Unless company came for supper, Mama served meals from the stove. As soon as she called out, “Supper’s ready,” there would be a few minutes of chaos until all seven people were seated at the table. No one dared nibble a piece of corn bread until Daddy bowed his head and prayed a blessing. Then, conversation broke out on every side. Our family might be quiet around outsiders, but with one another we didn’t hesitate to talk. Tonight, Daddy’s focus was on me.
“Tell me about your classes,” he said after his first bite of dumplings.
“This semester I’m taking secured transactions, introduction to labor law, municipal corporations, and civil procedure.”
“Which class do you like best?”
“Municipal corporations. It’s the study of city government law. The professor is a woman who worked for a firm in Seattle, Washington.”
“How did she get to Georgia?” Mama asked in surprise.
“Lawyers move all over the place,” I said, planting a tiny seed.
I ate a bite of squash and onions. Compared to Seattle, Savannah was next door. As supper continued, I brought Daddy up-to-date on my strictly regulated life—going to class, eating, studying, sleeping, reading the Bible, and praying.
“And I’ve been playing basketball. Several girls at the law school invited me to join a team that plays in a graduate school intramural league. We’re undefeated in our first five games.”
“Have you scored a basket?” Kyle asked mischievously.
“Of course,” I replied.
In high school, I’d averaged fifteen points a game during my senior year.
“Ellie and I have been practicing every day since the weather warmed up,” Emma said. “Will you play with us later?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Mama had put extra effort into the meal because it was my first evening home. I complimented every dish individually and the entire meal collectively.
“Have you lost weight?” Daddy asked.
“Maybe a little. I do miss home cooking.”
Mama smiled in appreciation.
“We’ll have you home in a few weeks so we can take care of you,” Daddy said. “When is your last exam?”
“I’m not sure about the exact date,” I replied with a glance at Mama, who shook her head.
“The plant is running overtime,” Daddy continued. “The company has taken on quite a few new growers, and production is way up. An experienced hand like you can really pile up the cash if you take all the available overtime.”
“Is there a place for me?” Bobby asked.
“Next year when you’re older would be a better time for you to get on as a temporary worker,” Daddy replied.
“Could you ask?” Bobby persisted. “I’ll still take care of my share of work in the garden. I want to save enough money to buy another guitar.”
“What kind of guitar?” Mama asked sharply.
Bobby smiled. When he did, he looked like Daddy. “Don’t worry, Mama. I want a better acoustic, not electric. Some of the best are made by a company called Taylor, so it would already look like it had my name engraved on it.”
I wanted to yield my place on the eviscerating crew to Bobby right then. It didn’t take long to master the art of cutting open a chicken with razor-sharp scissors and removing its entrails.
“I’ll check with Mr. Waldrup,” Daddy replied.
Mama surprised me with a lemon meringue pie for dessert. The peaks and valleys of white and light brown meringue were as pretty as a photograph of the Alps. I held the knife in my hand, almost hating to cut the pie.
“What are you waiting for?” Ellie asked impatiently.
I lowered the knife and destroyed perfection. Seven pieces later, the pie pan was empty.
“The twins and I will clean up,” I said to Mama when we finished eating. “Sit on the porch with Daddy.”
In spring and fall, Daddy liked to sit in the swing on the front porch after supper. It was his way of unwinding after the hectic activity at the chicken plant with its loud noises and fast pace. It was quiet at our house. Except for an occasional logging truck, we rarely heard vehicles passing by on Beaver Ruin Road. That left only the evening sounds of nature—in early spring a few katydids, in summer a more varied chorus. I especially enjoyed it when a great horned owl would issue a call. Daddy liked to hoot in return, drawing the bird into conversation. When I was a little girl, he would interpret the owl’s hoots and make up stories about the owl’s life. I loved owl stories.
After the twins and I finished cleaning the kitchen, I took my Savannah letter to the front porch. Daddy and Mama were sitting on the swing. The sun was down, but the sky still displayed a broad band of orange. Daddy had his arm draped over the back of the swing behind Mama’s shoulders.
“Is now a good time to talk?” I asked Mama.
“Yes,” she said.
Emma opened the front door and came outside.
“It’s not a good time for you,” Mama said to her. “Stay inside with Ellie.”
Emma frowned but shut the door. I sat on the edge of the porch with my feet propped on the steps.
“Your mama says you got a job offer with a law firm in Savannah,” Daddy said. “Tell me about it.”
“Do you want to read the letter?”
“Yes.”
I handed it to him.
“They misspelled your name.”
“The spelling of my name isn’t the important part,” I replied with a twinge of guilt. “It’s hard to get a summer clerkship like this one. The lady in the job placement office told me less than twenty-five percent of the second-year class is able to find a legal job with a law firm, fewer still with a law firm like this.”
“What do you know about Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter?” Daddy asked, reading the names slowly.
I told him about my conversation with Gerry Patrick, leaving out the intrafirm miscommunication concerning the offer.
“There’s no harm in getting information about the job, is there?” I asked, trying not to sound whiny.
Daddy handed the letter back to me. “Not if you keep your heart right.”
The condition of my heart was somewhat shaky, so I stuck to practical arguments.
“Bobby could take my place on the chicken line. And Savannah isn’t as far away as Seattle.”
“Did you apply for a job in Seattle?” Mama asked in alarm.
“No ma’am. I was just making a point about the relative closeness of Savannah.”
Daddy pushed the swing back and forth a couple of times.
“I guess you could tell the lady in Savannah to send the information to Oscar Callahan’s office. Didn’t you list him as a reference on your résumé?”
“Yes sir, and if the Savannah job doesn’t work out, I’ll definitely talk to Mr. Callahan about working a few hours a week for him.”
“Which is a much better idea than running off to a strange place to be with people you don’t know anything about.” Mama spoke rapidly. “Where would you live? How will you be able to afford the rent? What kind of cases does this law firm handle? You don’t want to be representing criminals. Divorces would be just as bad. And the attorneys who manage a large law firm won’t share your moral convictions.”
These topics and many others had been discussed in great detail before I started law school, and I didn’t want to revisit the debate. I remained silent. The band of orange had lost its hue. The sky was totally gray.
“I only have one question,” Daddy said after a minute passed. “Will you honor your parents?”
I knew what he meant.
“Yes sir.”
LATER THAT NIGHT I tiptoed into the darkened bedroom. Emma’s voice from the top bunk startled me.
“Tammy Lynn.”
“Quiet! You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“Exactly how old were you when we were born?”
I did a quick calculation. “Almost seven months younger than you are now.”
“And you d
idn’t mind sharing your room?”
“No, I was excited. But just like now, you were noisy when I wanted you to be quiet.”
“I don’t mind sharing the room with you when you come home.”
“Thank you. I like being with you too.”
I sat on the bed and slipped off my shoes and socks.
“When are you going to get married so I can have a baby to play with?”
“Don’t be silly,” I answered. “I’ve never even been kissed. Good night.”
Emma sighed. Then sighed again.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Isn’t Savannah the city founded by General James Oglethorpe for people in England who couldn’t pay their bills?” she asked.
“Yes. Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with Mama and Daddy?”
“What’s Savannah like now? We only studied about the 1700s.”
“I’ve never been there, but it’s very pretty with a lot of little parks and squares.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read about it in a book that had pictures and information about historic places.”
“If you take the job, does that mean we won’t see you this summer?”
“I’ll try to come home or maybe you can visit me.”
“Would Ellie come too?”
“Of course, but it would be up to Mama and Daddy.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I want you to be here with us. This is like you’re moving away forever and never coming home.”
I could hear a tremor in Emma’s voice. I came over and stroked her hair. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I could see a forlorn expression on her face. I kissed her on the forehead.
“I love you wherever I am.”
“But it’s not the same if you’re not where I can see and touch you.”
I felt a pang of remorse. My focus had been totally selfish. There was great benefit in spending a summer at home. The love of family wasn’t a daydream—it was the most enduring reality in my world.
I ALWAYS SLEPT BETTER in my own bed. I woke up when Chester, the family rooster, began to crow but managed to tune him out and sleep for another thirty minutes until a finger tapped me on the cheek. Through bleary eyes I couldn’t tell if it was Emma or Ellie.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Guess.”
“Ellie?”
“That’s right. Are you going to get the eggs?”
I pulled the sheet next to my chin. Not having to get up for class made the bed feel extra nice.
“Who’s been doing it?” I mumbled.
“This is my week, but I wanted to help with the biscuits.”
Too many thoughts were now in my head to allow another snooze. “Okay. I’ll get the eggs.”
I got up and pulled on a loose-fitting cotton dress. The women and girls in our family never wore pants, and we made most of our day-to-day clothes. Learning how to sew was part of our training. When I went to high school, Mama was nice enough to buy me some inexpensive skirts, dresses, and blouses at Wal-Mart. Storebought clothes blunted the stigma of our private dress code, but I still stood out as a feminine island in an ocean of unisex apparel. Snide questions and critical stares were inevitable, but it helped that a few girls in the school came from families with similar rules. Those girls were my closest friends.
The high school basketball uniforms could have been an impossible fashion obstacle to overcome. Mama played basketball in high school and was willing to bend on the rules, so long as the coach ordered a uniform with extra-long shorts that reached to my knees and a shirt with sleeves that came close to my elbows. At first glance, it looked a couple of sizes too big, but no one paid attention to the length of my shorts or my baggy shirt after I hit a nice shot or made a crisp pass for an assist. People in the church criticized my parents for making an exception. Daddy told me not to worry about it.
I maintained the dresses-only rule through college and law school. I could always look Mama in the eye and answer truthfully when she asked me if I’d worn pants or blue jeans.
I SPLASHED WATER ON MY FACE, slipped my hair into a ponytail, and went downstairs. I grabbed the blue metal pail used to collect the eggs. The twins and I had decorated the pail with a chicken motif that included primitive portraits of some of our hens against a chicken coop landscape. I stepped outside into the cool morning air. I
The wire enclosure where the chickens stayed was to the left of the basketball court. The birds stayed inside at night but were released to forage in the yard during the day. Flip and Ginger would bark at them, but our chickens’ greatest enemies were possums.
Mama preferred white-shelled eggs, so we owned leghorns. We kept one rooster and four to six hens. Compact and muscular, our chickens bore little resemblance to the flaccid birds delivered to the processing plant in town. Daddy raised pullets to replace hens whose egg production declined. We never ate our hens. When they clucked their last cluck, the chickens received appropriate burial in the large pet cemetery at the edge of our property.
I went inside the pen. Chester charged in full-attack mode, but I ignored him. Top law students who could handle intense questioning by a tough professor would probably flee from Chester. The rooster came right up to my feet before giving a loud, self-satisfied squawk and strutting away.
I slowly entered the coop. Our hens were named after female characters in Shakespearean plays. Mama used an edited version of Shakespeare’s works, with the bawdy jokes deleted, as part of her homeschool curriculum. Each bird’s nesting box was marked with a carefully printed card: Juliet, Olivia, Viola, Cressida, Cleopatra, and Lady Macbeth. It was a noble company with Chester as their lord.
The hens knew what I intended to do and began protesting and pecking my hand as I slipped it into each box to pull out a warm egg. However, once the egg was gone, they abandoned the boxes and fluttered to the ground. Collecting eggs was the easy part of raising chickens. Cleaning the coop was the hard job. The coop needed cleaning. I hoped Mama had told one of the boys to do it. I carried the pail into the kitchen.
“Five for five,” I announced.
“They’re producing nicely,” Mama replied. “There are more eggs in the refrigerator. Wash what you gathered this morning in vinegar and scramble up as many as you think we’ll need.”
Mama varied the breakfast menu. We often ate oatmeal or cereal with fruit, but once again she wanted to do something special in honor of my return. She knew I loved fluffy scrambled eggs with crisp bacon. The bacon was already beginning to sizzle in the skillet, and the biscuits were in the oven. I cracked open the eggs in a metal bowl and added salt and milk to make them lighter.
Kyle and Bobby didn’t start spring vacation until the following week. They came into the kitchen dressed for school in slacks and short-sleeved collared shirts. My brothers blended in much easier than I did at their ages. Not only did women have to suffer the pain of childbirth, they also bore the reproach of nineteenth-century fashion in a twenty-first-century world. I beat the eggs harder to drive out my thoughts. Resentment led to the sin of bitterness.
The first bite of eggs after Daddy prayed was worth the early morning effort. Mama gave me two extra slices of bacon. Breakfast was a quiet meal. Everyone was thinking about the day ahead.
“I’ll call Mr. Callahan’s office,” I said to Mama and Daddy. “I think his secretary gets there at eight thirty. I’d like to see him too, if he’s available.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Mama asked.
“No ma’am,” I answered a bit too quickly. “I mean, there’s no need.”
Daddy left for work, followed a few minutes later by my brothers, who rode to school in Kyle’s truck. I cleaned up the kitchen while Mama and the twins began the school day. When I turned off the water, I could hear the sound of Mama’s voice in the front room. She loved teaching. It would leave a big hole in her life when the twins reached high school age.
My homeschool years were
pleasant memories. The yard, sky, woods, and the pond down the road were our science laboratory. I could identify many trees by leaf and bark. Math was incorporated into the practical functions of the household. Mama put a premium on being able to perform math mentally. Calculators weren’t allowed; paper and pencil discouraged.
By age seven, I was reading the text in picture books and finished the entire Chronicles of Narnia a year later. Much of the day was spent reading. The county librarian, Mrs. Davis, would order anything Mama wanted through the state lending program. Twice a month, the old books went to town, and Mama returned with new ones. I’d read many of the classic works of literature required by my college English courses by the time I was in the ninth grade. Only the more controversial books didn’t make Mama’s list. When I finally read them, I usually understood why.
The twins were old enough that much of their study was self-directed. Mama guided them from the sidelines. She used a questioning format similar to my law school professors. After I started the dishwasher, I went into the front room. The twins were studying the Bible.
“Why do you think the apostle Paul thought he was serving God by persecuting the early Christians?” Mama asked.
“He was sinning,” Ellie answered.
“But he didn’t know it at the time. How is it possible for a person to believe he is obeying God when in fact he is doing the opposite?”
Emma knew what to say. “Where do we look for the answer?”
Mama gave references from three Pauline letters. “It’s somewhere in those chapters. When you find the answer, write down the verses that apply. Then, I want you to think of at least one modern example of the same kind of mistake made by the apostle Paul.”
The girls immediately opened their Bibles. Mama’s question made me uncomfortable. I looked at the clock on the wall.
“I’m going to call Mr. Callahan’s office.”
3
MRS. BETTY MURPHY ANSWERED THE PHONE AT OSCAR Callahan’s office. When I asked if I could talk to the lawyer, she put me on hold for a few seconds, then told me to come in anytime before noon.
“And can I have a fax sent to the office?” I asked. “It has to do with a job offer from a law firm in Savannah.”
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