Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  As he cleaned the tables he thought about the tall, dark-haired girl who wasn’t a real lawyer. She looked familiar. That’s why he asked if she lived in Savannah. Moses knew a lot of people by face if not by name. He’d met hundreds of people when he worked for Tommy Lee Barnes as a bolita runner and could remember faces for years and years.

  A bolita runner collected money from the players of the simple betting game and handed out slips of paper that served as proof of the numbers chosen. Beginning early in the morning, Moses went all over the city calling on regular players and trying to attract new ones. At precisely 6:00 p.m., five winning numbers between 1 and 100 were announced by randomly selecting five numbered Ping-Pong balls from a large bag. Prior to the drawing, Moses and one of the other runners tabulated the most popular numbers of the day, and Tommy Lee would remove those numbers from the sack to avoid a big loss.

  Tommy Lee made the daily drawing exciting. He had a preacher’s voice and always asked a pretty girl to stick her hand in the bag and draw out the Ping-Pong balls. Runners notified winners the following day and delivered their winnings. Moses liked counting out the greasy dollar bills to a winner. Even with payouts, Tommy Lee would make a couple of hundred dollars a day. Each Friday, Moses would take envelopes of cash to the police officers who let the game operate. Mr. Floyd, Tommy Lee’s boss, paid the mayor’s office directly.

  The tall girl who wasn’t a real lawyer reminded Moses of a girl he’d known during the time he worked for Tommy Lee Barnes. She didn’t play bolita, but the old woman who owned the big house where the girl lived guessed ten numbers every Wednesday. When the girl saw Moses on the sidewalk outside the house, she would tell him to go away. Moses would nod respectfully and sneak around the corner where he would wait for the old woman to come out to meet him. If she had a winning number, Moses would pick up the ticket and redeem it for her.

  Moses wasn’t sure what had happened to the girl. She would be an old woman herself by now. Once or twice, he thought he’d seen her face in the water, but it didn’t make sense that she would be there.

  16

  BY THE END OF THE FIRST WEEK, I HAD BEGUN TO DOUBT MS. Patrick’s promise that a summer clerk job at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter would be more fun than toil. Mr. Carpenter added two more projects to my workload and three more to Julie’s stack. She and I worked together on the Folsom case, and I revised her memo on the secured transaction issue, but we had to go our separate ways on the new projects. She worked directly with Mr. Carpenter. I found myself reporting more and more to Robert Kettleson, a senior associate who confidently informed me that he was next in line for partner.

  Kettleson, a tall, skinny man, communicated with me via e-mails that he typed at all hours of the day and night. He wanted my responses in writing so there would be no doubt about my opinion. The process bothered me, but I had to admit it forced me to be very careful in my research.

  I had no time to work on the Jones case. When I asked Zach about it, he pointed to the files on the corner of his desk and told me justice for indigent defendants like Moses Jones would have to wait another week. At least the old man had food to eat and a roof over his head.

  Late Friday afternoon, Julie returned to the library and plopped down on the other side of the table.

  “Are you coming to work tomorrow?” she asked. “Please say no because I don’t want to be the only clerk who abandons the office to spend a few hours at Tybee Island beach. Why don’t you come with me? We’re both pale as white bread, but we could lather up with sunscreen and pretend we’re from Nova Scotia.”

  “Nova Scotia?”

  “If that’s not exotic enough, you can be Norwegian and I’ll be Lebanese.”

  “I don’t own a swimsuit.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Apparently my face told her the truth.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she continued. “I’ll buy one for you and put it on my credit card. You can pay me back when we get our paychecks next week.”

  “Do your orthodox cousins in New York go to the beach?” I asked.

  “Yeah, there are places where they can go and be among the faithful on certain days of the week, but they don’t wear—” Julie stopped.

  “Rabbi, are you that conservative?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. You are hard-core.”

  Her words stung, but I stayed calm. “I have strong convictions about modesty,” I replied quietly.

  “Okay. Suit yourself, or rather don’t if it offends your morals. My parents want me to walk on eggshells around my cousins, which is one reason I don’t like to visit them. But I still want to know if you’re going to spend the day at the office. If you do, it will make me and Vinny look bad.”

  “You already talked to Vince?”

  “He agreed to take the day off. I didn’t say anything to him about the beach, but if it was okay with you, I wanted to invite him to join us. Two girls and one guy would be irresistible odds.”

  “The two of you can go.”

  “And steal him from you? He’s not my type.”

  “I’m not sure he’s my type.”

  “What is your type?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t met him.”

  “Don’t be so dense,” Julie snapped. “You have to meet men to find out who you’re compatible with. I’m trying to help you, but you’re not making it easy. You’ll never find out the truth about other people or yourself with your nose stuck in a Bible or a prayer book.”

  “I don’t use a prayer book, and I didn’t ask for help.”

  “But you need help. Lots of it. I’m sure glad we’re not sharing an apartment. I don’t think I could stand your self-righteous attitude 24/7. You’re so uptight I’m surprised your eyes open in the morning!”

  My uptight eyes suddenly stung with tears I vainly tried to blink away. Most people didn’t keep attacking after I made my convictions clear. Julie saw that I was upset and swore.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I quickly wiped my eyes. “Everything you say makes sense except that I believe God controls my future. I can’t abandon my confidence in him. To do that would be to deny who I am as a person.” I pulled a tissue from my purse and blew my nose. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  Julie shrugged. “You fanatic religious types are all alike.”

  “People judge me because of the things I do and don’t do. But I’m not a mixed-up mess of legalistic rules and regulations. I’m a child of God who wants to live in the freedom from sin Jesus provides through his death on the cross.”

  “Okay, okay,” Julie said. “You can step down from your pulpit. My efforts to corrupt you are over for the week.”

  This time I didn’t cry. I pressed my lips tightly together before I spoke. “I guess I’ll walk home.”

  “No need to get hot and sweaty. I’ll give you a ride. I said I was sorry.”

  Partway home, Julie broke the silence. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “My Jewish intuition tells me that’s about to change.”

  We reached Mrs. Fairmont’s house. Julie stopped the car.

  “So, are you going to the office tomorrow?” she asked.

  “No. I wouldn’t do anything to try to gain an advantage.”

  “Good. I’ll call Vinny. This summer is our last chance to have fun before we have to enter the real world of work.”

  I opened the door. “If you go to the beach, use plenty of sun-block.”

  “You won’t recognize me on Monday. I may not look Lebanese, but in a couple of days I’ll be able to pass for an Israeli.”

  I COULD HEAR THE TV BLARING when I entered the house. I peeked into the den. The TV might be on, but that didn’t mean she was watching it. Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes were closed. She tried to maintain I a schedule, but I’d learned that even though she went to bed early, her sleep patterns were irregular. Twice when I’d come upstairs to the kitchen in the night, she had been a
wake watching TV. Flip didn’t seem to mind. He matched his sleep schedule to hers. The little dog barked and came over to me for a welcoming scratch behind the ears.

  “Mrs. Fairmont,” I announced.

  She stirred. Her eyes fluttered open and glanced in my direction.

  “Who is it?” she asked with alarm in her voice.

  “Tami Taylor. I’m staying with you this summer.”

  The older woman’s lapses of short-term memory made my heart ache. I picked up Flip, who licked my chin.

  “Flip knows me,” I said as I let the tiny dog lick my chin. “I’m staying in the basement apartment and working for Mr. Braddock’s law firm.”

  Mrs. Fairmont stared at me. Generally, it only took a few comments to tether her mind in reality.

  “Where’s Gracie?” she asked.

  “Gone for the day.”

  “Did she let you in the house?”

  “No ma’am.” I held up a key. “Your daughter, Mrs. Bartlett, gave me a key.”

  Mrs. Fairmont pushed herself up from the chair. “I’m going to call Christine this minute. She has no right giving out keys to strangers!”

  I deposited Flip on the floor. This was the most serious spell of confusion I’d witnessed.

  “What do you want me to do while you call her?”

  “Wait on the front steps would be the polite thing to do,” she answered curtly as she walked unsteadily toward the kitchen. “Proper young women don’t barge into a house uninvited.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Keeping the key in my hand in case she locked the door behind me, I retreated toward the front of the house, but I positioned myself by the hallway door in the green parlor so I could hear the conversation in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure whether Mrs. Fairmont would remember Mrs. Bartlett’s phone number. There was silence for several seconds, then I heard Mrs. Fairmont begin talking to someone about her house key. After a couple of sentences she stopped talking.

  “Yes, I took my medicine,” she said. “Gracie always gives it to me.”

  A longer period of silence followed.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Samuel Braddock?”

  After a shorter silence, she said, “No, I can take care of myself.”

  I heard her hang up the phone. I quickly moved through the foyer and outside to the front steps. I waited, praying that Mrs. Fairmont had regained connection with reality. The front door opened. She stared at me again.

  “Christine says you’re staying here so you might as well come inside, but I don’t want you telling me what to do.”

  “I’m here to help.”

  Mrs. Fairmont turned and walked away. I stood in the foyer and watched her climb the stairs to the second floor without looking back. Flip followed her. I went into the kitchen and hit the Redial button on the phone. Mrs. Bartlett answered.

  “What is it now?” she asked.

  “It’s Tami Taylor. I overheard your mother’s phone call. She thought I’d gone outside, but I was listening from the parlor. I came in from work a few minutes ago, and she didn’t recognize me. Usually, her confusion goes away after we talk for a minute or so, but this time it didn’t. It’s the worst spell she’s had since I’ve been here.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “No, I’m not!” a voice screamed behind me.

  The sound startled me so violently that I dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a sharp crack. Flip barked and ran around the kitchen.

  “Who are you talking to?” Mrs. Fairmont demanded with fire in her eyes.

  “Your daughter, Christine,” I managed.

  I picked up the phone and handed it to her. “Here. Talk to her yourself.”

  Watching me with suspicious eyes, she put the phone to her ear. “Who is this?” she demanded.

  I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but the expression on Mrs. Fairmont’s face slowly changed. I stepped backward to the far side of the kitchen and waited. Mrs. Fairmont closed her eyes several times as she listened. I inched closer, fearing she might faint.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, followed by, “No, no.”

  She handed the phone to me. “Talk to her.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Has she calmed down?” Mrs. Bartlett asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I can’t drive into town tonight. Ken and I have a dinner engagement that has been on the books for months. She’ll be all right in a few minutes. These things pass. It’s even happened with Gracie.”

  “But what do I—”

  “Call my cell phone or 911 if there is a true emergency, although if you’re patient she’ll be fine. You can take care of this. That’s why I hired you. Good night.”

  The phone clicked off. Mrs. Fairmont was leaning against the counter with her eyes closed and her hand resting against the right side of her face. It was such a sad sight that the remaining tears I’d bottled up at the office when Julie attacked me gushed out in compassion. Mrs. Fairmont opened her eyes. The fire was gone. She looked tired.

  “Why are you crying?” she asked.

  “Because I care about you. I’m here to help you. The last thing I want to do is upset you.”

  “I don’t feel well,” she said.

  “May I help you upstairs?”

  She started shuffling toward the door. I followed behind her. Flip stayed out of the way but close to her feet. When she reached the steps, Mrs. Fairmont grasped the railing tightly as she climbed. Halfway up, she wavered, and I reached out my hand to steady her. She reached the landing at the top of the stairs, then walked slowly to her room. I followed.

  “Here’s the intercom, if you need me,” I said, making sure it was still turned on. “I have one in the basement. Press the Call or Talk button, and I’ll be here as soon as I can.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s happening to me?” she asked.

  “You were confused.”

  She rubbed her temples. I noticed she was wearing shoes that didn’t match.

  “Why don’t you lie down and rest?” I suggested.

  She leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes. I gently removed her shoes and positioned a pillow under her head. The air-conditioning was on so I put a lightweight cotton throw over her legs and feet. I picked up Flip and put him on the bed. He curled up near her feet.

  “I’ll be back in a little while to check on you,” I said, turning toward the door.

  “You can sing a song now,” she said softly.

  I came closer to the bed. “What kind of song?”

  “You know, the kind you sing every night before I go to sleep.”

  I thought back to some of the songs Mama sang to me when I was small. All of them had biblical themes.

  “All right,” I answered softly.

  My brother Bobby was the best singer in our family, but I could carry a tune. I decided humming might be a good way to start. I leaned close to Mrs. Fairmont’s head and began to hum a melody whose roots lay in the spirits of early Christian pioneers. Mrs. Fairmont’s facial muscles relaxed. When I switched to words, she took a deep breath. In a few seconds, she was asleep.

  I didn’t stop.

  I finished that song and started another. Mrs. Fairmont was unconscious, but I wasn’t singing to her mind—the lyrics were intended for her spirit. I knelt on the floor beside her bed, continued through three songs, then tapered off to another hum. I finished by praying in a soft voice for healing, salvation, and blessing. When I lifted my head, Flip was watching me through a single, drooping eye. I slipped quietly from the room.

  Several hours later, I came upstairs in my pajamas for a drink of cold water before going to bed. Mrs. Fairmont was sitting in the den watching the late-night news. I peeked in at her. An empty dinner plate was on a table beside her chair.

  “Hello, Tami,” she said when she heard me. “Did you have a good day at work?”

  “It was challenging,” I answered.
>
  “You must have worked late. I had a long nap and feel much better. Gracie left supper, but your plate is still in the refrigerator.”

  I’d been so upset by the events earlier in the evening that my appetite had disappeared. “I may eat it tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine. I’m going to bed after the news is over. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  SATURDAY MORNING, Mrs. Fairmont was back to normal. I brewed her coffee and fixed a light breakfast that we ate at a table on the veranda that opened into the den. She didn’t mention the chaos of the previous night, and I didn’t see any benefit in bringing it up. While I watched her carefully spread orange marmalade to the edges of an English muffin, I thought about her irrational anxiety and felt a lump in my throat. Aging was part of life, but I wished people could leave earth in a blaze of glory like Elijah, not spiral down into pathetic incompetence.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Fairmont interrupted my thoughts.

  “Yes ma’am. Would you like another cup of coffee?”

  “That would be nice.”

  I went to the kitchen. The doorbell chimed. Flip charged in from the veranda to warn the possible intruder of the dog’s fierce presence. I followed him into the foyer and opened the door. It was Zach Mays with his motorcycle helmet under his right arm.

  “I hope I’m not too early,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a nice neighborhood. May I come in? Did you just wake up?”

  “No, I’ve already run four miles that included a quick trip by the office. The parking lot was empty at six thirty.”

  The young lawyer stepped into the foyer. “I’ll be there later today but wanted to go for a ride before it gets too hot.”

  “Mrs. Fairmont is on the veranda. I’m getting her a fresh cup of coffee.”

  Flip, continuing to growl, circled Zach’s feet.

  “Will he bite?” Zach asked.

  “I’m not sure. It’s probably a good thing you’re wearing boots.”

  Zach followed me into the kitchen. Together, we went to the veranda.

  “Mrs. Fairmont, do you remember Zach Mays?”