A Table By the Window (18 page)

“Don't you realize that once you've paid a hundred and thirty thousand dollars down, you would have only a seventy thousand dollar mortgage? The notes would be far lower than the rent you're paying. And with the interest being tax deductible, you would still come out ahead even if your house took years to sell.”

That made sense.
There's nothing to fear about this,
she reasoned with herself.
If you don't like the condo, at least you'll have a piece of property you can sell later when something better comes along. Better than throwing money away on rent
.

So why was her stomach beginning to cramp again? Carley said, “I just can't do it that way.”

Photographs and a letter from Janelle Reed arrived on Saturday, May 3, along with a card from Bank of California inviting her to move her checking account options up a notch, now that she qualified for the “Over Twenty-five Club.” She was grateful for her former counselor's thoughtfulness, even to the bank for at least recognizing that this was her day. But after twenty-six years, hope had still not died that her birthday would be different from most other days, an occasion to remember.

You have the money,
she told herself midway through cleaning her oven.
Treat yourself
. She telephoned for a reservation at Rose Pistola on Columbus Street, and ironed the special-occasion black dress. That evening she had a lovely meal of grilled swordfish with fennel, potato, olive tapenade, and strawberry cheesecake for dessert, then took a taxi on to Gill Theater for the University of San Francisco production of
Much Ado About Nothing
.

“Ah…excuse me?”

Carley turned. The man behind her in the ticket line had a handsome angular face and collar-length brown hair.

“I just have to tell you…you have great hair.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“So, how come your date's making you get the tickets?”

“I'm by myself.”

He glanced off to his left, so automatically Carley did too. A young woman in black dress and silvery fringed shawl stood studying a poster. Lowering his voice, leaning close enough to give Carley a whiff of mint mouthwash, he said, “I happen to have the best view from a hot tub in North Beach. Do you like sushi?”

“I've never met her,” Carley said before stepping out to move to the back of the line. Her ticket was in the nosebleed section, which was not such a terrible thing because, in spite of her healthy bank account, she felt a little guilty for spending so much on her meal.

Back in her apartment building she left the elevator to find a semi-flat postal package outside her door with the Hudsons' return address. She smiled and opened it inside the living room. Along with a birthday card with Uncle Rory's signature and Aunt Helen's penned,
Dearest Carley, may this year be a great adventure for you,
was a handcrafted backpack of royal blue bandanna cloth. She hugged the bag to herself and went into the kitchen, where the answering machine blinked with two waiting messages. Sherry's voice first, wishing her the happiest of days, the second from Aunt Helen, hoping she was out having a good time. Carley played them again. She had not even realized they knew her birth date. She did not know theirs, a mistake she intended to correct tomorrow.

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it with the edge of her hand. She lay staring at her dark bedroom ceiling a half hour later and asked herself,
Can you do another year of this?

Her job was not what she had expected. However friendly and helpful her co-workers were, most were married or engaged, so their social lives revolved in those directions. Contact during work hours was limited, as she spent most of her day poring over copy in her cubicle.

You can look for another job
. The Terrises would understand, especially if she gave notice. Not every position was suited to every temperament. She was more of a people person than she had realized. Grown-up people. And she particularly missed the friendly association with the clientele of Grandma's Attic.

She mulled over that thought, reminded herself that had been a temporary position, no longer available even if she were to return to Tallulah. But there were other jobs, if not in the small town, in nearby Hattiesburg.

Or she could look into opening that café.

A shiver ran through her as she realized that notion had never been far from the back of her mind.

There were other things she missed about Tallulah. Sharing a dinner table with family. Returning neighbors' waves while leaving for work. Hearing owls at night. The aromas of pine trees and chimneys and sweet olive blossoms. Having people greet her by name at the bank, the grocery store, the library. Feeling connected to her grandmother as she pottered about the house.

What's stopping you from having that again?
Even asking herself that question brought an ache to her chest. She wanted to go back. And there was no reason why she could not.

She would be charged a penalty for taking the house off the market, but living mortgage free would more than make up for that. The furniture in storage would need to be shipped across country again, along with her computer and pieces of apartment furniture worth salvaging, but again, one month's rent that she did
not
have to pay here would probably cover that cost.

Still, she waited three days before taking any action. She wanted to be certain hormones or loneliness were not goading her into making a decision she would regret.

****

“When do you leave?” Mrs. Kordalewski asked three weeks later, when Carley went next door to break the news. Plugged into the television, Shimon nodded from his lounge chair and turned back to a boxing match between Sylvester Stallone and a muscular black man with a Mohawk haircut.

“Next Friday,” Carley said.

“But what will we do without our dear friend?”

“You'll do fine. I met the new tenants down in the office. They're an older couple, the Solareks.”

Mrs. Kordalewski's spindly fingers probed the hollow of her neck. “I knew a Solarek family back in Krakow, when I was a girl. Nice people. The boys threw rocks at some bullies one time, and made them go away. Perhaps they are related?”

“Wouldn't that be something?” Carley said.

Midmorning on the last day in May, Carley turned off the ignition of a rented Volkswagen in the driveway of 5172 Third Street and smiled.

This was the right thing to do
.

That thought was reinforced when she let herself into the living room. The empty space she had left now boasted a brown corduroy sofa and two mismatched upholstered chairs, table with lamp, coffee table, and braided rug. In her bedroom were a double mattress and box spring on a bed frame with two pillows and bedding, as well as a dresser and mirror. One yellow and one blue towel hung in the bathroom, a half dozen washcloths of assorted colors were folded in the cabinet.

In the kitchen, a vase of fragrant white gardenias sat in the middle of a slightly battered oval maple table surrounded by four chairs—two maple and two folding metal. There were assorted dishes, pots, and utensils in the cabinets, and faded towels in a drawer. In the refrigerator—plugged in and humming—were two casseroles with warming-up instructions from Gayle and Sherry, and a pot of soup from Uncle Rory.

“Everyone cleaned out storage sheds and attics,” Aunt Helen explained when she dropped by on her lunch break. “We made it into a party. When your things come, you can give what you can't use to the Salvation Army.”

Kay Chapman stopped by that afternoon. Carley wrote the agency a check for three percent of the home's appraised price.

“I feel terrible about this,” Kay said, closing her briefcase.

Carley, her stomach pleasantly digesting Gayle's chicken-and-rice casserole, shook her head. “That was the best twenty-four hundred dollars I've ever spent.”

****

“I know I dropped a couple of pennies down here yesterday,” Carley said on the sixth of June, fingers probing the bottom of her purse. She did not want to hand checkout clerk Anna Erwin another crisp twenty dollar bill from the airport ATM, not for a grocery total of twenty dollars and four cents.

“Don't worry about it, honey.” The cashier scooped up pennies from the Shoal's Chewing Tobacco can on the side of the register.

“Hi, Carleyreed,” Neal said. “Where did you go?”

“Hi, Neal.” Carley smiled and hooked the two bags over her arm. “I've been away in California for four months.”

“Oh. I found a kitty in the parking lot. She was so hungry she drank a whole can of milk. Dad says I can't give her a name until we're sure nobody lost her. Did you lose a kitty?”

“No, I sure didn't.”

“Okay. Well, bye.”

Carley's smile lasted all the way home. Tallulah in June was a feast for the senses. She almost wondered if it was against the law
not
to cultivate a flower garden, for all the geraniums and roses, impatiens and periwinkles, lilies and gladiolus, petunias and begonias sprouting from lawns. The air was heady with scents of magnolias and gardenia and jasmine.

And fresh-cut grass. Patrick, who earned pocket money with his lawn mower, had been by that morning.

And there were the vegetable patches. A family of five would not be able to consume all the tomatoes and cucumbers that had magically appeared upon her porch during the past week.

“What do you do with white squash?” she asked Mrs. Templeton at the roadside mailboxes. A bag with a half dozen of the vegetables that looked like flying saucers had turned up just that morning.

“I slice 'em crossways and batter fry 'em,” her neighbor said.

“Batter fry?” Carley said, disappointed.

“Or you put 'em on a neighbor's porch.”

Carley assumed she was hinting. “Sure, I'll bring them over.”

“No, dearie.” The woman gave her a knowing little smile. “I had my turn. Now it's yours.”

Gayle Payne was glad to get them. Carley invited Ruby Moore over for pasta salad and rosemary chicken that evening.

“Petal High School's taking applications through this month for an English Lit teacher,” her neighbor said.

“Petal?”

“About twenty-two miles east. The principal's my ex-husband's cousin, so let me know if you decide to apply, and I'll put in a good word for you.”

Tactfully Carley said, “Would that really be a good plan?”

Ruby laughed. “Don and I get along fine now. It's just that while we were married he got along fine with
other
people too, if you catch my drift.”

After Ruby walked back across the street, Carley wrestled with the idea of returning to teaching. Security and benefits, versus the idea growing in her mind like the begonias in the Paynes' yard. Like the grime on the window of Emmit White's empty café.

Fear,
she recognized. She was not ready to go back into the classroom, and so fear would be the only reason to apply. Take the safe route, and then she could look back in her old age and wonder what might have happened if she had followed a dream.

You can do this,
she told herself.

But what if she failed, lost all her money?

You'd still have a house, still be out of debt
.

That is, if she determined not to borrow a dime and set aside a buffer amount to live on for six months if the place was not successful.

That meant doing her homework.

When Tallulah library shelves could produce only two books on starting a small business, she drove to Hattiesburg Saturday morning. It was a fairly large city positioned at the fork of the Leaf and Bouie Rivers, boasting two hospitals, a university, and two Super Wal-Marts. Inside Books-A-Million she saw a display of Bertram Norris's latest bestseller,
Thompson's Crossing
. Carley made a mental note to ask the clerk when it was due to come out in paperback, but then impulsively put a copy in her hand basket. She could afford it, she told herself.

She purchased four other books, two specifically on running small cafés. In the parking lot she caught a whiff of food being prepared and noticed the
Closed
sign being flipped to
Open
in the window of China Garden Restaurant. She usually avoided Chinese restaurants; not even the most delicious meal was worth the migraine triggered by the
MSG
many added to their dishes. But then, a second sign hanging in the window caught her eye—
No MSG
. She put her bag into the Volkswagen, saving
Thompson's Crossing
to skim, including the final chapter, at her table. She needed to concentrate on learning the restaurant business, and what Mr. Juban did not know would not hurt him. Besides, he would be thrilled to have another copy donated to the library.

The waiter was a young Asian man, probably a graduate student. “You read Mister Norris,” he said, handing her a menu.

Carley touched the book jacket. “I've read a couple, but just bought this one. Do you?”

He shook his head and pointed to a dozen or so 8X10 frames, arranged in two rows upon the opposite wall. “We have his picture with my father.”

There were no other customers yet, so Carley pushed out her chair. The matted photographs were of local and national celebrities: Johnny L. DuPree, first African-American mayor of Hattiesburg; Brett Favre, Green Bay Packer's quarterback and USM grad; a humorist named Jerry Clower. All smiled while standing beside an elderly Asian man. Even without Bertram Norris's autograph, Carley would have recognized the author from the photograph on the book jacket. He was tall, with goatee and dark hair combed back from high forehead. An arm was casually loped about the shoulders of the Asian man.
The best pepper steak in the South,
was penned beneath his autograph.