Greater Love

by Robert Whitlow

  “Good night, Tami. I love you.”

  I smiled and pressed the Send button. “I love you, too.”

  4

  JESSIE OPENED HER EYES TO THE SOUND OF STRANGE VOICES. SHE jerked her head up. The wooden pallet was surrounded by six brownskinned men with straight black hair. One of them was holding a pine branch he’d used to poke her in the stomach. The men began to speak rapidly in a language Jessie took to be Spanish. Jessie started to jump up and run, but the man with the stick put a rough hand on her shoulder, pushed her back, and shook his head. The other men crowded closer around her, creating a thick-legged wall.

  Past the men was a pickup covered with red dust from the dirt road. Jessie could barely make out a faded sign on the side of the truck that read Polk Brothers Lumber Co. Two chain saws were on the ground beside the truck bed. The men continued gesturing and talking. The one with the stick spoke directly to Jessie, who shook her head. A smaller man to her right stepped forward. He bowed his head slightly then smiled, revealing two rows of white teeth. The smile didn’t look menacing.

  “You from Hinesville?”

  Jessie had heard of the town but shook her head.

  “Bainbridge?”

  Jessie shook her head. That was too close to where she’d been.

  “Savannah?”

  Jessie had been to Savannah once with her stepmother. They’d found a place to stay for a few days in a battered women’s shelter. It had been one of the nicer refuges during a difficult time.

  “Yes.” Jessie nodded her head.

  “Sí, sí.” The man smiled and explained to the others in lengthy terms what he’d discovered.

  The man with the stick pointed at Jessie and spoke rapidly. She started to get up, but the man held out his hand in clear indication she was not going to be allowed to walk away. The smaller man spoke.

  “You go to Savannah.”

  Another man held out his hand and gave her the most beautiful bottle of clear, clean water Jessie had ever seen. She rapidly unscrewed the cap and took a long drink of the delicious liquid. Wiping her mouth, she took another drink while the six men watched in silence. Then the man with the stick spoke again. The others nodded in agreement. Apparently, they’d learned more about her by watching her drink.

  “Hungry?” the smaller man asked, pointing to his stomach.

  Jessie nodded.

  The smaller man spoke to the others. The man who’d given her the water jogged over to the truck and returned with a can of beans and wieners and a plastic spoon. The smaller man pulled a knife from his pocket and used a can opener attachment to cut open the can. He handed it to Jessie. As she took her first bite, several of the men made the sign of the cross on their chests. She mimicked them, which caused another ripple of rapid-fire conversation.

  The beans were slightly sweet and the miniature wieners spicy enough to tantalize every taste bud in Jessie’s mouth. The fact that the meal was cold did nothing to lessen her pleasure. As she ate, Jessie began to relax. If the men intended to harm her, it would have already happened. The bottle of water and can of beans communicated what spoken language could not. She looked at the small man and pointed at herself then the truck.

  “Take me to Savannah?” she asked.

  “Sí, sí.” The man smiled.

  “Sí, sí,” she responded.

  I AWOKE EARLY AND PUT ON MY JOGGING OUTFIT. I’D RUN REGUlarly since playing basketball in high school. Physical exercise helped clear my mind as well as keep me in good shape.

  Quietly leaving Mrs. Fairmont’s house, I stretched and loosened up at the bottom of the front steps. It was surprisingly cool. During summer, the muggy coastal heat loosened its grip for only a few hours before dawn. A weather front had passed through in the night, though, leaving the air this morning mountain crisp. I rubbed my hands together before taking off toward the center of the historic district.

  The pre–Revolutionary War area of the city had twenty-one squares. It had taken me weeks to learn my way through the labyrinth of interconnecting streets and alleys. Now I could run in any direction and randomly navigate to East Broad, across to Forsyth Park, and back to Mrs. Fairmont’s house in time for a sprint around Chippewa Square. The flat coastland was an invitation to speed. There was little traffic early on Saturday morning, and I barely checked for cars before shooting across most intersections.

  There was nothing like the feeling of wings on my feet as I entered the zone reserved for regular runners in which forward motion isn’t associated with pain or oxygen deprivation. The light pat of my feet on the sidewalks was my only connection with earth, and gravity didn’t seem to be my master. With my mind not distracted by the pain of exertion, it was one of my clearest times for thinking. Today, what became crystal clear was God’s call that I come to Savannah. I knew that already, but the awareness of it while passing through the streets of the city strengthened my confidence even more.

  When I finished in front of Mrs. Fairmont’s home, the sun was up, but the streets remained largely deserted. I opened the front door quietly to see Flip waiting on me. After a quick pat, he scampered down the hallway and through the doggie door that led to a small side yard. I went into the kitchen and started a pot of decaf coffee. The pot was almost full when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

  “Good morning!” I called out.

  The response to my greeting was a loud gasp and the sound of something hitting the wall. I rushed out of the room and saw Mrs. Fairmont leaning against the wall near the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a robe. Her hair was messy and her slippers didn’t match.

  “Who’s there?” she said.

  “It’s Tami Taylor,” I answered in as calm a voice as I could manage. “I spent the night in the basement apartment.”

  Mrs. Fairmont rubbed her eyes. She was grasping something around her neck. I stepped closer. It was the lifeline device used to summon help if she was in distress.

  “Where’s Gracie?”

  “It’s Saturday. Gracie doesn’t work on the weekends.”

  Flip, who was sitting on the floor near Mrs. Fairmont’s right foot, ran over to me. I picked him up and he licked my chin. Lapses of memory weren’t uncommon for the elderly woman, but this one seemed more serious than others.

  “Tami?” Mrs. Fairmont repeated.

  “Yes, ma’am. You don’t need to push the button to call for help. I’m here.”

  “Flip likes you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you have a headache?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you need to go to the doctor?”

  “No.” She shook her head vigorously.

  I was willing to force a trip to the hospital but decided to watch her closely for a few minutes.

  “I’ve fixed a pot of coffee,” I said softly. “You can take your medication and drink a cup. Come into the kitchen and sit down.”

  Mrs. Fairmont shuffled into the room and sat in a narrow chair at a small table in the corner. Her medications were organized in a daily dispenser. I found the bottle of pain pills and shook one out.

  “Take this first,” I said, placing it on the table with a cup of water. “It’s a pain pill. I’ll fix your coffee just the way you like it, easy on the cream with an extra touch of sugar.”

  Mrs. Fairmont’s fingers trembled slightly as she raised the pill and water to her lips. It was a sad scene, especially after our vibrant conversation the previous night. She swallowed the pill. I placed the cup of coffee in front of her. She put both hands around the cup and took a sip.

  “That’s good,” she said with a sigh and closed her eyes. “I heard you downstairs and didn’t know what was going on.”

  “I went out for a run,” I answered, then carefully described my route in hope the mention of familiar places would help jump-start her memory. Mrs. Fairmont listened carefully.

  “Is the Greenwald house on East Gaston Street still for sale?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I saw several Realtor signs. Which house is it?�
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  Mrs. Fairmont described a wooden, Victorian-style home. “Mrs. Greenwald’s aunt was a friend of my mother.”

  “I’m not sure I remember seeing it.”

  “I can’t criticize you for that,” the elderly woman said with a sigh. “My memory betrays me all the time.”

  Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes looked less hazy. She sniffled and blew her nose on a tissue.

  “Would you like breakfast?” I asked, placing her regular medicines in front of her. “I could fix an omelet.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll take my medicine then sit in the den and drink this wonderful coffee you made.”

  I carried the coffee cup as she walked slowly to her favorite chair. Flip dutifully followed and curled up at her feet.

  “Are you comfortable?” I asked, placing a small pillow behind her neck.

  “Yes, don’t let me hold you up. I know you must have big plans for the day.”

  “Not really. Is your headache going away?”

  “What headache?”

  I patted her lightly on the shoulder. “Rest while I go downstairs to shower and get dressed for the day.”

  When I returned forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes were closed. I quickly checked to make sure she was breathing. Every time I found the older woman sitting in the chair with her eyes shut, I had a moment’s anxiety whether she was alive or dead. Almost imperceptibly, her chest was rising and falling. Her pain pills always made her drowsy.

  I lay on a leather couch to read my Bible. Flip joined me, and I let him nestle between my arm and side. Several times during the morning, I took a break to walk around the house for a few minutes. I returned to the couch and picked up my Bible, but nothing I read contained the answer I needed for the job. The words Braddock, Appleby, Smith, and Feldman weren’t in the Scriptures. The word Carpenter appeared a few times, but not in a context that fit my need. Around 11:00 a.m. Mrs. Fairmont stirred and opened her eyes. I offered up another quick prayer for her mental clarity. She rubbed her eyes and looked at me.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Over three hours.”

  “It’s nice having you in the house again. I rest better when I know you’re here. Would you like to live here when you move to Savannah, at least until you find a place of your own?”

  My heart leaped that she’d brought up the subject.

  “I’d need to discuss it with Mrs. Bartlett.”

  “Posh,” Mrs. Fairmont replied. “Christine doesn’t own this house, not yet.”

  “Maybe we can talk to her together.”

  “We can talk, but as far as I’m concerned you can plan on moving in downstairs and stay as long as you like.”

  For lunch I convinced Mrs. Fairmont to share a salad with me. Getting her to eat was a challenge, so I put as much protein in it as I could.

  “Could I borrow your car for a couple of hours?” I asked when we finished. “There’s someone I want to visit on the other side of town.”

  “Of course, it needs to be driven.”

  I left Mrs. Fairmont watching a gourmet cooking show. When I returned, the TV might be tuned to a program hosted by a professional bass-fishing guide. I’d seen the same phenomenon with other older people—their interests widened rather than narrowed, even though the information gleaned would never be put to practical use and might be forgotten within fifteen minutes.

  Mrs. Fairmont’s car, a large sedan, had less than fifteen thousand miles on the odometer. She kept it in a detached garage. I’d memorized the address where I wanted to go. As I drew closer, my heart beat a little bit faster.

  I turned into the parking lot of a one-story brick building with none of the flair of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. The structure could as easily have been in Bangor or Lubbock as Savannah. At one end of the building a simple white sign with black letters announced SMITH LAW OFFICES . Julie’s name wouldn’t join hers until she passed the bar exam. The building also contained an insurance agency, a two-person CPA firm, and a company that built swimming pools.

  There were several cars in the lot. I parked in front of Maggie’s office, turned off the engine, and stared at the entrance. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself working at the office. I knew what it felt like to walk into the spacious reception area at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. How would it feel to be part of a much smaller, less established, more risky environment? If the firm failed, or the other two women decided after six months I wasn’t needed, where would I go? I would have burned my bridges with Zach’s firm. As I pondered my decision, Mr. Callahan’s wisdom seemed more compelling.

  I decided to take a closer look at the office. If my fear increased, I would take it as a sign that working with Maggie and Julie probably wasn’t a good idea. I got out of the car and walked to the front door. Putting my hand against the glass to cut down glare, I could see what looked like a reception area. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a figure came into the reception room, turned toward the door, and saw me.

  It was Maggie Smith.

  Before I could run, Maggie smiled and waved. I weakly waved back. The petite lawyer with short brown hair opened the door.

  “Come in,” Maggie said in the Southern twang she’d brought from Alabama to Savannah. “Julie and I were talking about you earlier today.”

  I stepped into an area with two chairs, a love seat, and a coffee table with several magazines strewn across it. Industrial-grade beige carpet covered the floor.

  “I was in Savannah for the weekend and decided to see the outside of the office.”

  “Now you can see the inside, including your office if you decide to join us.”

  Maggie didn’t seem uptight at all. In her early thirties, she had a girlish look that made her appear younger. She was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting sweater.

  “You must be busy if you’re working on Saturday,” I said.

  “Not really.”

  She led me down a short hallway. A door toward the end of the hallway opened, and Julie Feldman emerged. About the same height as Maggie, she had a fuller figure and dark hair.

  “Tami!” she cried out.

  She ran down the hall and almost knocked me over with a hug. She released me and patted me on the cheek.

  “I told Maggie over lunch you were probably sitting in a cave somewhere fasting and praying about what God wanted you to do with the rest of your life. And here you are!”

  “Savannah is a better place to pray than a cold cave.”

  “Totally.” Julie nodded. “But you usually like to make everything so hard. How did you get to Savannah? Did you finally get a car?”

  “No, Zach picked me up.”

  Julie tapped herself on the forehead. “Of course. Who needs a car? If Zach had been out of pocket, I bet Vinny would have flown down from Yale to squire you around. Are you staying with Mrs. Fairmont?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “About the same.”

  Julie turned to Maggie and began telling her about Mrs. Fairmont’s stroke the previous summer.

  “And when Tami and Vince Colbert went to the hospital, he quoted half the Bible to Mrs. Fairmont even though she was unconscious. And guess what, she got better by the next morning. I used to put my math book under my pillow when I was a kid, hoping to understand fractions, but unconscious osmosis never worked for me.”

  “It wasn’t half the Bible; it was only a couple of psalms.”

  “That’s a couple more than I know,” Julie said. “And my people are the ones who wrote all of them!”

  “I was about to show Tami around,” Maggie said.

  Maggie opened a door to the left.

  “This is the clerical area.”

  It was a small room with two secretarial desks. One was in use, the other empty.

  “Maggie and I are going to do a lot of our own word processing,” Julie said. “I can type as fast as I talk.”

  “I doubt it,” I answered.

&nbs
p; “Don’t be so catty. You’ve seen how quickly I can churn out a memo.”

  “Shannon Carver is doing triple duty as receptionist, secretary, and bookkeeper,” Maggie said. “I met her when I was working in the DA’s office.”

  “She wasn’t a defendant in a case Maggie prosecuted,” Julie added conspiratorially.

  “But I met quite a few people in criminal court who surprised me,” Maggie added. “They were ordinary folks who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time or made a random stupid mistake.”

  “That wouldn’t happen to Tami,” Julie said, pursing her lips. “She’d have to ask directions to get to a wrong place, and she left stupid mistakes behind when she turned thirteen.”

  Maggie laughed.

  Behind the clerical area was Maggie’s office, a plain room with a single window and view of the access road next to the building. It contained a wooden desk with computer, a bookcase containing legal treatises, and two side chairs facing the desk. If Julie’s father was financing the office, not much of the money was being spent on fancy furniture. Of course, the wisest thing would be to make sure there was enough money in reserve to pay basic overhead costs until the firm began to have a cash flow.

  “Come see my office,” Julie called out.

  Julie was standing in the next doorway on the same side of the hall. Across from Maggie’s office I caught a glimpse of a windowless room with a wooden table surrounded by six chairs.

  “That’s the conference room,” Maggie said. “That’s where I meet with clients, just like they do at the Braddock firm.”

  When Maggie was in law school she’d worked as a summer clerk at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, but, as with Julie, she didn’t receive a permanent job offer and ended up as an assistant in the district attorney’s office.

  When I got my first glance at Julie’s office, I knew where some of her father’s money had ended up. It was identical in size to Maggie’s office with the same view through a single window, but that’s where the similarity ended. It looked professionally decorated. A stylish wooden desk was surrounded by matching furniture. Paintings hung on the walls. Two richly colored rugs hid much of the plain carpet underneath. A floor lamp and two desk lamps gave the room a warm glow.