Robert Whitlow: Deeper Water

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.