“Do you know how to drive a straight shift?”
“Only on a motorcycle. But then, I’m a fast learner. It’s the same principle.”
“There’s no shame in letting me drive.”
“Give me another chance.”
I sat back in my seat. Zach started the motor, revved the engine higher, and let out the clutch. The truck shot across the yard, veering toward the basketball goal.
“Look out!” I screamed.
Zach slammed on the brakes and slowed the truck but forgot to push in the clutch. The truck lurched several times, then died. Zach leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel.
“I’d do worse if I tried to drive your motorcycle,” I offered.
“Okay. Your turn.”
We exchanged places, and I slipped behind the wheel.
“And if we were in Los Angeles, I wouldn’t be able to drive any-where,” I added, trying to assuage his male ego.
Zach didn’t answer. I drove around to the front of the house. Flip and Ginger ran alongside barking.
“Are they mocking me?” Zach asked.
“No.” I chuckled. “I need to run into the house and get my license.”
Leaving Zach in the truck, I went inside. When I returned, he was behind the wheel.
“One more try,” he begged. “I’ve been visualizing it in my mind.”
“You don’t have anything to prove to me.”
“This is for me.”
I got in the truck. He gingerly engaged the clutch. With a slight jerk, the truck rolled forward with the trailer bouncing along behind.
“Now we’re on our way,” Zach said.
He pushed in the clutch and pulled the shifter backward. Deep in the gearbox there was a collision somewhere between second and fourth gears. The grinding noise was so loud I covered my ears. Zach quickly pushed in the clutch and turned off the engine.
“End of lesson one. You take over,” he said.
I drove to the end of the driveway and turned northward onto the highway. I smoothly shifted into second gear, then, for fun, slightly gunned the engine between second and third.
“Show-off,” Zach said. “Pride is a sin.”
7
SISTER DABNEY OWNED FOUR WOODEN ROCKING CHAIRS. SHE kept one in her bedroom, another in the living room, a third on the front porch, and the oldest on the platform in the church. Each one was painted a different color: bedroom, yellow; living room, red; front porch, blue; and church, purple.
The old woman claimed to receive revelation while rocking. Thus, when Sister Dabney sat in the blue rocker on the front porch, people in the neighborhood knew she was available for consultation. How-ever, asking the preacher a question carried risks. Her answers could create more problems than they solved. And many considered her words nothing more than bitter imagination wrapped in judgmental opinion.
A frequent companion as she rocked was a large sweet tea in a recycled thirty-two-ounce convenience store cup. The calories didn’t help her weight or her slide toward diabetes.
This afternoon three boys not yet in their teens stopped their rickety bicycles in front of the house.
“Tell our fortunes,” one called out.
Sister Dabney took a sip of tea and kept rocking. The boys waited but didn’t leave the sidewalk to come closer.
“She ain’t no fortune-teller,” another boy said. “She’s a preacher.”
“Aren’t you Ruby Matthews’s son?” Sister Dabney said in a loud voice.
“Who, me?”
“I know your mama from the thrift store. She wouldn’t want you hanging out with those troublemakers. You get on home before one of them steals something and you all get into trouble.”
“We ain’t going to steal nothing,” the third boy said.
“You already stole ten dollars from that man who paid you to cut his grass the day before yesterday,” she replied.
The Matthews boy punched the speaker in the shoulder and nodded his head.
“You can’t prove it,” the boy said.
“I don’t have to. God is watching, and he knows the hairs on your head and every sin you’ve committed. You’d better repent and get right before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“For what’s going to happen when your daddy comes home tomorrow.”
“My daddy’s been in prison for five years.”
“You wait and see. He’ll be home tomorrow, and you’re liable to be sleeping in the street when that happens.”
The boy didn’t answer.
“Is your daddy getting out of jail?” the first boy asked him.
“No, my auntie says he won’t ever get out, and if he did, he wouldn’t know where to find us. He got locked up when we were still living in Macon.”
Sister Dabney kept rocking.
“You come back when you’re ready to confess your sins and make it right. If your daddy tries to hurt you, I’ll find a place for you to stay.”
“Let’s go,” the third boy said. “She’s just trying to scare me.”
“When what I say comes true, you boys remember it,” Sister Dabney said, then pointed her index finger at the Matthews boy.
“And you get away from those two troublemakers. Have nothing to do with deeds of darkness. Sin is crouching at the door and wants to eat you up.”
IT WAS ABOUT FIVE MILES to Mr. Callahan’s place. Years before, the lawyer bought one of the prettiest tracts of land in the county and built a large brick home on top of a rolling hill surrounded by a sturdy brown fence. A decorative white fence protected the yard around the house. Black Angus cattle grazed in one pasture. Another pasture was producing hay. I turned into the driveway and rumbled across a cow grate set in the pavement. To the right of the house was a hay barn with a holding pen beside it.
I drove up the hill to the barn. Everything about Mr. Callahan’s place was neat and tidy, a sure sign of a second source of income. The truck rolled to a stop in front of the holding pen. Two steers were contentedly munching hay.
“There are the victims,” Zach said. “Oblivious to their fate.”
“The way you talk about catfish and cattle, I’d think you really were a vegetarian.”
“I may be after this weekend. Life and death in the food chain is in your face in the country. I never think about a peaceful cow eating hay when I buy hamburger at the grocery store.”
“That’s why we only name our chickens and dogs. And those are steers, not cows. I’ll get Emma to explain the difference to you later.”
We got out of the truck and walked closer to the pen. The steers each weighed at least eight or nine hundred pounds. Their broad backs were covered with thick black hair. They paid no attention to us.
“They’re probably twins, just like Ellie and Emma,” Zach said.
“Please. You can ask Mr. Callahan.”
I grabbed the bag of corn from the truck and stepped lightly to avoid a patch of mud as I led Zach toward the house. A brick walk-way crossed the manicured lawn. Carefully groomed rhododendron lined the path. I pushed the button for the door chime. After a long wait, the door opened. It was Mr. Callahan.
I was shocked by the change in his appearance. The formerly robust lawyer was leaning on a walker. He’d lost weight and looked frail. Even the fire in his dark eyes had dimmed. His white hair was slightly disheveled.
“Hello, Mr. Callahan,” I managed, holding out the bag of corn. “I brought this for you and Mrs. Callahan.”
“Tammy Lynn, it’s good to see you,” the old lawyer said in a weak voice. “I thought Kyle would be coming by, but it’s great to see you. Could you put the corn in the kitchen? I’m not supposed to lift anything heavier than a toothbrush.”
“And this is Zach Mays. He’s an attorney with Mr. Carpenter’s firm in Savannah.”
The two men shook hands. It was quiet, dark, and cool inside the house.
“Tell Joe Carpenter to get his ticker checked,” Mr. Callahan said as he slowly led the way to
ward the kitchen. “My heart exploded without warning.”
The house wasn’t filled with antiques like Mrs. Fairmont’s home, but the furniture was expensive. The living room, with its massive leather sofa and thick rug, looked like no one ever used it. The kitchen had a large island in the center. The local paper was folded on one corner of the island. I put down the corn.
“Is Mrs. Callahan here?” I asked.
“No, she went to the store.” The lawyer held up a round device draped around his neck. “But I have my portable EMT with me. One push of this button and if I don’t respond to a phone call, an ambulance will be here in minutes.”
“My landlady in Savannah is supposed to wear one, but she never does unless her daughter is around.”
“I’m not playing roulette with the few days I have left.”
Seeing Mr. Callahan so sick made me sad. He’d always been full of life and anticipation for the next challenge.
“Would you like me to shuck the corn?” I asked.
“That would be nice.”
“May I help?” Zach asked.
“No, you’re injured. Tell Mr. Callahan about your hand. He’s represented injured people for years.”
I went to the sink. Mr. Callahan shuffled over to a round break-fast table and sat down. Zach joined him and told him about our fishing expedition. The older man chuckled when Zach described his efforts to pick up the fish, but the sound was so anemic compared to his usual hearty laugh that it made me even sadder.
“There’s no cause of action against Tammy Lynn,” Mr. Callahan said. “You clearly assumed the risk.”
“And was guilty of contributory negligence,” I added, pulling thin threads of corn silk from one of the ears.
I rinsed the ear of corn in cold water. The window above the sink offered a view of the rolling pastureland to the rear of the house. In the distance, the low mountains of the Appalachian foothills were shrouded with summer haze.
“Tell me about your work at the firm,” Mr. Callahan said.
I opened my mouth to speak and glanced over my shoulder, then realized Mr. Callahan had directed his question to Zach.
“Mostly admiralty law. It’s a strong niche for the firm, and Nelson Appleby has developed a good clientele.”
“Admiralty law. Now that’s an area I know nothing about,” Mr.
Callahan replied. “Is it mostly transactional?”
I shucked the entire bag of corn. I didn’t mind being relegated to domestic duties if Mr. Callahan enjoyed talking with Zach.
“How many of these ears of corn do you want for supper?” I asked. “I’ll put the rest in a plastic bag in the refrigerator.”
“Leave out half a dozen. We’re going to feed Barry Johnson, the fellow who is helping me take care of the place.”
I knew Barry. We’d gone to high school together. He could eat six ears of corn by himself.
“How many do you and Mrs. Callahan want?”
“One or two each.”
I put nine ears of corn in an empty metal pot and covered them with cool water.
“I went to a legal seminar at Pepperdine years ago,” Mr. Callahan said to Zach. “It was really an excuse to write off a trip to California as a business expense.”
“I graduated a few years ago from the law school and moved to Savannah.”
“Why Savannah?”
“I think God wanted me to come there.”
“To be a lawyer?”
Zach didn’t immediately answer. He’d told me one day at Tybee Island that he believed God had directed him to Savannah but didn’t reveal any details. I was very curious to hear his answer.
“Maybe,” he said softly, “but in the back of my mind I think there may be something else God wants me to do.”
“Careful, Tammy Lynn, he’s a live one,” Mr. Callahan said, his voice a bit stronger. “Anyone who talks like that can be dangerous.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, then waited for Mr. Callahan to probe further.
“And how would you rate Tammy Lynn?” Mr. Callahan asked, changing the subject.
“It depends on the category. As a catfish handler, I’d give her an A.”
“And as a summer associate? Or is that information you’d rather keep confidential until you prepare an evaluation for Joe Carpenter?”
“Mr. Carpenter won’t put my opinion at the top of his stack.
But if he did, Tami would be working at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter when she graduates next year.”
Hearing Zach’s words made me happy. Landing a permanent job was the goal of every summer associate. My future might be a long way from the hills outside the kitchen window. I joined them at the table.
“It’s a good thing I didn’t try to keep you here,” Mr. Callahan said. “Two weeks into the summer I was in intensive care with tubes in my chest.”
“Remember, you told me there would be a ‘continuance’ before I might come back to work for you.”
“Without knowing it meant I’d come close to being dismissed from this world.”
“Who’s taking care of your clients?” Zach asked.
“A couple of young lawyers with plenty of energy.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that it took two lawyers to replace Mr.
Callahan,” I said. “He’s a fast worker.”
“Not anymore. It takes me forever to do anything. Now, Tammy Lynn is a quick thinker. Have you worked on any interesting cases or does Joe Carpenter have you stuck in front of a computer terminal doing research all day?”
I thought about the Moses Jones case, but it would take too long to unravel the watery trail through the swampy waters of the Little Ogeechee.
“Tell him about the case you brought up when we were fishing,”
Zach suggested.
“It’s just getting started.”
“But it sounds interesting. How many lawyers actually work on a slander case in their career?”
“Are you sure it’s okay to mention it?” I asked. “It is pending litigation.”
“Don’t identify your client or reveal your trial strategy,” Mr.
Callahan said, smiling. “And if you want to, we can consider this a legal consultation with independent cocounsel, which will require me to maintain confidentiality.”
Glancing down at the floor in embarrassment at my reluctance to talk to the man who had been my legal inspiration, I gathered myself together and briefly outlined the issues as if giving a summary to one of the senior partners.
“Well done,” Mr. Callahan said. “Have you met the woman preacher?”
“No, sir. We’re going to interview the people she talked to before deposing Sister Dabney.”
Mr. Callahan sat up straighter. “Did you say Dabney?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rachel Dabney?”
“No, sir. Her name is Ramona.”
“Do you know her husband’s name?”
“No, I’m not sure she’s married.”
“It’s probably a coincidence, but there was a young evangelist named Russell Dabney who traveled briefly with my father in the early years. I think his wife’s name was Rachel. Both of them were preachers, but the wife had a scary gift.”
“What kind of gift?” Zach asked.
“She could call people out of the congregation and list their secret sins, everything from adultery to usury. She only had to do it the first night. After that, as soon as she stepped behind the pulpit, people would start running to the altar. I wondered if her information came from God or someplace else. My father never told me why they went their separate ways.”
“Do you think it might be the same person?” Zach asked.
“If it is, you’ll know it quick.”
“I won’t be having any contact with her,” Zach said. “I’ll leave that up to someone like Tami who doesn’t ever sin.”
“I don’t know about Tammy Lynn being sinless,” Mr. Callahan answered. “She took a fancy pen from my office one time, with
out permission.”
I sat up in indignation. “I was ten years old. Mama brought me back that same day as soon as she found it in my purse. I confessed my sin, and you gave me the pen.”
“You’ve always been quick to repent.” Mr. Callahan smiled.
“Mr. Callahan’s father was a famous preacher,” I continued, turning toward Zach. “He was one of the founders of our church.”
“That I don’t attend anymore.”
“But you’re welcome to come back.”
“That’s nice of you, Tammy Lynn, but there are others with longer, less-forgiving memories.” Mr. Callahan pointed to the refrigerator.
“Speaking of forgiveness, forgive me for not being a better host.
Would either of you like a glass of lemonade or iced tea?”
“Thanks, but we should be leaving,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“Not on my account,” Mr. Callahan said. “I’ve been lonely out here. People are afraid to come see me because they don’t want to tire me out, but it makes me feel forgotten. Seeing your face has made this the best day of the week.”
“That’s nice of you to say. I just have to have Zach home in time to clean the catfish for supper. He wants to drive the nail through the head of the one that stung him.”
“Drive a nail?” Zach asked.
“You’ll see,” I answered.
“I had a case one time that involved catfish,” Mr. Callahan said.
“At least stay until I can tell you about it.”
I loved Mr. Callahan’s stories. While Zach and I drank lemonade, the older lawyer told us about a man who slipped and fell on a muddy riverbank while fishing with his boss on company time. The men worked third shift and when everything was running fine at the mill, often slipped out and went fishing. The supervisor didn’t know how to properly handle catfish and took the other fellow along as his mate. One night, they hooked a lunker and the worker injured his back trying to land the fish. The workers’ compensation insurance company denied the claim, but Mr. Callahan convinced the judge that helping his boss fish was a regular part of the man’s job.
“I relied on the company picnic cases where a worker is hurt playing in a softball game and gets benefits,” Mr. Callahan said. “But the judge was mostly interested in finding out the size of the fish. It had grown huge eating chicken innards flushed into the river by the plant where Tammy Lynn’s father works.”
Higher Hope Page 8
