Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"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."

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 spoke. "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.