Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “You can use either room,” Cochran said.

  “We’ll park in number one,” Mike replied. “I won’t be too long. I need to get back to the church.”

  Mike held the door open for Sam, who lowered himself into a plastic chair. Mike sat on the opposite side of the table. He got right to the point.

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  “So we can help each other.”

  “Help each other?” Mike asked in surprise.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re the one in jail, Mr. Miller. How are you going to help me?”

  “There are all kinds of jail. One of the worst is the prison of wrong thinking. I spent many years locked up there before I found the key and opened the door.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, I’m jumping ahead. We have so much to talk about.”

  “Don’t you want to talk about the reason you’re here?”

  “Of course,” Sam answered, patting his stomach. “You’re one reason. But first you can ask me anything you want. I don’t want to rush anything.”

  Mike decided to humor him for a few minutes, then make a quick exit. He could call one of the judicial assistants at the courthouse and find out why an attorney hadn’t been appointed to represent the old man. Even if Miller didn’t qualify for an appointed lawyer, someone should arrange an evaluation of the older man’s mental competency.

  “Has a detective asked you questions about the embezzlement charge?” Mike asked.

  “Yep. Several times.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yep, but there wasn’t much to say.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth.”

  “Did you sign a statement?”

  “The last time he came by, he wrote down what I said, and I signed it.”

  Mike winced. A signed statement never helped the defense.

  “What did he ask you?”

  “About me and the church. Who took up the offerings? Who counted it? Why so much money turned up in my checking account. Stuff like that.”

  “How much money turned up in your checking account?”

  “Around $100,000. I told him it must have been a bank mistake. I don’t keep very much in my personal or business account, and I’ve never had that kind of money at one time in my life. Cash goes out as soon as it comes in around my house. The detective said he would double-check with the bank and let me know what he found out. He was a nice young fellow, but he never got back with me.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Perkins.”

  The name wasn’t familiar to Mike.

  “Are they claiming you stole $100,000 from the church you were serving as a fill-in preacher?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What’s the name of the church?”

  “Craig Valley Gospel Tabernacle.”

  “How many people attend?”

  “It’s been growing. There are about fifty adults and the same number of young-uns.”

  “How did the church get that much money in the first place?”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. They’ve been saving up for a new building. The concrete for the foundation was poured last fall, but I don’t know how much they’ve collected altogether.”

  Mike sat back in his seat. The old man seemed capable of carrying on a normal conversation when he wanted to.

  “Has a magistrate set bail?”

  “Yep, it’s $100,000, too. That number keeps coming up. I’m not sure what it means.”

  “It means a felony charge,” Mike replied grimly. “Have you tried to post a property bond or called a bondsman?”

  “Muriel showed the magistrate the deed for our property, but it wasn’t worth enough, so I had to stay put. It’s not been easy, but there’s been fruit.” “I’m glad they’ve improved the menu.”

  “What menu?”

  “The food. I’m glad the food is decent.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, especially compared to what my wife puts on the table.”

  Mike leaned back in his seat. “Mr. Miller, I haven’t had lunch today, and I didn’t come here to talk about food. Explain in simple terms, with as few words as possible, why you sent your wife to the church to see me.”

  “Papa told me.”

  “Your father is alive?”

  Sam pointed at the ceiling. “My Papa will never die. He’s the Ancient of Days.”

  Mike stared at the tip of the old man’s index finger. “You’re telling me God is your father?”

  “Yep. Isn’t he your father, too?”

  “Uh, of course. I thought you meant an earthly father.”

  “Nope. He’s been dead over twenty years. I was just answering your question as simply as I could.”

  Mike put his hands together beneath his chin. “So, God told you to contact me.”

  “Yep, so you can be my lawyer.”

  “Mr. Miller, I used to practice law, but it’s been six years since I stepped into a courtroom.”

  “You could still do it if you wanted to.”

  “Technically, yes, but as a practical matter, no.”

  Sam hesitated. “If it’s the money, I’m sure we can make arrangements. I don’t have much, and Muriel had to dip into our savings to keep the lights on, but I can scrape enough—”

  Mike leaned forward and looked directly into the old man’s face. “It’s not the money. I stopped practicing law because I wanted to obey God, and I’m not going back into the courtroom for any amount of money. You’re a minister. You should understand what I’m talking about.”

  Sam nodded. “You had to count the cost, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and I’m making less now in a year than I used to in three months. But I don’t believe the size of a person’s bank account is the true measure of success.”

  “That’s a good answer. I wouldn’t want anyone representing me who believed anything different.”

  “I’m not going to represent you.”

  Sam smiled. “Papa knows how to make the most of every situation. I spent a few nights in the brig for fighting years ago, but it was a lot different coming here now. Do you feel the hopelessness in this place?”

  Mike tilted his head to the side. “Yes.”

  “It tried to jump on me, but I sent it packing. The boys in here need help in the worst way, and Papa has let me do some good. There was a young man in the cell block who gave his life to the Master a couple of weeks ago. He’ll be a preacher someday. He’s not as smart as you, but he’ll gather in his share of the harvest.”

  Mike stared at Sam for a second. “Mr. Miller, I’m glad we’ve had this talk, but I need to leave. I sympathize with your predicament, but as I told your wife, I’m not the man to help you.”

  Sam sat silently for a moment. “Then why did you come see me?”

  “I was just standing on the sidewalk after a guy stood me up for lunch and decided it wouldn’t hurt to come by the jail and meet you.”

  “Who put that thought in your head?”

  “I have no idea, but that’s not the sort of thing I’m talking about.” Mike stood to his feet. “I hope things work out for you.”

  Sam didn’t budge.

  “You were a man of integrity as a lawyer before you became a minister,” Sam said. “And I know Papa loves you. Pray about helping me, and see what He tells you.”

  “Okay, but I’m also going to call the courthouse and ask someone in the judge’s office to appoint a lawyer to represent you so you can get out of jail.”

  “I’d like that a lot. This Saturday, Muriel and I will celebrate our forty-fifth wedding anniversary. She’s a jewel of a woman.”

  “And you should be with her.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  Mike opened the interview room door and held it as the old man stepped into the hallway. Sam stopped and turned around so he faced Mike.

  “Oh, and tell your wife that Isaac is on the way,�
�� he said.

  Mike didn’t respond. Nobody named Isaac was in Mike and Peg’s circle of family, friends, or acquaintances; however, Mike had already figured out that Sam Miller was the type of person who could keep a conversation going indefinitely with off-the-wall comments.

  Lamar Cochran came forward and gently touched the white-haired man on the arm.

  “Sam, you have to return to the cell block,” he said.

  “You know what I’d like for supper?” Sam asked the chief deputy.

  “Some of Muriel’s fried chicken.”

  “Yep.”

  “If that was on the chow line,” Cochran replied, “we’d have people breaking into this jail.”

  Cochran looked at Mike and shook his head sadly.

  “The guard will push the release for the door,” the chief deputy said. “See you around town.”

  Mike let the metal door close slowly behind him. The female deputy ignored him as he left the building. He didn’t look back. Outside, the air was fresh and clean. Mike took a deep breath. He walked away from the jail, as always, glad to be free.

  Four

  BACK AT THE CHURCH, MIKE HUNG UP THE PHONE. THE WOMAN who handled the assignment of criminal cases to younger lawyers in the circuit told him Sam hadn’t requested that an attorney be appointed, but she would send one to the jail. Mike suspected a competent lawyer could quickly get to the bottom of the embezzlement charge and clear it up if it was a clerical error at the bank or arrange a plea bargain if it wasn’t. Mike dropped a message from Muriel Miller asking him to call her after he met with Sam into the trash can. He’d fulfilled his civic and religious duty.

  Mike returned to studying the book on church growth and didn’t take a break for three hours. Several times he caught himself humming a song that had nothing to do with the words on the page. When he finished studying, he decided to take a short walk around the church property and make sure everything was neat and tidy.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said to Delores as he passed her desk.

  The secretary was working the crossword puzzle that appeared in the local paper and didn’t look up.

  “Don’t forget, I need to leave early for my appointment at the beauty shop,” she said.

  The grass in front of the new sanctuary had been freshly mowed, but the flower beds looked ragged. He walked behind the old sanctuary. To his right was the church cemetery. Small, weathered headstones streaked with gray filled most of the older section. The newer plots, with larger, more impressive monuments, were over a slight rise in the ground. The old cemetery needed major work.

  Just beyond the cemetery lay Little Creek, swollen to springtime levels, but still not much more than a steady stream. During dry spells in summer, the creek dwindled to a trickle, prompting the Baptists down the road to remark that a few drops of water was enough to keep the Little Creek congregation going. That, and the support of a handful of stalwart families, had sustained the church through the generations since its founding shortly after the Civil War.

  Trees lined the water, but on the church side, a short path led to an opening that had served as a watering hole for horses and mules when the members of the congregation came to church in wagons. A small spring nourished the creek at the spot, and Mike enjoyed watching the bubbles rise to the surface as the water forced its way past the smooth rocks on the bottom. He dipped his hand into the cold water and rubbed it on his face. He felt doubly refreshed—the water on his cheeks, a tangible sense of blessing in his soul.

  Mike stepped away from the creek and looked at the church. It was a beautiful setting with the wooded hills in the background. Joy, like the water below the ground, rose to the surface of his consciousness. Mike’s call to ministry had survived the cross-examination of those who doubted. Now, after the upheaval of leaving his law practice and three years of seminary training, it had brought him to a pleasant place.

  “Thank You, Lord,” he said, then paused before saying, “Thank You, Papa.”

  Mike smiled and shook his head at Sam Miller’s method of addressing the Almighty. Casual familiarity with God might work for an old man who ran a lawncare business, but not for him.

  DELORES LEFT THE CHURCH FOR HER HAIR APPOINTMENT AT 3:00 p.m. Shortly after she left, Nathan Goode stuck his head into Mike’s office. The unmarried twenty-five-year-old, part-time choir director and youth minister often stopped by the church on Monday afternoons to see Mike after finishing his regular job as music teacher at the local high school. The young man’s black hair crept down his neck, and he had a closely trimmed goatee. Close up, the holes that had once housed multiple earrings could still be seen; however, he’d transitioned from nonconformist to upwardly mobile professional, using his salary from the church to make the payments on a silver BMW.

  “Any complaints come in today?” Nathan asked.

  “All quiet.”

  “I wasn’t sure about using the alternate tune for the Doxology. It was a pretty big gamble. I watched Mrs. Harcourt. She kept sticking her finger in her ear. I’m not sure if she was trying to clean it out or stop it up.”

  “The Harcourts left town for Florida after the service and didn’t give any feedback. They’ll be gone three weeks and won’t remember what happened by the time they return. Are you going to try out something new this Sunday?”

  “No, I’m going to use a high school flute player for the offertory. That should be tame enough.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I have an anthem that dates back a few hundred years. Can you recruit Peg for choir practice this week? This piece has an alto solo made for her voice.”

  “It might work if I give her a choice between the choir and nursery duty.”

  In addition to painting classes, Peg had received classical voice training in college and could sing along with the opera CDs she listened to in the car. Mike’s taste in music ran more toward Bruce Springsteen.

  “Oh, and I enjoyed your sermon,” Nathan said.

  “You don’t have to say that.” Mike smiled. “Your job is secure, at least until Mrs. Harcourt gets back into town.”

  “No, seriously. I’m learning a lot. Your explanation of God’s sovereignty put a different spin on some things for me.”

  “He’s the conductor. Our job is to follow.”

  “Yeah, I appreciated the analogy. I trained under conductors who mixed two doses of terror with three scoops of fear. They were motivated by ego and pride, not love and compassion. I’ve been thinking about what you said off and on all day.”

  MIKE ENJOYED THE DRIVE HOME AT THE END OF THE DAY. HE lowered the window of the car and let the breeze blow across his face. He glanced at the ridges running alongside the road. With the arrival of spring, the hills no longer looked like gray-backed porcupines. Budding trees raised green fingers toward the sky. Soon, the gently rising slopes would be thick with summer foliage.

  Mike and Peg lived at the end of a dead-end street. He parked on the street in front of the house. For the past hour, his stomach had been growling in protest at the decision to skip lunch. When he got out of the car, he could hear Judge barking inside the house.

  A side door opened into the kitchen, a sunny room with a breakfast nook where Mike and Peg ate unless they were entertaining guests. Peg kept the house spotless. Her efforts to train Mike in perpetual neatness had been less successful.

  Throughout the house were paintings by Peg. Like many artists, Peg’s creativity had gone through phases. The first years after their marriage were filled with Appalachian mountain scenes, perhaps a response to the dramatic change from the upper-class suburb of Philadelphia where Peg grew up. She then entered a long stretch devoted to children. Mike particularly liked a series of watercolors depicting boys playing baseball. The slightly blurred images captured the idyllic world of summer much better than a crisp photograph. Peg then began painting older people sitting in chairs or in front of windows with their eyes closed as the world’s activity passed by. This past winter, she
’d returned to landscapes and completed several oils of barren trees shaped like giant candelabras. Mike never criticized Peg’s work. Unless crafting questions on cross-examination or organizing a sermon could be considered an art form, the creative world wasn’t a place he visited.

  No smells of supper greeted Mike when he entered the kitchen. The cook-top was bare and the oven cold. A few leftover hors d’oeuvres not eaten by Peg’s monthly book club were on the counter. Peg wasn’t in sight. Judge wagged his tail, and Mike reached over to rub the dog’s slightly wrinkled forehead.

  “Did the ladies in the book club tell you how cute you looked?” he asked then raised his voice. “Peg! I’m home and hungry!”

  Eating a carrot stick, he went through the great room with its large picture windows and looked up the stairs. Judge pattered after him.

  “What’s for supper?” he called out.

  Peg, fit and trim, appeared at the top of the stairs. Dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt, she had a tissue in her right hand and something Mike couldn’t see in the left. Her short blond hair bobbed up and down as she rapidly descended the stairs. Her blue eyes were rimmed in red, but there was a smile on her face, revealing the dimple in her left cheek.

  “What’s wrong?” Mike asked.

  Peg reached the bottom of the stairs and threw herself into his arms. She sniffled then burst out laughing. Mike held her. After fifteen years of marriage, he knew it was wise to let a woman unpack her feelings on her own terms. Peg pulled away and wiped her eyes with the tissue. Mike waited. She held up a thin strip of paper in her right hand. It contained a blue circle.

  “Don’t you think this would make a beautiful painting?” she asked.

  “It’s a bit abstract.”

  “Wrong. It’s the most real thing I could ever do.”

  Mike gave her a perplexed look.

  “Do you know what this filled-in circle means?” she asked in a giddy voice.

  “Uh, no.”

  “I’m pregnant!” Peg screamed.

  Judge barked. Mike took a step backward.

  “Are you sure?”

  Peg reached into her pocket and pulled out the instructions from a pregnancy test and held the slip of paper next to a photo on the sheet.