Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  Mrs. Fairmont stared out the window in silence so long that I thought she’d had another brain freeze. She turned in her chair and saw Daddy. He stepped forward and gently took her hand in his.

  “It was nice meeting you,” he said. “I have to leave now. It’s a long drive home.”

  “Yes, it is,” she responded then continued staring.

  Daddy and I quietly left the room.

  “Her condition may be more serious than her daughter realizes,” Daddy said as we walked down the front steps. “Keep a record of what happens for her family and the doctors. And pray there will be a chance to tell her about Jesus.”

  “Yes sir.”

  We reached the truck.

  “Are you going to be okay on the drive?” I asked.

  “Remember, I’ve hauled freight to California. The nap refilled my tank. I’ll be in Powell Station by bedtime.”

  I longed to go with him. He hugged me and deposited a last kiss on the top of my head.

  “Call us.”

  I nodded, not wanting to speak as emotion welled up in my heart. Daddy got in the truck and pulled away from the curb. I watched him leave, turned, and went inside the house.

  Mrs. Fairmont was sitting in the den. She’d turned on the TV to an afternoon show. She muted the volume and motioned for me to come into the room.

  “I’m better now,” she said. “I drank a sip of water, and it washed away the cobwebs of my mind.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But I know that water isn’t the cure for what’s wrong with me. Did I say anything stupid? I hate embarrassing myself.”

  “You were staring out the window,” I answered slowly as I debated whether to mention the imaginary bird.

  Mrs. Fairmont continued. “Your father is a good man. I can tell by the way he looks at you that he loves you very much.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’m blessed to have my family.”

  Mrs. Fairmont pointed at the TV. “This show is about children abandoned by fathers who turn up years later looking for a handout after the child becomes a financial success. What do you think about that?”

  I watched the silent images of people pointing fingers and arguing with each other. The camera flashed to the studio audience, some of whom were on their feet yelling. It gave me a queasy feeling.

  “That the producer of the TV show is more interested in entertainment than solutions. I wouldn’t watch something like this.”

  Mrs. Fairmont glanced at me with a frown on her face. “You’re probably right, but I want to hear what the host tells them to do.

  Why don’t you go downstairs and finish unpacking your things.”

  I WENT DOWNSTAIRS but didn’t unpack. My first action was to pray that God would spiritually cleanse the beautifully decorated apartment. I went into the bedroom and knelt beside the bed. I prayed for about thirty minutes, then turned my focus to Mrs. Fairmont.

  The spiritual warfare to be fought for the elderly woman’s eternal destiny was real, and I would need all the help heaven could muster. I asked God for grace and the ability to discern his voice directing my steps. A few seconds later, a deep male voice faintly called my name.

  “Tami!”

  I’d never heard the audible voice of God. My guidance had been less distinct, but nonetheless effective. I’d learned to trust the impressions that came to my spirit as divine communication, a birthright I enjoyed as one of God’s children. Passages of Scripture about the experiences of Moses, Samuel, and Isaiah raced through my mind. I shut my eyes tighter and clenched my hands together. I quickly settled on the response of the boy Samuel when the Lord spoke to him in the middle of the night.

  “Speak, Lord,” I said under my breath. “Your servant is listening.”

  I waited. In a few seconds the voice spoke again, only louder.

  “Tami Taylor!”

  I kept my head bowed.

  “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening,” I repeated.

  I waited, but the voice didn’t continue. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I opened my eyes, but the narrow bedroom was empty. I heard a loud knock that made me jump.

  “Are you in there?” the voice repeated. “It’s Zach Mays from the law firm.”

  I looked toward heaven and saw nothing except the white ceiling. At least I now knew that God didn’t talk like the young lawyer from California.

  “Just a minute. I’ll be right there,” I called out.

  I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror. I certainly didn’t look like I’d been to glory. After loading and unloading the truck, I resembled a chicken plant worker more than an aspiring lawyer. I quickly brushed my hair and splashed water on my face.

  When I opened the door, Zach Mays was standing there wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt with a big tomato on it. He had his hair pulled back in a short, tight ponytail. His motorcycle helmet was under his arm.

  “I’m here to help you get your ox out of the ditch,” he said with a smile. “Am I too late?”

  “My ox turned out to be a kitten,” I answered. “Since I visited a few weeks ago, Mrs. Fairmont has totally redone this place. I didn’t need the furniture I brought from my apartment at school.” I paused. “Does Mrs. Fairmont know you’re here?”

  “I sneaked in through the garden,” he joked.

  “I mean, she’s not doing well mentally. She’s confused and disoriented.” “No, I didn’t notice anything unusual when she let me in.”

  At the mention of confusion, the absurdity of what I’d thought moments before hit me. Mrs. Fairmont imagined a bird flying around inside the house; I opted for the audible voice of God from the top of the stairs. Both of us were out of touch with reality. I started to chuckle, tried to stifle it, then burst out laughing. Zach stared at me in bewilderment.

  “Mrs. Fairmont seems like a nice lady,” he said. “I’m sorry she’s having mental—”

  I held up my hand. “No, no. It’s what you said.”

  “What did I say?”

  “My name,” I managed. “Twice.”

  “And why is that so funny?”

  I laughed again. Zach Mays probably thought I was certifiably crazy, but I couldn’t stop. I motioned for him to come into the apartment. He eased onto the sofa and placed his helmet beside him. I plopped down in a chair and wiped away the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, taking a couple of deep breaths. “I was in the bedroom praying when you called my name from the top of the stairs. I thought it was the voice of God.”

  “You think I sound like God?”

  I shook my head and stifled another wave of laughter. “I’ve never heard the voice of God, but under the circumstances, my imagination played a trick on me. I didn’t know there was a man in the house, and when a male voice calling my name came out of nowhere, I assumed it must be a messenger from heaven. I guess I’m not making a very good second impression, but at least I’m not trying to hide anything.”

  “Good application of rule number three.”

  I remembered an older rule of hospitality.

  “Would you like a warm bottle of water?” I asked. “I haven’t been to the grocery store and don’t have anything in the refrigerator.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I need one.”

  I took a bottle from one of my boxes. It was tepid from the ride in the truck.

  “I didn’t see your convertible out front,” Zach said.

  “It was a rental. My daddy brought me and my belongings in a pickup truck this morning. We finished unloading a few minutes ago, and he’s headed home.” I pointed to the boxes on the floor. “All I have to do is unpack. There isn’t much to do. I’ll save most of the work until tomorrow.”

  Zach looked around. “The apartment is nice.”

  “Yes, and please understand I wasn’t making fun of Mrs. Fairmont’s mental condition. The reason I’m living here is to help take care of her.”

  “That’s what Gerry Patrick
told me.”

  I stared at Zach Mays. I’d never invited a man into my apartment at school. In my confusion about his voice, I’d allowed him across an invisible line without realizing it.

  “We should go upstairs,” I said quickly. “Mrs. Fairmont may be wondering what’s going on.”

  I inwardly kicked myself at the wording of my last comment and stood up.

  “Do you laugh a lot?” Zach asked.

  “Only when something funny happens, usually to me.”

  “Are you going to let that side of you come out at the law firm?”

  “I doubt it. And I can promise you one thing—I won’t make the mistake of thinking Mr. Braddock paging me on the office intercom is the voice of God.” I stepped toward the door. “We really should be joining Mrs. Fairmont. It’s rude not to.”

  Zach’s motorcycle riding boots clunked on the stairs. I peeked into the den. The elderly woman was sleeping in her chair with a black-and-white movie blaring from the TV. I touched my lips with my index finger and quietly entered the room. The remote control was on a stand beside Mrs. Fairmont’s chair. Flip was curled up at her feet. When he saw me, he jumped up and growled, but I leaned over and scratched the back of his neck. With my other hand, I picked up the remote and turned off the television. Mrs. Fairmont stirred slightly then relaxed. I gently lifted her feet and placed them on an ottoman and positioned two pillows around her so that she wouldn’t slip to the side. I gave Flip a final pat on the head and backed out of the room. I motioned for Zach to follow me into the foyer.

  After we were safely out of earshot of the den, I said, “Thanks for stopping by. I’m sorry I acted like such a silly girl.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Is that when all the other summer clerks begin?”

  “The girl from Emory starts then. Vince Colbert has been here for a week.”

  “Is he the clerk from Yale?”

  “Yes, and he seems like a nice guy. Very smart. He’s a Christian too.”

  11

  MOSES JONES LAY ON HIS BACK ON THE BOTTOM BUNK AND stared at the cheap mattress overhead. The man who’d slept above him since Moses was arrested had gone to trial and not come back. Moses didn’t know if that meant his bunkmate had been released to go home or convicted and sent directly to the state penitentiary. He’d heard both stories from his cellmates. Rumors in the cell block were as plentiful as mosquitoes on the marshes of the Ogeechee in July.

  Jail had changed a lot since Moses spent six months behind bars for hauling moonshine when he was in his early twenties. The old Chatham County jail had been torn down, replaced by a new one with air-conditioning, an indoor exercise facility, and completely integrated cell blocks. The deputies who arrested Moses drove him past the spot where blood once stained the curb. Moses turned his head and stared for a few seconds at the place that still refused to give up its secret.

  In the new jail, prisoners with white, black, or brown skin lived close together. English and Spanish profanity shared equal airtime. There was tension between the three groups, but nothing as bad as the racial hatred Moses experienced in his younger years.

  Moses’ boss, Tommy Lee Barnes, couldn’t have run his bolita racket without black runners, but they had to dodge beer bottles, curse words, and racist remarks to collect their fees. Eventually, Barnes was arrested for aggravated assault and spent two years at the Reidsville penitentiary in a ten-by-ten cell filled with men of different races. Moses heard that confinement with a black man caused the heart attack that ultimately killed the gambling kingpin.

  Now, men of all races in the cell block shared one common physical characteristic—body art. The quality of images varied. A prisoner might have a flower worthy of Monet on his forearm and a tiger that resembled an anemic house cat on his shoulder. One man in the next bunk had a grim Reaper on his back that he’d asked a local tattoo artist to transform into a motorcycle rider. The result was a wreck that left no survivors. Moses was the only one in his cell block without adornment. The only marks on his wrinkled black skin were from long-forgotten fights and scrapes in the woods. Because of Moses’ age, no one bothered him.

  Soon after he arrived, Moses was given the task of emptying all the trash cans in the building. It took two hours, twice a day, to complete his rounds pushing a gray plastic buggy through the cell blocks, bathrooms, offices, and food service areas. He often hummed softly to himself while he worked. All the wasted food bothered him. When he cooked at his shack by the river, he never had any leftovers except skin and bones.

  Moses dumped the trash into a large container behind the dining hall. When he went outside, he always peeked through the fence at his boat. It was in exactly the same place, chained to a light pole. The chain comforted him. It was a shiny new one, much stronger than the one he owned, and it would be hard for anyone to steal the boat. Some of the cars in the lot only stayed a night. Others had been there since the first time Moses peered through the fence.

  Two days after his arrest, Moses talked to a young black detective for a long time. He told him about the faces in the water. The detective listened and wrote things down on a sheet of paper. He refused to tell Moses when he might be released to go home. Weeks passed. The old man felt as if he’d been dropped into a hole in the bank of the river and forgotten. His soul needed to sing, but there wasn’t a solitary place to do it.

  At least he had plenty to eat. The meat dishes weren’t as tasty as fresh fish dipped in cornmeal and fried in a skillet over a kerosene fire, but institutional food kept away hunger. Dessert was the best part of the meals. Moses only had a few teeth left in his mouth, but he joked that all of them were sweet.

  I WOKE UP EARLY and quietly left the house for a morning run. Included in my loop was a jog past Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. I slowed my pace as I passed the office. It was barely light outside, and there weren’t any cars in the parking lot. I remembered my prayer a few weeks earlier in Powell Station.

  “Make this a place of praise,” I said.

  I enjoyed a burst of energy as I ran around Forsyth Park and back to Mrs. Fairmont’s house. There was no sign of Mrs. Fairmont. I drank two glasses of water and took a banana downstairs. I sat at the wrought-iron table outside my bedroom, ate the banana, and prayed.

  After I showered, I put on my blue suit. The first day of work was a time to look my best. With my hair spilling past my shoulders, the only thing out of ordinary about my appearance was the absence of makeup. I applied just enough lipstick to slightly enhance the color of my lips.

  When I went upstairs Mrs. Fairmont wasn’t in the den or the kitchen. I approached the bottom of the stairs and looked up. It didn’t feel right leaving the house for the day without telling her good-bye. I put my foot on the first step and debated whether to go upstairs. I didn’t want to invade Mrs. Fairmont’s privacy. Flip appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down at me.

  “Is she awake?” I whispered.

  I heard a door close.

  “Mrs. Fairmont,” I called out. “Good morning. It’s Tami.”

  The elderly woman appeared, wearing an elegant green robe and slippers. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed. She blinked her eyes and peered down the stairs.

  “Where’s Gracie?” she asked. “Are you her helper?”

  “No ma’am. I’m Tami Taylor. You’re letting me live in the basement apartment this summer while I work for Mr. Braddock’s law firm.”

  Mrs. Fairmont rubbed the side of her face. “My mind is foggy this morning.”

  “I’m leaving for work in a few minutes. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Did you make the coffee?”

  “No ma’am. Would you like some?”

  “That would be nice. Cream and sugar.”

  Mrs. Fairmont shuffled away from the top of the stairs. Flip followed her. I went into the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. I checked the clock. I wanted to get to the office promptly at 8:00 a.m. and wa
sn’t sure exactly how long it would take to get there on foot. I didn’t want to be late, but I was living in the house to serve Mrs. Fairmont’s needs. I watched the coffee begin to drip into the bottom of the pot. While I waited, I wrote a note that I left on the kitchen counter, thanking Gracie for renovating the downstairs apartment and telling her how much I looked forward to meeting her.

  As soon as enough coffee dripped down, I poured a cup and added cream and sugar. I held the cup carefully while climbing the stairs. Halfway up, I thought about the spilled coffee incident in the blue parlor and had to fight off a giggle that threatened to cause the brown drink to slosh over the edge of the cup. I made it to the top of the stairs and knocked on the door frame of a room with the door cracked open. A bark from Flip confirmed that I’d found Mrs. Fairmont’s bedroom. I slowly entered.

  “It’s Tami. I’ve brought your coffee,” I announced. “With cream and sugar.”

  Mrs. Fairmont was sitting up in bed with pillows behind her. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was filled with beautiful furniture. The bed had four massive posters and an ornate headboard. A tall bookcase filled with books stood against one wall. Against another wall was a long dresser with a large mirror above it. The top of the dresser was covered with family pictures. On the corner of the dresser was an old black-and-white photograph of a bride in a long elaborate gown and a groom wearing a tuxedo.

  “Sorry, child. I was confused a minute ago,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “I wasn’t really awake. You’re the young woman with twin sisters who have blue eyes.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I replied, surprised at her recall of such a small detail. “Where should I put the coffee?”

  “On the nightstand.”

  I set the cup in front of a picture of two girls in old-fashioned dresses.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  Mrs. Fairmont turned her head. “That’s Ellen Prescott and I at Forsyth Park. She came from a poor family but received a scholarship to my school. It was Ellen’s little daughter who was murdered. She had blue eyes, just like your sisters. They never found the body.”