A Table By the Window (34 page)

Back in the dining room, a memory nudged her.
“That's what I like most about you…your sense of humor,”
Dale had said. Could a sense of humor be God's compensation for the bad stuff? Because He would not take away Huey Collins or even her mother's freedom to make their own choices, had He provided her with the equipment that would help ease the pangs of childhood abuse and neglect?

Was this why Brooke had such a ready laugh? How many stand-up comedians had easy childhoods, she wondered?

Almost a month ago, Aunt Helen had advised her to wait until she was one hundred percent sure before offering Brooke a room in her house. She respected her aunt's advice, or else she would have brushed it aside. While she had not reached the one-hundred percent point yet, she was in the nineties, and perhaps that was close enough. There was risk in everything. If she had waited until she was one hundred percent sure about opening a café, she would not be welcoming customers today.

She did not have to ask Brooke to wait around after work, for the girl was consistently last to leave.

“Do you really mean it?” Brooke asked when Carley issued the invitation.

“Wait,” Carley said, holding up a hand, for the girl looked ready to seize her. “As long as you understand that I can't treat you any differently here than I treat any of the other staff.”

“Sure!”

“And that it's my house you'll be staying at, not a hotel.”

“Ah…okay,” the girl said with expression fading.

Carley sighed. The sharp Brooke could morph into the dull Brooke with dizzying speed. “What I mean is, you would have to promise to share the chores, refrain from playing loud music, and not smoke inside.”

“I don't smoke. It gives me headaches.”

“Really?” Carley stared at her for a second and then continued. “And no boys over.”

The girl colored, just a bit. “My boyfriend's in Oakley. So he won't be coming around. And I'll pay rent…”

“No, let's just keep it the way I said. I keep a list of weekly chores. We'll divide it up. As for rent, I'd rather you put that money in a savings account. The house isn't costing me anything.”

That was when Carley was struck by a thought. Brooke was a juvenile. All this would be moot if her father withheld permission.

He granted it easily, Brooke said, arriving for work the following morning.

“You're kidding,” Carley said.

“Well, Mildred's been naggin' at him to get me out of the house for ages anyway. I just had to promise some things.”

“Of course.” Carley's estimation of Mr. Kimball edged up a notch. “I hope you assured him I plan to keep a close eye on you. And if he'd like to meet me…”

“Oh, not that.” The girl shook her head. “I had to promise to buy Mildred a washer and dad six cases of Old Milwaukee.”

Throw in a mule, and someone could have proposed marriage,
Carley thought.

****

Business did not suffer so much Friday night, with the high school game played in Richton, but there were long faces in Annabel Lee Café Saturday morning after the 14–6 loss. Dale's was among them. “Those boys played their hearts out.”

“I'm sorry,” Carley said.

“You could cheer me up by coming with me to Barnhill's tomorrow,” he said cautiously.

“Sure,” she said. “But no movie. I have paperwork to finish.” She had also offered to help Brooke move during the two days off, but the girl said that Mildred would be bringing her things Monday on her way to Hattiesburg for the washer and beer.

“You're making a big mistake,” Dale said Sunday afternoon, while dousing a baked potato with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “I wish you would have discussed this with me before you invited her.”

“Pardon me?” Carley said.

He waved a hand. “This isn't a control issue. I'm just worried for your safety. What if she has boys over in spite of your rules?”

“She said her boyfriend lives out of town.”

“Out of town…did the town sound something like Oakley?”

“I think so.”

He sighed. “Carley, that's a juvenile detention facility near Jackson. She must mean Brad Travis. I arrested him last spring for breaking into a house while the owners were on vacation.”

That was disappointing. But then, what kind of role model of a decent man did Brooke have?
And your first boyfriend stole his father's van,
she reminded herself.

“If he's locked away, I have nothing to worry about,” Carley reasoned.

“For how long? I can't recall his sentence off the cuff, but even so, they get out when they turn eighteen.”

That sent a little shudder up Carley's spine.
You should have waited for the one hundred percent,
she told herself. Should she rescind the invitation? One mental picture of the disappointment on Brooke's face was all it took to abandon that notion. “You'll know when they're going to let him out…right?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then you'll be able to warn me.”

He sighed. “Don't tell me. You're still determined to do this?”

“I have to, Dale.”

****

Pathetically, Brooke was dropped off on Monday with a black garbage bag of clothing, the bicycle, a battered cosmetic bag, and a toy china tea set in its original pasteboard box.

“Everything's so clean,” she breathed.

Carley showed her to the middle bedroom—she could not bring herself to offer her grandmother's room. As an afterthought, she had placed her wicker chair in the corner. Unless teenage girls had changed since she was one, they spent a lot of time in their rooms. These days she only went into her own to change clothes and sleep, so the chair only served as a catchall.

“This is wonderful,” Brooke breathed, running a hand reverently over the quilt.

“Sorry it's only a twin.”

“But it gives me more space to move around the room.”

Carley smiled, imagining that if she had apologized for a hole in the middle of the floor, Brooke would have found something good to say about it. “I emptied the closet and put in some hangers. You might want to fluff up your clothes in the dryer first.”

“You don't mind?”

“Of course not. Use anything in the house you need.”

As much as she told herself she was simply helping a young employee get back and forth to work more easily, the day had the feel of a special occasion. She made pizza from scratch, a task too troublesome to do for just herself, and taught Brooke how to toss the dough.

“I thought they only did that on TV,” the girl said, gingerly giving the center of the mound of dough little flips so that the sides hung over both palms.

“Don't worry, we're not going to throw it overhead or anything like that. But it puts gravity to work and stretches it better than pulling at it in a pan.”

Eventually they had it topped with sauce, pepperoni slices, and mozzarella cheese. “I have to warn you, it won't be as good as Tommy's Pizza,” Carley said, sliding it into the oven. “Their oven's much hotter.”

“That's okay. It's still gonna be good.”

And you'd say that if I topped it with dog biscuits,
Carley thought.

“Was that back bedroom your grandmother's?” Brooke asked.

“Yes, it was.” It was arranged the same way, though the clothing and a lamp had gone to the Salvation Army. Carley did not consider it a shrine or such, but the fact that it made her feel connected to her grandmother's memory was reason enough to keep it that way for a little while longer.

Brooke began washing the dough bowl. “And you never met her.”

“I did when I was very young. But I hardly remember it.”

“That's so sad. Did your family move away or something?”

“Sort of. My mother left Washington with me.”

“You never visited?”

Carley took the bowl and began drying it. “My mother was afraid they'd take me away from her.”

Brooke turned off the tap, her eyes wide. “Why would they do that?”

“Because she was…not a fit mother.”

“She drank, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Where is she now?”

“She died last year.”

“Oh.” Brooke sighed. “My mom left when I was a baby.”

“I know, Brooke,” Carley said. “Do you hear from her?”

“I get Christmas cards from Chicago. I kept them when I was little. Now I throw them away. They're just cards with her name signed. Only the picture changes every year, so one's enough.” The girl studied her face. “I thought you must have been like one of those girls with nice clothes and a nice little family. But you're kind of like me, aren't you?”

“Pretty much.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.” Carley said, realizing it as she spoke. “If we had had those privileged childhoods, we wouldn't be as strong as we are.”

“You think I'm strong?”

“I do.” She smiled at the girl. “And so you have to be special to get into our club.”

She ate one third of the pizza, Brooke wolfed down the rest. Between the two of them, cleaning the kitchen took less than five minutes. “I have some work to do at the computer,” Carley said. “But it won't disturb me if you'd like to watch television.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.” Carley sighed. “Look, I know you're out of your comfort zone here…”

“I'm very comfortable,” Brooke said. “This house is great.”

Carley shook her head. “Your ‘comfort zone' is what you're used to. It doesn't even have to be comfortable. If you were raised in a cave and suddenly given a high-rise apartment, you would have some adjustment issues after the newness wore off.”

“Wow. How do you know all that?”

“Well, from my college psych class. Anyway, what I started to say is, you're going to have to make yourself at home or this isn't going to work. If I have to reassure you every time you want to use something, I'll go insane.”

The girl winced. “Okay.”

It took her only seconds to figure out the remote control. “You've got cable!”

“There was a sale when I had cable Internet installed,” Carley said from her desk. “But I hardly ever have time to watch it.”

“We live too far out for it.” Brooke flipped one channel after another. “Did I thank you for inviting me to stay here?”

Carley smiled as her fingers clicked the keyboard. “A thousand times.”

“Would you consider leaving work a little early and going to the game with me Saturday?” Dale asked at the counter on Tuesday while paying for his bowl of mushroom soup and mixed green salad. USM was to play Memphis, a fact discussed by almost every regular patron whose conversation Carley overheard.

“I'm sorry,” Carley said. “Saturdays are busy. And Troy has already asked to leave early.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “I'll see if Garland wants to go.”

“Or maybe Marti?” Carley suggested.

He looked around, leaned closer, and lowered his voice. “I can't ask her. She has a crush on me.”

“Are you sure that's not male ego talking?” Carley said, lowering her own voice.

“Ego didn't write
Mrs. Dale Parker
a dozen times on a paper I came across in the trash while looking for my coffee spoon.”

“Oh. Well, she's a nice person.”

“Yes, very nice. But it's just not going to happen.”

****

Aren't teenagers supposed to sleep
late
?
Carley thought when she caught a glance of Brooke's made bed on her way to the bathroom. She put the teakettle on and went back through the living room. Micah and Kimberly stood on the steps in school clothes and backpacks, and Brooke sat on the porch swing in pajama pants and gray T-shirt, eating a bowl of cornflakes.

“Hi, Miss Carley,” Micah said, his sister echoing a half beat behind.

“Hi, kids. Heading to school?” Carley said to be sociable, even though the answer was obvious.

“We're waiting for Mom and Lane,” Kimberly replied. “He poured his juice down his shirt. Now Mom has to change his clothes and wipe out the stroller.”

“I could change real quick and walk you,” Brooke offered.

“I'll ask,” Micah said. He was halfway to the driveway when Gayle stepped from behind Carley's car with stroller wheels humming on concrete.

“Have a good day!” she called while beckoning to the children.

Annabel Lee Café did only a fair amount of business that day, but enough to keep Carley from becoming discouraged. Stanley and Loretta Malone brought another couple for lunch—his brother Dennis and his wife, Toni, from Savannah. A total of only seven antique shoppers filtered in at odd times, but nine people from First Baptist's senior citizen group made up for that slack.

“You must be bringing your father his lunch,” Carley said when Mona Bryant came for her telephone takeout order of a beef Wellington sandwich and chicken mushroom pasta. The beef sandwich was proving itself to be the most popular menu item with male patrons, and Emmit White was no exception, stopping by for one at least three times since opening day.

Still, it was a silly thing to say, Carley realized after the words left her mouth. It was none of her business, and the fact that Mona made her nervous was no excuse to blather on.

Mona's stony look proved that point. “I have the twenty-seven cents,” she said, digging into her jeans pocket.

Carley salved her wounded ego by reminding herself of something Jane Austen had written:
I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal
.

That only made her feel guilty. She would probably be a grump herself if her husband had left her for another woman.

No I wouldn't
, she decided after more thought.
I've had just as many hard knocks, and I'm nice
.