Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"Multi-infarct dementia."

"It sounds horrible, but she just has moments when things don't click right. My brother and I think it would be nice if someone stayed with her at night. The cleaning lady is at the house three or four times a week, and her gardener checks on her every time he comes by to water the flowers and take care of the bushes, but that doesn't cover the evening hours. She keeps one of those things around her neck at night in case she falls and can't get to the phone, but her problems are mental, not physical."

"Does she remember to check in with the monitoring service in the morning?"

"Half the time, I don't think she calls them. She's so fixated on getting that first cup of coffee that nothing and no one can stand in her way. We both drink it black and strong and love Jamaican blue. That's probably one reason her heart is acting up."

"What's wrong with her heart?"

"It races away every so often, but she's never had a heart attack. The biggest problem is her high blood pressure. That's the cause of the multiproblem thing."

"What medications is she taking?"

"Goodness, I don't know what they're all for. Of course, she takes something for high blood pressure, a pill to regulate her heart rate, and a blood thinner, but the doctors are always switching things around so much that I can't keep up with them. All that information is written on the door of the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. Gracie, the woman who cleans the house, fills up Mother's pillbox on Monday."

"How often do you see her?"

"I pick her up for lunch every week or so. For years she was so wrapped up in her own social circle that she didn't have time for mine. Recently, her friends have been dying off left and right. I've taken her to two funerals in the last six weeks. It's sad when the fabric of life begins to unravel. I never want to get to the place where I embarrass myself in public. Better to go with dignity."

"Christine," Mr. Bartlett interrupted. "Don't you think it would be a good idea to invite Ms. Taylor to meet your mother?"

"Absolutely," Mrs. Bartlett responded. "I've enjoyed this chat on the phone, but there's nothing like meeting in person. I realize you'll only be here for a short time this summer, but we still need to convince Mother that it's a good idea to have a live-in caregiver."

"You haven't asked her?"

"Not yet. I'm still planning my strategy. The last time she had a houseguest was when Nicholas Harrington moved in and tried to convince her to marry him. My brother had to fly in from Majorca to settle that problem and send him on his way. I can tell her she's doing you a favor by letting you spend the summer. That will keep her from suspecting the truth."

"I think it would be better-"

"Could you come this weekend?" Mrs. Bartlett continued. "Friday evening would be perfect. Ken and I will put you up at a bed-andbreakfast around the corner from Mother's house. We'll have a light snack at her place on Saturday morning, and after we all meet, you and I will slip away for a private chat in the kitchen. If everything is a go, you can ask Mother to let you spend the summer with her."

"I wouldn't feel comfortable inviting myself-"

"Don't worry. I'll set everything up. I know how to get her to do what I want." Mrs. Bartlett laughed. "She taught me how to get my way, so I learned from the mistress of manipulation. She doesn't even recognize her own tricks when I use them on her. Did Gerry give you the address for the house?"

"No ma'am. And I don't feel comfortable deceiving your mother about the reason for my interest in staying in her home."

"How sweet," Mrs. Bartlett responded. "Mrs. Frady told me you were a deeply religious girl. I think that's admirable. Mother has a lot of antiques and valuable artworks. Everything's insured, of course, but irreplaceable. Before we found Gracie there was a bit of petty thievery going on at the house."

"My concern-"

"And we're not deceiving Mother," Mrs. Bartlett continued. "Just creating a scenario that will work for her good. A circuitous route is often the best way to get from A to Z, and half an explanation cuts down on needless anxiety. Haven't you found that to be true when working with the elderly?"

"Yes. I guess so," I said, remembering my conversation with my parents.

"Don't worry. We'll do everything with integrity."

"Okay, but I'll need to arrange transportation."

"You're not flying, are you?"

"No ma am. I don't have a car. I can try to find a ride to Savannah, but we're just back from spring break, and most students at the law school will be staying on campus this weekend."

I heard muffled voices; then Mr. Bartlett spoke. "Don't worry about it. I'll arrange for a rental car. What time are you finished with classes on Friday?"

"Two o'clock."

"And your address?"

I gave him the information.

"I'll have a car delivered to your place at three on Friday and e-mail you the information about the bed-and-breakfast," he said.

"And I'll be by to pick you up Saturday morning so we can go to Mother's house together," Mrs. Bartlett chimed in. "What's your cell phone number?"

"I don't have a cell phone."

"How in the world do you survive without a cell phone?" Mrs. Bartlett didn't try to conceal her shock.

"I'm sure Mrs. Frady told you I was punctual and reliable in my care for her mother. We worked out a satisfactory arrangement for communication."

"But no cell phone? Why would a young-"

"I look forward to meeting you," Mr. Bartlett cut in. "We'll get in touch with you at the bed-and-breakfast."

Mr. Bartlett ended the call.

I spent a few moments imagining the ongoing conversation between the couple before Mrs. Bartlett calmed down and took another sip of wine. If she thought the absence of a cell phone was an indicator of a radical lifestyle, she was in for a few more lessons once she got to know me better.

NOT MANY PEOPLE IN SAVANNAH REMEMBERED MOSES' FACE OR knew his name. Those who did were dying without anyone to take their places. Only a handful of longtime residents remembered the wiry young black man who always wore a gold Georgia Tech cap. That cap had been Moses' trademark when he was younger and earned him the nickname Buzz. Moses kept the pieces of that hat in a plastic bag at his shack on the river. It reminded him of happier days.

Unlike several of his cousins who spent hours and hours on the pedestrian walkways near the river, Moses never tried to pick up extra money playing sloppy jazz on a pawnshop saxophone or drumming the bottom of five-gallon plastic buckets. Around other people, he contented himself with the once-a-week rattle of a plastic bag full of empty aluminum cans.

Not that he wasn't musical.

Moses sang in church when his great-auntie took him as a boy. She had a fine voice, and Moses didn't hesitate to sing as loud as his ten-year-old vocal cords would let him. He could memorize most songs after hearing them once or twice. His rambunctious singing and outgoing personality attracted the attention of one of the deacons, who recruited him to work for Tommy Lee Barnes. Brother Kelso bragged that he gave ten percent of the money he earned from his take as a ward captain in the bolita racket to the church. It was enough money to earn him a seat of honor on the deacon board until a new pastor came to the church and kicked him out. Moses never tried to be a hypocrite; it took too much energy. His great-auntie died, and the church folks looked the other way when they saw Moses coming.

But a gift given is forever.

Sitting at the edge of a flickering fire on a spring evening, Moses could feel the blues rise up within him like the tidal surge in the nearby river. The first sounds came through his cracked lips with a soulful sigh and hum. Another sigh and longer hum would follow. And then emerged words in rhythm that gave substance to sorrow and turned it into a thing of bittersweet beauty. Moses used the blues to keep despair at bay. And they helped vanquish the sick feeling that came whenever he remembered the blood that once stained his hands.