A Table By the Window (3 page)

Her mother did not bring any more men home to live with them until Carley was fourteen. That was when Linda became pregnant by Wayne Ross, part-time bartender and singer in country-western clubs. Wayne played funny songs on the guitar, pasted up new wallpaper, fixed the drip that had etched a brown inverted
V
beneath the bathtub faucet, spent eight hundred dollars to retrieve Linda's car from the repossession lot, and spoon-fed her soup after she miscarried the baby. But he was insanely jealous, once even beating up a UPS driver for supposedly giving Linda the eye while delivering a package to the family who shared the duplex. He slept days, and his ears were as sharp as sonic radar. He woke at the faintest noise to rant and rave.

In spite of the migraines that were beginning to plague her, Carley began staying outdoors after school and on weekends, and gravitated toward a half-dozen other adolescents who found the streets more welcoming or interesting than their homes.

Her new friends taught her how to shoplift and smoke cigarettes—even pot whenever they could get it. She dyed her hair and fingernails black. One spring day, a boy she had a crush on stole his father's Aerostar van, and the group set out for San Francisco. For three days they managed to evade authorities in Golden Gate Park. The police returned the other children to their parents with stern warnings but kept Carley in custody when Linda met them at the door with a black eye and bleeding lip. She refused to press charges against Wayne, and so Carley was sent to a foster home in Yuba City, fifty miles from Sacramento.

The Woodleys had a fine house, but it took Carley only days to realize her position as housemaid and sitter for four undisciplined children under the age of seven. When she slipped away five months later with a credit card and twenty-three dollars plus change from Alice Woodley's purse, two policemen met her at the Sacramento Greyhound station. She spent eight days in juvenile detention, then was sent to a group home in Redding, California.

There, the snarls in her life began untangling. She was enrolled in Pioneer High School. Her grades improved. She made the basketball team and gave up cigarettes after the coach threatened to kick her off if he smelled tobacco again. The migraines eased from at least one a week to one every four or five months. One of the group home's counselors, Janelle Reed, provided a sympathetic ear to her railings about Linda's choosing a man over her and failing to protect her from Huey Collins. But more importantly, she gave Carley a glimpse of what her future could be.

“Learn from your mother's failings and you won't end up like her,”
Janelle had said, time and time again.

Carley's first official act upon turning eighteen was to legally shed the name
Collins
with money she had saved for just that purpose. It was bad enough to have memories of her stepfather stored in the back of her mind.
Reed
seemed the logical choice, even though by this time the counselor had moved to Alaska with her husband to train sled dogs. It cost not a cent more to get rid of
Rainbow
in favor of simply no middle name. After mulling over several possibilities, she decided to keep
Carley
. Her mother claimed to have named her after singer Carly Simon—though in typical Linda-fashion she had paid no attention to the correct spelling—but it was still a nice, normal name, and she could not imagine having to adjust to a new one.

She unsuccessfully tried for a basketball scholarship at California State University and so put herself through school by waiting tables thirty-plus hours weekly. Linda died in Mercy General Hospital on March 3, 2002. And even to the end she maintained that she was a good mother who had simply made a few mistakes. Wasn't the fact that her daughter was a college graduate proof enough?

****

How easy it would be, Carley thought as she got up from the bench, to sit back and allow a handful of rich kids to bend the rules. After all, she had done her duty by reporting them to the headmistress.

She shook her head. It was a nice try, but she could not make herself believe it. Somehow, over the course of institutionalized living and working her way through college, she recognized that certain people stood out from among the masses by virtue of their character. Like Janelle Reed. The DeLouches. Having had most of her childhood wrecked by people with
no
positive character traits, she did not take that virtue lightly. How slippery was the slope from winking at a handful of cheaters to breaking the law? Or ruining someone else's life?

Or becoming like her mother? Her worst fear.

You can't back down on this,
she told herself.

Back in her apartment, Carley averted her eyes from the answering machine's blinking light. Just because she had decided to stand firm did not mean she was looking forward to the confrontation that would result. The telephone rang at half past seven as she was stretched out in pajamas and slippers in front of
America's Funniest Home Videos
reruns, trying to lighten her mood. She rested the half-finished peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the plate upon her stomach and angled an arm to reach for the cordless receiver on the wicker sofa table.

“I've been calling all day, Carley,” came Dr. Kincaid's brittle voice before Carley could say hello.

The concern in the headmistress's tone was gratifying. That meant she regretted her course of action.

“I had to get away and think,” Carley said. “It wasn't right for you to send me home like that.”

A sigh came through the receiver. “Do you think I enjoyed handling it this way? But you have to understand that the school can't exist without donations.”

“Are you saying you gave them another chance?”

“With the condition that they turn in new compositions by Friday. With notes of apology to you for misunderstanding the ru—”

“And those students who followed the rules?” Carley cut in, making a row of little pinches along the bread crust.

“This doesn't affect them. My hands are tied on this one, Carley. I'm ordering you to let this go.”

Carley took a deep breath. “I can't do that, Dr. Kincaid. We both know that's not fair.”

“What we both
know,
is that I went out on a limb to hire you, with only three years' experience and no master's degree.” Dr. Kincaid's brittle voice sharpened. “You're a good teacher, Carley, in spite of your inability to maintain discipline in some of your classes. But frankly, I'll sacrifice you if you force my hand.”

You can't back down,
Carley reminded herself.

And then, misgivings.
She did go out on a limb. You've never been fired. If you can just hang in there for five more months, you'll have the summer—

“Carley?”

You're a coward,
Carley said to herself.

And what she said to Dr. Kincaid was, “All right.”

“I appreciate that,” the headmistress said before breaking the connection.

Wiping her eyes with her paper napkin, Carley set aside her sandwich. Throbbing in her right temple warned of an impending migraine. She buried her face in a sofa pillow. Was she any better than the students who had cheated? So much for her seemingly high standards of integrity. Integrity was easy when there were no personal risks involved.

On leaden feet she carried her dish into the kitchen. She had just swallowed two Excedrin tablets to ward off pain and half of a Dramamine tablet to ward off nausea, when the answering machine's blinking light caught her attention again. She may as well clear the messages.

“Carley, this is Dr. Kin—”
She pressed the Erase button.

“If you're there, I need you to pick up.”
Erase.

“Miss Reed, this is Stanley Ma—”
Erase.

Too late her mind registered the baritone drawl. In all the emotional turmoil of the day, her mind had simply shelved the news of her grandmother's death. She returned to the living room and took the two business cards from the coat folded across the back of the chair. The attorney's card listed both office and home telephone numbers. Her finger was poised over the dial buttons when she considered the time difference between California and Mississippi. Two hours, three? Whichever was correct, it was at least 9:45
P.M.
on Mr. Malone's end. She propped his card against the telephone. She would have to wait until tomorrow afternoon.

Sleep was again elusive for hours, in spite of medication, and she was too exhausted to get up and reverse the bedding. She woke to the telephone's ringing, five minutes before her clock radio was set to go off.
Dr. Kincaid,
she thought, trying to clear the fog from her mind as her feet felt for slippers. Thankfully, no headache. She reached the kitchen as the baritone drawl from the night before was speaking through the answering machine.

“Miss Reed, this is Stanley Malone, in Tallulah, Mississippi. Would you please give me a ring when—”

“Hello, Mr. Malone,” Carley said, snatching up the receiver. “I'm sorry I didn't call yesterday.”

“There's no need to apologize, Miss Reed. I'm just glad Mr. Wingate found you. And
I'm
sorry about your grandmother. Miz Walker was a fine lady.”

“Was she?” Carley asked, a little surprised by the wishfulness in her own voice.

“She certainly was. And she left you her house and most of its furnishings. And some money, in the neighborhood of a hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

Carley pulled a chair from the table and sank into it. Surely her sluggish mind had misinterpreted. “Did you just say a hundred and sixty thousand?”

“Before certain expenses, but those are comparatively minimal. I gather most of the estate comes from what remained from your grandfather's life insurance.”

“How did he die?”

“Heart attack, same as Miz Walker.”

Tears welled up in Carley's eyes. “They didn't even know me.”

“That wasn't your doing, Miss Reed,” he said with sympathetic tone.

“I could have tried harder. All I did was send a note after my mother died. It probably didn't even reach my grandmother.”

“But it did. She had asked the people to whom she sold the house in Washington to forward any mail addressed to her, just in case your mother or you would wish to contact her. It was thoughtful of you to send it.”

“Thoughtful,” Carley echoed bitterly, a lump rising in her throat.

“She never blamed you, Miss Reed,” Mr. Malone said. “If anything, she blamed herself.”

Carley wiped her eyes. “For what?”

There was a hesitation. “I don't wish to speak ill of the dead….”

“My mother, you mean? Nothing would surprise me about her. Tell me.”

Over the line came the sound of his throat clearing. “The Walkers attempted to gain legal custody of you when you were very young, thereby causing your mother to flee Washington. At least when your mother lived nearby, they were able to see that you were clothed and fed properly. To a degree. She…apparently used you as leverage sometimes.”

“I can believe that,” Carley said flatly.

“I'm sorry to hear it.” His voice became businesslike again, but in a gentle way. “Would it be possible for you to come down here and settle the estate?”

“Can it not be done long-distance?” Carley asked. Too late she realized how cold her tone sounded. But then, her only link with Tallulah, Mississippi, had been deceased for three months.

She was about to explain herself when he said, with no judgment in his voice, “Yes, that's an option. You would simply need to retain an attorney on your end. We have a couple of fine Realtors here who can sell the house and oversee shipping the furnishings to you or send them to a consignment shop here in Tallulah. But it was Miz Walker's deepest wish that you come have a look at the house before you dispose of it.”

“Well, of course. If that was what she wished. But did she say why?”

“I believe it comforted her to know that you would have a reason to meet your relatives.”

“What relatives? My mother was an only child.”

“But your grandmother wasn't. Her sister, Helen Hudson, was the one who persuaded Miz Walker to move here and help her run her little antique shop. And the Hudsons' youngest daughter and her husband and two boys live here as well.”

“My mother never mentioned any family besides my grandparents.” That information changed everything. The cord stretched as she walked over to the calendar on the refrigerator door. Her students would be on a field trip to Chabot Space and Science Center in Oakland on Thursday, the thirtieth. And she would probably have no problem getting permission for a substitute teacher for Friday, given that the date was over two weeks away. That would allow four days, two for traveling. She asked, “Would the end of the month be all right, if I can clear it with my boss?”

“That would just be fine, Miss Reed,” he said warmly. “Just give me a ring when you've made the arrangements.”

Long-standing frugal habits died hard. By Friday, when it had finally sunk in that her financial situation was about to improve dramatically, Carley still walked to her usual stop at the corner of Market and Grant, rode Muni Rail Bus #5 to McAllister and Fillmore Streets to catch #22 to Fillmore and Broadway, then another two blocks on foot.

She traded good-mornings with faculty members on her way to the classroom with briefcase and mug of tea. At first bell, fourteen chattering homeroom students filtered through the doorway and soon settled down to discuss Arthur Miller's
The Crucible
. American Literature II—Twentieth-Century Literature was an honors class made up of seniors focused upon getting into Ivy League colleges.

“Why do you think John Proctor did not wish to be involved when the girls started making accusations?” she asked, standing before the rows of desks.