Deeper Water (26 page)

"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.

"M 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?"

The old woman extended her hand. "No, but it's good to see you again. Please sit down."

For the next thirty minutes, we enjoyed a pleasant conversation. Mrs. Fairmont asked Zach questions. She was mostly interested in people he'd met whom she knew. I didn't try to sort out the cast of characters. The intricacies of Savannah society seemed as complicated as Chinese history. At a pause in the discussion, Zach looked at me.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"I'm not working today."

"I'm not talking about the office. I meant for a ride."

"On your motorcycle?"

"Make sure you wear a good helmet," Mrs. Fairmont said.

"I have an extra with me," Zach replied. "It's strapped to the bike."

"But I've never ridden a motorcycle." I paused. "And I don't have any jeans. I wouldn't feel comfortable behind you on the seat."

"You don't have to put your arms around my waist, and you can wear anything you like," Zach replied. "I have a sidecar. It's not much different than the fancy convertible you were driving, just a little bit closer to the ground."

"It sounds like fun," Mrs. Fairmont said. "Ferguson Caldwell used to own a motorcycle. He took me for a ride."

"I'm not sure," I said.

Zach held up his hand as if taking an oath. "I promise not to go any faster than you like. If you feel uncomfortable, we'll just go around the block, and I'll drop you off by the front door."

I was wearing a loose-fitting blue skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse. "I need to do the breakfast dishes," I said.

"I'll help," Zach volunteered.

"Go ahead, I'll be fine," Mrs. Fairmont added. "It's so pleasant out here this morning."

In the kitchen I studied Zach's face. "Why are you asking me to go for a ride?" I asked.

"I'll tell you later," he replied. "I promise."

There wasn't time to call my parents and get their counsel. I had to decide myself. My mind leaned toward no, but my mouth must have been connected to another part of me.

"Okay, but not long."

It only took a few minutes to clean up the kitchen. Zach loaded the dishwasher exactly the same way I did. I went downstairs, brushed my teeth, and tied my hair in a ponytail. I threw some things in a casual handbag. Zach and Mrs. Fairmont were on the veranda, continuing their conversation about Savannah.

"I'm ready," I announced.

"Have fun," Mrs. Fairmont said.

I followed Zach outside. Parked alongside the curb was a big black motorcycle with a sidecar attached to it.

"I thought you had a red motorcycle," I said.

"I do. This one belonged to my parents. It's twenty years old. I used to ride in the sidecar when I was a kid. That's when I fell in love with motorcycles. My father was going to sell it last year, so I bought it from him. I couldn't stand the thought of it leaving the family."

The passenger carrier had orange flames flickering along the side.

"You make it sound like a family heirloom."

"In a way, it is." He handed me a black helmet also decorated with the orange flame motif "This is my mother's helmet. It should fit."

I pulled the helmet over my head. It rested snugly against my ears. A plastic shield covered my face.

"It feels claustrophobic," I said, speaking extra loud so I could be heard.

"You'll be glad the first time a june bug crashes into your face at fifty miles an hour." Zach slipped on his helmet. "And you don't have to yell," he said in a voice that echoed inside the chamber. "There is a microphone connection embedded near the right corner of your mouth. It helps with the guided-tour portion of our ride."

"Testing, one, two, three," I said.

He tapped the side of his helmet and nodded. "I'll help you get settled in the sidecar."

He held out his hand, but I ignored it and stepped in. As I sat down, I quickly slid my legs forward, making sure my knees remained covered. My feet barely reached the nose of the narrow car.

"It has plenty of legroom, doesn't it?" Zach asked.

"Like a limo." I reached down with my hands. "Where's the seat belt?"

Zach threw his right leg over the motorcycle seat. "There isn't one. If a motorcycle wrecks, staying attached to it isn't always the safest thing."

He started the motor and revved the engine. It caused the sidecar to vibrate. I couldn't believe I'd left the peace and safety of Mrs. Fairmont's veranda to sit a few inches off the ground beside a motorcycle operated by a man I barely knew.

"Ready?" Zach spoke in stereo into my ears.

I nodded grimly.

He looked over his shoulder at the street and pulled away from the curb. The first thing I noticed was the immediate sensation of speed. The street seemed to fly past.

"How fast are we going?" I shouted.

"About thirty. You don't have to yell. It might make me wreck."

Some of the streets in the historic district were in need of repair, and we bumped along for several blocks. The helmet limited my view so I turned my head from side to side. Everyone we passed stopped to stare. If the twins had been on the sidewalk and saw me ride past attached to a motorcycle and wearing a black helmet with orange flames on the side, they would have fainted.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To a smoother road."

We left the historic district and turned onto President Street Extension, a broader, four-lane highway. The motorcycle picked up speed, and I could feel the wind rushing past my arms and neck. Even though it felt fast, I noticed that Zach stayed in the slow lane, letting most of the cars pass us.

"How do you like it?" Zach asked.

"Better than the back of a pickup truck," I admitted.

We left the city behind, but both sides of the road were still marked by commercial development. We stopped at a light, and I looked at the street sign.

"Are we going to Tybee Island?"

"Yes. Have you been there?"

"No."

"Is that okay?"

"Sure."

I doubted Julie and the rest of the bikini crowd would be out this early. Without the presence of girls, the half-dressed men wouldn't be seen either. And there was no reason why I couldn't take a quick look at the ocean. My promise to Julie had been to stay away from the office. As we drove along, I relaxed and enjoyed the ride. I thought about Zach's mother sitting in the sidecar.

"Did your parents ever take long trips like this?" I asked.

"Maybe a couple of hundred miles or so in a day. There are roads in California unlike anyplace else. The views are incredible."

"Do you miss it?"

"Yes."

We popped over a bump that made me hit my knees against the top of the sidecar.

"Sorry," Zach said. "That one snuck up on me."

We came to Tybee Creek, an indistinct waterway that meandered through the landward side of a large marsh. The tops of the marsh grass rippled slightly in the breeze. A few white egrets stood motionless in the water. The tide was going out, exposing mussel beds at the edges of the watery channels. Expensive-looking homes lined the edge of the marsh on both the island and the mainland. We crossed a bridge onto Tybee Island.

"We'll stop near the main pier," Zach said.

We passed through residential areas with sandy driveways guarded by dune grass and into an aging business district. Several people on the sidewalks pointed in our direction as we passed. It made me feel special. We turned down a narrow street and parked in front of a meter. Zach turned off the engine. I climbed as gracefully as I could from the sidecar and removed my helmet. My skirt was wrinkled.

"That was fun," I said before Zach asked me. "You're a good driver."

"Thanks, but you drive a car; you ride a motorcycle."

Zach put on a pair of dark sunglasses. He locked the helmets to the motorcycle with a thin steel cable.

"You don't need any money," he said. "Bring your bag or I can lock it in the sidecar."

"Lock it up. All I want is my hat."

There was a cover that slid over the sidecar, turning it into a storage compartment. Without the helmet over my face, I could smell a tinge of salt in the air. The morning breeze was coming in from the ocean. I put on my hat.

"Ocean views, this way," Zach said, retying his hair in a tight ponytail.

Two- and three-story frame houses with rooms to rent crowded against the sidewalk. There weren't many people on the street.

"It will be crowded here by noon," Zach said.

After a couple of blocks the street made a turn to the left, and I could see the blue glint of ocean in the distance. There were seagulls riding the air currents. Sand scattered the sidewalk. The street ended at a modest sand dune. Looking to the right, I could see the pier stretching its thick finger past the surf into deeper water. Tiny figures of fishermen stood at the end of the pier. I took a deep breath, enjoyed the sensation for a few seconds, and exhaled.

The pier was thirty feet above the water and wide enough for two cars to drive side by side. We passed fishermen using long, sturdy poles. Coolers of bait shrimp and fish rested beside the poles. Most of the fishermen were shirtless, tanned, and smoking cigarettes. I kept my eyes directed toward the water.

"What are they fishing for?" I asked Zach.

"Fish."

"What kinds?"

"Saltwater varieties. I'm not an expert about pier fishing."

We passed several black men with poles in the water. "Moses could tell me what kind of fish live in these waters," I said.

"Who?"

"Moses Jones. Our client charged with trespassing."

"Maybe, but as I remember he also sees faces in the water."

We reached the end of the pier. Here were the serious fishermen, each with multiple poles. I watched one man bait four hooks on a single line and fling it into the air. It plopped into the water far below. Nobody seemed to be catching any fish. Gulls cried out as they swooped down, landing on the pier to scoop up bits of discarded baitfish and shrimp.