I remembered an older rule of hospitality.
'Would you like a warm bottle of water?' I asked. 'I haven't been to the grocery store and don't have anything in the refrigerator.'
'No, thanks.'
'I need one.'
I took a bottle from one of my boxes. It was tepid from the ride in the truck.
'I didn't see your convertible out front,' Zach said.
'It was a rental. My daddy brought me and my belongings in a pickup truck this morning. We finished unloading a few minutes ago, and he's headed home.' I pointed to the boxes on the floor. 'All I have to do is unpack. There isn't much to do. I'll save most of the work until tomorrow.'
Zach looked around. 'The apartment is nice.'
'Yes, and please understand I wasn't making fun of Mrs. Fairmont's mental condition. The reason I'm living here is to help take care of her.'
'That's what Gerry Patrick told me.'
I stared at Zach Mays. I'd never invited a man into my apartment at school. In my confusion about his voice, I'd allowed him across an invisible line without realizing it.
'We should go upstairs,' I said quickly. 'Mrs. Fairmont may be wondering what's going on.'
I inwardly kicked myself at the wording of my last comment and stood up.
'Do you laugh a lot?' Zach asked.
'Only when something funny happens, usually to me.'
'Are you going to let that side of you come out at the law firm?'
'I doubt it. And I can promise you one thing-I won't make the mistake of thinking Mr. Braddock paging me on the office intercom is the voice of God.' I stepped toward the door. 'We really should be joining Mrs. Fairmont. It's rude not to.'
Zach's motorcycle riding boots clunked on the stairs. I peeked into the den. The elderly woman was sleeping in her chair with a black-and-white movie blaring from the TV. I touched my lips with my index finger and quietly entered the room. The remote control was on a stand beside Mrs. Fairmont's chair. Flip was curled up at her feet. When he saw me, he jumped up and growled, but I leaned over and scratched the back of his neck. With my other hand, I picked up the remote and turned off the television. Mrs. Fairmont stirred slightly then relaxed. I gently lifted her feet and placed them on an ottoman and positioned two pillows around her so that she wouldn't slip to the side. I gave Flip a final pat on the head and backed out of the room. I motioned for Zach to follow me into the foyer.
After we were safely out of earshot of the den, I said, 'Thanks for stopping by. I'm sorry I acted like such a silly girl.'
'No, it's okay. I'll see you tomorrow morning.'
'Is that when all the other summer clerks begin?'
'The girl from Emory starts then. Vince Colbert has been here for a week.'
'Is he the clerk from Yale?'
'Yes, and he seems like a nice guy. Very smart. He's a Christian too.'
11
MOSES JONES LAY ON HIS BACK ON THE BOTTOM BUNK AND stared at the cheap mattress overhead. The man who'd slept above him since Moses was arrested had gone to trial and not come back. Moses didn't know if that meant his bunkmate had been released to go home or convicted and sent directly to the state penitentiary. He'd heard both stories from his cellmates. Rumors in the cell block were as plentiful as mosquitoes on the marshes of the Ogeechee in July.
Jail had changed a lot since Moses spent six months behind bars for hauling moonshine when he was in his early twenties. The old Chatham County jail had been torn down, replaced by a new one with air-conditioning, an indoor exercise facility, and completely integrated cell blocks. The deputies who arrested Moses drove him past the spot where blood once stained the curb. Moses turned his head and stared for a few seconds at the place that still refused to give up its secret.
In the new jail, prisoners with white, black, or brown skin lived close together. English and Spanish profanity shared equal airtime. There was tension between the three groups, but nothing as bad as the racial hatred Moses experienced in his younger years.
Moses' boss, Tommy Lee Barnes, couldn't have run his bolita racket without black runners, but they had to dodge beer bottles, curse words, and racist remarks to collect their fees. Eventually, Barnes was arrested for aggravated assault and spent two years at the Reidsville penitentiary in a ten-by-ten cell filled with men of different races. Moses heard that confinement with a black man caused the heart attack that ultimately killed the gambling kingpin.
Now, men of all races in the cell block shared one common physical characteristic-body art. The quality of images varied. A prisoner might have a flower worthy of Monet on his forearm and a tiger that resembled an anemic house cat on his shoulder. One man in the next bunk had a grim Reaper on his back that he'd asked a local tattoo artist to transform into a motorcycle rider. The result was a wreck that left no survivors. Moses was the only one in his cell block without adornment. The only marks on his wrinkled black skin were from long-forgotten fights and scrapes in the woods. Because of Moses' age, no one bothered him.
Soon after he arrived, Moses was given the task of emptying all the trash cans in the building. It took two hours, twice a day, to complete his rounds pushing a gray plastic buggy through the cell blocks, bathrooms, offices, and food service areas. He often hummed softly to himself while he worked. All the wasted food bothered him. When he cooked at his shack by the river, he never had any leftovers except skin and bones.
Moses dumped the trash into a large container behind the dining hall. When he went outside, he always peeked through the fence at his boat. It was in exactly the same place, chained to a light pole. The chain comforted him. It was a shiny new one, much stronger than the one he owned, and it would be hard for anyone to steal the boat. Some of the cars in the lot only stayed a night. Others had been there since the first time Moses peered through the fence.
Two days after his arrest, Moses talked to a young black detective for a long time. He told him about the faces in the water. The detective listened and wrote things down on a sheet of paper. He refused to tell Moses when he might be released to go home. Weeks passed. The old man felt as if he'd been dropped into a hole in the bank of the river and forgotten. His soul needed to sing, but there wasn't a solitary place to do it.
At least he had plenty to eat. The meat dishes weren't as tasty as fresh fish dipped in cornmeal and fried in a skillet over a kerosene fire, but institutional food kept away hunger. Dessert was the best part of the meals. Moses only had a few teeth left in his mouth, but he joked that all of them were sweet.
I WOKE UP EARLY and quietly left the house for a morning run. Included in my loop was a jog past Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. I slowed my pace as I passed the office. It was barely light outside, and there weren't any cars in the parking lot. I remembered my prayer a few weeks earlier in Powell Station.
'Make this a place of praise,' I said.
I enjoyed a burst of energy as I ran around Forsyth Park and back to Mrs. Fairmont's house. There was no sign of Mrs. Fairmont. I drank two glasses of water and took a banana downstairs. I sat at the wrought-iron table outside my bedroom, ate the banana, and prayed.
After I showered, I put on my blue suit. The first day of work was a time to look my best. With my hair spilling past my shoulders, the only thing out of ordinary about my appearance was the absence of makeup. I applied just enough lipstick to slightly enhance the color of my lips.
When I went upstairs Mrs. Fairmont wasn't in the den or the kitchen. I approached the bottom of the stairs and looked up. It didn't feel right leaving the house for the day without telling her good-bye. I put my foot on the first step and debated whether to go upstairs. I didn't want to invade Mrs. Fairmont's privacy. Flip appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down at me.
'Is she awake?' I whispered.
