A Table By the Window

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Sure,” Carley replied.

  The “something” lay half curled on the dining room table, a poster of The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano, which her neighbor could have easily carried over. Carley could hear the television in the den, and Micah and his father carrying on a conversation.

  “I was cleaning out a closet and came across this, from a garage sale ages ago,” Gayle said, a shade nervously. “I’ll never get around to framing it. Can you use it?”

  Carley touched a curled corner. “I’ve always loved this print. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I want you to have it.” Gayle cleared her throat. “Carley…forgive my asking, but you have to be so careful when you have children. As you know, they like to drift over to your place. Is the Kimball girl, well, safe for them to be around?”

  “I really believe she is,” Carley replied, not surprised by the question, for her neighbor had seemed unnaturally nervous. “Do you know Arleen Fielding?”

  “Vaguely. She’s a nurse?”

  “She spoke highly of Brooke as a baby-sitter. I can give you her number if you like.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t need a baby-sitter. I just…”

  She gave Carley a helpless look.

  “I understand,” Carley said. “As much as I trust Brooke, I wouldn’t leave my own children alone with her until I got to know her much better.”

  Gayle sighed, smoothed back her ash-blonde hair. “I hate to be ugly, but I’ve seen her in town so many times, riding around on that bike barely dressed.”

  “You’re right about that. But she has a good heart, and shows so many signs of wanting to have a better life.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Thank you for not being angry.”

  “I could never be angry at a mother who protects her children,” Carley assured her.

  ****

  “That poster’s awesome,” Brooke said from a living room chair when Carley unrolled it. “Are you gonna buy a frame?”

  “Not with it curled like this.” She set it on the coffee table. “I’ll drop it off at the frame shop on my way to work tomorrow. What are you reading?”

  The girl held up The International Thesaurus of Quotations, thumb inside to mark her place. “I’m just flippin’ through the pages. I’ve never seen this kind of book before. There’s some pretty good stuff in here.”

  “Well, read something to me,” Carley said, settling on the sofa.

  “Now?”

  “No, yesterday,” she teased.

  Brooke laughed and opened the book again. “Okay, this one’s cute: ‘The fog comes on little cat feet.’”

  “Carl Sandburg,” Carley said.

  “How did you know?”

  “I was an English major.”

  “Then you know everything in here?”

  “Goodness, no. Probably not even one percent. Read another one.”

  She had a reason for asking. Judging by the painstakingly printed résumé and Brooke’s having dropped out of school, she was curious as to her level of literacy. And the cat-feet line, clever as it was, could have been at home in any second-grade reader.

  “‘The house praises the carpenter,’” Brooke read. “By someone named Emerson. I guess that means your work shows how good you are at it?”

  “Um-hmm. It doesn’t even have to be a house.” Carley thought about an example. “A well-written book tells how good the author is; a mannerly child is proof of good parents. Read something else?”

  “You don’t want to listen to me all night.”

  “Just one more, something longer. Look up Longfellow.”

  “Longfellow?”

  “He’s my favorite poet.”

  Pages rustled. Brooke’s eyes stopped traveling, and she held the book up again.

  “‘The heights by great men reached and kept,

  Were not…’”

  She screwed up her mouth.

  “‘at-tained…by sudden flight,

  But they, while their com-pan-ions slept,

  Were toiling upward in the night.’”

  “That’s a good one,” Carley said. “You read very well, Brooke.”

  The girl shrugged, but looked pleased. “My fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Young, taught me it’s not that hard when you divide up the syllables. Dad reads cowboy books, and Mildred gets National Enquirer, but I’ve always been too antsy for a long story. That’s why I like these sayings.”

  “That was my grandmother’s.”

  “Oh.” Brooke stared at the book as if it had transformed into breakable crystal.

  “It’s all right,” Carley assured her. “In fact, I’d like you to have it.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t—”

  “Please take it. I think it would have made her happy.”

  ****

  Aunt Helen stopped by after closing her shop Friday evening, when most of Tallulah was at the stadium watching the game against the high school’s biggest rival, Seminary. Eyeing the three tables occupied, she said, “You must despise home games.”

  “Well, you know, it evens out,” Carley said. “The place was hopping earlier.”

  “That’s good. Rory called before I left and said to invite you and Brooke over for omelets when you close.”

  “I’m surprised he’s not at the game,” Carley said.

  “Only those the grandchildren play.”

  Brooke politely declined, saying she would rather walk on to the house, make a sandwich, and prop up her feet. Carley insisted on driving her. It pleased her that the girl did not intend to shadow her, especially with their both working at the same place. Perhaps she needed her own space as well.

  And what pleased Aunt Helen was that she was wrong about inviting Brooke to move in, she said in the Hudson kitchen.

  “But you weren’t wrong,” Carley corrected. “You said to wait until I was sure.”

  “Well, thank you for saying that. But I feel so badly about that girl, that we failed her.”

  “Why would you possibly think that?”

  “Because it was obvious from looking at her that she needed help. I’ve been too wrapped up in my shop and family and church to extend a hand, and then here you come…”

  “A heathen, you mean?”

  “Carley! To say such a thing.”

  Carley grinned and patted her hand. “I’m just kidding, Aunt Helen.”

  The remorse deepened in Aunt Helen’s face. “Still, it’s true that Christians have a mandate to help people like Brooke. What does she need?”

  “Well, decent clothes, obviously. I plan to have a talk with her about that next payday. She had to buy some things for her father before he’d allow her to move, so I think she’s broke for the moment.”

  “Rory?” Aunt Helen turned to say to the man breaking eggs into a stainless steel bowl.

  “The checkbook’s in the china-cabinet drawer,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Carley said as her aunt pushed out her chair. “When payday comes…”

  “Please don’t rob us of the joy of helping. And Brooke should be saving as much as she can, to build some sort of future. This is no slur against your café, but surely she doesn’t plan to wash dishes for the rest of her life. If she builds up a nice nest egg, perhaps you can encourage her to go back to school next fall.”

  “That’s a good idea. Thank you both for doing this.”

  When Aunt Helen returned she wrote out a check and handed it to Carley.

  “Two hundred dollars?” Carley said. “Aunt Helen…Uncle Rory…”

  “With winter just around the corner, you might see if she has a decent jacket.”

  “This is so generous,” Carley said, on the verge of tears. “And I’ll take her shopping myself, make sure it’s used wisely.”

  “Good idea. But please wait a few days, so she won’t suspect it came from us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’d rather not let the left hand know what the right is doing.”

  “Come
again?”

  “It’s from the book of Saint Matthew. It means it’s better to give secretly.”

  “Okay, little girl, what do you want in your omelet?” Uncle Rory asked.

  Carley exchanged smiles with her aunt. “Everything but the kitchen sink and onions.”

  ****

  The Singing Fairchilds not only performed Sundays at Tallulah Pentecostal, but in churches as far away as Natchez and Corinth. That explained the half dozen fresh-faced girls with long hair and long skirts who began making Annabel Lee Café their Saturday lunch ritual. Without even asking, Carley knew to seat them at one of Troy’s tables. Paula and Danyell called him “Romeo” in the kitchen, which made him blush so charmingly that Carley wanted to pinch his cheeks.

  When the last customers left on Saturday, Paula turned up the radio in the kitchen to listen to the USM game against Memphis. Carley continued listening in her car on the way home, then on Ruby Moore’s screened back porch, while Brooke stayed home to watch a rerun of a detective show.

  For a treat, Ruby had a popular local dish Carley had managed to evade for the past week: newly harvested peanuts, boiled in their shells in salt water and Creole seasonings. They were soggy and looked disgusting, but the one she tried for the sake of politeness was the equivalent of one potato chip, and she did not protest when Ruby handed her a filled bowl.

  “How’s it working out, having the Kimball girl staying with you?” Ruby asked during commercials.

  “She’s good company,” Carley replied, not feeling the need to share the minor adjustment issues, such as having to teach the girl to empty the dryer filter with each use, and that drinking directly from the orange juice carton was unhygienic and just plain gross. “I’ve lived alone since graduating from college, and I’d forgotten how nice it is to have someone to come home to.”

  Carley’s cheeks went hot. “Oh, Ruby,” she said, laying a hand on her neighbor’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

  Ruby patted her hand. “Please, don’t be. I feel the same way. But it’s better to come home to an empty house than to a man with a wandering eye.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I don’t hold it against Brooke. If we were held responsible for what our relatives did, I’d be in Parchman Prison for life, with those jailbirds on my mother’s side.”

  “What do you mean?” Carley asked.

  “Nothing,” Ruby said, shaking her head. “My mouth gets away with me. Brooke had a cousin living with them a few years ago, and I learned she was one of Don’s conquests. Or he was one of hers. Anyway, that’s ancient history. Whoops—the game’s back on.”

  ****

  “We won, twenty-three to six,” Carley said to Brooke in her living room afterward.

  “Yay,” Brooke said politely, following her into the kitchen. “You should have seen this show. The detective wears a rumpled old raincoat and pretends to be kind of dense. That makes the murderer relax and think he got away with it. Columbo’s his name.”

  “The murderer?”

  “No, the detective.”

  Carley filled a water glass from the refrigerator. Thankfully, there were no longer crumbs floating in the pitcher. She held it out. “You?”

  “No, thank you. It comes on weekdays at eleven. If I buy some blank tapes, can I start taping it when we’re at work?”

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  Brook screwed up her face. “I’m sorry. I’ll get used to this before I drive you crazy. I promise.”

  “You’re doing just fine,” Carley said. “And I’ve had a three-pack of tapes unopened for months. Help yourself.”

  ****

  Sunday afternoon Carley went over to the café to record the week’s invoices for Mr. Laird. When she returned to the house, Brooke stood on the porch with a broom in her hands, chatting with Mrs. Templeton over the railing.

  “Did you know Miss Byrle here played basketball in school?” Brooke asked as Carley joined them.

  “I didn’t,” Carley confessed, to her own shame. What had she thought, that her neighbor was born stooped and fragile?

  “We were just a little team,” Mrs. Templeton said, face glowing with recollection. “If one of us got sick, we had to forfeit.”

  After a few more stories of her youth, Mrs. Templeton said she needed to check on a cake she had in the oven, so Carley and Brooke went inside.

  “That was nice of you,” Carley said in the living room as she turned on the computer. “Taking up time with her.”

  “She’s interesting,” the girl said. “You should have seen Columbo today. This guy murdered his uncle because he was about to get married and change his will. He threw an electric mixer in his bathtub. It turned out he had a twin brother, and they both blamed each other. But see, the housekeeper was watching TV when the murder happened, and her screen…”

  “Brooke,” Carley cut in, looking up from the computer monitor.

  “Hmm?”

  Carley rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me go through the labor. Just show me the baby. Which twin did it?”

  The girl laughed. “Both. One threw the mixer, the other fixed the switch when it blew. That’s why the housekeeper’s TV blinked out for a few seconds.” She leaned her head. “I thought you went to the café to do your computer work.”

  “I’m thinking of ordering some books.” It took so long to finish one these days, that library books, with their silent nagging due dates, were too stress inducing.

  “There’s a Books-A-Million.”

  “It’s easier online.” Carley looked up. The girl stood watching her with both hands in her jeans pockets.

  “But you know, checking out some stores might be a better idea.” She was not sure if enough time had passed since Aunt Helen wrote the check, but then, she halfway hoped the girl would figure it out anyway. “Tomorrow, we could go into town, maybe hang out at the mall for a little while, have a bite to eat.”

  Brooke’s face was a mingling of anticipation and uneasiness. “I only have seven dollars left from payday. But at least that’s enough to buy my meal. I don’t guess it hurts to look, does it?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to look,” Carley said. Unless you’re broke, and you’ll find out tomorrow that you’re not.

  Chapter 26

  “That looks too small,” Carley said when Brooke held up a pink knit shirt in JCPenney at Turtle Creek Mall. “You want room to move around in. And the dryer shrinks cotton.”

  The girl’s nod lacked enthusiasm. “Loose clothes aren’t, well, sexy.”

  Why does a seventeen-year-old want to look sexy? Carley asked herself, then thought of the thirteen-year-olds she had seen walking down the sidewalk looking as if they had stepped out of a rock video. What were their parents thinking?

  You’re getting old, she told herself. She dug a size large from the rack. “Humor me. Just try it on. Anyway, feminine’s more attractive than sexy.”

  Brooke gave her an odd look. “Huh?”

  Carley sighed. “If you show off your body, guys only think about one thing when they look at you. You could have the brains of an amoeba and it wouldn’t matter.”

  Whether to appease her or not, Brooke tried on the larger clothes.

  “You look great,” Carley said every time she stepped from the dressing room.

  With an embarrassed little smile, the girl conceded at the mirror that she did. She selected three shirts large enough to allow for shrinkage, a pair of black slacks, jeans she could actually move around in, a khaki skirt that fell to a modest just-above-the-knee length, brown loafers, and to save for cooler weather, a hooded fleece jacket.

  “You’re still not gonna tell me who gave you the money?” Brooke asked at the checkout.

  “Nope.” Nor did she need to know that Carley had added almost seventy dollars of her own.

  “Won’t you give me a hint?” the girl said on the way to the car. “This is so nice. Was it your aunt? Or Miss Byrle?”

  Carley unlocked the trunk. “The person—
or persons—wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “Anono—?”

  “Anonymous. Means ‘doesn’t want you to know.’ And I’m going to say that every time you ask me.”

  “But I want to say thank you.”

  “You can, by wearing the clothes.”

  After browsing for a half hour in Books-a-Million, they went next door to China Garden. Carley allowed Brooke to spend her own money. She didn’t want to make the girl feel like a complete pauper.

  “My first Chinese food,” Brooke said, raising lo mein noodles with her fork. “Dad said he wouldn’t give a dime to Chinks.”

  “Brooke!” Carley hissed, and looked over her shoulder. Fortunately, the waiter was pointing something out on the menu to a foursome several feet away. “Not a good word.”

  The girl colored. “I’m sorry.”

  She apologized again on the drive home. “Really, Carley. It just slipped out.”

  Eyes on Highway 98 unrolling before her, Carley said, “I’m not angry. But just as a future thought, most slang words for a person’s race are offensive.”

  “But people call us rednecks.”

  “Well, that’s wrong too,” Carley said, wincing inside.

  “I’ll try to do better.”

  Carley smiled at her. “Me too.”

  Headlights came from the opposite direction when she turned onto Third Street. She recognized Dale’s Mustang coupe as they passed, and in the rearview mirror saw the lights swing into a driveway and out again. He parked behind her.

  “I thought I’d missed you,” he said, closing his car door. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a black knit shirt. “Hi, ladies.”

  “Hi,” Brooke mumbled. To Carley she said, “I’m gonna put away my clothes now.”

  Carley handed her the keys, thinking it was time to trust the girl with the extra one in her desk. She smiled at Dale. “We’ve been shopping.”

  “What did you buy me?” he said, raising brows playfully.

  “Well, a fifty-pound sack of sunflower seeds.”

  “Ah…thanks. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Or maybe we’ll just give it to Mrs. Templeton. You can help me unload it.”

  He flexed his biceps. “Pretty lady, stand aside. Let strong man work.”