Deeper Water (14 page)

Moses kept his fishing license in the bottom of his tackle box. He opened the box and rummaged around until he found it. He handed it up to the deputy, who inspected it.

"This expired two months ago."

Moses' face fell. "I guess the date slipped right past me. What are y'all going to do to me?"

The two deputies glanced at each other. The black one spoke.

"Mr. Jones, there are surveillance cameras on several docks up and down this stretch of the river. A man fitting your description has been illegally tying up his boat for months, and a lot of people have complained. We're going to have to take you to the jail."

"What about my boat?"

"It will be confiscated as evidence," the white deputy replied.

"What do that mean?"

The black deputy spoke. "It will go to the jail compound too. We'll keep it in the lot where we put stolen cars."

"But this boat ain't stole! It was give me by Jabo Nettles, the bartender who used to work at the Bayside Tavern. He got to where he couldn't use it 'cause of his sugar."

"Do you have a registration for it?"

"What's that?" Moses asked, bewildered.

"Mr. Jones, get out of the boat and come with us."

SUNDAY MORNINGS, I usually stayed at my apartment. There wasn't a church in the area similar to my church in Powell Station, and I preferred solitude with God to apostate religion. I had a drawer full of cassette tapes of sermons by Pastor Vick and guest preachers at our church. I'd listened to some of them so many times that I'd almost memorized the messages.

Two men from the rental car company came to pick up the convertible. I'd carefully checked the car to make sure it hadn't been scratched or dinged by another vehicle. It was a good lesson in the burden imposed by the objects of wealth. Watching after them was a hassle.

"How fast did you get it up to?" one of the men asked as he checked the mileage.

"Not above the speed limit."

The man looked at his coworker and rolled his eyes. "And I only had two beers last night. High-performance cars like this have to be pushed every so often to keep them running right. Use or lose it."

The other man eyed me. "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

I set my jaw. "Do you want me to contact the district manager of your company and ask him why one of his employees called me `sweetheart'?"

The man held out his hand. "I was only trying to be friendly."

"Professional would be a better goal." I put the car keys in his palm. "Thanks for picking up the car."

I peeked out the window of my apartment and could see the two men shaking their heads as they talked about me. Modest apparel helped keep males at bay, but it wasn't armor that prevented all attacks. The closest I'd come to physical harm happened in high school. One of the boys on the basketball team surprised me with a crude grab around the waist and attempted to kiss me on the lips while we walked in the dark from the gym to the bus. He received a stinging right hand to the cheek that knocked him back a couple of steps and left a mark I could see the following day at school.

After the men from the car rental company left, I spent the remainder of the afternoon reading a devotional book written by a sixteenth-century Puritan writer. The old saints had a better grasp of the demands of the gospel than contemporary Christians. In Oliver Cromwell's era, believers like my family would have found a welcome seat around the cultural campfire. Sometimes, I felt like I'd been born 350 years too late.

As soon as the sun set I called home. Mama held the phone so Daddy could listen. I told them about the rental car without the detail that it was a convertible and described the bed-and-breakfast simply as a clean place to stay. I provided a lot more information about my meeting with Mrs. Fairmont. Mama interrupted when I told about Flip and the use of my dress to save the rug.

"I never made you clean up a spill with your dress," she said.

"But you made me willing to do it. There's no telling what the rug on the floor was worth. I'm presoaking the dress in the sink right now. I think the stain will come out."

"And don't get any ideas about bringing a Chihuahua into our house," Daddy added. "I can tell you liked the little fellow, but if a dog can't scare possums away from the chicken coop or chase squirrels out of the cornfield, it won't find a place around our table."

"When was the last time Flip and Ginger ate in the kitchen?" I asked.

"You know what I mean," he replied.

I could picture the twinkle in his eyes.

"I won't bring home a pet without permission," I reassured him. "But a house dog might be just what you and Mama need after we're all grown and on our own."

"That's a ways off," Mama said. "Emma and Ellie seem slow to mature. Yesterday they got in an argument that would have shamed a pair of five-year-olds."

"The relationship between Mrs. Bartlett and her mother lacked maturity too," I said.

Mama and Daddy listened as I told them about my honesty with Mrs. Fairmont and her response.

"That cleared the way for her to ask me to live with her," I said. "What do you think?"

As soon as the question escaped my lips, I realized I'd made a terrible mistake. I'd accepted the invitation to live with Mrs. Fairmont without obtaining my parents' permission. It was an amazing lapse of protocol for an unmarried woman. Letting me make the decision to work in Savannah for the summer did not give me unfettered authority over my life. I could hear Daddy and Mama talking softly to each other on the other end of the line but couldn't make out what they were saying. If they rejected the arrangement, I would have no option but to call Mrs. Fairmont and Mrs. Bartlett and ask their forgiveness for prematurely acting without permission. Daddy spoke.

"Go ahead and stay with Mrs. Fairmont if you have peace about it. But don't be surprised if her daughter gives you trouble at some point."

"Yes sir," I said with relief. "I'll try to be a blessing to both of them, and it will help me save more money for the school year."

After my near miss on the Mrs. Fairmont issue, I decided not to mention my visit to the law firm. Mama would cross-examine me closely, and I wasn't prepared to discuss Zach Mays' comment concerning the communal lifestyle of Christians in the book of Acts or in Southern California in the 1970s and 1980s. It was a lot easier telling Mama and Daddy how much I loved them and ending the call.

RELIEVED THAT I'D FOUND A PLACE to live during the summer, I spent the final weeks of the school year in a sleep-deprived blur of academic activity. Second-year scores were very important because they would be part of a student's academic record during the fall hiring season. Post-law school job offers at firms like Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter were often contingent on maintaining a certain level of academic achievement. I wanted to do well for several reasons, but especially because God's children, like the prophet Daniel in pagan Babylon, should excel.

Our basketball team finished the season undefeated. The other girls accepted my explanation about the convertible but gave me a nickname Jaguar. I talked twice with Mrs. Fairmont, who agreed that the Friday before I started work on Monday would be a good time to arrive in Savannah. Daddy would help me move.

The night before Daddy was going to come help me, I began separating my belongings into two piles, one for Savannah, the other to be stored in Powell Station. Before unplugging my computer, I checked my e-mail. I had a message from Mrs. Bartlett.

Hi, Tami,

Change ofplans. Another one ofMother's friends died today. Can you believe it! The poor woman dropped dead in the dining room at The Cloister. Her funeral is going to be in Brunswick late Saturday afternoon. Mother is going down there tomorrow to stay with the family and won't be back until Sunday. We'll be at the house by 2:00 p.m. See you then.

Christine Bartlett

I read the e-mail three times, trying to twist an alternate meaning from it. Mrs. Bartlett expected Daddy and me to haul my belongings to Savannah on the Sabbath. I didn't like putting my suitcase in a car on Sunday. I quickly wrote her back.

Dear Mrs. Bartlett,

My father is taking off work to help me move on Friday. Could arrangements be made to allow us into the house tomorrow? After unloading my things, I could stay in a motel until Sunday if you prefer. Please allow me to do this. It would be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely, Tami Taylor

I prayed hard for fifteen seconds and sent the e-mail. I began packing my things in marked boxes but left my computer running. My anxiety level rose higher and higher. I checked the computer five times before a response came from Mrs. Bartlett. My heart pounded as I opened it.

Tami,

Got your message but it won't work. See you Sunday.

Christine Bartlett

I sat down on my bed too frustrated to cry. I couldn't handle something as simple as arranging the date of arrival for my summer job. I kicked myself for sending an e-mail instead of calling. I would have had a better chance of appeal on the phone. I had no option but to ask Mama and Daddy what to do. Daddy answered the phone.

"I'm looking forward to seeing you," he began as soon as he heard my voice. "I worked overtime earlier this week so I wouldn't have to take but two hours of vacation. I'll be on the road as soon as the sun rises."

"There's a problem," I said. "We can't go tomorrow. One of Mrs. Fairmont's friends died, and she'll be out of town. The house won't be open until Sunday afternoon."

"Sunday afternoon?"

"Yes sir."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"What am I going to do?" I asked as tears now threatened to break to the surface.

"Have you talked to the law firm about starting work on Tuesday? I could try to change my schedule at the plant and ask off on Monday."

"I just found out tonight. I could call the law firm tomorrow. But what if they're not willing to be flexible?"

"Call anyway." Daddy paused. "I know you want to honor the Lord's Day and keep it holy."

"With all my heart. It's just hard when there are other people involved."

"Every test is an opportunity," he replied.

It was one of Daddy's sayings, a call to be optimistic about any problem. It always sounded more convincing in theory than in practice.

We agreed to talk in the morning. Daddy would delay going to work until I talked to someone at the law firm. After the call ended I didn't have the heart to continue packing but did so by faith. The Lord commanded the Israelites to prepare to leave Egypt even though the way to the Promised Land would be fraught with perils.

I spent most of my prayer time early the following morning asking for God's favor upon my call to the law firm. I debated whether to appeal directly to Joe Carpenter, but since I'd never talked to him I asked for Gerry Patrick instead. It was barely 8:01 a.m. Fortunately, Ms. Patrick was in.

"Good morning, Tami," she began in a chipper voice. "Christine Bartlett is thrilled that you're going to be staying with her mother. It sounds like you really impressed both of them."

"Yes ma'am, but there is a problem with my move from Athens to Savannah."

"What sort of problem?"

I explained the delay due to the death of Mrs. Fairmont's friend. "Would it be possible for me to start work on Tuesday?"

"When did you say Mrs. Fairmont will be home?"

I hadn't mentioned the day. I swallowed. "Sunday afternoon."

"Can't you move in on Sunday?"

"I'd rather do it on Monday."

"The firm has arranged a special catered luncheon for the summer clerks on Monday. All the partners and associates will be there, and with vacation schedules, it may be the only time this summer when everyone will be together," she continued with emphasis. "The one day you need to be here is Monday. A key part of the summer clerk program is the opportunity for the partners to get to know you."

I remembered Zach Mays' rules. "Yes ma'am. I'm aware of that. I want to meet people."

"Good. Then you'll be here?"

In desperation, an idea was born. "Ms. Patrick, are you Jewish?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Do you keep the Sabbath?"

"Not as strictly as my rabbi uncle in Fort Lauderdale would like me to," she said after a brief silence.

I took a deep breath. "I'm a Christian, and my family keeps Sunday as our Sabbath. We don't do any work on Sunday and spend the time after church services in rest and spiritual reflection. It would violate my religious convictions to move my furniture on Sunday."

"I'm not familiar with the New Testament teaching on the Sabbath."

It wasn't a question, and the inflection in Ms. Patrick's voice didn't sound like a request for a biblical explanation.

"Are you asking for a religious accommodation under the federal antidiscrimination laws?" she continued coldly.

"No ma'am," I answered hurriedly. "I'm not raising a legal issue or trying to put the firm in an awkward position. I'm appealing to you as a person. I've agonized over this ever since I received the news from Mrs. Bartlett last night."

"And I don't question your sincerity. But I'm not sure I can give you an answer. I'll need to check with Mr. Carpenter and let you know what he says."

My heart sank. No matter how well Ms. Patrick tried to explain my position, the reaction of one of the senior partners to my predicament was easy to imagine.

"Could you talk to Zach Mays instead?" I asked. "I realize he's an associate, but he understands something about my background."

"Zach Mays? How do you know him?"

I had no choice but to mention my brief visit to the office.

"Can you stay on the line while I see if he's in the office?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am."

While I waited on hold, I listened to classical music. It was a Bach organ concerto, composed to the glory of the God, whose laws the world now tried to ignore. It was a moment of musical irony. Ms. Patrick returned.