Tides of Truth [03] Greater Love (6 page)

I leaned forward. She was looking at 1 Corinthians 13.

“It talks about faith, hope, and love,” she continued. “Have you read it recently?”

I’d memorized the chapter but simply nodded.

“My idea of love was too small,” Mrs. Fairmont continued, then began reading in her soft coastal accent: “‘Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”

Mrs. Fairmont looked up from the page. “God’s idea of love is greater than mine. When I tell you and Gracie that I love you, my love should include everything I read. Isn’t that one of the most amazing things you’ve ever heard?”

To hear a woman in her mid-eighties lost in the wonder of newly discovered truth was amazing in itself.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Fairmont closed the Bible. “I’ve put ‘Greater Love’ on the top of my prayer list. I’m praying it for myself and everyone else I know. Do you think that means being so unselfish that you’re willing to die for someone else?”

She yawned before I answered.

“When I get tired there’s no use fighting it,” she said. “If I don’t get to bed in a few minutes, I won’t trust myself to climb the stairs.”

“I’ll let Flip outside for you. Where should I sleep?”

“Gracie cleaned your room for you.”

Flip obediently followed me to the veranda then pattered down a winding wrought-iron staircase to the formal garden. After sniffing around for a few minutes, he climbed the steps in short hops then ran upstairs to Mrs. Fairmont’s room. I carried my suitcase downstairs.

Mrs. Fairmont’s home was three stories in the rear. My bedroom was in a garden apartment that looked out into the garden where Flip had been minutes before. A dog bed surrounded by chew toys lay in the middle of the living area, evidence that Flip had been temporarily banished to the basement room during social events. I crossed the small living area into a bedroom with French double doors that opened onto a brick patio. Gracie had turned back the freshly laundered sheets and placed a small chocolate on my pillow. Moonlight shone in through the double doors.

Beside the bed was an intercom connected to Mrs. Fairmont’s room. It had been installed by Mrs. Bartlett to make sure I could keep tabs on her mother. I pressed the button.

“Good night, Mrs. Fairmont. Everything downstairs is perfect. Thanks again for letting me stay with you.”

I waited. In a few seconds there was a scratchy reply.

“Good night, Tami. I love you.”

I smiled and pressed the Send button. “I love you, too.”

4

J
ESSIE OPENED HER EYES TO THE SOUND OF STRANGE VOICES.
S
HE
jerked her head up. The wooden pallet was surrounded by six brownskinned men with straight black hair. One of them was holding a pine branch he’d used to poke her in the stomach. The men began to speak rapidly in a language Jessie took to be Spanish. Jessie started to jump up and run, but the man with the stick put a rough hand on her shoulder, pushed her back, and shook his head. The other men crowded closer around her, creating a thick-legged wall.

Past the men was a pickup covered with red dust from the dirt road. Jessie could barely make out a faded sign on the side of the truck that read Polk Brothers Lumber Co. Two chain saws were on the ground beside the truck bed. The men continued gesturing and talking. The one with the stick spoke directly to Jessie, who shook her head. A smaller man to her right stepped forward. He bowed his head slightly then smiled, revealing two rows of white teeth. The smile didn’t look menacing.

“You from Hinesville?”

Jessie had heard of the town but shook her head.

“Bainbridge?”

Jessie shook her head. That was too close to where she’d been.

“Savannah?”

Jessie had been to Savannah once with her stepmother. They’d found a place to stay for a few days in a battered women’s shelter. It had been one of the nicer refuges during a difficult time.

“Yes.” Jessie nodded her head.

“Sí, sí.” The man smiled and explained to the others in lengthy terms what he’d discovered.

The man with the stick pointed at Jessie and spoke rapidly. She started to get up, but the man held out his hand in clear indication she was not going to be allowed to walk away. The smaller man spoke.

“You go to Savannah.”

Another man held out his hand and gave her the most beautiful bottle of clear, clean water Jessie had ever seen. She rapidly unscrewed the cap and took a long drink of the delicious liquid. Wiping her mouth, she took another drink while the six men watched in silence. Then the man with the stick spoke again. The others nodded in agreement. Apparently, they’d learned more about her by watching her drink.

“Hungry?” the smaller man asked, pointing to his stomach.

Jessie nodded.

The smaller man spoke to the others. The man who’d given her the water jogged over to the truck and returned with a can of beans and wieners and a plastic spoon. The smaller man pulled a knife from his pocket and used a can opener attachment to cut open the can. He handed it to Jessie. As she took her first bite, several of the men made the sign of the cross on their chests. She mimicked them, which caused another ripple of rapid-fire conversation.

The beans were slightly sweet and the miniature wieners spicy enough to tantalize every taste bud in Jessie’s mouth. The fact that the meal was cold did nothing to lessen her pleasure. As she ate, Jessie began to relax. If the men intended to harm her, it would have already happened. The bottle of water and can of beans communicated what spoken language could not. She looked at the small man and pointed at herself then the truck.

“Take me to Savannah?” she asked.

“Sí, sí.” The man smiled.

“Sí, sí,” she responded.

I
AWOKE EARLY AND PUT ON MY JOGGING OUTFIT.
I’
D RUN REGU
larly since playing basketball in high school. Physical exercise helped clear my mind as well as keep me in good shape.

Quietly leaving Mrs. Fairmont’s house, I stretched and loosened up at the bottom of the front steps. It was surprisingly cool. During summer, the muggy coastal heat loosened its grip for only a few hours before dawn. A weather front had passed through in the night, though, leaving the air this morning mountain crisp. I rubbed my hands together before taking off toward the center of the historic district.

The pre–Revolutionary War area of the city had twenty-one squares. It had taken me weeks to learn my way through the labyrinth of interconnecting streets and alleys. Now I could run in any direction and randomly navigate to East Broad, across to Forsyth Park, and back to Mrs. Fairmont’s house in time for a sprint around Chippewa Square. The flat coastland was an invitation to speed. There was little traffic early on Saturday morning, and I barely checked for cars before shooting across most intersections.

There was nothing like the feeling of wings on my feet as I entered the zone reserved for regular runners in which forward motion isn’t associated with pain or oxygen deprivation. The light pat of my feet on the sidewalks was my only connection with earth, and gravity didn’t seem to be my master. With my mind not distracted by the pain of exertion, it was one of my clearest times for thinking. Today, what became crystal clear was God’s call that I come to Savannah. I knew that already, but the awareness of it while passing through the streets of the city strengthened my confidence even more.

When I finished in front of Mrs. Fairmont’s home, the sun was up, but the streets remained largely deserted. I opened the front door quietly to see Flip waiting on me. After a quick pat, he scampered down the hallway and through the doggie door that led to a small side yard. I went into the kitchen and started a pot of decaf coffee. The pot was almost full when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

“Good morning!” I called out.

The response to my greeting was a loud gasp and the sound of something hitting the wall. I rushed out of the room and saw Mrs. Fairmont leaning against the wall near the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a robe. Her hair was messy and her slippers didn’t match.

“Who’s there?” she said.

“It’s Tami Taylor,” I answered in as calm a voice as I could manage. “I spent the night in the basement apartment.”

Mrs. Fairmont rubbed her eyes. She was grasping something around her neck. I stepped closer. It was the lifeline device used to summon help if she was in distress.

“Where’s Gracie?”

“It’s Saturday. Gracie doesn’t work on the weekends.”

Flip, who was sitting on the floor near Mrs. Fairmont’s right foot, ran over to me. I picked him up and he licked my chin. Lapses of memory weren’t uncommon for the elderly woman, but this one seemed more serious than others.

“Tami?” Mrs. Fairmont repeated.

“Yes, ma’am. You don’t need to push the button to call for help. I’m here.”

“Flip likes you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you have a headache?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to go to the doctor?”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously.

I was willing to force a trip to the hospital but decided to watch her closely for a few minutes.

“I’ve fixed a pot of coffee,” I said softly. “You can take your medication and drink a cup. Come into the kitchen and sit down.”

Mrs. Fairmont shuffled into the room and sat in a narrow chair at a small table in the corner. Her medications were organized in a daily dispenser. I found the bottle of pain pills and shook one out.

“Take this first,” I said, placing it on the table with a cup of water. “It’s a pain pill. I’ll fix your coffee just the way you like it, easy on the cream with an extra touch of sugar.”

Mrs. Fairmont’s fingers trembled slightly as she raised the pill and water to her lips. It was a sad scene, especially after our vibrant conversation the previous night. She swallowed the pill. I placed the cup of coffee in front of her. She put both hands around the cup and took a sip.

“That’s good,” she said with a sigh and closed her eyes. “I heard you downstairs and didn’t know what was going on.”

“I went out for a run,” I answered, then carefully described my route in hope the mention of familiar places would help jump-start her memory. Mrs. Fairmont listened carefully.

“Is the Greenwald house on East Gaston Street still for sale?” she asked.

“Maybe. I saw several Realtor signs. Which house is it?”

Mrs. Fairmont described a wooden, Victorian-style home. “Mrs. Greenwald’s aunt was a friend of my mother.”

“I’m not sure I remember seeing it.”

“I can’t criticize you for that,” the elderly woman said with a sigh. “My memory betrays me all the time.”

Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes looked less hazy. She sniffled and blew her nose on a tissue.

“Would you like breakfast?” I asked, placing her regular medicines in front of her. “I could fix an omelet.”

“No, thank you. I’ll take my medicine then sit in the den and drink this wonderful coffee you made.”

I carried the coffee cup as she walked slowly to her favorite chair. Flip dutifully followed and curled up at her feet.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked, placing a small pillow behind her neck.

“Yes, don’t let me hold you up. I know you must have big plans for the day.”

“Not really. Is your headache going away?”

“What headache?”

I patted her lightly on the shoulder. “Rest while I go downstairs to shower and get dressed for the day.”

When I returned forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes were closed. I quickly checked to make sure she was breathing. Every time I found the older woman sitting in the chair with her eyes shut, I had a moment’s anxiety whether she was alive or dead. Almost imperceptibly, her chest was rising and falling. Her pain pills always made her drowsy.

I lay on a leather couch to read my Bible. Flip joined me, and I let him nestle between my arm and side. Several times during the morning, I took a break to walk around the house for a few minutes. I returned to the couch and picked up my Bible, but nothing I read contained the answer I needed for the job. The words
Braddock
,
Appleby
,
Smith
, and
Feldman
weren’t in the Scriptures. The word
Carpenter
appeared a few times, but not in a context that fit my need. Around 11:00 a.m. Mrs. Fairmont stirred and opened her eyes. I offered up another quick prayer for her mental clarity. She rubbed her eyes and looked at me.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Over three hours.”

“It’s nice having you in the house again. I rest better when I know you’re here. Would you like to live here when you move to Savannah, at least until you find a place of your own?”

My heart leaped that she’d brought up the subject.

“I’d need to discuss it with Mrs. Bartlett.”

“Posh,” Mrs. Fairmont replied. “Christine doesn’t own this house, not yet.”

“Maybe we can talk to her together.”

“We can talk, but as far as I’m concerned you can plan on moving in downstairs and stay as long as you like.”

For lunch I convinced Mrs. Fairmont to share a salad with me. Getting her to eat was a challenge, so I put as much protein in it as I could.

“Could I borrow your car for a couple of hours?” I asked when we finished. “There’s someone I want to visit on the other side of town.”

“Of course, it needs to be driven.”

I left Mrs. Fairmont watching a gourmet cooking show. When I returned, the TV might be tuned to a program hosted by a professional bass-fishing guide. I’d seen the same phenomenon with other older people—their interests widened rather than narrowed, even though the information gleaned would never be put to practical use and might be forgotten within fifteen minutes.

Mrs. Fairmont’s car, a large sedan, had less than fifteen thousand miles on the odometer. She kept it in a detached garage. I’d memorized the address where I wanted to go. As I drew closer, my heart beat a little bit faster.