Deeper Water (4 page)

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 selfdirected. 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. Mamas question made me uncomfortable. I looked at the clock on the wall.

"I'm going to call Mr. Callahan's office."

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."

"Sure, honey. I'll be on the lookout for it."

I left a message on Ms. Patrick's voice mail and hoped she'd retrieve it in time to forward the information. Then I ran upstairs, showered, and dressed in a blue skirt and white blouse. I had a matching jacket that turned the outfit into a business suit but left it in the closet. I put on low black heels and slipped the letter from Savannah into a small black purse.

"May I borrow the car keys?" I asked Mama when I returned downstairs.

"You look fancy," Emma said.

"Like a woman preacher," Ellie added.

Our church allowed women to exhort the congregation. Mama rarely exercised the privilege, but when she did, her eyes blazed with the fire of God so that chills ran up and down my back.

"I'll tell Mr. Callahan to repent," I said, turning around in the center of the room. "I wore this outfit several times when I gave a presentation at school."

Mama reached over and touched the fabric of the skirt. "That's a nice blend."

"Is it modest enough?" I asked a bit anxiously.

"Yes. You look very professional."

"I'd hire you," Emma said. "And get you to sue Ellie for breaking the porcelain figurine that Aunt Jane brought back from her trip-"

"Emma," Mama interrupted. "Open to 1 Corinthians 6 and read what Paul wrote about Christians suing each another."

"I was joking," Emma protested. "I forgave her the next day."

"I know, but it's a good time to learn a lesson about lawsuits between Christians." She turned to me. "Take the van. Don't worry about putting any gas in it."

WITH A FAMILY OF SEVEN, a large passenger van was a necessity, not a luxury. Daddy selected the model, and Mama chose the color. She loved blue, and our vans were always somewhere between navy and azure. We didn't take long trips. Common destinations were town, church, and the homes of relatives. One of the boys washed the van on Saturday, but it couldn't stay spotless to the bottom of the dirt driveway. A light coat of red Georgia clay immediately coated the back bumper and created a film across the rear window.

I turned left onto Beaver Ruin Road and followed it a mile to a freshly paved two-lane highway. The highway zigzagged across the hills of north Georgia, making sure no crossroad was left out. I knew every curve and dip of the route well enough to navigate it in a driving thunderstorm. I reached the edge of town. Powell Station had a single main street with two red lights, a business district three blocks long, and a U.S. post office. For travelers, it was a forgotten slow spot in the road. To me, it was the hub of our lives.

Oscar Callahan was the only lawyer in town and jokingly claimed a monopoly on a business that didn't pay well. However, he'd made enough money to build a large home surrounded by a fifty-acre pasture where Angus cattle grazed in idyllic contentment. Kyle thought the lawyer's stock was the best of the breed in the area.

The basis for Mr. Callahan's success was his representation of workers injured in the small manufacturing plants, textile mills, and chicken processing facilities scattered across the region. If a worker sprained a knee, hurt a hand, or ruptured a lumbar disc, Mr. Callahan got the case. Insurance defense lawyers from Atlanta came north to litigate against him at their peril.

I first met Mr. Callahan when I was ten years old and Mama took me to his office for a field trip. He took an immediate interest in me, and that first field trip led to other visits during which we talked about everything from the U.S. Constitution to what it was like inside the county jail. When I graduated from high school, he sent me a check for a hundred dollars along with a note telling me I could become a lawyer if I wanted to.

Mr. Callahan's roots in Powell Station ran deep. His grandfather was one of the most famous preachers in the early days of our church. The lawyer and his wife attended a more traditional congregation, but he understood people like my parents and me.

I parked the van in front of a corner building at one of the two traffic lights. Mr. Callahan had remodeled the plain brick structure years before and installed nice wooden double doors with his name, "Oscar Callahan-Attorney at Law," in large brass letters across the top. The building was painted white. Even after the paint began to chip, it was a classy place. Everybody in town considered his office a landmark.

The inside of the building was cool on even the hottest days. It was the coolness of the interior that impressed me as a little girl. Our house didn't have air-conditioning, and we survived summer with fans that did little more than circulate the heat. The church sanctuary was air-conditioned, but people supplemented the anemic system with funeral home fans. Mr. Callahan didn't concern himself with what he had to pay the electric co-op. The oversized cooling unit behind the building never stopped humming.

Thick, deep carpet covered the floor beneath my feet. A leather sofa and eight chairs lined the wall. Neat rows of sporting, hunting, and women's interest magazines were displayed on a coffee table. Mrs. Murphy, a gray-haired woman, sat in the corner of the room behind a dark wooden desk. A man in overalls was talking to her. I stepped toward her desk but kept a respectful distance.

"Either Harriet or I will call you as soon as your settlement check comes in and set up a time for Mr. Callahan to meet with you," Mrs. Murphy said to the man.

"When do you think it will get here?" the man asked. "My wife's got her eye on a new double-wide, and we don't want it to get away."

"Within a couple of weeks."

"That might be too late."

"Who's selling the trailer to you?"

"Foothills Homes."

"I know Mr. Kilgo. Would you like me to call and let him know what's going on with your case?"

"Yes'm."

The client turned away, and Mrs. Murphy smiled at me.

"Here's your fax," she said, handing me a few sheets of paper. "He just got off the phone, and I'm sure he would like to see you. You look great, very professional."

"Thanks."

Beyond the reception area was a library that also served as a conference room. Opposite the library was Harriet Smith's office. In her early forties, the secretary had worked for Mr. Callahan over twenty years. Beyond the secretary's office were a file room and two smaller, unfinished offices, one of which Mama wanted me to occupy upon graduation from law school. Mr. Callahan had never brought up the subject during the short stints I'd worked at his office organizing files. However, he'd agreed to serve as a reference on my resume.

The door to the lawyer's office was open, and I could see his feet propped up on the corner of his desk. A tall man, Oscar Callahan was sixty years old with a full head of white hair and intense, dark eyes. It was easy to imagine his grandfather as a fiery preacher. Mr. Callahan looked over his gold-rimmed reading glasses and rose to his feet.

"Welcome, Tammy Lynn," he boomed out. "It appears the transformation into sophisticated lawyer is well on its way."

Mr. Callahan motioned for me to take a seat. The lawyer had large hands that he used to emphasize points in conversation. He laid his glasses on his desk and pointed at the papers in my hand.

"Did you get your fax?"

"Yes sir."

"Is it from Savannah?"

"Yes sir," I answered in surprise.

Mr. Callahan nodded. "Joe Carpenter called me about you the other day. We were in law school together. He's a tight-lipped blue blood from the coast, and I'm the wild-eyed son of the red clay hills, but we've always gotten along fine. I've seen him at bar association meetings over the years. Did he offer you a summer job?"

I held up the papers. "Yes sir, I think so, but I haven't read the terms."

"Well, an offer is like bait on a hook. It doesn't count for anything unless a fish bites it. Look it over while I finish reviewing this medical report."

Mr. Callahan put on his glasses and resumed reading. I looked down at the three sheets of paper in my hand. Even the fax cover sheet had a classy look. I turned to the next page, titled "Summer Clerk-Offer Memorandum." My eyes opened wide at the amount of money I would be paid. The weekly salary would be greater than what I would make in two grueling weeks, including overtime, at the chicken plant.