“I’m not sure. Except for the girls on my intramural basketball team, I don’t talk to many people about their plans.”
“How many of those young women have a decent job to go to after graduation?”
I quickly ran through the lineup of the seven girls. We’d played together for three years in a fall league at the University of Georgia.
“One is accepting a job with an insurance defense firm in Macon. Another is going to clerk for a superior court judge in Fulton County. The others are sending out résumés and trying to arrange interviews and so on.” I paused. “If nothing develops they’ll get desperate in a few months.”
“Exactly.” Mr. Callahan sat up straight and eyed me for a moment. “Are you looking for someone to tell you what to do?”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” I admitted sheepishly.
“Have you talked to your parents?”
“They know about the options, of course, but they haven’t given me their opinion.”
“Well, I don’t want to create confusion with what they might say.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m already confused.”
Mr. Callahan looked past my shoulder. “Tammy Lynn, do you know why you’re struggling with this decision?”
I hesitated. “Because I want to do God’s will?”
Mr. Callahan waved his right hand in a way that brushed aside my answer.
“That’s important, but to get to that point it’s necessary to be honest about yourself. I like pretending to be a cattleman, but sometimes I miss the chance to really grill a witness. Will you let me conduct a bit of a cross-examination to find out what’s going on inside that pretty, intelligent head of yours?”
I managed a slight smile. “Go ahead. If it helps, it’ll be worth it.”
Mr. Callahan stood, pushed his glasses down his nose, and put his hands behind his back. “Ms. Taylor, isn’t it true you’ve had a lot of success for a girl taught at home until high school?”
I sat up straighter in the chair.
“Yes, sir. Mama is the best teacher in the world. I’d read most of the books on the reading lists for my college literature classes before—”
Mr. Callahan held up his hand. “A simple yes is sufficient. You don’t have to prove the value of your upbringing to me. I’m just laying the foundation for my question.”
“Okay.”
“And isn’t it true that you’ve had athletic success, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t the girls’ high school basketball team go to the state tournament your senior year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And weren’t you named all-conference point guard?”
I blushed that Mr. Callahan remembered such a minute detail from my past. I nodded.
“And isn’t it correct that you’ve done well in law school?”
“I’m not on the law review, but I’m in the top quarter of my class.”
“A lot of successful attorneys weren’t on the law review.” Mr. Callahan grunted. “Including me. And now you’ve broken the gender barrier for summer clerks at an outstanding law firm in Savannah. I bet the partners didn’t spend much time discussing the below-the-knee length of your dresses before deciding to offer you a job. Don’t you think they focused on your analytical ability and personal character?”
“Are you asking me to speculate?”
Mr. Callahan pointed his finger at me. “Careful. A witness who toys with me usually regrets it.”
I smiled. “I’m sure the partners at the firm cared more about my legal abilities than my conservative wardrobe.”
“That’s better.” Mr. Callahan paused. “So, Ms. Taylor, after all your hard work in several areas of life, is there a possibility you’re afraid of success at the next level?”
“No, sir. That’s not it.”
Mr. Callahan studied me for a moment. “When a witness doesn’t give the expected answer, the attorney must try a different tact.”
I waited. Mr. Callahan stepped closer.
“As a first-year associate attorney, you’ll make an excellent salary at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, probably two or three times what your daddy brings home in a year as a supervisor at the chicken plant. Are you worried the deceitfulness of wealth will draw you away from your love for God?”
I’d thought about that issue. “I won’t know until the money is in my bank account. I’m praying for grace not to let it drag me down.”
“And I doubt it will,” Mr. Callahan replied, rubbing his chin. “What about Zach Mays? Do you believe God is drawing you together?”
I blushed a second time.
“I’ve not seen him since the end of the summer. He’s busy at work, and I’m in the middle of the school term.”
“If he’d wanted to visit you at school, would you have let him?”
I bit my lower lip. “Yes, sir. What does that have to do with the job?”
Mr. Callahan smiled. “That was a credibility question, just to let me know you’re in a truth-telling mood.”
“I always try to tell the truth. Or repent as soon as I don’t.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Look, let’s be real. Are you afraid working on a daily basis with the young healing prophet might ruin your relationship with him?”
Mr. Callahan’s question produced a sudden ache of longing for Zach Mays in my chest. My phone conversations with him had been light, not serious. We’d not voiced what we might feel in our hearts. As I’d told Ellie, I was just getting used to being around a man who wasn’t a family member.
“No, sir,” I answered slowly. “I want to be around him. But it’s not necessary to work at the same firm for that to happen.”
“Does Joe Carpenter’s firm discourage two lawyers who work there from dating each other?”
“Ms. Patrick, the office manager, told me romance between summer clerks and lawyers wasn’t allowed, but I don’t know about lawyers. I don’t think it would be a problem.”
“Although it’s awkward if a couple takes domestic squabbles to work in their briefcases.”
I opened my mouth, then quickly shut it.
“There will be arguments,” Mr. Callahan continued.
“I know. Even Mama and Daddy have their disagreements. She’s taught me the biblical principles of conflict resolution and helped me understand the differences between men and women.”
Mr. Callahan raised his eyebrows. “I thought it was the man’s job to make all the adjustments.”
“That’s usually true,” I answered with a straight face.
Mr. Callahan rubbed his palms together. “I know you’ve thought about this next question, but I need to ask it anyway. Are you worried the firm will assign you cases that violate your moral convictions?”
“That happened last summer,” I answered, remembering the lawsuit the firm filed against Sister Rachel Dabney. “It all worked out in the end. But I can’t count on that happening every time.”
Mr. Callahan chuckled. “That doesn’t sound like a woman who has the faith to move mountains. Here’s what you could do. Tell the firm up front there are types of cases you want to avoid and get it settled before it comes up.”
I tried to imagine delivering an ultimatum to Mr. Carpenter.
“I’m not sure Mr. Carpenter—”
“I wouldn’t be afraid about confronting Joe Carpenter with an honest request. I’ve known him since law school. He loved your spunkiness and wants you to accept the job so badly he’ll negotiate with you.”
“How do you know that?”
Mr. Callahan sat down at the table. “He called and talked to me a few weeks ago. Wanted me to use my influence to convince you to come to work for him.”
“He did?” I asked in shock.
“Yep, phoned me while I was on the tractor hauling a round bale of hay to the cattle in the south field. I told him I wasn’t sure I’d see you before Christmas but would give my opinion if asked. During the summer, Joe saw what the rest of us alrea
dy know about you.”
I waited.
Mr. Callahan shook his head. “I’m not going to flatter you any more than I already have, but you’re more likely to be forced into cases you don’t want to handle at a start-up firm that needs every dollar it can collect in fees than a firm that can pick and choose its clients.”
I sighed. “I don’t have to guess what you think I should do.”
“Right. I think Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter is the way to go, at least until you learn the ropes. Law school may teach you to think like a lawyer, but it doesn’t teach you how to practice law.”
I shrugged. “Yes, the secretaries and paralegals at the firm knew more practical stuff than I did.”
“And you don’t have a clue whether either Smith or Feldman has the administrative abilities to run a law firm.”
Julie was smart but not always organized. I didn’t know about Maggie. My work history was limited to the processing line at the local chicken plant, a part-time job as a sitter for elderly women, and a three-month summer clerkship.
“Talk with your parents,” Mr. Callahan concluded. “Their advice is more important than mine.”
“But I respect your advice, and I wanted to know what you think. You’ve always helped me think through problems. Thanks for being honest with me.”
“You deserve a straight answer. I’m confident that when the time comes, you’ll know what to do. Once you make your decision, don’t look back.”
2
JESSIE SHUFFLED ALONGSIDE THE RAILROAD TRACKS. IT HAD stopped raining, but a midnight mist kept her from seeing far ahead. Her eyes fluttered shut as she tried to steal a few seconds’ rest. Stumbling forward, she fell, skinning her left knee on a rough crosstie. The sharp pain woke her up.
There’d been no sound or sign of pursuit, but the grotesque image of the man lying at the foot of the tree was etched in her mind with photographic clarity. Every time she closed her eyes, the sight of the man’s twisted body returned.
It wasn’t the first time Jessie had seen a dead person. At age seven she found her father sprawled across the bed with his mouth hanging open and an empty bottle of pills on the floor. She dashed into the living room and found her stepmother passed out drunk on the couch in the living room. Jessie poured a glass of cold water on her stepmother’s face, and fifteen minutes later an ambulance, sirens blaring, came to the house. It left slowly in silence with the body. There wasn’t a funeral.
Jessie gingerly touched the sore place on her knee. Alone, she was more tired than afraid. The shifting shadows cast by tree limbs when the moon peered from behind the clouds didn’t bother her. Jessie’s fears became real only when people were present. She found her greatest security in solitude, her favorite escape in the pages of a book.
After her father’s death, Jessie and her stepmother spent a lot of time in homeless shelters and more than a few nights huddled under bridges. Jessie knew the worst enemy of the homeless was cold weather, the unrelenting chill that made toes and fingers ache and dawn’s warmth seem light-years away. Tonight was warm and muggy. Jessie licked her lips. She was thirsty. She’d not had anything to drink since lapping dirty water from a rain puddle.
The tracks turned slightly left then crossed a broad ravine. Jessie stopped and looked down a steep embankment. She couldn’t see the bottom, but it had to be deep. The tops of trees beside the tracks barely reached the level of the rails. There wasn’t a bridge, just tracks laid on thick wooden pilings. She peered ahead, trying to determine how long the span might be. Meeting an oncoming train with no place to jump to the side would be a recipe for disaster.
Standing still, she listened, trying to pick up the sound of an approaching train. Hearing nothing, she took a few cautious steps forward. Then Jessie remembered a scene from a book set in the Old West. In it, she’d learned that an Indian tracker would kneel down and put his ear against the metal rails to hear the vibrations caused by an approaching train. Lying on her stomach, Jessie rested her ear against the cool steel. It gave off a low hum. She raised her head and strained her eyes. The mist was getting thicker, not thinner. She listened again. There was no mistaking the presence of a humming sound, but she didn’t know what it meant.
Returning to solid ground, Jessie decided to wait for a few minutes. She found a large pine tree with a thick blanket of needles wrapped like an apron around its base. The needles might be a nest of chiggers, but she sat down anyway and leaned against the tree. In less than a minute, she heard a rumbling sound in the distance. A train was coming. Not in front of her, but along the track she’d already walked.
Jessie watched the black cars zip past and breathed a sigh of relief. The flashing red light on the last car disappeared across the bridge. She pressed her hands against the slightly prickly pine needles that weren’t much rougher than the ancient sofa someone gave her stepmother. An enveloping fog of fatigue convinced her she’d fled far enough for the night.
Lying down, Jessie took the pouch from the front of her jeans. Her stepmother had a leather jacket, but it felt like plastic compared to the supple pouch. Jessie rested her head on the pouch and closed her eyes.
MR. CALLAHAN SENT ME HOME WITH ENOUGH FRESH STEAKS FOR a feast. I handed Mama the heavy packet.
“Mix the marinade, and we’ll eat steak for supper,” she said. “This meat is too good to freeze.”
Mama used a steak marinade that included olive oil, pepper, garlic, and several other spices. I mixed the ingredients in a bowl, then poured the liquid on top of the steaks and put them in the refrigerator to soak in the flavors.
“Did you have a good visit with Mr. Callahan?” she asked from the corner of the kitchen where she was scrubbing the floor.
“Yes. He appreciated the honey.”
“Was Mrs. Callahan there?”
“No, she was with her sister in Chattanooga.”
“Did you ask his advice about the job?” Mama stood and wiped her hands on her work apron.
“Yes.”
“There’s wisdom in a multitude of counselors,” she answered evenly. “And there’s no denying Oscar Callahan has played a big role in your becoming a lawyer.”
I finished rinsing out the bowl used to mix the marinade.
“He thinks a multitude of counselors is the right move, which means I should accept the job at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. Mr. Carpenter actually called him and asked him to use his influence to persuade me to work for the firm.”
Mama and I sat at the table while I told her about my conversation with the retired lawyer.
“Being with Mr. Callahan made me wish he was still practicing law and could ask me to join him. It would be wonderful living at home, helping you when I was here, spending more time with the twins, going to church—”
“But that’s not an option, is it?”
“Not really. I don’t know anything about the two lawyers who bought Mr. Callahan’s practice and doubt they need an associate so soon after getting started themselves.”
“That doesn’t sound much different than the situation with Julie Feldman and Maggie Smith.”
“So, you and Daddy agree with Mr. Callahan,” I responded quickly.
Mama rubbed her forehead. “Daddy and I have been praying about it. We’ll talk after supper.”
As much as I wanted to know Mama’s thoughts, I knew our conversation would have to wait.
Later, while we fixed supper, my stomach growled in hunger. Mama cooked steaks in an old castiron skillet heated hot enough to make the oil sizzle. The finished product would be slightly crispy on the outside and running with tender juices on the inside. The steaks filled the kitchen with an aroma that seeped outside, causing the dogs to bark in anticipation of an after-dinner bone.
While Mama kept a careful eye on the steaks, I baked yeast rolls and fixed mashed potatoes. Gravy for the potatoes received extra zip from the skillet drippings. Ellie heated green beans on the stove and made sweet tea in a large pot of hot water. Emma set the
table. With symphonic coordination, everything came out of oven and skillet for quick transfer to the table.
“Pray fast, Daddy,” Ellie said when we sat down in our usual seats. “God knows we’re thankful.”
Daddy couldn’t be rushed if he felt the nudge of the Spirit otherwise. But tonight, the Lord agreed with Ellie. In a few seconds the room was silent except for the passing of dishes and the sounds of forks and knives. Partway through the meal I stole a glance around the table while savoring a juicy bite of steak and took a mental snapshot of the scene to revisit while eating a chicken salad sandwich in my apartment at school.
“No room for dessert,” Daddy said when he pushed away his plate.
“That’s good, because we didn’t fix any,” Mama replied.
“I’m still hungry,” Bobby protested.
Mama pointed to the bowl of mashed potatoes. “Eat those. They’ll fill the hollow place in your legs.”
“The twins and I will clean up,” Daddy said when we were done. “Everyone else go into the front room. Bobby, do you feel like playing your guitar?”
My brother patted his stomach. “Yes, sir. I have an extra place to rest it for a couple of hours.”
Mama and I went into the front room. My parents always sat in two comfortable chairs with a lamp in between. The rest of us grabbed places on the couch or used one of the straight-backed chairs that lined the wall. The room could hold up to twenty for a prayer meeting. When that happened, chairs weren’t necessary because people spent most of the time kneeling on the floor.
Bobby brought his guitar downstairs and began to tune it. Mama closed her eyes. After finishing his tuning, Bobby began to pick individual notes. The fingers on his left hand moved smoothly up and down the guitar’s neck. My brother had come a long way from strumming the same three chords over and over. Daddy and the twins joined us. The girls plopped down on the couch beside me without elbowing each other. We didn’t own a TV, so spending time together as a family after a meal wasn’t unusual. In addition to singing, we occasionally read a classic book out loud or played an educational game.
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