Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope (33 page)

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Mrs. Bartlett retorted.

“No, ma’am,” I replied, realizing with embarrassment that I’d sounded like Julie Feldman. “I knew you wanted me to make sure it was okay, so I checked before calling. Flip uses the doggie door and knows his chew toys.”

“You and Mother give that dog credit for a higher IQ than most college freshmen.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, that would be incorrect, not that I’m dis-agreeing with you, it’s just—”

“Mother is physically better, but her mind is going haywire,” Mrs. Bartlett said, interrupting me. “Dr. Dixon can’t keep her in the hospital beyond the weekend. I’ve called all over town and found an opening at a nice place. Mother refuses to consider it. She claims you’re encouraging her to return home. That’s none of your business, but now that you’ve stuck your nose into it, I expect you to straighten it out.”

I tried to keep my voice calm in the face of her groundless accusation.

“Mrs. Bartlett, all I did was listen to your mother. I didn’t suggest that she come home. That’s a decision your family should make.”

“You told her Gracie could help find a live-in sitter.”

Mrs. Bartlett was partially right.

“That was part of the discussion, but I didn’t make a recommendation, and I didn’t mention it to Gracie.”

“I spoke to her. She won’t be looking for anyone to move in with Mother.”

I thought for a moment. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Fairmont, but I’d like you to be there to make sure I don’t get out of line.”

“Let me ask Ken what he thinks about that idea.”

She muffled the phone so I couldn’t hear. In a few seconds, she came back on the line.

“That’s acceptable. I’m not coming back into town this evening. I’ll see you at the hospital in the morning around ten.”

“I can’t do that. I have to go to a church for the law firm.”

“You what?” she asked, raising her voice.

“It has to do with a case,” I answered in my best professional voice. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give the details. I’d be happy to meet with you in the afternoon.”

“I was going to play golf, but this is more important. Be there at three thirty.”

ALL EVENING my thoughts went back and forth between Mr. Callahan and Mrs. Fairmont. I knew it had been decades since the older lawyer had any contact with Ramona Dabney or her husband, but I wanted his advice about the lawsuit against her. I phoned Mama and Daddy to tell them about my week and give them an update on Mrs. Fairmont.

“And I’ll be praying that she keeps improving,” Mama said. “Do you know when she’ll be released from the hospital?”

“That’s one of the problems I’m facing,” I replied, then explained the situation.

“If she can function at home and wants to be there, that’s where she should be,” Mama said emphatically. “Her daughter ought to honor her mother’s wishes.”

“Yes, ma’am, but Mrs. Bartlett has a different idea.”

“Your mama’s right,” Daddy said. “And I’m glad the Lord has used you to give Mrs. Fairmont hope. Ever since the day I met her when you moved into the house, I’ve believed there was a reason for you being there beyond watching after her in the evenings and at night. Now she’s in his hands.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“And don’t neglect the opportunity to speak a timely word,” Mama added.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, hoping my role would be one of prayer instead of confrontation. “But I have something else I need to ask you about. It has to do with Oscar Callahan.”

There was a moment of silence before Daddy spoke.

“We were going to tell you about that in a minute. Mr. Callahan is back in the hospital.”

“No!”

“He was in a car wreck on Friday while driving Mrs. Callahan to town,” Daddy continued. “I think he took too much blood pressure medicine, passed out, and ran off the road. They hit a tree and totaled his car. Both of them were wearing seat belts, and she’s okay, but he had some kind of neck injury. The doctors are running tests to find out what’s wrong.”

“Is his heart okay?”

“I think so.”

“Why would that happen so soon after God touched him?”

“We live in a fallen world,” Mama answered.

I knew that was true, but I didn’t have to like it.

“Please let me know how he does,” I said as we ended the call.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I prepared for church as if I were home on Beaver Ruin Road. I washed my hair and put it in a bun. Although slightly sunburned, I didn’t use any makeup except for a single swipe of lipstick. I selected a yellow-and-white dress that reached well below my knees and closed-toe shoes. I stood in front of the full-length mirror on the door to my bathroom with my biggest Bible in my hand. It would take a heavenly revelation for Sister Dabney to discern that I was a law student. Zach’s occupation would be equally hard to guess, although for different reasons.

Zach arrived wearing a white shirt, dark sport coat, gray slacks, and a conservative tie closely knotted at his neck. With his hair pulled back tight, it wasn’t obvious he had a ponytail until he turned to the side.

As we walked down the steps, I told him about Oscar Callahan’s wreck.

“I mean, he has a miracle, then a couple of weeks later he’s hurt in a car wreck,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

We left the historic district and followed the same roads Julie and I traversed when we went to Bacon’s Bargains.

“Did you bring a recorder?” I asked as we waited for a streetlight to turn green.

Zach patted his jacket. “It’s in here with a microphone on my lapel that you haven’t even noticed.”

I glanced closer and made out a tiny black dot peeking out of his lapel.

“That’s a microphone?”

Zach reached inside his coat, took out the recorder, and pressed a button. In a few seconds I heard my voice saying, “That’s a microphone?”

“Have you been recording all our conversation?”

“To test it out. It’s very sensitive. Mr. Carpenter sent it by courier to my house last night. I don’t know if it’s owned by the firm or borrowed from a private investigator.”

I thought about Julie threatening to obtain information by pretense from Brenda Abernathy at the newspaper.

“Is this legal?”

“I didn’t have time to research it. Does Reverend Dabney have a reasonable expectation of privacy in what she says during a public meeting of her church congregation?”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “And she’s not been shy about expressing her opinion outside the church. Do you want to know the real question?”

Zach turned his head toward me. “Yes.”

“How are you going to react when Sister Dabney calls you out in the meeting and wants to know if you’re going to repent for secretly recording the service?”

The closer we got to the church, the more nervous I became. Zach quit talking, too. I was busy running down imaginary rabbit trails regarding what might happen to us. Zach timed our arrival for exactly when the service was scheduled to start so we could avoid questions from members of the congregation. I hoped Sister Dabney was punctual.

“Can I wait in the car?” I asked as he parked the car beside an older van with one of its side mirrors missing.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “I’ve been thinking about that for the past few minutes. It’s a good idea for you to stay. There’s really nothing for you to do. I have the recorder in my pocket, and if your prediction of Dabney’s ability to spot an intruder is accurate, there could be a negative reaction from the crowd. Alone, I have a better chance of getting out without an ugly incident.” He pointed across the street where Julie and I stopped the first time I saw the church. “Take the car over there and wait for me. As soon as I come out, pick me up.”

I’d not been serious. Zach’s carefully thought-out answer surprised and blessed me. I reached over and touched him on the arm.

“I’m not used to someone shielding me from controversy.”

“It makes sense. There’s no reason for you to be here.” He turned off the car’s engine and handed me the keys. “Just don’t be like Julie and abandon me to explore the neighborhood.”

I got out of the car and walked quickly around to the driver’s side. As soon as I reached Zach, who was straightening his tie, I slipped the keys in his coat pocket.

“What?” he asked.

“I appreciate your concern for me, but I know a lot more about what might happen in that meeting than you do. As Mr. Carpenter and Julie like to say, ‘I’m the local expert on religious fanatics.’ You may need my expertise before this morning is over.”

My confidence surprised me. There were about twenty cars in the parking lot. No one was standing at the door waiting to greet people. Even before we entered the sanctuary I could hear voices singing.

“How close to the front do we have to sit?” I asked in a soft voice.

“Anywhere in the room should work. Just avoid crying babies or whiny children.”

Zach held the door for me. I quickly surveyed the room. The sanctuary could hold at least two hundred people, but only about fifty or sixty were present. A skinny woman was playing the piano. Seated in a garish purple rocker on the platform was an obese woman in her mid- to late sixties rocking back and forth. Her gray hair was wound in a bun. She was wearing a blue cotton dress that could have come from my mama’s closet. Sister Dabney, her eyes closed, was listening, not singing. Zach and I quickly slid into one of the rear pews.

“There she is,” I whispered.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course; who else would be sitting alone on the platform?”

Zach leaned over and spoke into the microphone. “Let the record reflect that Tami Taylor has made a positive identification of Reverend Ramona Dabney, a large older woman sitting in a purple rocking chair.”

“Don’t make jokes.” I raised my finger to my lips.

A woman on our pew picked up a hymnbook, opened it to the correct page, and handed it to Zach with a smile.

“It’s our anthem,” she said happily with a smile that revealed a few missing teeth.

I didn’t recognize the words or tune, but it had the exuberant melody similar to some of the older songs we sang at my church. My grandmother would have enjoyed it. The message was simple—the sinner’s desperate need and the Savior’s sufficient grace. The woman beside us clapped her hands and sang in a loud voice. There was sincerity in her gap-toothed rejoicing. Everyone in the room seemed to share her enthusiasm.

And in that instant I ceased being an observer and became a participant.

I just couldn’t help it. I was in the midst of primitive mountain religion sprouting in the sandy soil of the coast. Within half a verse I was singing along with the rest of the congregation. Zach gave me a puzzled look. I let him hold the hymnbook and began clapping my hands, not worrying that my singing would be the featured music on his recording of the service.

The congregation was a mixture of black, white, and brown with one thing in common—these people seemed glad to be in church. The piano player transitioned into another song. It was one I recognized. Taking the hymnbook from Zach, I found the correct page number and handed it back to him. I didn’t need to see the words or music.

Sister Dabney continued to rock with her eyes closed. The congregation didn’t pay any attention to her. They kept singing and clapping, with an occasional shout thrown in for good measure. They sang five or six songs before circling back for another run through their anthem, a signal that apparently ended that part of the service. The piano player ran her fingers along the keyboard in a final flourish, and everyone sat down. Sister Dabney remained seated in the rocker with her eyes closed. I waited for someone to step onto the platform and announce the next part of the service, but no one moved. Zach gave me a questioning look. I shrugged.

After a couple of minutes of awkward silence, a man sitting toward the front stood up and began to pray. Immediately almost everyone in the room joined in. It was chaotic. I saw Zach touch the microphone with his finger. I couldn’t imagine what Mr. Carpenter would think when he listened to the recording of the meeting. The woman on our pew didn’t try to hide the burden of her heart. She cried out for her daughter, who had moved to Jacksonville and left God behind in the process. Zach leaned over to me.

“Wow,” he said. “Is this what happens at your church?”

“Not on Sunday morning,” I answered somewhat defensively.

The commotion continued without abating, then suddenly died down. When I looked toward the platform, I knew why. Sister Dabney had gotten out of the rocking chair. She had the broad, heavily creased face of a woman who had seen much in life and been scarred in the process. It was not the visage of a person who spent her time baking cookies for squealing grandchildren. She walked slowly to the podium. I slid down in the pew and tried to make myself invisible.

“Does anybody want to hear the Word of the Lord?” Sister Dabney asked in a voice that would have been at home any place within fifty miles of Powell Station.

“Yes, yes,” called out people across the congregation.

Sister Dabney stood silently and waited for anticipation to build.

“You can run,” she said slowly, “but you can’t hide. Know this, all who can hear my voice. Your sins will find you out!”

She stopped and closed her eyes. Dread crawled up my throat. I knew this must be the part of the meeting where Sister Dabney listed the secret sins of everyone in the congregation who looked guilty. I glanced at the woman beside me on the pew. She seemed as relaxed as someone waiting for a table in a restaurant.

“Do I need to tell your sins or will you repent without shame?” Sister Dabney continued.

As if on cue, almost everyone in the congregation streamed toward the front. In a few seconds Zach and I, along with a man to our left and a woman on the right, would be the only people left in the pews.

“Let’s go up front,” I said rapidly. “We need to repent.”

“What did we do wrong?”

“I don’t know, but if you don’t move, we’re going to attract a bunch of attention.”

I pushed past Zach and made my way out of the pew and down the aisle. Zach didn’t follow, which both embarrassed and infuriated me. I’d learned early in life that it was better to keep short accounts with God than try to convince him of my righteousness. Zach’s refusal to humble himself was the fruit of pride, and an invitation for Sister Dabney to fillet him like the catfish that had stung his hand. I didn’t look back.