A Table By the Window

by Lawana Blackwell

  As Carley directed, he carried it over to the neighbor’s porch and propped it beside the door. “Should we knock?”

  “No. She goes to bed early.”

  On their way back through the yard, he nodded toward Carley’s house. “She doesn’t like me.”

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken. She hardly knows you.”

  “She knows I busted her boyfriend. Have you asked about him yet?”

  “No. But she doesn’t get letters from anybody.”

  Dale gave her a sidelong look. “He’s not the literary sort.”

  They sat side-by-side on her top step. Lowering her voice, Carley said, “As long as he’s in reform school, he’s not a problem. Right?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Dale said. “I checked. He’ll be released in three weeks.”

  “I’ll have a talk with her.”

  “You ought to send her back to her old man. There’s no way she’s not gonna see him.”

  Carley shook her head. “I have to give her a chance. But I’ll warn her that if she even meets him anywhere for a date, she’ll have to leave. I wouldn’t be able to leave the house without worrying that he could come over and steal something. Not to mention being afraid to sleep. I don’t need the added stress.”

  “I just hope it works,” Dale said doubtfully. “You’re too trusting, Carley.”

  “I’m not as trusting as you think.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I can be very cynical.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He hesitated. “You’re not cynical about me, are you?”

  “I don’t know.” Carley gave him a measured look. “You claim to be this big-time land baron, but I haven’t seen proof of it yet.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, holding up both palms in surrender. “Picnic? Sunday?”

  “That sounds nice.” Carley smiled. “And thank you for looking out for me, Dale.”

  He rested a hand upon her shoulder. “I like looking out for you.”

  It was the most natural thing in the world, to close her eyes and meet his kiss halfway.

  “M-m-m, nice,” Dale said when they drew apart again.

  What are you doing? managed to pierce Carley’s light-headedness. Too soon. The friendship stage should not involve kisses that made her toes curl.

  “I’d better go inside,” she said, albeit regretfully. “I have some things to do to prepare for work in the morning.”

  “All right,” he said with regretful voice, getting to his feet as well. “See you tomorrow.”

  “You mean Sunday.”

  “The cafe’s not open this week?”

  “Oh…yeah.” You need to come down to earth, she told herself.

  ****

  One of the advantages—or disadvantages—of an attic fan was that for a room to be ventilated the door had to be open. Brooke was seated in the wicker chair, painting her fingernails with a paper towel over her lap.

  “May I come in?” Carley said at the door.

  The girl shrugged. “Your house.”

  “It’s your room as long as you’re staying here.”

  “Ah…okay. Then, come in.”

  Carley sat on the side of the bed. The tea set was out of the package, arranged on the dresser beside the flat Christmas-decorated Oreo cookie tin in which Brooke kept her earrings. The crumpled JCPenney bag peeked from the top of the trash basket. “You’ve already hung up your clothes.”

  “I didn’t want them to get wrinkled. Are you dating him?”

  Right to the point, Carley thought. Why not? Better to jump into a cold pool, adjusting all at once, instead of a few inches at a time. “Sort of. Why don’t you like him?”

  “I never said I didn’t.” Brooke blew at the fingernails of her left hand.

  “Oh, so you do like him?”

  The girl twisted open the bottle again. “I shouldn’t have asked you. It’s none of my business.”

  “Don’t shut me out now, Brooke,” Carley said. “I’ll never be angry at you for telling me what you think. And I’m going to tell you what I think. You don’t like him because he arrested your boyfriend.”

  She did not reply right away, seemingly concentrating on painting the pinkie nail of her right hand. “Brad said he hit him.”

  “Then, there was probably a struggle. Some seventeen-year-old boys are as big as men.”

  “How do you know how old he is?”

  “Because he’s getting out in three weeks, when he turns eighteen.”

  Brooke looked up, visibly shaken. “I didn’t know.”

  “Do you plan to see him?”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Then, you have some time to think about this,” Carley said. “If you do, you’ll have to move back home.”

  After a hesitation, Brooke said, “What if he doesn’t come here?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I need to feel safe, more than you need the company of a thief.”

  Anger flashed in the green eyes. “Then I’ll move back tomorrow.”

  “I hate to hear that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like having you here,” Carley said.

  “You mean that?” Brooke said, expression softening a bit.

  “I do. You’re good company.”

  “But if you’re telling me who I can date…”

  “I’m trying to look out for you, even though you can’t see it.” Carley massaged her temples. “Look, did you really mean it all those times you thanked me for inviting you here, or were you just schmoozing me?”

  The girl’s face clouded as if she would weep. “I meant it, Carley.”

  “Then, I’m asking you to repay me. Simply take the three weeks and think about this. We won’t even discuss it unless you bring it up. That’s what I’m asking for in return.”

  ****

  “Would you like to come to the Hudsons with me after work?” Carley asled Brooke on Thursday morning. Aunt Helen and Uncle Rory’s son, Ken, and wife, Glenda, had arrived from Raleigh the day before, fleeing Hurricane Isabel.

  “Thanks for asking,” the girl replied, smiling, “but I think I’d rather just prop up my feet and watch Columbo.”

  A détente had existed between the two since Monday. They got along fine, but Brad Travis was an ever-present, almost palatable witness to every smile they exchanged, to every please and thank-you.

  After dropping the girl off at the house, Carley brought a gallon of tomato basil soup and container of field green salad over to Fifth Street, to go with the fried chicken the Kemps were picking up from Henderson’s deli. Ken Hudson was a compact-looking man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. Glenda, taller than her husband, wore a more sober demeanor, but then, her home had been assaulted by a hurricane hours earlier. The family spent most of the evening in front of the television, watching news accounts of the deadly storm’s aftermath, particularly in North Carolina.

  During a commercial break, Uncle Rory related how Carley had given Brooke a job and a room in her house.

  “How kind of you,” Glenda said.

  “Thank you. I enjoy having her there.” She blew out a long breath. “But it’s not without its frustrations.”

  Ken laughed. “In other words, she’s a teenager.”

  “All young people should be forced to play basketball,” Blake said. “By the time Patrick comes in from practice, his hormones are too worn out to act up.”

  “Dad…” the boy said, blushing.

  Aunt Helen smiled and turned to Carley. “Would you mind if we invited her to church Sunday?”

  “Of course not. But don’t get your hopes up. She probably won’t go.”

  “Why? Have you discussed it?”

  “Not at all.” Religion was one subject Carley avoided studiously around the girl. Her own experiences gave her no right to embitter a child. “For all her bravado, I think she’s self-conscious when out of her element.”

  “It never hurts to ask,” Aunt Helen said.

 
; ****

  “Brooke, we’re pretty busy out here,” Carley said in the kitchen Friday afternoon. “I need you to check the bathrooms.”

  Besides the usual Tallulah High pre-home-game influx, a church van from Yazoo City had arrived with eleven women and men on an antique shopping outing.

  The girl released the lever to the sprayer nozzle and quickly dried her hands. “Got it, Carley!”

  Affable and helpful as always, Brooke still didn’t look her in the eyes.

  Had she erred in simply giving the girl time to think over the matter? Carley mulled it over that evening, while the attic fan pulled in football game sounds on a sixty-degree breeze.

  She well understood how a teenage girl with zero sense of self-worth could cling to any male who would pay her a compliment, just to feel that she mattered. But did Brooke understand that? Would three weeks of simply avoiding the subject cause the girl to reach some sort of epiphany? What if Janelle Reed would have simply allowed her to stew in her own juices?

  You have to talk with her.

  ****

  “Want me to make you some?” Brooke asked Saturday morning while studying the measuring instructions on a box of pancake mix.

  Carley, in the middle of a yawn, waited to reply. “I’m just going to make toast.”

  The girl eyed her. “You didn’t sleep?”

  “I slept like a log—once I finally fell asleep. And you?”

  “The same.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Brooke sounded relieved. “Okay.”

  “Let’s finish making breakfast. I can’t concentrate if you’re flipping pancakes.” She went over to the refrigerator for the butter. “Would you like to try maple syrup this time?”

  “Nope. Will you get out the cane, please?”

  Carley made a face behind the open refrigerator door. Brooke had bought a quart can of Steen’s 100% Pure Cane Syrup from Henderson’s. Just a shade lighter than molasses, it had a strong flavor that dominated anything it was poured upon. She realized it was popular here—Uncle Rory ate it with biscuits almost every morning—but her California taste buds simply could not tolerate it.

  Once Carley’s tea and toast, Brooke’s pancakes and milk, were assembled on the table, Carley pulled out chairs and waded into the subject on both their minds.

  “I said I wouldn’t discuss Brad Travis unless you brought it up. But I have to ask you why you chose him for a boyfriend.”

  “I didn’t choose him.” Brooke slathered butter on three pancakes. “He chose me.”

  “And you were flattered. He must be very cute.”

  Brooke colored, but she nodded. “He made a mistake. I’ll bet you made mistakes when you were young. Maybe you didn’t steal, but—”

  “Oh, I stole.”

  The girl’s mouth parted.

  “Lipsticks, earrings, even a pair of jeans one time. I’m ashamed to admit it—and by the way, I’ve never told anyone this besides the pack of friends I roamed with back then. But I never considered it a mistake. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I just didn’t care.”

  “But you straightened up, stopped doing it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe Brad knows it was wrong too. Maybe he wants to change, like you did.”

  Carley’s ears picked up a subtle shade of doubt in Brooke’s voice, but she did not call her on it. “I would be happy to hear that. But you shouldn’t want to be the guinea pig.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not enough for a person to say he wants to change. He has to prove it, not only to others, but to himself.”

  “How?”

  “Well, if he works hard at a job for a few years, pays his bills, obeys the law, treats everyone decently…”

  “A few years?”

  “What’s your hurry, Brooke? You’re seventeen. Is your whole life centered on waiting for this guy? You’re willing to stake your future on someone who hasn’t proven himself trustworthy?”

  “Easy for you to say.” Brooke doused her pancakes with syrup. “I don’t have that many boys wanting to date me, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “So what? Are only the girls with boyfriends worthy of the good things in life? There’s so much more out there for you. If only you could see it.”

  A thought entered her mind from another direction, and Carley went with it. “Let me ask you, Brooke. How did Brad treat Neal Henderson?”

  “Neal?” Brooke glanced away for the telltale fraction of a second. “He treated him okay.”

  “What did he call him behind his back?”

  Brooke’s expression was saturated with How did you know?

  Tears spiked the girl’s lashes. She looked so much better without all the eyeliner, Carley thought, but she was the last person to lecture a girl about dependence upon makeup.

  “He loves me, Carley.”

  “Oh, Brooke…” Carley groaned. “Don’t you know? Boys will say anything to get a girl to sleep with them. Did he ever ask you about your dreams, your goals? There’s so much more out there for you than being some guy’s amusement park.”

  Brooke swallowed, whispered, “What’s out there for me, Carley? I appreciate my job, but I’m a dishwasher.”

  Carley spread her hands. “Everything, Brooke. You’re young and bright, and a hard worker. What do you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to know right now. But right now is when you start preparing yourself, so that when you do know, you haven’t locked yourself into a life-style that’s impossible to change.”

  A very small degree of hope mingled with the resignation in Brooke’s expression. “How would I do that? Prepare myself, I mean.”

  “Education, Brooke. Why did you drop out of school?”

  “I hated it.” Her face hardened. “The other girls called me a skank. I won’t go back.”

  Carefully, gently, Carley said, “So you’re going to let them win?”

  “What?”

  “You’ll set your sights low, while they go on to college, just so you don’t have to associate with them for a couple more years?” She was well aware that she had not offered the same advice to Alton Terris. But Brooke did not have Alton’s advantage of a wealthy family, hence, more choices.

  “I’d rather die than go back there, Carley.”

  “Okay.” Carley sighed again and opened a jar of Uncle Rory’s muscadine jelly. “Look, our breakfast is getting cold. Why don’t we save this discussion for later?”

  “Okay.”

  But halfway through her sodden pancakes, Brooke gave her one cautious look, then another.

  “What?” Carley asked.

  “I want to be a nurse.”

  “Really?” Wary of such a quick decision, Carley said, “That just came to you?”

  “No. I’ve been thinkin’ about that ever since I was little—how good it would feel to help make people well. I used to pretend-doctor our dogs and cats. And then when I’d see Miss Arleen go off to work in her uniform, I wished I could be like her.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it when I asked?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know how to become one.”

  “No one is born knowing anything about anything. How about if I find out? Ruby Moore works for the school board and has all sorts of contacts.”

  “You won’t tell her why you’re asking, will you?”

  “Well, that might be difficult.”

  “I don’t want anybody laughing at me.”

  Carley touched Brooke’s scarred arm. “All right, no names.”

  Chapter 27

  The telephone rang while Carley was towel-drying her hair in the bathroom.

  “I’LL GET IT!” Brooke called.

  Carley could not help but smile at the sound of bare feet thumping. For all the emotional ups and downs of having a teenager in the house, it was not boring.

  The kitchen wall telephone was just around the corner past the short hall. Th
rough the door, Carley overheard, “I don’t know. I think I’d be embarrassed.”

  After a short silence “You wouldn’t mind?”

  Another silence, then, “Okay, I’ll be ready.”

  “You’re not gonna need me for anything tomorrow mornin’, are you?” Brooke asked when Carley walked out in her robe.

  “No. I’m going out.”

  “Oh,” Brooke said with flat voice. “With Chief Dale?”

  “Brooke…we’re just going on a picnic. As friends. Who was on the phone?”

  The girl took in a breath. “Miss Helen invited me to church. She said it’s mostly just old people, and that if I get uncomfortable, they’ll take me home. And we’ll go to the Old Grist Mill afterward.”

  “It’s good of you to agree,” Carley said with a twinge of guilt. “That’ll mean a lot to them.” She walked on into the kitchen, where her teakettle was sending out a tinny little whistle. “Thanks for putting on the water.”

  “You’re welcome,” Brooke said, following. “Anyway, I have a feeling they’re the ones who bought the clothes, so I couldn’t really say no. But it might be interesting. I’ve never been inside a church.”

  Carley set the Natchez Trace mug on the breakfast table. “Not even for a funeral or wedding?”

  “We didn’t go to any of my grandparents’ funerals. And my kin aren’t really into marrying. Anyway, Dad chased away the Vacation Bible School bus. He says his folks beat religion into him when he was a boy, and that church people are hypocrites.”

  “He shouldn’t judge people he hasn’t even met,” Carley said before thinking. Wonderful, she told herself. You’re in league with Melvin Kimball.

  ****

  “Sour-Bessie plain, egg-pie, Popeye,” Paula sang to Rachel and Lisa in the kitchen of Annabel Lee Café.

  It both disturbed and amused Carley that she was able to figure out their verbal shorthand. Roast beef on sourdough with no mayonnaise, quiche Lorraine, and spinach salad. Whatever helped to break the monotony, though there was little monotony on this Saturday, with most or all tables filled at any given time.

  When Carley squeezed in time to telephone Ruby, her neighbor insisted she and Brooke come over after work for German chocolate cake and a game of UNO.

  “Now, what did you want to ask me?” Ruby asked, dealing cards at her dining room table.