Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope (24 page)

“I guarantee you, Joe Carpenter would call Oscar Callahan and pick his brain about Dabney.”

“What’s wrong with that? I think it’s a great idea. Mr. Callahan is a smart lawyer and much better qualified to be an expert about people like Reverend Dabney than I am.”

“But something about Dabney bothers me,” Zach responded. “I don’t want to put Mr. Callahan at risk.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to work on the case.

After I received the e-mail from Mr. Carpenter, I asked myself why I’ve been so reluctant to help. Now that I’m involved, I’m not sure where justice lies in this dispute.”

“Welcome to my world,” I said with relief. “I’ve been uneasy about this case since the first meeting with Mr. Carpenter. Even if she’s judgmental, Reverend Dabney is still a minister. You and I should be concerned that we’re persecuting a Christian who is following her conscience.”

“I’m in a different place,” Zach said. “It’s weird, but chills ran down my back when Mr. Carpenter read that verse from Psalms. It sounds like Dabney is threatening Paulding.”

“Threatening him? I saw Reverend Dabney’s church and the house where she lives. She’s made a few phone calls and sent a group of homeless men to stand on the sidewalk in front of Mr. Paulding’s business. What could she do to really hurt him?”

17

PEOPLE HAD BEEN CALLING SISTER DABNEY ON THE PHONE AND knocking on her door all afternoon. Sonny Miller came by smelling like a brewery and wanting to trade information for a new pair of shoes.

“I don’t need a drunk to bring me gossip,” she scoffed. “I know where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing.”

“But do you know who I’ve been talking to?” Miller replied with slurred speech. “You don’t need to spend hours rocking in that chair of yours trying to figure it out. All it’s going to take is a new pair of shoes, and I’ll tell all I know. Didn’t you say one time that God spoke to a fellow through a donkey?”

“And you’re supposed to be a man, not a donkey, which is what you turn into when you put that bottle to your lips. Get off my porch and don’t come back until you’re clean!”

“You shouldn’t never have sent us over to that company on the east side,” Miller said as he backed away unsteadily from the door. “You stirred up a hornet’s nest, and you don’t have to be a preacher to know that ain’t smart. It was a mean thing to do, Sister. We’re supposed to be loving everybody.”

“Go!” she roared.

Miller kept backing up, almost falling when he reached the three steps leading down from the porch. Standing on the sidewalk waiting for him was Rusty Steele, a brown paper sack wrapped around a bottle in his right hand. The two men glanced back at the house as they walked down the street.

Miller’s visit was followed by a phone call from Betsy Garrison.

“I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you,” Sister Dabney said. “You shouldn’t be calling me if you’re in trouble. Not till you repent of your backbiting and rebellion.”

“I’m not in trouble, and if you knew my heart, you wouldn’t be talking to me that way.”

Sister Dabney closed her mouth and waited for insight that didn’t come.

“I’m not your enemy,” Garrison continued. “You’ve been mad at me ever since I saw the truth about Lynnette when you didn’t see it coming. But that’s not why I’m calling. That Paulding fellow who wanted to buy the church property has hired a law firm to sue you. A girl who works there called me this morning asking a bunch of questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About you and the church meetings where you told us you wouldn’t sell. She ’specially wanted to know about Paulding going to jail.”

“He’ll end up behind bars if he doesn’t repent.”

“I know, but in the meantime he’s hired lawyers to come after you. It’s the outfit that has the fancy office on Montgomery Street.”

“I don’t care who he hires. They can’t make me sell. This land belongs to God.”

“The whole earth is his, but I thought you ought to know so you can be praying. And if you need money to hire a lawyer—”

“Keep your money,” Sister Dabney said, cutting her off. “I won’t use the weapons of this world to fight God’s battles.”

“There’s wisdom in a multitude of counselors.”

“That’s not speaking about lawyers and lawsuits.”

“Anyway, I told the girl who called to get in touch with you herself. She wanted me to sign an affidavit. I told her no. Her name is Tami Taylor. She sounded awful young to be a lawyer. And she knew a little bit about the Bible. Do you want the number?”

“No,”—Sister Dabney paused—“but I appreciate you calling. You and I have been through a lot together, and you were right about Lynnette. What’s happened isn’t an excuse for some of the things I’ve said.”

“Do you want to talk in person?”

“Yes, but give me time to seek the Lord.”

“I need to do that, too.”

Sister Dabney hung up the phone and stared across the kitchen for a moment. She needed to begin the process of healing with Betsy Garrison. They’d fought too many battles together to part as enemies instead of comrades. Repentance knew no strangers. A preacher who didn’t keep short accounts would soon run out of spiritual capital.

Sister Dabney went into the living room and sat in the red rocker. Before she could go to war about the attack from the lawyers, she needed to let the light shine into her own darkness. After thirty minutes of personal cleansing, her thoughts turned toward the young lawyer named Taylor. Something about her was worth hearing. Sister Dabney closed her eyes.

And kept rocking.

ZACH DROVE AWAY after dropping me off in front of Mrs. Fairmont’s house. Even though we’d talked about the Dabney case during the ride, the edge had been off his voice. Having a man upset with me was a new experience. I didn’t like it. Thankfully, we were back to working on the same team.

“Christine!” Mrs. Fairmont called out when I stepped into the foyer. “What time are Ken and the boys getting here?”

“It’s Tami,” I replied.

I heard the TV and went into the den. Mrs. Fairmont was watching a well-known televangelist. I’d never seen her turn to a religious program.

“Are Mrs. Bartlett and her family coming by?”

“Who knows? She’ll come when she’s good and ready.”

“May I get you something to drink?” I asked gently.

“A cup of tea would be nice,” Mrs. Fairmont said, closing her eyes. “It’s cold in this house.”

I went into the kitchen. It was the middle of the summer, and the air conditioner was working overtime to keep the old house tolerable. Neither the windows nor the walls provided an efficient amount of insulation. I prepared a tepid cup of tea the way Mrs. Fairmont liked it.

“Here you are,” I said, handing it carefully to her.

She took a sip and placed the cup on a small table beside her. “It’s good. I need something to warm my bones. Did you sleep well last night?”

“Yes, ma’am, but it’s about five thirty in the afternoon. I just got home from work.”

Mrs. Fairmont sat up with a look of alarm on her face. “Where’s Flip?”

“Right at your feet.”

I leaned over and patted the dog’s head. He was curled up out of sight close to the base of the chair. Mrs. Fairmont leaned forward to check, then sat back. A choir in elaborate robes was singing on the TV show. I watched as they swayed back and forth. Mrs. Fairmont stared at the screen. She began to move her head slightly back and forth.

“What do you think of the choir?” I asked.

Mrs. Fairmont grew still and stared intently at them. “They look like a bank of spring flowers that used to grow near the fountain in Forsyth Park when I was a little girl. Have you seen them?”

“No, ma’am.”

“On a hot day, the water from the drinking fountain at Forsyth Park was the best in the world.”

A young minister, every hair in place, stood behind the pulpit. The camera left him and scanned an expectant crowd. The preacher read a familiar passage from the first chapter of Isaiah. He had a resonant, baritone voice. “‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land: but if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured with the sword: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.’”

I kept still, watching Mrs. Fairmont and hoping she had the capacity to understand the message. Twice I’d been with older people whose resistance to the gospel diminished as their mental capacity waned, and they became more childlike. I silently prayed this might be such a moment.

Mrs. Fairmont seemed to be listening. The minister gave a simple explanation that a child could understand. It was Christianity 101. I focused all my concentration on Mrs. Fairmont, trying to will her into comprehension of the truth. Her eyes stayed open. At least she wasn’t asleep. We sat together until the minister finished his sermon and extended the invitation for salvation. This was the moment of opportunity. I leaned close to Mrs. Fairmont’s ear.

“Jesus loves you and died for your sins. Would you like to pray the prayer?”

Mrs. Fairmont didn’t respond. I repeated the question. Her head fell forward on her chest and she slumped sideways in the chair. I jumped up in alarm and grabbed her arm.

“Mrs. Fairmont! Are you all right?”

She groggily raised her head. The choir on the TV was singing as the preacher extended the invitation. Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes fluttered open. They didn’t seem to focus.

“Speak to me!” I said.

She uttered a few words of gibberish. I looked around the room in panic. Flip was on his feet. He ran around the room and barked.

I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone. Mrs. Bartlett’s number was programmed on the speed dial. I hit the number and anxiously waited while it rang. Mrs. Bartlett answered the phone.

“This is Tami! I’m afraid your mother might be having a stroke! I tried to get her to talk, but all she says is nonsense and—”

“Where is she?” Mrs. Bartlett interrupted.

“In her chair in the den. We were watching TV when she slumped over.”

“Call 911. It could be a ministroke, but the doctor told us not to try to diagnose them. It will take me thirty minutes to get to the hospital from the beach. Call me on your cell and let me know what they tell you.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

Mrs. Bartlett swore so loudly it hurt my ear. “Take Mother’s phone! She keeps it on the bureau beside her bed. I’m on my way to town. Get an ambulance! Now!”

The phone clicked off. I dialed 911. The operator told me an ambulance would be dispatched immediately. When I returned to the den, Mrs. Fairmont was leaning to the side with her eyes closed.

I could see her chest rising and falling in rhythm. At least she was breathing.

“Can you hear me?” I asked, patting her hand. “I’ve called an ambulance. They should be here in a few minutes. Christine is going to meet us at the hospital.”

She mumbled something incomprehensible.

“You’re going to be all right,” I reassured her.

But even as I said the words, I wasn’t convinced. My faith was weak and panic hit me. I desperately wanted to call Mama and ask her to pray. Mrs. Fairmont made a gurgling sound in her throat. The possibility that the elderly lady might slip away into hell while I watched loomed before me.

“No!” I cried out. “Not now!”

As I watched, the rising and falling of her chest stopped. I leaned over and put my ear against her chest. I couldn’t hear a heartbeat. I moved my ear from place to place. No sounds came from her chest. Hot tears stung my eyes. I raised my head.

“No! Please don’t die!”

I rubbed my eyes, then grabbed Mrs. Fairmont’s head and held it straight to keep it from flopping to the side. She made another gurgling sound in her throat and gave a slight cough. Never had I been so glad to hear a cough. I propped her up with pillows. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the televangelist holding up a copy of a book he’d written. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. The minister had spoken the simple truth in his sermon, but Mrs. Fairmont needed an immediate miracle, not a book to read. I began praying out loud at the top of my voice.

Although Mrs. Fairmont’s face was pale, it didn’t have the ashen appearance I’d seen in the hospital room when my great-grandmother died. A glimmer of hope returned. I continued praying as I hovered around her.

I heard the sound of an ambulance coming down the street and ran to the front door. The flashing red lights came into view along the curb. Two medics, one male, one female, came jogging up the steps to the house.

“She’s in here,” I said, leading the way into the den.

Flip launched himself at the ankles of the male medic. I scooped up the wiggling dog in my arms. It was impossible to calm him with strangers in the house surrounding his mistress.

I carried him to my apartment, set him down on the living room floor, and closed the door. I could hear him scratching and clawing as I climbed the stairs. By the time I returned to the den, the medics had brought in a stretcher and were lifting Mrs. Fairmont onto it.

“How is she?” I asked anxiously.

“Her vital signs are stable, except for her respiration, which is shallow,” the woman medic answered. “What happened?”

As I talked, the medic jotted a few notes.

“And she has multi-infarct dementia,” I added.

“Who are her cardiologist and neurologist?” the woman asked.

I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the cards from the refrigerator, and handed them to the woman. The two medics picked up the stretcher and began to carry Mrs. Fairmont from the house.

“Where are you taking her?”

“St. Joseph’s/Candler.”

“Where is that?”

“Derenne Avenue,” the male medic replied over his shoulder as they reached the foyer.

The door shut. I was alone in the quiet house. I looked out one of the windows in the green parlor. Mrs. Fairmont was in the ambulance, and the male medic was closing the rear doors. The siren began to wail, and the ambulance sped down the street. I stood in the parlor, not sure what to do next. Then I remembered Mrs. Bartlett’s order to get the cell phone.