remembered the wiry young black man who always wore a gold Georgia Tech cap. That cap had been Moses’ trademark when he was younger and earned him the nickname Buzz. Moses kept the pieces of that hat in a plastic bag at his shack on the river. It reminded him of happier days.

  Unlike several of his cousins who spent hours and hours on the pedestrian walkways near the river, Moses never tried to pick up extra money playing sloppy jazz on a pawnshop saxophone or drumming the bottom of five-gallon plastic buckets. Around other people, he contented himself with the once-a-week rattle of a plastic bag full of empty aluminum cans.

  Not that he wasn’t musical.

  Moses sang in church when his great-auntie took him as a boy. She had a fine voice, and Moses didn’t hesitate to sing as loud as his ten-year-old vocal cords would let him. He could memorize most songs after hearing them once or twice. His rambunctious singing and outgoing personality attracted the attention of one of the deacons, who recruited him to work for Tommy Lee Barnes. Brother Kelso bragged that he gave ten percent of the money he earned from his take as a ward captain in the bolita racket to the church. It was enough money to earn him a seat of honor on the deacon board until a new pastor came to the church and kicked him out. Moses never tried to be a hypocrite; it took too much energy. His great-auntie died, and the church folks looked the other way when they saw Moses coming.

  But a gift given is forever.

&nb
sp; Sitting at the edge of a flickering fire on a spring evening, Moses could feel the blues rise up within him like the tidal surge in the nearby river. The first sounds came through his cracked lips with a soulful sigh and hum. Another sigh and longer hum would follow. And then emerged words in rhythm that gave substance to sorrow and turned it into a thing of bittersweet beauty. Moses used the blues to keep despair at bay. And they helped vanquish the sick feeling that came whenever he remembered the blood that once stained his hands.

  However, melancholy songs in the night weren’t an antidote for fear. Most people would have been afraid to live alone on a marshy, deserted stretch of a black-water river. Moses wasn’t afraid of solitude. Fear kept Moses alone. It was a fickle companion that wore two faces. The panic he felt when the faces rose to the surface of the water caused adrenaline to course through his veins. Afterward he experienced the exhilaration of survival. And the satisfaction that once again, he’d cheated death.

  But on those nights he didn’t sing.

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I called Gerry Patrick to thank her for putting me in touch with Mrs. Bartlett and then told her about my upcoming visit.

  “Did Christine talk your ear off?”

  “Both of them. She had very nice things to say about Mr. Braddock.”

  “He’s a true Southern gentleman. Will you arrive in time on Friday to visit the office?”

  “I’m not sure. What time do you close?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “No, it will be later than that when I get into town. Is the office open on Saturdays?”

  “Most of the associates show up, but the doors are locked. I’d rather you come when I can give you a proper tour and introduction to the attorneys and staff.”

  “That makes sense.” I paused before continuing. “If staying with Mrs. Fairmont doesn’t work out, I’d like to look for another place to live while I’m in town.”

  “Of course. I’ll send you contact information for Lynn Bynum, the location agent the firm uses. She knows what’s available in any price range. Don’t be bashful about asking for help. We send Lynn plenty of paying business.”

  Ms. Patrick seemed to have resolved her reservations about my receiving the job offer without her input. Perhaps she was a churchgoer. “Julie Feldman mentioned Ms. Bynum in her e-mail.” I said.

  “Yes. We’re in synagogue and Hadassah together.”

  My eyes opened wide.

  “That’s nice,” I managed.

  “Let me know if I can help in any way.”

  THAT EVENING I CALLED HOME and unleashed a torrent of information upon Mama about all that had happened with Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett.

  “What do you think?” I asked when I finished and took a deep breath.

  “You’re bumping up against the world in a new way,” Mama said calmly. “The daughter sounds like a person who’s looking for someone to do for her mother what she ought to be doing herself.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Mama rarely missed a chance to point out an example of American self-centeredness. When we studied other cultures in homeschool, I was amazed by the differences in attitudes toward relatives that existed between civilized countries and those considered more backward. Mama said sacrifice was in the Bible and the dictionary but not in most people’s hearts.

  “A free place to stay would be a blessing,” she continued, “but you’ve got to ask the Lord if he is sending you to help this woman. His will is all that matters. If he’s in it, you’ll find the grace to withstand the pressure.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Daddy and I will pray about it and let you know if the Lord shows us anything.”

  “Thanks. Any other news from home?”

  “Not much. Ellie was the last one to find her note from you. She thought you might have forgotten about her, which made it that much sweeter when she found it under the stuff piled on her nightstand.” “Maybe that will convince her to clean more often.”

  We talked about the routine things of life for several more minutes before saying good night. Talking to Mama always gave me strength. My mind had been racing too much about the uncertainties in Savannah. With the sound of her voice in my thoughts and earplugs lodged firmly in my ears, I slept peacefully through the night.

  I HURRIED HOME FROM CLASS on Friday and opened the curtain all the way so I had a clear view of the parking lot. I packed my suitcase and put everything nice I owned into a garment bag. I didn’t want to make the final decision about what to wear until I was in Savannah. Each time a car entered the parking lot, I went to the window to see if I recognized it. Most of my neighbors were either students without much money or young people working marginal jobs. A white van with a magnetic car rental company sign on its side pulled into the parking lot. It was an unusual choice, but I was used to driving a van. I grabbed my wallet and went outside.

  “I’m Tami Taylor.”

  “We’re here with your car,” the rental company employee said.

  A silver convertible with the top down came around the corner of the building and pulled into a spot beside the van.

  “Is that the car?” I asked, my mouth dropping open.

  “Yeah. I need to see your driver’s license, and we have some paperwork for you to sign.”

  The car had a white leather interior. I had trouble focusing on the forms. I skimmed the fine print prepared by a lawyer in a faraway office and signed at the bottom.

  “What kind of car is it?” I asked.

  “A new Jaguar. We got it in this week. You’re the first person to lease it.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw that one of my neighbors was standing in his doorway watching.

  “It’s a rental car,” I said.

  “Sweet,” he responded with a nod of his head. “Let me know if you need company. It’ll drive better with someone in each seat.”

  I finished signing the paperwork. The man driving the van handed me a card.

  “Call this number when you want us to pick up the car on Monday. It’s got a tank of gas, but there’s no need to return it full. That’s included in the rental.”

  “Sweet,” the neighbor in the doorway echoed. “You can take the whole complex out for a joyride.”

  I smiled awkwardly. The men from the rental company got in the van and left.

  “My name is Greg Overton,” my neighbor said, stepping forward. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “I’ve talked with your girlfriend a few times. Where is she?”

  Greg opened his arms. “Working at the pizza parlor. She doesn’t get off until ten o’clock tonight. We’ve got plenty of time to take that beauty out for a spin. We could even go by and see her if you want to.”

  I brushed past him and continued toward my door. “I’m leaving town in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t be in such a—,” I heard before I shut my door.

  I leaned against the door for a few seconds to compose myself. I thought about the silver car and imagined myself behind the wheel. I put my hand to my mouth and began to giggle. In a few seconds, I was doubled over with laughter. The idea that I would be driving such an expensive automobile was so outlandish that I didn’t know what to do but laugh.

  I wished the twins were with me. They would scream with delight at the thought of riding in a convertible. The closest thing to a convertible they’d experienced was a quick trip around the yard in the back of Kyle’s pickup truck.

  I finished packing my suitcase. When I came outside with my suitcase and garment bag, there was a small crowd of people standing around the car.

  “Are you the lawyer who lives here?” a teenage girl asked.

  “I’m a law student.”

  “It looks like you’ve already won a big case,” said an older man wearing a dirty T-shirt.

  I pushed the button on the key that popped open the trunk. The trunk was large enough to swallow my luggage. I got in the car and started the engine.

  “Buckle your seat belt,”
the girl called out.

  I smiled at her. “Always.”

  I found the switch that raised the top and pressed it.

  “No!” the girl yelled. “Drive with the top down.”

  The top closed over my head. After the expanse of the sky as my roof, the inside of the car seemed claustrophobic. I flipped the switch that returned the top to its boot. The boy waved when he saw me. I put the car in reverse.

  When I stepped on the gas, the car rocketed out of the parking space. The crowd jumped back. I slammed on the brakes and jerked to a stop. Greg Overton laughed and pointed at me. I felt my face flush. I put the car in drive and drove gingerly across the parking lot.

  As I crept along, the responsibility of operating such an expensive piece of machinery hit me. Even the slightest dent or ding would stand out like a broken leg. I stopped at the exit for the parking lot and waited until there wasn’t a car in sight in either direction before pulling into the street.

  The route out of town took me near the law school. I stopped at a light and heard someone call my name.

  “Tammy Taylor! Is that you?”

  It was one of the law students on my basketball team. She was standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street. I waved nonchalantly.

  “Hey, Donna.”

  “What a beautiful ride! When did you get it?”

  “It’s not mine. A man in Savannah rented it for me. I’m going down there for a weekend visit.”

  The girl’s green eyes grew even bigger. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

  “He’s not a boyfriend. He’s married.”

  The light turned green, and I had to pull away before providing a more complete answer. In the rearview mirror I could see Donna staring after me. Our next game wasn’t until Tuesday, and she would have plenty of time to broadcast erroneous information to others before I could provide the facts. I debated turning around, but when I looked again in my mirror, she was gone.

  As I drove along the city streets, people on the sidewalk and other drivers turned to stare. I was used to stares for dressing differently, but this was a new kind of stare. Two college-age boys yelled at me, and a balding man in a Corvette nodded my way when I pulled up next to him at a traffic light. It was a relief to leave the city behind.