Robert Whitlow: Deeper Water

Sincerely, Joseph P. Carpenter

"Mama," I screamed. "I have a job!" I rushed into the kitchen and tried to hand her the letter. "Read this!"

"Calm down and wait a minute," she said, maintaining her grip on the large knife in her right hand. "I'm in the middle of chopping onions for the squash."

"I'll read it to you!"

I sat at the kitchen table, an oversize picnic table painted white, and in a breathless voice read the letter. Mama scraped the onions into the saucepan.

"Read it again," she said when I finished.

Mama sat across from me and wiped her hands with a dish towel. I read the letter more slowly.

"And here at the top it says the firm was founded by Mr. Benjamin Braddock in 1888."

"Are you sure it's a job offer? It sounds to me like they just want to talk to you about it."

"They wouldn't contact me this late in the school year if they didn't have a job. Maybe someone backed out and a spot opened for me."

Mama repositioned one of the hairpins that held her dark hair in a tight bun. She hadn't cut her hair in years, and when freed it fell to her waist. Mama and I shared the same hair color, brown eyes, tall, slender frame, and angular features. It always made her smile when someone mentioned how alike we looked. As a single woman, I was allowed to cut my hair, but it still fell past my shoulders. I only wore it in a bun on Sunday mornings.

"Why would they offer you a job?" she asked. "They haven't even met you."

"I laid my hands on the stack of letters and prayed before I mailed them. Then I thanked God for every rejection that came in. He saw my heart and came through at the last moment."

"Maybe, but I'm not comfortable with you claiming his approval so quickly. We need to talk about this. Savannah is on the other end of the state. How far away is it?"

"I don't know." I looked up at the clock on the wall beside the refrigerator. It was 5:10 p.m. "I should call right now and find out if this really is a job offer. That way we can talk it over with Daddy and not guess about anything."

Mama returned to the stove. I waited.

"Go ahead," she sighed. "You're at the edge of the river and need to know what's on the other side."

The only telephone in the house was in my parents' bedroom. When I stopped homeschooling in the ninth grade and went to public high school, Mama never had to worry about me having secret phone conversations late at night. She needn't have worried anyway. Most of my calls were about basketball practice and homework assignments.

I hit the numbers for the unfamiliar area code followed by the seven-digit phone number. The phone rang three times. Maybe the firm didn't answer calls after 5:00 p.m. Then, a silky voice spoke.

"Good afternoon, Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter."

The sound made my mouth suddenly go dry.

"Ms. Gerry Patrick, please."

"May I tell her who is calling?"

"Tami Taylor. That's T-a-m-i."

I couldn't believe I'd spelled my first name. I stifled a giggle while the receptionist put me on hold and let me stew like Mama's squash and onions. I rehearsed my next lines to avoid another longdistance embarrassment. A more mature-sounding female voice came on the line.

"Gerry Patrick."

"Good afternoon, Ms. Patrick. This is Tami Taylor, a second-year law student at the University of Georgia. I received a letter from Mr. Carpenter about a summer clerk position. He told me to contact you."

There was a brief pause. "I have your resume, but all summer job offers go through my office. I'd know if the firm sent you a letter."

My mouth went dry. "Could you check with Mr. Carpenter?"

"Yes, I want to get to the bottom of this myself."

A much longer pause followed. I counted the red tulips on the top border of the faded wallpaper in my parents' bedroom and prayed that Mr. Carpenter hadn't left for the day. Finally, Ms. Patrick spoke.

"It's fortunate for you that you called. I'd signed a stack of rejections this afternoon without knowing Mr. Carpenter made a copy of your resume. Your turndown letter was in the mail room."

"Thank you." I swallowed. "Do you know why he offered me a job?"

"Not a clue. Mr. Carpenter isn't here, but his assistant confirmed the letter. Are you interested in the position?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'll e-mail the details."

"Uh, I'm home on spring break, and we don't have a computer with an Internet connection."

I felt my face flush. The only computer in the house was an outdated one used for educational programs with the twins. Powell Station didn't boast a coffee shop with Wi-Fi.

"Do you have access to a fax machine?" Ms. Patrick asked.

I frantically racked my brain for a solution. "No ma'am. Would it be all right if I called you in the morning? By then I'll be able to track down a way for you to send the information."

"I'm usually here by nine o'clock. These jobs don't stay open for long."

"Yes ma'am."

I hung up the phone. Challenges raised by my family's lifestyle weren't new. Daddy always said obstacles were opportunities for personal character growth. However, that didn't keep routine problems from causing pain. I returned to the kitchen.

"I talked to Ms. Patrick, the office manager. It's a real job," I announced with reduced enthusiasm.

"What details did she give you?"

"She's going to send me information as soon as I figure out a way she can transmit it." I didn't mention the disdain I sensed in Ms. Patrick's voice.

"And that won't tell you anything about these people or their values, morals, beliefs, lifestyles."

I tried to sound casually optimistic. "No ma'am, but it's just a summer job at a law firm in Savannah. What could be wrong with that? I'll only be there for a few months, and it will give me an idea what to expect in a real law-"

"We'll talk it over with your father when he gets home," Mama interrupted.

I shut my mouth. When Mama invoked the title "father," it meant nothing could be discussed until he arrived.

We would be eating chicken and dumplings for supper. Thick noodles, chicken broth, and a few chunks of chicken went a long way toward feeding our large family. The slightly sweet smell of the dumplings competed with the pungent onions in the squash.

"Do you need help with supper?" I asked, leaning on the counter and sniffing.

"No, thanks. Everything is cooking. Why don't you check on the twins? I left them working on an essay."

I WAS ELEVEN YEARS OLD when Ellie and Emma were born, and we'd shared a bedroom since the first day they came home from the hospital. With preteen excitement about everything related to babies, I welcomed them into my world with open arms and a room decorated with balloons and a white poster board proudly announcing the girls' names in fancy script surrounded by flowers. My enthusiasm was instantly tested by a double dose of demands.

My first job was to change the girls' diapers and take them to Mama for the middle-of-the-night feeding. For months, I slept in fits and starts as I listened to the tiny infants sniffle and snort while I wondered whether they were hungry or feeling an uncomfortable gas bubble. If one cried, the sound immediately became stereo. But I didn't complain. Every child was a blessing from God.

Daddy put an old rocking chair in my bedroom, and my arms grew accustomed to holding the babies close to my heart. I kissed their heads enough to wear off the newborn fuzz. Later, when they were toddlers, they often ended up in my bed, especially on cold winter nights when the best warmth is found in closeness to a loved one.

Now, they welcomed me home with hand-drawn pictures and silly poems. The three of us couldn't fit in my bed, but we still enjoyed sitting in our pajamas on the circular rug on our bedroom floor and talking in the moonlight until the little girls' eyelids drooped.