Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"May I take a look?"

"Sure."

Still carrying Flip, I stepped across the living area into a bedroom with French double doors that opened onto a brick patio with a wrought-iron table. There was an old brass bed that looked like it hadn't been used in years.

"It has a nice view of the garden, but it sure doesn't look like a palace," I said without thinking.

"Christine is prone to exaggeration, as I'm sure you've noticed if you've been around her more than five minutes." Mrs. Fairmont sniffed. "She claims this house is worth three times what I paid for it."

I recalled Mrs. Bartlett's statement as "four times" but kept my mouth shut.

Mrs. Fairmont took Flip from my arms. The little dog licked her chin.

"Nice kisses," she said. "Now show us how you got your name."

She put the dog on the floor and made a circle with her right index finger. The Chihuahua stepped forward and did a backward somersault. It happened so fast that I didn't get a good look.

"Will he do it again?" I asked.

Mrs. Fairmont swirled her finger and Flip obliged. She leaned over and patted him on the head.

"I've never seen a dog do that," I said.

"He's a smart boy."

"What else can he do?"

"Love me," Mrs. Fairmont said, looking at me with her blue eyes. "When no one else does."

She gave Flip a treat and closed the door to the room. I listened for a moment but didn't hear any scratching or whining. We returned upstairs. The coffee on my dress now felt clammy against my legs. Mrs. Bartlett was in the hallway near the kitchen. She had a cordless phone in her hand.

"I can't get Gracie," she said, clicking off the phone.

"I said that I'd be glad to finish cleaning up," I said, trying not to sound disrespectful. "All I'll need are paper towels, a broom, and a dustpan."

"Gracie moved all the cleaning supplies to the closet near the porch," Mrs. Fairmont said.

I followed Mrs. Bartlett through a small formal dining room. Before reaching the porch, we came to a space designed as a coat closet. I grabbed what I needed, returned to the parlor, and began cleaning up the mess. Mrs. Fairmont sat down and rested her head against the back of the chair.

"All this commotion has taken away all my energy," she said. "I need to lie down for a few minutes."

"Not yet. We're not finished with our visit," Mrs. Bartlett replied. She pointed across the room. "Tami, I see a splatter of coffee all the way over there."

I went to the kitchen, moistened some of the paper towels, and while the two women watched, cleaned the floor, pushing the bits of glass into a single pile.

"You missed some glass beneath Mother's chair," Mrs. Bartlett said.

I turned on my knees so that my rear end was facing Mrs. Bartlett to hide the laughter threatening to explode. I didn't mind cleaning up the mess, but Mrs. Bartlett's bossiness was a comedy of the absurd.

"I need to moisten some more towels," I said as I stood and left the room.

I reached the kitchen, a compact room at the rear of the house, and let myself giggle for a few seconds.

From the kitchen sink I could see more of the small formal gar den with its carefully manicured shrubbery and an array of spring flowers. A brick walkway wound through the garden that featured a fountain in the middle-a great place to read the Bible and pray. I turned off the water along with my daydream. I had no idea whether I should live in the house or not.

At the entrance to the parlor, I heard Mrs. Fairmont say, "What on earth gave her that idea? To presume after one visit that I would want her to live-"

"Oh, Tami," Mrs. Bartlett interrupted. "Thanks so much for helping us clean up this mess. You're a dear to do it and come to the aid of two helpless old women."

"You're welcome."

I resumed my work without any desire to laugh. I didn't mind being a servant, but Mrs. Bartlett's deception and supercilious statements about helplessness after she'd bragged about her golf game and long walks on the beach made me mad. I used the broom and dustpan to scoop up the broken pieces. Mrs. Fairmont didn't speak a word. A few more wipes of wet paper towel across the floor, and no sign of the morning's disaster remained. I looked up and saw Mrs. Bartlett mouthing words to her mother. I wanted to stuff a washcloth into Mrs. Bartlett's mouth.

"What should I do with the dirty cloths?" I asked icily.

"There's a clothes drop at the end of the hall," Mrs. Bartlett said. "Follow me."

As soon as we left the room, Mrs. Bartlett turned to me. "Give me a few minutes alone with Mother. She's ecstatic about the idea of you staying with her, but we need to work out the details in private."

"That's not what…," I began, but Mrs. Bartlett was gone.

I found the dirty-clothes drop. Mrs. Bartlett's subterfuge was an out-and-out lie, and I had to set the record straight. If honesty destroyed the chance to stay rent-free in a beautiful house, then there had to be a low-rent apartment on a bus line somewhere in Savannah. I returned to the parlor. The two women were sitting in silence. I could feel the tension. I moved to the edge of a cream sofa and started to sit down.

"Stop it!" Mrs. Bartlett cried out. "Don't sit down."

I jumped to my feet and looked around.

"Your dress is drenched in coffee," Mrs. Bartlett said. "It might bleed onto the sofa."

"Get a towel for her to sit on," Mrs. Fairmont said.

Mrs. Bartlett looked at her mother. "But I thought-"

"Get a towel from the upstairs linen closet," her mother insisted.

Mrs. Bartlett turned to me. "We won't be staying long. I'm sure you'd like to change out of that dress and into something clean."

Mrs. Bartlett left the room. As soon as her footsteps could be heard going up the stairs, I spoke rapidly.

"Mrs. Fairmont, I didn't come here to invite myself to live in your house. That's not the way I was raised. The office manager at the law firm gave my name to your daughter because I've helped take care of people with health problems in the past. I talked on the phone with Mrs. Bartlett, and she was kind enough to arrange my trip to Savannah. She even rented a car and put me up at the bed-andbreakfast on Abercorn Street last night. I completely understand if you don't want a houseguest for the-"

"Ken arranged for the car and lodging," Mrs. Fairmont interrupted. "If you ask me, he's a saint for putting up with Christine. Fortunately, the boys take after their father."

"Yes ma'am. But I want to be completely honest with you. This meeting was a setup."

Mrs. Fairmont eyed me as she had at the door upon my arrival.

"Do you like Flip?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am."

"More important," she said with emphasis, "he likes you. I've never seen him take to a stranger like he has to you."

"I'm used to being around animals. They know a lot more than we give them credit for."

"Yes, they do. How long will you be in Savannah this summer?"

I gave her the dates of my employment with the law firm.

"Would you be willing to stay in the downstairs apartment?"

"Yes ma'am," I said, startled.

Mrs. Fairmont leaned forward. "If you stay downstairs, it means Flip will have to sleep with me."

"Yes ma'am," I replied, smiling. "It would be a sacrifice on your part, but you would have no other reasonable option."

"And you're not wanting to be paid anything?"

"No ma'am. Although I'll be willing to help around the house."

"You've proven that this morning when you didn't have to."

Mrs. Bartlett returned with a peach-colored bath towel in her hand. "Will this one do? It was underneath the nice ones."

Mrs. Fairmont nodded. "Yes, and Miss Taylor and I have agreed that she will spend the summer with me."

Mrs. Bartlett's mouth dropped open. "But you were adamant-"