A Table By the Window

by Lawana Blackwell

  Carley was touched in spite of the discomfort over having Danyell bring up spiritual matters. “I still say you’re gracious. But if Brooke ruins this chance, you can forgive her all you want, but she won’t come back.”

  She waited until 10:30 to dial the Kimball number, hoping Mr. Kimball would not bawl her out again. But it was a woman’s voice on the line, shrill and grating.

  “Brooke ain’t here. She toted some clothes over to the washer-teria on that bike. If ye see her, tell her she fergot the soap powder here on the table.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “I don’t know. Ten minutes ago? Ig-nert girl would ferget her head.”

  Carley went next door to the drugstore and paid almost twice as much for a small box of Gain than the Dollar General would have charged. She walked a block down Main. No bicycle was parked outside Kangaroo Washaroo. The only person inside was the woman attendant, who sent her an apologetic little wave from the half-door in back and resumed talking on the telephone. A dryer made muffled clanking noises, as if a pair of tennis shoes had gotten mixed-up in the laundry. The place smelled of bleach and detergent, not unpleasantly, though Carley could feel the humidity frizzing the ends of her hair.

  “You need some help, honey?” the attendant called with hand over the receiver.

  “No, thank you.”

  From a metal chair she kept watch through the window. Three minutes passed, and then she could see Brooke walking her bicycle, one hand holding steady the white bundle bulging in the basket. Carley opened the door.

  “Carley,” Brooke said thickly.

  “Hi, Brooke.”

  Inside, the girl dropped the bundle to the tile floor, shook her head. “I’m so sorry I ruined your first day.”

  Carley shrugged. “It wasn’t ruined. It just didn’t end very well. Would you like to come back?”

  Hope diluted the misery in the green eyes, just a little. “Are you kidding?”

  “I wouldn’t kid about this. Danyell came over to plead your case, by the way.”

  Brooke’s mouth parted. “I can’t believe it.”

  “The question is…can you restrain yourself from any more scenes?”

  “Yes! Oh, Miss Reed, I’ve beat myself up a hundred times for that.”

  But Carley was not quite ready to close the deal. “What you called Danyell…”

  The girl’s cheeks flushed. “I know.”

  “That can’t happen again, Brooke.”

  “It won’t. I promise.”

  “Well, maybe it would help if you stopped thinking of her that way. And again, if it weren’t for Danyell, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Brooke nodded gravely. “I want to tell her I’m sorry. Do you know where she lives?”

  “Save it for tomorrow. Let her enjoy the rest of her day off.” Carley motioned toward the bag in the chair. “By the way, I brought you some detergent.”

  ****

  “Just like that?” Dale said, rinsing a colander of whole-wheat penne pasta, cooked al dente.

  With a knife tip, Carley scooped the liquid and seeds from a large quartered tomato. Six pods of garlic lay in a corner of the cutting board, waiting to be minced. “Well, there’s more to it than that. She’s on probation.”

  “I hope she’s learned her lesson.” He began wiping baby portobello mushrooms with a wet paper towel. “But you’d better have a backup plan this time.”

  “Well, Uncle Rory offered to come help me out.”

  When Dale gave her a sidelong look, she smiled back. “Don’t worry. I would hire Renee Brown before I did that to him.”

  In a large high-sided skillet he sautéed the garlic in olive oil before adding the minced tomato, chopped mushrooms, and several shredded basil leaves. A small bottle of drained capers came next, then he added the pasta to the pan and tossed it until the mixture was warm.

  “I bought parmesan cheese too,” Dale said, taking the glasses from the cabinet. “Just in case you want it on yours.”

  “You did that for me?”

  “Yes. I violated the sanctity of my refrigerator with a dairy product.”

  She wondered if all men were so thoughtful. They carried their plates and iced tea into the living room, and Dale loaded the movie into the VCR. The first scene, of Hawkeye and his adopted father and brother chasing a deer through a forest, stirred a memory.

  “I’d like to see your land,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, just because. It must be pretty, if you plan to build on it.”

  “It’s a long way from being ready for that.” He sighed. “Okay, I’ll take you to have a look sometime. But you’ll be disappointed.”

  The movie rolled on. He paused it when the telephone rang.

  “A big day here in the sticks,” he said, replacing the receiver. “Lassie comes home.”

  When she gave him a blank look, he said, “Lassie. It was this dog…”

  “I know who Lassie was.”

  “Sorry. That was Marti, reporting that a farmer on Rocky Branch Road caught a boxer puppy that had escaped from his owners on Fourth Street.”

  Carley rose and picked up the two plates. “That’s good to hear.”

  “I’ll get the glasses. It’s just not very exciting.”

  She turned. “Well, then, here, take the plates instead.”

  He laughed. “You know what I meant. I’ll bet the San Francisco Police Department doesn’t get calls about stray dogs.”

  “San Francisco has over seven hundred thousand people, Dale.” She rinsed the plates under the tap. “But if you want more excitement, why don’t you move? You didn’t commit to a certain length of time here, did you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “With your resumé, I’ll bet you could go anywhere. You might have to start lower than chief, but if it’s excitement you want…”

  “Excitement’s not everything.” He handed her the towel. “I’m just grousing about my job, like most fellows do now and then. Don’t pay me any mind.”

  “All right.” She dried her hands. “I could rob the bank for you.”

  That made him laugh again. His smile remained as he met her eyes. “You’re good for me, Carley. You know that?”

  She could feel warmth in her face. “Thank you.”

  “Hence, another reason for me to stay in Tallulah.”

  He looked seriously poised to kiss her. The quickening of her heartbeat signaled it would not be such a bad thing to happen. She thought of what Aunt Helen had said about moving too quickly. One kiss, and their relationship would jump to another level. If she decided later it was a mistake, there could be no going back to the comfortable friendship they enjoyed now.

  She broke eye contact, folded the towel, and set it on the cabinet, pretending not to be aware of what had just transpired between them, even though the knowledge hung heavy in the air.

  After the movie he walked her out to her car. And then he did kiss her. On the cheek. Casually, lightly. As one friend might kiss another, but with a smile that said he understood what she was going through. That meant more to her than any passionate kiss at the kitchen sink would have meant.

  And he bought parmesan cheese, she thought, backing out of the driveway, watching him raise a farewell hand in the perimeter of his porch light.

  ****

  Brooke arrived at work Tuesday with a package about half the size of a shoe box, wrapped in pink paper sprigged with violets. “It’s for Danyell,” she explained sheepishly. “I wanted to buy you one too, but you said not to give you gifts.”

  Maybe this was going to work out after all. Carley smiled approval. “Danyell’s the one who deserves it anyway. That was very thoughtful of you, Brooke.”

  The girl shrugged but looked relieved, and she took her uniform into the restroom to change.

  Danyell accepted the gift graciously, even though it turned out to be a garish bisque angel with gilt-dipped wings and exaggerated facial features that spoke more of a foreign ass
embly line rather than deliberate insult.

  “It was the only…colored angel they had,” Brooke said anxiously.

  “She’s beautiful,” Danyell said.

  That set the tone for the day. Business was not quite as heavy as Saturday, but weekends were the busiest times for most restaurants. The good percentage of repeat patrons was encouraging, as well as antique shoppers expressing delight over learning of such a place.

  One repeat patron was game warden Don Moore—her neighbor Ruby’s ex-husband. He was handsome in a Greek-statue sort of way, with finely chiseled tanned face and wavy dark hair. An oily drawl canceled out his Greek-statue aura. “I hear you’re from California,” he said with arms folded at the counter, leaning into Carley’s comfort zone.

  “San Francisco,” she replied with a polite smile, handing him the credit card receipt and a pen. “I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

  He signed his name. “I enjoy the scenery more.”

  “Thank you.” She handed over his copy of the receipt. “The Stillmans are fine painters. Have a good day.”

  Mrs. Sparks telephoned from the high school. “Are you set up for takeout orders now?”

  “I am,” Carley replied. In fact, the elementary vice-principal had telephoned twelve minutes earlier. During training, Carley had dropped off menus in the offices of all three schools.

  ****

  “When will your washing machine be repaired?” Carley asked Brooke after closing.

  “It needs more than repairing. And Dad’s not gonna buy a new one. Not when they can just send me out.”

  “Can he afford one?”

  The girl’s face clouded. “If you can afford two cases of Old Milwaukee every week, you can afford a washer.”

  Carley reached for the bag holding Brooke’s soiled uniforms. “Here, I’ll take care of that.”

  “Oh, no…” Brooke said.

  “Just listen to your boss. It’s no big deal to toss them in with my wash until the situation changes.”

  It was no big deal, as far as the amount of work involved, but Carley understood the tears lustering Brooke’s eyes. Having an alcoholic parent caused tremendous pressure that created such things as temper tantrums over seemingly small things—like a broken dish. Little acts of thoughtfulness, even from strangers, were valves that released some of that pressure.

  Business slackened during a rainstorm Wednesday at noon, yet some of the town-hall employees sprinted over beneath umbrellas. Averil, Rita, and Samantha Stillman came in on their way to midweek church services that evening. A window table happened to be unoccupied, and Carley ushered them to it before Samantha could whisper in her father’s ear. Dale came again with Garland—who ordered the beef Wellington sandwich this time.

  Neal Henderson came with his mother for lunch on Thursday. Carley watched the two struggle over what he should order while Paula stood patiently with pad in hand. “This looks good, honey,” Mrs. Henderson said, pointing to a graphic of the chicken salad croissant, her fifth or sixth suggestion. “In fact, I’m going to have that.”

  “What does Brooke like to eat?” Neal asked Paula.

  Paula looked up at Carley, who smiled and nodded toward the double doors. The waitress escorted the boy to the kitchen; he returned smiling and ordered a chicken Caesar sandwich. For her extra pains, Paula gleaned a ten-dollar tip.

  Business was brisk late Friday afternoon, before Tallulah High’s football game against North Forrest High, and then slackened so much after six that Carley sent her staff home early.

  On her way home, Carley could hear the cheers and horns from the stadium and learned from her staff on Saturday morning that the score had ended up tied at six points.

  Steve Underwood walked in with Clifford and Vera just a few minutes after opening that day.

  “The place is beautiful, Carley,” Vera said.

  “Thank you.” Carley gathered three menus from the counter. “I’m honored that you came. But which is this? Early lunch or late breakfast?”

  “Whichever you recommend,” Clifford said absently, his attention captured by the deacon’s bench. He gave a theatrical sigh. “I didn’t charge you enough.”

  Carley laughed. “Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

  “Come on, Dad,” Steve said, taking him by the shoulder. “She’ll have other customers any minute.”

  She visited their table after Troy took their orders, and asked Steve how his classes were going.

  “Very well, thank you,” he replied. “And I don’t have to ask you how the café business is going.”

  “Oh, but it would be nice to be asked.” Realizing the subtle-but-meaningful distance between what had just left her lips and what she had intended to say, she cleared her throat and said, “I mean…it’s always nice to be asked.”

  They did not seem to have noticed her gaffe. Or, at least Clifford and Vera gave no sign. As for Steve, she had no way of knowing because she could not bring herself to look him square in the face. “I’ll see if Troy is bringing out your drinks.”

  Only half the tables were filled an hour before closing, but there were five takeout orders to make up. Kickoff for the USM away game was at five-thirty, and radios all over Tallulah were tuned to WXRR Hattiesburg. Reluctantly, Carley allowed Paula to plug in her little radio so that she and Troy, the die-hard fans, could keep up during trips to the kitchen.

  “You know, you’d get more business if you played it out here too,” Troy said as Carley helped him bus a table.

  “Nope,” Carley said. “Serenity is our theme.”

  And if she were inclined to broadcast a game, it would not be this one—USM at University of California at Berkeley. She was especially glad for her decision by closing time, for Paula and Troy wore melancholy expressions over the 34–3 loss that she would not have cared to see in the faces of her customers.

  But even their expressions lightened when Carley spoke the magic phrase. “Okay, time to pass out paychecks!”

  ****

  “Do you have an umbrella?” Uncle Rory asked, coming around the side of the house with bucket in hand on Tuesday morning.

  “It’s in the car,” Carley said, locking her front door. As she walked to the steps she could see sprinkles dotting her car windshield.

  The muscadine grapes had been ripe for about a week. She liked them almost as much as figs but thought they were in the same category as grapefruit as far as ease of eating. One had to squeeze the pulp out of the thick skin, then strain the seeds away with the teeth. Too much work for someone running a business and keeping house. Uncle Rory was more than willing to come out and pick them for jelly. He usually left a half-filled grocery bag hanging on the Paynes’ carport door for the children.

  The sprinkles thickened to light rain as Carley drove. She dashed to the café back door with umbrella raised, then stood beneath the eaves to shake away excess drops.

  Brooke, she thought, switching on kitchen lights. She could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. Should she telephone, advise her to have Mildred drive her? Or if that was an impossibility, tell her to wait it out? Seven miles, she thought.

  What if Mr. Kimball answered and had another temper tantrum? He can’t hurt you over the phone, she reminded herself.

  Still, she was relieved when the shrill female voice answered.

  “She’s already went.”

  “But it’s raining.”

  The woman let out a profanity, which Carley thought was directed toward her until it was followed by “GIT DOWN FROM THERE!”

  “Cat chased a roach up the cabinet,” she muttered next.

  “Ah…may I have directions to your house?” Carley was not sure if the bicycle would fit into her GL, but she had to at least try.

  “Well, where are ye comin from?”

  “Main Street. Wait, please.” Carley held the phone, listened to a now familiar pattern of knocking. “Thank you anyway. She’s here.”

  Brooke’s hair had turned into dripping ringlets b
ecause the hood of her raincoat had flapped backward, and her legs were so sodden that her tennis shoes squished. She was in a surprisingly good mood, under the circumstances. But then, she probably figured that having an excuse to leave the house for the day outweighed any physical discomfort.

  “What size shoes do you wear?” Carley asked as the girl took her uniform from the office closet.

  “But there’s no place to buy any here.”

  “Dollar General has some canvas sneakers for three dollars.”

  When the girl wrinkled her nose, Carley said, “They’ll be dry. Those wet feet will make you sick.”

  “Then wait, let me get—”

  “You can pay me later if you like. Just get dressed, and let everyone else in if I’m not back in time.”

  Chapter 24

  The rain had melded into puddles on the concrete when Carley left Dollar General with the sneakers and a pair of socks. She went home for her hair dryer, and by the time she returned to the café, Lisa and Rachel were already setting out cutting boards and cutlery, having left their houses early in case the rain were to slow them down.

  “Here,” Carley said, handing the bag and dryer to the girl. “You may use my office.”

  “Thank you,” Brooke murmured.

  The remaining staff filtered in, with Troy typically last, but even he signed in five minutes early. Carley flipped the Open sign with a tiny knot of anxiety. This was Annabel Lee Café’s first day to open after USM’s thirty-one-point-deficit loss in Berkeley. It was no secret about town that she came from California. Would die-hard USM fans stay away?

  She need not have worried. Still, she was teased.

  “You must have slept with your windows locked,” quipped Maggie Sherwood, owner of Odds and Ends.

  “I hope the sounds of our sobs didn’t intrude upon your victory party,” drawled Marianne Tate’s husband, Jim.

  “Did you say she’s from California?” said one of the three firemen at the table next to Jim’s, with a feigned look of shock.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t call in sick today,” drugstore owner Chester Templeton said.