Deeper Water

by Robert Whitlow

  "It is narrow-minded. But truth doesn't depend on popular consensus or opinion polls. The Bible also says the road that leads to eternal life is narrow, and only a few find it. Pretending that someone who tries to live a good life or believes in the god of another religion will make it into heaven is a cruel deception."

  "And you're convinced about your religious perspective?"

  "Enough to tell you what I believe without beating around the bush." I looked directly into his eyes and took a deep breath. "If you had a wreck on your motorcycle later today and died on the side of the road, would you go to heaven?"

  The corner of the lawyer's lips curled up. Whether in a smile or a sneer, I couldn't tell. He pointed to the picture of the beautiful woman on his desk.

  "Who do you think that is?"

  "I don't know."

  "That's my older sister. She's a nurse at a clinic in Zambia."

  I wasn't going to be easily deterred. "My question deserves an answer."

  Zach ignored me. "She's a missionary in Africa."

  "A Christian missionary?"

  "Yes."

  "Has she talked to you the same way I am?"

  The lawyer shook his head. "No, actually, I'm the one who led her to faith in Jesus Christ. It happened at a summer camp for home schoolers we attended in Oregon. One year she realized the faith of our parents had to become real for her."

  I sat back in the chair. "You were homeschooled?"

  "Since kindergarten. The first time I entered a public school classroom was to take a course at a local community college when I was sixteen. My high school graduation was sponsored by a homeschool association in Southern California."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I pointed to the picture of the older couple. "Your parents?"

  "Yes. They were part of the Jesus movement and lived in a Christian commune for a number of years."

  "A Christian commune?"

  "Yep. Remember how the early believers in the book of Acts didn't claim any private property but held everything in common for the good of all?"

  "Yes."

  "That's what my parents and some of their friends did. Does your church believe that part of the Bible?"

  "We believe every word of the Bible."

  "Do you follow the part about sharing everything with other Christians?"

  "Not exactly the same way, but we give to people in need. Members of the church have helped me financially even though they didn't have to."

  "That's good, but it's not having all things in common. My parents held on to the ideal for years but gave up on group Christianity when I was about ten years old. After that, we lived in the same area as people in our fellowship, but every family had its own checkbook. It takes a zealous group of believers to be biblical in every aspect of their lifestyle."

  I'd always considered myself and those like me the epitome of zeal, not in a prideful way, but in humble recognition of our respon sibility to walk in the light given us. Suddenly, new biblical revelation I'd not considered loomed before me like a fog bank.

  "What are you thinking?" the lawyer asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  "Do I have to reveal my secret thoughts as part of the interview process?"

  "No."

  "And you haven't been taking notes."

  The lawyer laughed. It was a pleasant sound.

  "I won't be preparing a memo to Mr. Carpenter about the details of this conversation. It would require too much background information that he wouldn't understand."

  "So why did you ask your spiritual journey question?"

  Zach smiled. "I could tell that your beliefs dictated the way you dress. But your preferences could have been caused by a lot of things."

  "It's not a preference; it's a conviction," I responded firmly. "We believe in modesty for women and that there should be a difference between the sexes in clothing. Women should wear skirts or dresses."

  "You've never worn blue jeans?"

  "Not one day in my life."

  The lawyer started to speak, then closed his mouth. "I'll have time this summer to learn more about you," he said.

  His comment made me feel like an insect under a microscope. I looked for an air of judgment or condemnation on his face but didn't detect it. As we walked out of the building, I told him we shared the common bond of a homeschool education.

  "Until I attended the local high school," I said.

  "And played basketball?"

  "Yes. I'm on an intramural team now."

  Outside, it was a pleasant day with a breeze blowing. The humidity of the previous afternoon had been swept away. Zach opened the car door for me. I hesitated.

  "What brought you to Savannah?" I asked. "It's a long way from Southern California."

  "We'll save that for later."

  "But that violates rule number one."

  Zach smiled. "Rules don't apply to me."

  9

  MOSES JONES AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS ON THE dock. He opened his eyes and peered through the mosquito netting. It was early morning with a heavy fog rising from the surface of the river. The fog covered the dock and kept him from seeing in the dim light. A different fear crawled over the gunwale of the boat.

  "Who be there?" he called out, his voice trembling slightly. "That you, Mr. Floyd? I done told you, she ain't here!"

  "Chatham County Sheriff's Department. What's your name?"

  Moses sat up in the boat and pulled back the netting. Two sets of dark brown pants, khaki shirts, and shiny black shoes came into view. When he could make out faces, he saw two young deputiesone white, the other black. He took a deep breath and relaxed. These were flesh-and-blood men.

  "Moses Jones, boss man."

  The black deputy spoke. "Who gave you permission to tie up at this dock?"

  Moses looked at the rope looped over the wooden piling. He couldn't deny his boat was connected to the dock. He quickly appealed to a broader reality.

  "The river. It don't belong to nobody," he said.

  "The river belongs to the State of Georgia," the same deputy responded. "And this dock belongs to the folks who live in that house over there."

  Moses peered through the mist but couldn't see a house.

  "Don't strain your eyes," the white deputy said. "There is a house there, and the people who live there built this dock, which is private property. You're trespassing."

  "No sir. I didn't set one foot on this here dock. I've just been asleeping in my boat, not bothering nobody but myself."

  "Do you have any identification?" the black deputy asked.

  "I ain't got no driver's license. I don't own a car."

  The deputy pointed to the white bucket in the front of the boat. "What's in that bucket?"

  "Two little of fish that I'll cook for my dinner," Moses replied, then had an idea. "Would you gents like 'em? They're nice-size croakers, plenty of meat and plenty of bones."

  "Are you trying to bribe us?" the white deputy asked.

  "Uh, no sir, boss man. I'm just sharing my catch."

  "We don't want your fish," the black deputy said. "Do you have a fishing license?"

  "Yes sir. I sure do. I be totally legal."

  Moses kept his fishing license in the bottom of his tackle box. He opened the box and rummaged around until he found it. He handed it up to the deputy, who inspected it.

  "This expired two months ago."

  Moses' face fell. "I guess the date slipped right past me. What are y'all going to do to me?"

  The two deputies glanced at each other. The black one spoke.

  "Mr. Jones, there are surveillance cameras on several docks up and down this stretch of the river. A man fitting your description has been illegally tying up his boat for months, and a lot of people have complained. We're going to have to take you to the jail."

  "What about my boat?"

  "It will be confiscated as evidence," the white deputy replied.

  "What do that mean?"

  The black deputy sp
oke. "It will go to the jail compound too. We'll keep it in the lot where we put stolen cars."

  "But this boat ain't stole! It was give me by Jabo Nettles, the bartender who used to work at the Bayside Tavern. He got to where he couldn't use it 'cause of his sugar."

  "Do you have a registration for it?"

  "What's that?" Moses asked, bewildered.

  "Mr. Jones, get out of the boat and come with us."

  SUNDAY MORNINGS, I usually stayed at my apartment. There wasn't a church in the area similar to my church in Powell Station, and I preferred solitude with God to apostate religion. I had a drawer full of cassette tapes of sermons by Pastor Vick and guest preachers at our church. I'd listened to some of them so many times that I'd almost memorized the messages.

  Two men from the rental car company came to pick up the convertible. I'd carefully checked the car to make sure it hadn't been scratched or dinged by another vehicle. It was a good lesson in the burden imposed by the objects of wealth. Watching after them was a hassle.

  "How fast did you get it up to?" one of the men asked as he checked the mileage.

  "Not above the speed limit."

  The man looked at his coworker and rolled his eyes. "And I only had two beers last night. High-performance cars like this have to be pushed every so often to keep them running right. Use or lose it."

  The other man eyed me. "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

  I set my jaw. "Do you want me to contact the district manager of your company and ask him why one of his employees called me `sweetheart'?"

  The man held out his hand. "I was only trying to be friendly."

  "Professional would be a better goal." I put the car keys in his palm. "Thanks for picking up the car."

  I peeked out the window of my apartment and could see the two men shaking their heads as they talked about me. Modest apparel helped keep males at bay, but it wasn't armor that prevented all attacks. The closest I'd come to physical harm happened in high school. One of the boys on the basketball team surprised me with a crude grab around the waist and attempted to kiss me on the lips while we walked in the dark from the gym to the bus. He received a stinging right hand to the cheek that knocked him back a couple of steps and left a mark I could see the following day at school.

  After the men from the car rental company left, I spent the remainder of the afternoon reading a devotional book written by a sixteenth-century Puritan writer. The old saints had a better grasp of the demands of the gospel than contemporary Christians. In Oliver Cromwell's era, believers like my family would have found a welcome seat around the cultural campfire. Sometimes, I felt like I'd been born 350 years too late.

  As soon as the sun set I called home. Mama held the phone so Daddy could listen. I told them about the rental car without the detail that it was a convertible and described the bed-and-breakfast simply as a clean place to stay. I provided a lot more information about my meeting with Mrs. Fairmont. Mama interrupted when I told about Flip and the use of my dress to save the rug.

  "I never made you clean up a spill with your dress," she said.

  "But you made me willing to do it. There's no telling what the rug on the floor was worth. I'm presoaking the dress in the sink right now. I think the stain will come out."

  "And don't get any ideas about bringing a Chihuahua into our house," Daddy added. "I can tell you liked the little fellow, but if a dog can't scare possums away from the chicken coop or chase squirrels out of the cornfield, it won't find a place around our table."

  "When was the last time Flip and Ginger ate in the kitchen?" I asked.

  "You know what I mean," he replied.

  I could picture the twinkle in his eyes.

  "I won't bring home a pet without permission," I reassured him. "But a house dog might be just what you and Mama need after we're all grown and on our own."

  "That's a ways off," Mama said. "Emma and Ellie seem slow to mature. Yesterday they got in an argument that would have shamed a pair of five-year-olds."

  "The relationship between Mrs. Bartlett and her mother lacked maturity too," I said.

  Mama and Daddy listened as I told them about my honesty with Mrs. Fairmont and her response.

  "That cleared the way for her to ask me to live with her," I said. "What do you think?"

  As soon as the question escaped my lips, I realized I'd made a terrible mistake. I'd accepted the invitation to live with Mrs. Fairmont without obtaining my parents' permission. It was an amazing lapse of protocol for an unmarried woman. Letting me make the decision to work in Savannah for the summer did not give me unfettered authority over my life. I could hear Daddy and Mama talking softly to each other on the other end of the line but couldn't make out what they were saying. If they rejected the arrangement, I would have no option but to call Mrs. Fairmont and Mrs. Bartlett and ask their forgiveness for prematurely acting without permission. Daddy spoke.

  "Go ahead and stay with Mrs. Fairmont if you have peace about it. But don't be surprised if her daughter gives you trouble at some point."

  "Yes sir," I said with relief. "I'll try to be a blessing to both of them, and it will help me save more money for the school year."

  After my near miss on the Mrs. Fairmont issue, I decided not to mention my visit to the law firm. Mama would cross-examine me closely, and I wasn't prepared to discuss Zach Mays' comment concerning the communal lifestyle of Christians in the book of Acts or in Southern California in the 1970s and 1980s. It was a lot easier telling Mama and Daddy how much I loved them and ending the call.

  RELIEVED THAT I'D FOUND A PLACE to live during the summer, I spent the final weeks of the school year in a sleep-deprived blur of academic activity. Second-year scores were very important because they would be part of a student's academic record during the fall hiring season. Post-law school job offers at firms like Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter were often contingent on maintaining a certain level of academic achievement. I wanted to do well for several reasons, but especially because God's children, like the prophet Daniel in pagan Babylon, should excel.

  Our basketball team finished the season undefeated. The other girls accepted my explanation about the convertible but gave me a nickname Jaguar. I talked twice with Mrs. Fairmont, who agreed that the Friday before I started work on Monday would be a good time to arrive in Savannah. Daddy would help me move.

  The night before Daddy was going to come help me, I began separating my belongings into two piles, one for Savannah, the other to be stored in Powell Station. Before unplugging my computer, I checked my e-mail. I had a message from Mrs. Bartlett.

  Hi, Tami,

  Change ofplans. Another one ofMother's friends died today. Can you believe it! The poor woman dropped dead in the dining room at The Cloister. Her funeral is going to be in Brunswick late Saturday afternoon. Mother is going down there tomorrow to stay with the family and won't be back until Sunday. We'll be at the house by 2:00 p.m. See you then.

  Christine Bartlett

  I read the e-mail three times, trying to twist an alternate meaning from it. Mrs. Bartlett expected Daddy and me to haul my belongings to Savannah on the Sabbath. I didn't like putting my suitcase in a car on Sunday. I quickly wrote her back.

  Dear Mrs. Bartlett,

  My father is taking off work to help me move on Friday. Could arrangements be made to allow us into the house tomorrow? After unloading my things, I could stay in a motel until Sunday if you prefer. Please allow me to do this. It would be greatly appreciated.

  Sincerely, Tami Taylor

  I prayed hard for fifteen seconds and sent the e-mail. I began packing my things in marked boxes but left my computer running. My anxiety level rose higher and higher. I checked the computer five times before a response came from Mrs. Bartlett. My heart pounded as I opened it.

  Tami,

  Got your message but it won't work. See you Sunday.

  Christine Bartlett

  I sat down on my bed too frustrated to cry. I couldn't handle something as simple as a
rranging the date of arrival for my summer job. I kicked myself for sending an e-mail instead of calling. I would have had a better chance of appeal on the phone. I had no option but to ask Mama and Daddy what to do. Daddy answered the phone.

  "I'm looking forward to seeing you," he began as soon as he heard my voice. "I worked overtime earlier this week so I wouldn't have to take but two hours of vacation. I'll be on the road as soon as the sun rises."

  "There's a problem," I said. "We can't go tomorrow. One of Mrs. Fairmont's friends died, and she'll be out of town. The house won't be open until Sunday afternoon."

  "Sunday afternoon?"

  "Yes sir."

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  "What am I going to do?" I asked as tears now threatened to break to the surface.

  "Have you talked to the law firm about starting work on Tuesday? I could try to change my schedule at the plant and ask off on Monday."

  "I just found out tonight. I could call the law firm tomorrow. But what if they're not willing to be flexible?"

  "Call anyway." Daddy paused. "I know you want to honor the Lord's Day and keep it holy."

  "With all my heart. It's just hard when there are other people involved."

  "Every test is an opportunity," he replied.

  It was one of Daddy's sayings, a call to be optimistic about any problem. It always sounded more convincing in theory than in practice.

  We agreed to talk in the morning. Daddy would delay going to work until I talked to someone at the law firm. After the call ended I didn't have the heart to continue packing but did so by faith. The Lord commanded the Israelites to prepare to leave Egypt even though the way to the Promised Land would be fraught with perils.

  I spent most of my prayer time early the following morning asking for God's favor upon my call to the law firm. I debated whether to appeal directly to Joe Carpenter, but since I'd never talked to him I asked for Gerry Patrick instead. It was barely 8:01 a.m. Fortunately, Ms. Patrick was in.

  "Good morning, Tami," she began in a chipper voice. "Christine Bartlett is thrilled that you're going to be staying with her mother. It sounds like you really impressed both of them."