Water's Edge

by Robert Whitlow

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to go to the cemetery? It won’t be dark for another hour or so.”

  “No, that can wait for another day.”

  “What about Austin’s Pond? I’ve not been able to get over there by myself. That’s what I really want to do, especially now that you’re here.”

  “I just got here,” Tom answered impatiently, “and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go to the pond. There’s nothing there but bad memories.”

  Elias frowned. Tom decided to change the subject.

  “I’m not going to be working for the same law firm in Atlanta,” he said. “Yesterday was my last day.”

  “What happened?”

  Tom spent the rest of the meal telling Elias about losing his job. The older man kept shaking his head from side to side. Tom didn’t mention his conversations with Arthur Pelham.

  “I know, it’s hard to believe,” Tom said as he neared the end of the story. “It was a huge shock. And to top it off, Clarice broke up with me. She’s the woman who came up from Atlanta with me to attend the funeral.”

  “God is good,” Elias responded, pushing his chair away from the table. “I’m thankful for all he’s doing in your life.”

  Tom gave the older man a puzzled look. “Are you saying it was God’s will for me to get dumped by Clarice and lose my job?”

  “I say what I hear.” Elias ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t believe God’s sovereignty is an excuse for man’s mistakes, but I’m confident that he’s working all things for your good.”

  The old man stood and walked slowly to the sink with his plate. Tom wasn’t interested in unraveling Elias’s theology. Instead, he went to the refrigerator and took out the coconut pie.

  “Do you want a piece?” he asked.

  “No thanks, but help yourself. Coffee is in the cupboard to the left of the stove if you want it now or in the morning. I’m not drinking it anymore. It’s not good for my heart.”

  Tom cut a generous piece of pie. “I’ll be going to the office early, so I may leave before you get up.”

  “Probably not.” Elias put his plate in the dishwasher. “You’d think I’d sleep more soundly the older I get, but it doesn’t work that way. It’s not often the sun beats me out of bed.”

  “Then I’ll see you in the morning. Thanks for letting me stay with you.”

  “This place is as much yours as it is mine.”

  Rover was lying in the corner. On his way out of the kitchen, Elias dropped his hand. The dog lifted his head and licked the old man’s knuckles. Tom had never seen Rover do that to anyone else.

  “I like your dog,” Elias said. “I’ll be glad to keep an eye on him while you’re in town.”

  “If you can stand the drool, he won’t give you any problems.”

  Elias left, and Tom turned his attention to the thick slice of coconut pie. He thrust his fork into the meringue and through the creamy filling. The pie was delicious. If eating pie was God’s will, Tom was all for it. He swallowed a bite and pointed his fork at Rover.

  “You’ve made a good first impression. Don’t ruin it.”

  ______

  Later that evening Tom read for a while in the front room with Rover at his feet. In the city the sound of honking horns and the wail of distant sirens were constant. Urban noise numbs the senses and blurs the mind’s ability to think. In the silence of the isolated house, Tom found his senses alert, his mind active. He laid the book on a side table and glanced across at Elias’s study. The door was closed. Tom couldn’t remember exactly what the room looked like. He peered down the hall toward his uncle’s bedroom. If Elias awoke before the sun rose, he probably went to sleep shortly after it set. Tom gingerly walked across the floor. The house was only quiet when he was still. Any movement brought forth creaks and pops that seemed to echo off the walls. Tom approached the closed door and reached out with his right hand to grasp the doorknob. At that moment, Rover let out a loud groan. Tom jumped. The dog, his black tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, rolled over. Tom chuckled and withdrew his hand from the door.

  In the middle of the night, Tom had a nightmare that woke him up. He went downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink of water. At the bottom of the stairs he saw a streak of light beneath the study door. After getting a drink, he returned to the front room. There was noise coming from the study. Tom stopped to listen but couldn’t make out the sounds. Slipping along the wall, he edged toward the door. It sounded like Elias was wrestling with an intruder. Tom put his ear to the door. The mixture of groans and unintelligible words strung together made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Elias had to be praying, but the noise bore as much resemblance to the blessing spoken over supper as a summer breeze bore to an autumn hurricane. Two loud thuds against the floor were followed by a sharp cry. Before Tom could jerk the door open, the cry was followed by the sound of singing.

  Elias had an excellent baritone voice; however, age had made the old man’s vocal cords brittle. Remembering how melodious his uncle sounded in his prime, Tom was saddened by the slightly tremulous voice that came from the study. He recognized the song. It was an old hymn about the blood of Jesus. The message of the song was primitive and barbaric, but Elias seemed to caress the words. The old man sang several verses, stopped for a moment, then started another song Tom didn’t recognize. This one focused on the beauty of a God who can’t be seen but reveals himself in nature. Tom loved the outdoors. Separation from meadows and mountains was one of the chief drawbacks of living in the city. Then Elias stopped singing and started talking. Tom couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like verses from the Bible. Tom suddenly felt like a trespasser. He backed away from the door and returned to bed. He slept soundly through the rest of the night.

  ______

  Early in the morning Tom took Rover downstairs and let him outside. It was a cool fall morning with a thin layer of mist above the dewy ground. Tom stood on the front porch, the wooden planks cold against his bare feet. The morning was quiet except for the distant crowing of a rooster.

  The water from the well made good coffee, and in a few minutes Tom sat at the kitchen table enjoying the first few sips. His father had liked coffee too. It was one trait they had in common.

  Tom stretched out his legs under the table. There weren’t any deadlines to meet, so he didn’t have to gulp the coffee and rush off to the office. He rubbed his hand across the slightly ribbed surface of the table. Elias came in through the kitchen door. He was dressed in blue overalls, a blue work shirt, and white socks.

  “Good morning,” Tom said with a smile. “Planning on doing some farming today?”

  “Only in your heart.”

  Elias had a book in his hand. He placed it on the table in front of Tom. It was a Bible with a bookmark in it.

  “I marked the passage about the donkey. It can be your morning devotional, then we can talk about it later.”

  Tom didn’t touch the black book. “Reading the Bible isn’t part of my routine.”

  “Why not?”

  “To use a legal term, I’ve not found it relevant.”

  “When was the last time you gave it a try?”

  Tom was in a good mood from the coffee and wasn’t going to let Elias steal it from him.

  “I thought you retired from running a church, but if you still have the itch to lead a congregation, I’m not signing up. I’m your great-nephew, nothing more.”

  “Which makes you even more precious to me. Read one chapter. If that doesn’t interest you, I’ll leave you alone”—the old man paused— “for a week.”

  Tom tapped the Bible with his index finger. “Promise on this?”

  Elias held up his right hand and pointed at the Bible with his left. “Deal.”

  The old man left the kitchen. Rover ambled after him. Tom stared at the Bible. He’d grown up going to Sunday school and absorbed a lot of religious information by osmosis. Elias was the latest in an unbroken line of ministers in the Cra
ne family, dating back four or five generations. However, none of Tom’s cousins had shown an interest in church work. Elias was the last of the breed.

  Tom started reading. The Old Testament chapter was about a wizard named Balaam and a talking donkey that saw angels. The story had a fairy-tale feel to it. A king wanted to hire Balaam to curse the Israelites, a service that bore an uneasy resemblance to what clients often wanted lawyers to do to the other side in a legal dispute. The ensuing negotiations between king and wizard were similar to modern dickering over the terms of an employment agreement in which money is always the key component. After a deal was struck, the talking-donkey part added spice to Balaam’s journey to the job site but wasn’t the main point of the story.

  Tom reached the end of the chapter without finding out what happened. He glanced toward the front room. Elias and Rover weren’t making any noise. He read three more chapters to find out what happened, then closed the Bible. He had to admit the passage contained an interesting mix of narrative, character development, and poetry. When he walked through the front room to go upstairs and get ready to go to town, Elias was sitting in his easy chair with Rover at his feet.

  “Did you keep reading?” the old man asked.

  Tom had his hand on the stair railing. He stopped. “Yes.”

  “Was it interesting?”

  Tom turned toward Elias. “In a mythical kind of way.”

  “Mythical?” the old man replied. “You’ll have to explain that to me.”

  “Many ancient cultures produced stories like that,” Tom said patiently. “That happened to be a good one.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.” Elias adjusted his glasses.

  Tom climbed the stairs. There was no harm in humoring Elias. A tall tale about a talking donkey wasn’t a threat to Tom’s intellectual integrity.

  chapter

  FIVE

  Saturday morning office hours from 8:00 a.m. to noon in Bethel were a modern accommodation to an old-fashioned custom. For generations rural clients had been coming to town to shop for groceries, pay bills in person, and, if need be, consult an attorney.

  Tom lowered the windows of the car so he could enjoy the feel and smell of the fall morning. The highway followed an old cow path and contained a few sharp turns that made driving fun. No cows or tractors slowed him down.

  A large number of cars and pickup trucks were clustered in the center of town. A seasonal farmer’s market, its stalls piled high with corn, tomatoes, okra, squash, watermelons, and pumpkins, was doing a brisk business. Tom parked in front of his father’s office. A little brass bell on the wall next to the door announced his arrival.

  Bernice Lawson was sitting behind her desk, her thick fingers pounding the keys of an electric typewriter. In her early sixties with hair dyed a light brown, Bernice peered over half-frame glasses that rested on her thick nose and chubby cheeks. Tom’s father hired Bernice when her husband was forced to retire on disability after injuring his back in a textile mill. Bernice’s rusty typing wasn’t up to professional standards, but the plump woman had one asset that couldn’t be taught—she knew everyone in Etowah County, a huge help when it came to deciding whether to accept a new client, sue an unknown defendant, or evaluate the credibility of a witness. If Bernice said someone couldn’t be trusted, John Crane knew to proceed with caution. Over the past twenty years, she’d kept the office running even when John’s interest in the practice of law waxed and waned.

  “Land’s sakes,” Bernice exclaimed in a voice that made the need for an interoffice intercom unnecessary. “I didn’t expect to see you for another hour. Unless he had an early hearing, your daddy rarely came in before nine o’clock.”

  “I was up early, drank a cup of coffee, and read three chapters in the Bible,” Tom replied with a smile.

  “That last part was Elias’s doing, I bet.”

  “Yeah, he wanted me to learn about Balaam and his donkey so I read a chapter or two in the book of Numbers.”

  “Your daddy and Elias were always talking about stuff in the Old Testament. It’s all I can do to try to understand what’s written in red.” Bernice stopped and shook her head. “I still don’t have it set in my mind that your daddy is gone. Every time the bell rings I look up and expect him to walk through the door.”

  “Still no computer?” Tom asked, wanting to avoid a sentimental conversation. “This has to be the last law office in Georgia that doesn’t use a word processor.”

  Bernice patted the old typewriter. “It would just make me sloppy. And there really isn’t much to do. I was typing a few envelopes when you came in.”

  Tom glanced around the office. There had been no noticeable change in the place since he was in high school.

  “I’d better get to work,” he said.

  “Let me show you where to start,” Bernice said, pushing herself up from her chair with both hands. “I put the open files in boxes in your father’s office.”

  John Crane’s office was directly behind Bernice’s desk. The large walnut desk and matching credenza were scratched and scarred. Bookcases filled with aging law books lined the walls. The only volumes kept up-to-date were the black-and-gold set of the Official Code of Georgia Annotated.

  “Where are the pictures?” Tom asked when he saw the empty spaces on the credenza reserved for family photos and snapshots of his father’s favorite fishing holes.

  “In that box.” Bernice pointed to a smaller cardboard box in the corner of the room. “I couldn’t bear to see them every time I came in here. If you want to get them out, I know exactly how he had them positioned.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  Bernice rested her right hand on several large boxes stacked on top of one another. “These contain the files for cases that haven’t been picked up. I’ve tried to contact everyone, but some clients don’t have a phone, and others may have called back when I wasn’t here.”

  Tom quickly counted ten boxes. His father had been busier than he thought.

  “Did you get an answering machine for the office?” he asked.

  “The day after you told me to. I wasn’t sure how to set it up, but Betty Sosebee from the Sponcler firm helped me. She recorded a very professional greeting that explains why the office is closing and asks folks to leave a phone number along with the date and time they called. Some of the personal messages are precious. I’ve saved a few from folks who had such nice things to say about your daddy. One of the best is from Judge Caldwell.”

  “I’ll listen to those later. Is Judge Caldwell still filling in as judge of the probate court?”

  “Yes, the county commissioners aren’t going to call a special election, so the governor asked him to serve until November. Three or four people are lining up to run for probate judge. Carl and I are supporting Sheri Blevins.”

  The door opened.

  “Good morning, Randall,” Bernice called out to a dark-haired, middle-aged man who entered the reception area on crutches. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. This is Mr. Crane’s son, Tom.”

  The man awkwardly propped himself up on one crutch and held out his hand. Tom shook it.

  “What happened to your leg?” he asked.

  “Car hit me, and I had to have an operation. Sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Randall’s file is in one of the boxes I showed you,” Bernice said. “He was standing on the curb at the corner of Poplar and Westover minding his own business when a car ran off the road and knocked him down. The driver was Owen Harrelson, an executive at Pelham, who was down here for a meeting. I think he lives in New York or Boston.”

  “I never saw him coming until it was too late,” Randall added. “Next thing I know, I’m flying through the air.”

  “Harrelson claims a pothole caused him to swerve,” Bernice said. “But I think he’d been drinking. He and some of the other bosses had been playing golf all afternoon at the country club. Everyone knows there’s usually a cooler of beer strapped to the backs of the go
lf carts. It’s more about boozing and socializing than hitting the ball into the hole.”

  “Did the police perform a blood alcohol test?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah,” Randall replied.

  “What did it show?”

  “I hadn’t had anything to drink. Stopped after I got out of the navy.”

  “I mean the driver of the car. Was he tested for alcohol?”

  “No,” Bernice said. “Your daddy was going to interview the people who were at the club to find out if Harrelson had been into the sauce.”

  “Why wasn’t Harrelson tested?”

  Bernice rolled her eyes. “He probably showed the policeman his corporate ID.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “I want to see the accident report.”

  “It’s in one of those boxes,” Bernice responded. “I’m not sure which one. Do you want me to find it?”

  “No, I’ll do it. Mr.—” Tom stopped and looked at Randall. “I’m sorry. What’s your last name?”

  “Freiburger.”

  “Come into the office and have a seat. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  Randall sat in a side chair while Tom rummaged through the files. There were a lot of different files in each box. At Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther, a single case would quickly fill a box. His father’s practice killed fewer trees.

  “Here it is,” he said, pulling out a thin folder with “Freiburger v. Harrelson” written on the tab in black ink.

  Inside, Tom found a medical release form signed by the client, a contingency fee contract, two pages of scribbled notes in his father’s difficult-to-decipher handwriting, medical records from the emergency room at the hospital, and an accident report completed by a Bethel police officer named Logan. A diagram on the report showed the position of Harrelson’s car, the pothole, and Randall Freiburger.

  “This shows you lying in the street,” Tom said.

  “He knocked me into the street when he hit me. That’s where I was at when the police arrived.”

  “Were you knocked out?”

  “No, I was sitting on the asphalt and waiting for an ambulance. My knee wasn’t working at all.”