Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  Twelve

  MIKE’S PREOCCUPATION WITH THE MILLER CASE DIDN’T KEEP him from eating the fork-tender roast. While they ate, Judge lay underneath the table, occasionally giving a slight groan that communicated his deep desire to lick a plate or gulp down a less-than-perfect piece of meat. Mike responded to Peg’s attempts at conversation with grunts that were first cousins to Judge’s groans.

  “Are you enjoying your food or just filling up your stomach?” Peg asked as Mike speared the last carrot on his plate.

  “Oh, it’s great. The meat almost melted in my mouth. And the carrots are just right.”

  “Still thinking about the letter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you figured out what’s going on?”

  “No, but my focus for the case has been off. I’ve been thinking about the end, not the beginning. I need to interview the leaders of the church where Sam was preaching. It’s their money that was allegedly embezzled.”

  “What’s the name of the church?”

  “Craig Valley something. I’ll call Sam and find out who to talk to.”

  Mike took their plates to the sink. Judge followed him and looked up with such longing that Mike put one of the plates on the floor so he could lick it.

  “When are you going to talk to him?” Peg asked.

  “Tonight. He works during the day.”

  “Before or after you eat a bowl of the apple cobbler I bought from the little lady who sells them from the back of her car at light number nine?”

  “Do we have ice cream?”

  “Of course. But you shouldn’t have more than one scoop. If you keep eating like you did tonight, you’re going to get big around the middle faster than I am.”

  Mike’s stomach had always been solid from daily sit-ups. He touched his shirt and felt a slight pudginess.

  “Skipping a meal then gorging isn’t the best,” he admitted. “But tomorrow would be a better day to begin cutting back than tonight.”

  After dessert, Mike helped clean the kitchen. Peg went upstairs, and Mike phoned Sam Miller. “Do you have time to talk business?” he asked.

  “Did you buy a notebook yet to put beside your bed?” Sam responded. “You’re going to need it.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t put it off.”

  “If I promise to get one, will you agree to answer a few questions without getting off track?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Mike told Sam about the conversation between Braxton Hodges and Mr. Forrest.

  “If it still exists, getting a copy of the letter you sent Jack Hatcher is going to be difficult,” Mike concluded.

  “Why do you need a copy?”

  “Your testimony about the letter wouldn’t prove that it existed or was delivered to Jack Hatcher. He could deny any written communication from you, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it. Without verification, your story about hatchets, baseball bats, and glass beads would sound ridiculous.

  And there may be something in the letter you’ve forgotten. You’ve had lots of dreams and visions since that night.”

  “True,” Sam agreed. “Can’t you file one of those subpoena things?”

  “Yes. There is a procedure to request documents held by a third party in criminal cases. I’ll do that at the proper time and see what turns up. But first I need to interview some folks from the Craig Valley church. What’s it called?”

  “Craig Valley Gospel Tabernacle.”

  “Have you had any contact with them since the charges were filed?”

  “Nope. The young detective who met with me at the jail told me not to talk to anyone from the church. He said it would look like I was trying to harass them, and they might charge me with something else.”

  Mike felt a spurt of anger at the detective’s intimidation tactic. He would like to teach Perkins a lesson, but nothing allowed by the law or his faith immediately came to mind.

  “That’s not true. You’d have to actually threaten someone to cross the line. Do you think any of the church leaders would talk to me about the case?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who would be the one most likely to cooperate?”

  “Larry Fletchall is the head deacon. His daddy was a preacher and a friend of mine.”

  “Do you have his phone number?”

  “Yep, but I think it would be best to meet with the other deacons, too.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Four.”

  “That’s a manageable group. Set it up for any evening this week except Wednesday. I have a memorial service for Danny Brewster, the former client I told you about who died in prison. The service is in the afternoon but might run late.”

  “I know some Brewsters who live on the west side, but I don’t recall Danny.”

  “Same family. Call me after you contact the folks at Craig Valley.”

  “Okay. And I’ll come to your church before the end of the week to cut the grass so everything will look nice on Sunday. I could really use the business. Several folks have called and canceled on me. This should be one of my busiest times of the year, but I didn’t have anything to do this afternoon except work on my equipment.”

  “Are people giving you a reason?”

  “Nope, but you know there’s been talk. People are nervous about having someone who’s been in trouble with the law on their property.”

  AFTER MIKE HUNG UP THE PHONE, HE TURNED ON A BASEBALL game, but his thoughts returned to Danny Brewster. Mike’s memories of most clients he’d represented had faded, replaced by people who needed his help in the present. But his memories of Danny endured. Mike could still recall details of his investigation, conversations with Danny, questions to the witnesses at the trial, even a few lines from his closing argument to the jury. Anger without an outlet rose up in him. He could try to convince Braxton Hodges to write an article for the paper about Danny, but he doubted the prison death of a young man convicted of multiple counts of burglary would warrant public interest.

  Mike continued to stew until another vivid memory of Danny, an antidote for anger, rose to the surface and forced him to smile. While in the local jail, Danny made a large cross from toothpicks in a craft class, painted it with bright colors, and gave it to him. Mike still had the cross in his desk drawer at the church. The colors had faded, but the love behind the gift remained.

  Judge pattered into the room and sat beside the chair with his head on the armrest so Mike could rub the area of wrinkled skin on the dog’s forehead.

  Mike put his hand on the dog’s head and started scratching. A few minutes later, Peg, wearing her pajamas and a painting in her hand, joined them.

  “Remember this?” she said, turning the painting so he could see it. “Don’t you think she looks like Muriel?”

  It was an oil painting of an older woman wearing the type of plain dress worn by Muriel Miller and standing in a field of wildflowers. The area where the woman stood was filled with light, but she teetered at the edge of total darkness that covered a third of the painting. Peg portrayed the woman in profile with hair the same length and color as Sam’s wife’s.

  “It could be her.”

  “But in your dream she doesn’t stay in the sunlight.”

  “No.” Mike involuntarily shuddered.

  Several times since he’d married Peg, Mike had watched the old woman leave the light and walk into the darkness until it enveloped her. Each time he witnessed the sequence of events, he tried to force the woman back to shore by the strength of his will but without success. When she failed to reappear, he always woke to a deep sense of sadness and regret, as if the loss was as great for him as for her.

  The phone rang. It was Sam. Mike shook his head to clear the troubling images prompted by the painting and dream.

  “Thursday night at seven o’clock at the church,” Sam said. “All the deacons will be there. Come by my house about six-thirty, and we’ll ride together.”

  “I’ll be there.”


  “What’s going on?” Peg asked when Mike hung up.

  “I want to interview the leaders of the church where Sam was preaching and find out what they know about the embezzlement charge. I’ll need to leave here about six o’clock on Thursday so I can pick up Sam.”

  Peg yawned. “Anything else going on that you can tell me about?”

  Mike pointed at the television. “Unless Cincinnati gets more than four innings a game from their starting pitchers, it’s going to be a long season along the Ohio River.”

  Peg was asleep before the Reds came to bat in the seventh. Judge lay on the floor in front of the couch. Judge liked Mike, but he loved Peg. The dog had spent many miles in tandem with her as they jogged Peg’s favorite routes.

  Peg’s nose twitched. Mike enjoyed watching her sleep. He reached over and turned the painting so he couldn’t see it. Watching Peg was much more pleasant. At rest, she reminded him of a picture on the wall of her old bedroom at her parents’ home. In the photo, Peg, a little blond-haired girl wearing pajamas, lay with her head on a pillow while holding a stuffed rabbit wrapped tightly in her arms. Mike muted the volume on the TV for the remainder of the game. After the last out, he picked Peg up in his arms. She awoke but pretended to remain asleep as she rested her head against his shoulder.

  Carrying Peg to bed had been one of Mike’s favorite rituals during the first year of their marriage. The top sheet and comforter had already been pulled down. Mike smiled, kissed the top of her head, and covered her up.

  “DID YOU FLOAT UP TO BED LAST NIGHT?” HE ASKED WHEN PEG came into the kitchen in the morning.

  “No, I dreamed Prince Charming picked me up in a golden carriage drawn by rust-colored horses and took me to his castle on a hill above the town.”

  Mike smiled. “At least the hill-above-town part is real.”

  Peg ground some coffee beans and brewed a pot while Mike released Judge to run around in the backyard. Mike returned to the smell of dark liquid in the pot. He poured a cup and took a sip. Peg knew how to unlock the secret of the coffee bean.

  “This is the best,” he said.

  Peg sat across from him.

  “Aren’t you going to have a cup?” he asked.

  “I’m cutting back on caffeine.”

  Mike studied her face as he raised the cup to his lips.

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said.

  Peg gave him a puzzled look. “Without makeup or doing more than running a brush twice through my hair?”

  “Yes.”

  MIKE PARKED IN THE GRAVEL DRIVEWAY OF THE BREWSTER HOUSE and walked across the yard that was more weeds than grass. Rose Brewster came onto the front porch that was flanked by two cracked and discolored concrete fountains with no water in them. She’d aged more than the years since he’d seen her. She was in her late fifties but looked closer to seventy.

  “Come on in,” she beckoned. “Everyone should be here in a little while.”

  Mike shook her hand, weathered from contact with chemicals at the metal processing plant where she worked. She opened the screen door, and they stepped into a living room filled with about twenty folding metal chairs.

  “We moved out all the furniture and borrowed chairs from the church my sister attends. They have to be back for Wednesday night family supper.”

  “This will be fine. Who’s coming?”

  Mike braced himself for her answer. All day long, he’d been trying to get ready to face Danny’s older brother Quentin, the one who duped Danny into breaking into the houses.

  “I’m not exactly sure. Some folks are working. Others are sick. My mother and her sisters are riding over together from Boomer.”

  “What about Quentin?”

  Rose shook her head. “Didn’t you know? He’s got the HIV and moved to Asheville so he could get free treatment. He don’t come around too much.”

  Mike winced. “I’m sorry, Rose. You’ve had more dumped on you than a human being could be expected to stand.”

  “Sometimes I feel like that man in the Bible who had so much trouble.”

  “Job.”

  “Yeah. And I’m still a-waiting for things to get better. Do you want to see the letters you sent Danny? I put them in a box so you could take them with you.”

  Mike followed Rose into the kitchen. Dishes of food wrapped in aluminum foil rested on the table.

  “The neighbors have chipped in nice,” she said, pointing at the table. “A few of them are going to come.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Danny was my baby,” Rose said as she opened the drawer of a small plastic filing cabinet. “And he thought the world of you.”

  She handed Mike a cardboard shoe box. He lifted the lid. A stack of letters was bound together by a thick rubber band. The box also contained copies of pleadings Mike had filed in Danny’s case along with the brief to the Court of Appeals and the Court’s decision denying a new trial.

  “As far as I know, he saved everything you ever sent him, even the legal stuff that he couldn’t read or understand.”

  There was a loud knock at the front door.

  “I’d better get that,” Rose said. “Make yourself at home.”

  Mike flipped through the papers, not sure what to do with them. With the box under his arm, he walked down the short hall to the living room. Passing a bedroom, he saw Danny’s picture in a frame beside Rose’s bed. It was a high school photo featuring Danny’s unique grin. The service was scheduled to start at 4:00 p.m., but people straggled in for another twenty minutes. Mike waited.

  At 4:30 p.m., Rose looked at him and announced, “I guess that’s about it.”

  Mike stood before the group. Even with the front door open it was stuffy in the little house. He left the notes he’d prepared in the pocket of his jacket beside the toothpick cross.

  “One of the things we like to do at memorial services is remember the person who has passed on. I remember Danny as a young man with a big smile, simple faith, and generous spirit. When he found out I was a Christian he always wanted to pray after we had a meeting about his case. No one I represented left a deeper impression on me than Danny. In fact, knowing him influenced me to go into the ministry so I could focus on people’s spiritual, not just legal, needs.”

  Mike took out the cross and showed it to the group then handed it to Rose.

  “It was a privilege serving as Danny’s lawyer, and losing his case was the worst experience of my career. I’ll never forget the moment of the verdict.” Mike paused and let a wave of emotion pass. “After the jury foreman spoke, Danny turned to me and asked me what had happened. When I told him the bad news, he patted me on the back and told me it would be okay.”

  Mike lowered his head for a moment before continuing with more intensity. “But it wasn’t okay. Our court system failed, I failed, and the prison system failed. And now Danny is gone. There’s a part of me that wants to scream at the injustice of it all. But Danny never cursed the darkness that exists in this world. His answer was to let his light shine.”

  Mike looked at Rose. “Do you remember how much he liked the little song many of us learned as kids about letting our light shine all over the neighborhood?”

  Rose nodded. “He loved that song.”

  “That song has kept me from anger and despair over Danny’s death. His light never went out, and I guarantee you, at this moment, it’s blazing like a bonfire. Danny won’t be coming home to us, but as King David said after one of his sons died, ‘I will go to him, but he will not return to me.’ If we’re one of God’s children, we’ll one day join him in a place where no evil dwells. Grieve. It’s healthy. But also remember the goodness that came through knowing a wonderful young man.”

  Mike scanned the faces of the mourners. “Now it’s your turn. Like Danny, we’re not in a hurry. Let’s hear from you. It’s time for you to remember.”

  Mike sat down. There was a long, awkward silence, and Mike wondered if anyone would speak. Then, one of Danny’s aunts sto
od up.

  “I got a story,” she said. “When Danny was about twelve years old, he and his mama came over to our house to eat one Friday night. I’d worked all day and was beat, but I knew how much Danny liked potatoes fried in a skillet with onions, so I was in the kitchen peeling potatoes. He came in to see me, stood right beside me at the sink, and watched for the longest time without saying a word. Finally, he spoke up. ‘Aunt Betty, you make the best potatoes in the world. I love to put ketchup on them and eat a whole plate. When I eat one of your potatoes, it makes me feel good all over my insides, not just in my stomach.’”

  Betty looked at Rose. “You raised that boy right, and don’t you ever believe anything else.”

  Several others spoke. One story made Mike laugh; another brought him to the edge of tears.

  Finally, Rose wiped her eyes with a tissue and spoke.

  “Thank you for coming.” She turned to Mike. “I appreciate you telling me to do this. I hadn’t seen Danny for several months before he got killed, and listening to y’all makes him seem more alive to me.”

  Later, Mike and Rose were standing beside each other in the kitchen.

  “You know,” Rose said, “Danny didn’t believe me at first when I told him you was going to school to be a preacher. He said Mr. Andrews didn’t have to go to school to be a good preacher. He already was one.”

  “And I want to be a better one.”

  “You did a good job today.”

  “It’s not hard when it’s about someone like Danny.”

  Mike lingered until everyone except Rose’s sisters had left. He gave Rose a hug, took the shoe box from her, and put it in the passenger seat of the car.

  “Can I give you the cross?” he asked.

  “No, but thanks for showing it to me. He meant it for you.”

  Rose put the cross in the top of the box.

  WHEN MIKE ARRIVED HOME PEG MET HIM IN THE KITCHEN.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “I hope Rose felt loved and comforted. For me, it was like stepping back in time.”

  “What did you find when you went back?”