A Table By the Window (11 page)

“Anyway, after we helped Cordelia move down here, I took her to see Doctor Borden here in town. He suspected clinical depression, and that she had probably had it since her teenage years. He referred her to a woman psychiatrist in Hattiesburg. It took some begging to convince Cordelia to see her.”

“Why?”

“As I said, we were raised in different times. Seeing a psychiatrist meant you were either crazy or not a good Christian. And I'm sure Sterling had reinforced that notion.”

“But she went…?”

“Eventually. She was put on an antidepressant, and within a couple of months her whole outlook changed. Working in the shop, seeing people every day, helped too. She became the fun sister I…”

Voice trailing, Aunt Helen dabbed her eyes with her fingertips. Tiger rose from his nap to nuzzle her other hand and study her with worried brown eyes. Aunt Helen scratched between his ears.

“I'm afraid I let Cordelia down, badly. We moved from one duty station to another, even to Germany, and had three children to raise. There were some years when all we did was exchange birthday and Christmas cards. I wish I had it to do over again. I would have kept in closer contact, perhaps I could have helped her with Linda.”

“You think my mother inherited Grandmother's depression? Was that what made her the way she was?”

“I believe it contributed,” Aunt Helen said. “We talked about it when she moved down here. Linda had a big dose of her father's stubbornness, and Cordelia lived too deep inside her own misery to give her the attention and boundaries she needed. Sterling worked a lot of overtime, so he wouldn't have been much help. You give a child like that enough rope and she'll hang herself.”

“She tried that,” Carley said flatly.

“What? Hanging herself?”

“When I was a sophomore in college. A neighbor found her just in time.”

“My, my…” Helen shook her head. “Poor Linda. And what a terrible life
you
must have had.”

Carley shrugged. “It helps to understand why she was that way. And she could be loving at times.”

Such as when Linda took her to see
The Princess Bride
and out for banana splits afterward. Those sorts of memories were bittersweet for their extreme rarity—and when juxtaposed with the harsh fact that her mother had failed to protect her from the evil people in their lives.

The second question she had wanted to ask during supper came again to her mind. “Did Grandmother have any idea who my father was?”

Her aunt gave her a pitying look. “I'm afraid not, dear. She said Linda dated so many boys since she was fourteen that they had no clue. She was living with a man when you were born, but neither of them claimed he was your father.”

“I don't remember him.”

“Well, I'm sure that relationship lasted about as long as the others. Do you remember living with Cordelia and Sterling when you were about three?”

“Vaguely. Where was my mother?”

“In…jail, for assaulting a woman one of her boyfriends left her for.”

“Mr. Malone said my grandparents tried to sue for custody.”

“And that was why Linda left the state with you. Cordelia always regretted that they didn't go about it another way. But then, who was to say that she would have had the energy for you that she didn't have for Linda? I'm sure that drove her deeper into depression.”

“So many regrets,” Carley sighed.

Her mother's instability and failure to protect her. Her grandmother's depression. Her own painful childhood memories. Aunt Helen's not keeping closer contact with her younger sister. That she herself had not looked up her grandparents.

“That's just how life is, Carley,” Aunt Helen said. “But I've lived long enough to see how God can make good come from our regrets.”

That sort of talk, as well as the “Christian” reference earlier and prayer before supper, made Carley uneasy. She was not an atheist. In fact, when she heard the Gospel message at age ten, she embraced it wholeheartedly and was baptized three weeks later.

Believing in God was not the issue. Understanding Him was.

One major barrier to understanding was constructed from memories of people who claimed to believe. At the head of that list was Huey Collins. Second was the congregation who held him in such high esteem that they elected him deacon, not taking the trouble to notice the terror in a little girl's eyes.

And then there were her foster parents, the Woodleys, with their picture of Jesus in the dining room and fish symbol on their car.

The church choir group who left a five-dollar tip and gospel tract after consuming over three hundred dollars' worth of food at DeLouches.

The woman whose bumper Carley's Camry had barely nicked while dodging a runaway shopping cart in front of the Safeway. She sprang from her Volvo praising Jesus that no one was hurt, and then sued for back injury, settling out of court for seven thousand dollars, thus running up Carley's insurance premiums.

The mortar that held those memories together was made up of what Carley perceived to be the nature of God himself. Was He paying so much attention to the sparrows and lilies that he could not see what was going on under Huey Collins' roof, nor hear her stomach growling on the days Linda could afford cigarettes and Johnny Walker but not cereal and milk?

When talk got around to religion, Carley usually started making excuses to leave. She was about to do so when Uncle Rory came into the room and eased into a chair.

“Your back hurts?” Carley asked, relieved at the opportunity to change the subject but concerned about the pain that washed over his face. “I should have helped you finish.”

He smiled and shook his head. “It aches just the same whether I'm working or loafing. But I'm afraid I'm no good at lifting anything heavier than a cooking pot, or I could help you pack.”

“Please don't worry about that. I'm only boxing up small things. Loretta Malone gave me the name of a shipping company for whatever I send home.”

That led to questions about Carley's life in San Francisco. When Aunt Helen asked how she was able to take off so many days from teaching, she found herself telling the whole story. It was cathartic to get it all out.

Especially when her aunt shook her head and said, “I would have done the same thing. You shouldn't have to compromise your values just to keep a job.”

“And there's no virtue to being miserable when you can do something about it,” Uncle Rory added.

“Thank you for saying that,” Carley said, warming to both of them even more. At length she glanced at her watch. Ten o'clock. Not too late for someone whose body still assumed it was eight, but late for two elderly people who had spent hours in the kitchen and antique shop.

Both walked her through the hall, where Aunt Helen embraced her again. Carley drove back down Main, past sidewalks virtually empty. Most houses on Third Street had at least one window illuminated. For as long as she could remember, such a sight could bring on melancholy, a feeling of being excluded from whatever the people inside were doing. She did not feel this way tonight.

Instead she felt a wave of pity for the students who had given her so much trouble, even Ryan Ogden. The ski trips to Aspen, diamond jewelry, and sports vehicles for sixteenth-birthday presents, surely diluted their capacities to enjoy simple things. There was no entertainment or material possession on earth, on this cold starry night, that could match her sense of well-being from simply being embraced by her family.

****

“Is it possible to transfer the balance to this Bank of California account?” she asked on Thursday morning.

The Lamar County Bank officer turned blue-shaded eyes back to her computer screen. “I'll take care of that rat now.”

Right now,
Carley's mind translated for her startled ears.

“When do you think the funds will be available in California?” she asked when the tattoo of fingers against keyboard slowed.

The woman smiled and jabbed a key with an index finger. “It's there as we speak, Miss Reed.” She opened a cash drawer. “Now, how would you like your change?”

In no way did Carley envision spending five hundred dollars in the six days she had remaining in Tallulah; in fact, she still had most of the three hundred from an ATM in the San Francisco airport. But the officer had suggested that the shipping company might balk at an out-of-state check.

The fact that Carley's checkbook lay in a dresser drawer in her apartment made the advice even more practical. Still, she would probably have more than enough left to pay cash for the rental car instead of charging it as she had planned.

Visa, your days are numbered,
she thought.

A man was entering the bank as she approached the exit. Caught up in her own enthusiasm, she barely glanced at him.

“I
thought
you might be here.”

That voice! Carley looked up at Blake Kemp's grinning face. But before she could say that she did not appreciate his insinuation that she could not wait to get her hands on the money—even though that was essentially the case—he spoke again.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Um-hmm.” Carley moved over to the counter where deposit and withdrawal slips were kept.

This time he gave her a nervous smile. “We'd like to buy the house.”

“Oh. Sherry too?”

“Of course.” He looked about, lowered his voice. “Will you take seventy-two thousand? And leave the major appliances for future tenants?”

As little as Carley knew of real estate, she had absorbed enough from television and newspaper financial columns to know that she was supposed to make a counter offer in sort of a bidding ritual. But she still harbored a sense of guilt, having swept into town and inherited the bulk of her grandmother's estate over people who had actually spent time with her. And they
were
family.

“All right,” she said.

He blinked, and his pleased expression faltered. “Ah…really?”

She could read his thoughts—he wondered if she would have agreed just as quickly if he had offered even less. As little as she cared for Blake, she decided to spare him some torment.

“But that has to be my bottom price.”

He looked relieved. Taking a cell phone from his pocket, he said, “Sure, that's fair. Since you're not going to be in town much longer, do you mind if I see if Mr. Malone will draw up the purchase agreement today?”

As it turned out, the attorney said he could see them right away. Carley followed Blake's white Mitsubishi mini-truck over to the attorney's office, and fifteen minutes later the paperwork only needed Sherry's signature to take effect. “I'll bring it over to the school and then go back to the bank,” Blake said, pumping Mr. Malone's hand and then Carley's.

The Cavalier's heater had no time to put a dent in thirty-degree weather. But the Tallulah library was warm and smelled of old books and wood and polish. The lone computer sat on a desk between the books-on-tape and magazine areas. Librarian Edward Juban said Carley would need to have a library card in order to access the Internet.

“But bein' as you have an address here, I can fix you up with a temporary one. My condolences on Miz Walker, by the way.” He was a soft-spoken, pear-shaped man, with dark brown hair, gray eyes, and a mustache that partially concealed a repaired cleft palate.

“Thank you,” Carley said. “Did she come here often?”

“Pretty often. She was a very gracious lady.”

Every compliment directed toward her late grandmother sent a little stab to her heart.
By the time you were old enough to contact her on your own, you had almost no free time,
she tried to rationalize as Mr. Juban typed out her card.

And so now memories of her grandparents would always be secondhand. After death was a terrible time to try to catch up.

“What sort of books did she read?” Carley asked after signing her card. There were only a handful at the house. Besides a worn Betty Crocker and even more worn Bible, she had come across a crossword puzzle dictionary, an oversized picture book of quilting patterns, a collection of quotations, and a guide to Southern landscaping. One other title had made Carley smile.

The Independent Woman's Guide to Minor Automobile Repairs
.

But no fiction.

Discomfort crossed Mr. Juban's face, as if he were a physician who had just been asked to breach patient confidentiality. “Well, romance novels, mainly. Miz Hudson brought back a half dozen that Miz Walker had checked out before…”

“Really?” Carley was stunned and touched. Stunned, because the picture Helen had painted of her grandmother's married life was bleak. And touched, because there must have been at least some mutual affection, for her not to have soured on romance over the years. Thanking the librarian, she sat at the computer and logged in with her new library card number. She entered her password in the Bank of California Web site. The transfer had indeed gone through. With a few clicks of the keys, she paid off the school loan and credit card balance, which included the cost of her round-trip airline tickets two days ago.

Lovely, lovely zero,
she thought. Such an underrated digit. Her next item on the list was to telephone Kay Chapman and the shipping company in Hattiesburg. She walked back to the counter as light-footed as if walking on the moon, and asked Mr. Juban the location of the pay telephone.

He pointed to an arched opening past a couple of study tables. “I believe there's still someone on it, but she usually doesn't take long. Do you need the directory?”

Carley reached into her purse for her notebook and the roll of quarters from the bank. “No thanks.”

No sound came from the doorway as she drew closer. She came to a halt just before an alcove. A woman leaned against the wall, speaking with hushed voice into the receiver of a wall telephone between two doors stenciled with
Ladies
and
Gentlemen
. She was some years older than Carley but dressed younger, in tight jeans with bleach lines and a black leather motorcycle jacket. Straight, blunt-cut black hair fell in different lengths to her shoulder blades, her eyebrows were invisible behind bangs, and eyeliner was thick on both top and bottom.