Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope by Robert Whitlow Page B

correct her.”
    I went upstairs and put on a blue-striped cotton dress that I’d left at home when I moved to Savannah. It was lightweight, yet nice enough for a house visit on a warm summer day. I slipped on a pair of white sandals and brushed my hair. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d changed outfits so many times by the middle of the day.
    When I returned downstairs Zach was washing his hands in the utility sink. I saw him splash his face and rub the back of his neck. Thinking he should have closed the door, I quickly looked away. He came into the kitchen drying his face with a hand towel. Mama had a paper grocery sack of fresh-picked corn on the counter.
    “Take this corn,” she said. “I don’t think they’ve been able to keep up a garden this year.”
    “Should I change clothes?” Zach asked.
    “No, you may have to manhandle one of the steers,” Mama re-plied. “Black Angus can be stubborn.”
    I glanced at Mama in surprise.
    “I’m kidding,” she replied.
    Mama’s efforts at humor were so infrequent I didn’t know how to react.
    “Run along,” she continued with a nervous cough. “Go straight to the Callahan place and return. No side trips.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Kyle kept his truck beside the equipment shed. Zach held the door open for me. The gentlemanly gesture seemed out of place out here in the country. The door groaned and popped as it swung wide. There was a clean towel draped across the passenger seat.
    “I saw something you might not want to sit on,” he said.
    “What?”
    “Nothing alive. Just some grease and dirt.”
    Zach started the engine and slowly let out the clutch. The truck jumped forward, causing the trailer to jerk. The engine died.
    “Do you know how to drive a straight shift?”
    “Only on a motorcycle. But then, I’m a fast learner. It’s the same principle.”
    “There’s no shame in letting me drive.”
    “Give me another chance.”
    I sat back in my seat. Zach started the motor, revved the engine higher, and let out the clutch. The truck shot across the yard, veering toward the basketball goal.
    “Look out!” I screamed.
    Zach slammed on the brakes and slowed the truck but forgot to push in the clutch. The truck lurched several times, then died. Zach leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel.
    “I’d do worse if I tried to drive your motorcycle,” I offered.
    “Okay. Your turn.”
    We exchanged places, and I slipped behind the wheel.
    “And if we were in Los Angeles, I wouldn’t be able to drive any-where,” I added, trying to assuage his male ego.
    Zach didn’t answer. I drove around to the front of the house. Flip and Ginger ran alongside barking.
    “Are they mocking me?” Zach asked.
    “No.” I chuckled. “I need to run into the house and get my license.”
    Leaving Zach in the truck, I went inside. When I returned, he was behind the wheel.
    “One more try,” he begged. “I’ve been visualizing it in my mind.”
    “You don’t have anything to prove to me.”
    “This is for me.”
    I got in the truck. He gingerly engaged the clutch. With a slight jerk, the truck rolled forward with the trailer bouncing along behind.
    “Now we’re on our way,” Zach said.
    He pushed in the clutch and pulled the shifter backward. Deep in the gearbox there was a collision somewhere between second and fourth gears. The grinding noise was so loud I covered my ears. Zach quickly pushed in the clutch and turned off the engine.
    “End of lesson one. You take over,” he said.
    I drove to the end of the driveway and turned northward onto the highway. I smoothly shifted into second gear, then, for fun, slightly gunned the engine between second and third.
    “Show-off,” Zach said. “Pride is a sin.”

7
    SISTER DABNEY OWNED FOUR WOODEN ROCKING CHAIRS. SHE kept one in her bedroom, another in the living room, a third on the front porch, and the oldest on the platform in the church. Each one was painted a different color: bedroom,