A Table By the Window Read online

  “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.”

  Chapter 3

  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.

  Three hands raised. She called upon Vishal Patel in the second row.

  “Inertia,” he said, then frowned at the laughter his answer prompted.

  Carley smiled at the student, son of Indian immigrants. “Would you care to explain?”

  He nodded. “Why is it that so many people don’t vote? Inertia. They don’t want to be involved with anything outside their comfortable routines.”

  Five hands launched and a debate began. Sometimes heated, but mannerly for the most part. Were every class like this one, Carley thought as the students filed out of class, she would have no complaints about teaching.

  But it had taken her only a few months out of college to realize the truth of what she had heard during the course of her education studies; classes have personalities. The seventeen students entering the room and filling the desks could not have been more different than those of the first hour. Or at least the majority. Those who wished to learn kept low profiles, more afraid of their peers’ scorn than a teacher’s disappointment.

  And the ringleader was Ryan Ogden. He did not even meet her eyes as he approached to drop his rewritten composition on a corner of her desk. Tall and tanned, he took nothing seriously except for soccer, cheerleaders, and his midnight blue BMW 330Ci convertible. But then, why should he care about his studies when no one at Emerson-Wake dared hold him accountable? Teachers were a dime a dozen. Multimillionaire contributors were rare.

  The three other students who had cheated placed their compositions in the same spot, with only Erin Baine mustering at least a sheepish look. But no notes of apology materialized.

  Was she even surprised? Carley blamed herself. From the first day she had felt intimidated to be standing in front of students who paid more for tennis shoes and pocket computers than she paid for rent. She was able to hide that anxiety fairly well. Or so she had thought. But she made the mistake of pretending not to notice little challenges of authority, for fear that she would have to impose discipline and ruin the rapport she thought they had. Like predators, they had smelled the fear, and it was downhill from there.

  “Why do you suppose Shelley’s earliest works were so dark?” she asked after reading aloud the first eight lines of Queen Mab while the students presumably followed in their texts.

  “Because his parents named him Shelley.” This quip did not come from Ryan Ogden, but it may as well have, for the speaker was a lesser player on the soccer team who twisted around to look at the back row for approval.

  “That was his surname, Clayton.” Her voice was shrill to her own ears, over the guffaws. “His given name was Percy.”

  She regretted those words as soon as they left her mouth, for the next wave of laughter led to socializing.

  “Class, I would appreciate your attention!” she said above the din, advancing to just inches from the front-row desks.

  There was an encouraging little lull, into which she interjected, “Why does Shelley refer to sleep as ‘death’s brother’?”

  Riley Runnels continued showing off an ankle tattoo to Daniel Hall. Shawn Armstrong was mouthing something across the room to Tiffany Giles. In the third row, a hand crept upward.

  “Yes, Alton?” Carley said.

  A few heads turned in that direction. Crimson stained the boy’s peach-fuzz cheeks. Like Carley, Alton was new to Emerson-Wake, his father having transferred from a computer-networking company in San Jose to head a similar company in San Francisco. Shyness and an extra eighty pounds doomed Alton to social ostracism. But he said, bravely, “Because they’re related, in a way. Both overtake us, sooner or later.”

  Carley nodded. For Alton’s sake, she did not allow too much approval to enter her expression. “Overtake us?”

  “You can only fight sleep for so long. It’s the same with death.”

  “How do we fight death?” Carley asked, pretending not to notice a hushed conversation going on in the last row or the odor of an open bottle of nail polish.

  “With pills and doctor visits and stuff like that.” Alton replied, sitting a little straighter. After a second’s thought he added, “And exercise.”

  “You could sure use some!” came from the back row.

  The laughter was explosive and cruel. Alton shrank into his chair as much as his girth would allow. Even from several feet away, Carley could see tears glisten in his eyes. Ryan Ogden smirked as Mark Green leaned to pound his shoulder.

  “And you could use some manners, you arrogant jerk,”
she muttered, as laughter snowballed into socializing.

  Only a few of the students in the front row heard, and they gaped up at her after some hushed whispers.

  “Sh-h-h!” someone hissed. Murmurs rippled along the rows, faces turned to stare. Ryan Ogden ceased chatting with his girlfriend to send Carley a puzzled look.

  “What did you say?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.

  “She called you a jerk.” A stage whisper from one of Ryan’s toadies.

  Silence dropped into the classroom like a lead soccer ball.

  Carley felt her heart pounding in her chest. She scolded herself, Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?

  A corner of Ryan’s mouth quirked.

  She could read his mind. He had decided that this was something he would enjoy. He held absolute power. Everyone in the room knew it. Carley had crossed a line she should not have crossed, but perhaps—just perhaps—she could keep her job if she were to kiss his Birkenstock loafers and beg forgiveness.

  Not for a million dollars!

  “And it’s a shame, with all you have going for you,” she said evenly. How ironic, that in this moment all second-hour ears were finally tuned in her direction. I should have done this on the first day.

  She was not finished. “What would you do if you didn’t have an old man fighting your battles? If you weren’t allowed to get away with cheating? You haven’t a clue what the real world is like.”

  “Oh, and you have, Little Miss Schoolteacher?” he said with brows raised mockingly.

  “More than you can know.”

  He muttered something back, too low for her ears to catch, but the titillated shock on the faces in his immediate vicinity gave her a clue.

  Suddenly Carley saw herself as if she were a fly on the ceiling. Here she stood trading insults with a boy whose popularity would only increase because of the altercation. As for warning about the real world, Ryan Ogden and his ilk had no need to worry. Wealth insulated them from that world and protected them from consequences in this one. Family donations would ensure acceptance in at least some private college, as well as into the best fraternities and sororities. Those same financial connections would propel them up corporate ladders or into profitable marriages, and into homes on golf courses.

  Only the Alton Terrises would still have to struggle.

  She felt immense regret for adding to the boy’s already low status, but dared not do further damage by sending him an apologetic look. The students were still staring, as quiet as held breath, hoping for more fodder for hallway gossip.

  She would not oblige them. She went to her desk and pulled out the top drawer. Conversations began with renewed vigor. Hostility rolled towards her in waves. But it did not matter. Three minutes were all she needed. Long enough to pack her personal belongings into her briefcase, slip on her coat, and walk to the door. Then they would be out of her life for good.

  Still, her heart sank at the sounds of applause and hoots as she stepped out into the hall. The door to the history classroom opened. Fellow teacher James Hurley stuck his crew-cut head out and eyed the briefcase in her hand. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not anymore. I’m going home,” she replied, moving to the far side of the hall, half afraid he would somehow force her back into the classroom.

  Calm voice, calm voice, Carley ordered herself on her way through the outer office. She ignored Faye’s elevated eyebrows and subsequent “Carley?”

  Dr. Kincaid had the telephone receiver to her ear. She looked up and said into it, “Pardon me, but something’s just come up and I’m going to have to call you back. Yes, I have your number.”

  “What is it, Carley?” she said after breaking the connection.

  “You’d better send Melinda to my classroom.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “I called Ryan Ogden a jerk.”

  “You what?”

  “I know, it was childish. But he humiliated Alton Terris.” She took in a deep breath. “I appreciate your hiring me, Dr. Kincaid. But if you have any compassion, you’ll call Alton’s parents and recommend they put him in a school that doesn’t cater to bullies.”

  The headmistress pushed out her chair and stood, color flooding her face so that her lipstick looked ghostly white. “How dare you…”

  “Then I’ll do it myself. I quit, by the way. But when the general calls, tell him you fired me. May as well make yourself look good.”

  Carley had not raised her voice during the whole exchange. Still, in the outer office, Faye gaped up at her as if she had lost her mind. “Oh, lower your eyebrows,” Carley muttered on her way past her desk. “You’re getting wrinkles.”

  Anger-fueled adrenaline propelled her through the gates. By the time she reached the McAllister-Fillmore stop, she felt as if she had set aside a heavy load.

  I never have to go back! So what if teaching jobs were hard to come by in January? She was about to inherit a hundred and sixty thousand dollars! If she had to wait tables for a while, so be it. Some of her fondest memories were of the bustle and aromas and interaction with customers at DeLouches. A break from teaching would be refreshing, and in upscale restaurants, tips were nothing to sneeze at.

  She telephoned Mr. Malone from the desk wedged into a corner of her living room. “Would it be all right if I flew down there on Monday?”

  “The twentieth?”

  Carley smiled at the surprise in his voice. Her initial impulse had been to try to book a flight that very afternoon, but she supposed she should take a couple of days to wash clothes and pack, bring refrigerator perishables to Mrs. Kordalewski, inform her landlord, and arrange for the post office to hold her mail. “I’ve had some free time fall into my lap.”

  “That’ll be just fine,” he said warmly. “Have you booked your flight?”

  “I wanted to check with you first.”

  “I appreciate that. But we’re pretty flexible down here.”

  “Then I’ll get on the Internet and call you back.”

  But first, she had another call to make. After two rings, a woman with a Hispanic accent answered. Carley identified herself and was asked to wait. Mrs. Terris’s voice came on a minute later. “Yes? Miss Reed?”

  Carley knew Jan Terris fairly well. She volunteered in the library on Mondays and Wednesdays, obviously and mistakenly hoping this would help her son fit in.

  “Alton had good friends back in San Jose,” Mrs. Terris said after Carley relayed the facts to her. A sigh came through the line. “He begs us every day to let him move in with his grandparents during the school months. It’s tearing me up. But shouldn’t he be learning to face problems instead of running away from them?”

  Oh, that poor boy, Carley groaned inside. So just throw him to thugs, so he can spend his adult life trying to overcome the emotional bruises and inferiority complex?

  “Mrs. Terris, imagine yourself working in an office where your co-workers take great pleasure in tormenting you. Would you stay in the interest of learning to face problems? Or find a job in a friendlier environment?”

  “I would leave,” came back to her ears, just above a whisper.

  “Why do we force children to eat garbage we wouldn’t eat?”

  A silence, followed by a crisp “Thank you for calling, Miss Reed.”

  Carley’s heart sank.

  But her spirits soared when Mrs. Terris said, “I have to go get my son now.”

  Replacing the receiver, Carley sat back in her chair andconcentrated on breathing deeply, slowing down the adrenaline rush. She would not have to live with the guilt of knowing she had made Alton’s school days at Emerson-Wake even more difficult. Was she being vindictive? She did not think so. Were Alton her son, she would hope someone would care enough to do the same.

  She turned on her computer. She had never been inside an airport, nor did she know where Tallulah was located. But she knew how to navigate the Internet. In less than a minute, she discovered that Tallulah’s closest commercial airport
with flights from San Francisco was in Jackson, Mississippi.

  Frontier Airlines offered the cheapest round-trip ticket, leaving at 6:35 Monday morning. The trip would take over nine hours, counting layovers in Denver and Houston, and the two-hour time difference would put her in Jackson after five in the evening.

  How long to stay? Surely the legal issues and becoming acquainted with relatives could be taken care of in one week. If they turned out to be anything like her mother, a week would be too long.

  She chewed her lip, finger poised on the computer mouse. Two weeks? If Tallulah proved intolerable, she could simply return to Jackson, check into a cheap hotel, and vegetate. Read novels. Rent movies. Find a Kinko’s or library and update her résumé.

  Ten days, she thought, compromising. And once she entered her Visa information and clicked the mouse again, the deed was done. No time to entertain doubts.

  She rang Mr. Malone’s office on the cordless telephone. A female voice asked her name and said, “I’m going to have to put you on hold for just a second, honey.”

  Carley smiled. The image her mind conjured belonged more to old antebellum movies than to the twenty-first century—the receptionist in a sprigged gown, fanning herself while sipping coffee from a flowered Wedgwood cup.

  Elevator music gave way to Mr. Malone’s courtly drawl. “You’ve bought your ticket, Miss Reed?”

  Now in motion, Carley’s mind next pictured a Colonel Sanders clone. White suit and goatee, and smiling eyes. The image evaporated as she gave her attention back to the matter at hand. “I’m afraid I won’t be in Jackson until Monday evening. May we meet on Tuesday?”

  “Absolutely. Now, if you’ll just give me your flight information, we’ll meet—”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be renting a car.” In the space between car leaving her mouth and a breath entering, she was certain he was about to protest. Preemptively she said, “It’ll be fun to drive again. I sold my car before I left Sacramento.”