Free A Table By the Window by Lawana Blackwell Page A

portrait, pressing cheeks with a pretty young woman with fair hair and a wide smile. Sterling and Cordelia, 1950 was written in faded blue ink. There were a few black-and-white snapshots of Helen and Cordelia as girls.
    Many photographs were of a child with wisps of fiery red hair. Carley came across one of the tot sharing a bench with an older woman who smiled self-consciously for the camera. Carley and Cordelia, Garfield Park, June 1981 read the back. And there on the seat between them, a small red carton.
    Animal crackers, Carley realized. She set that one aside, and when finished looking at the rest, placed it on top of the collection before closing the lid. She would frame it back in California.
    Evening had crept up on her, she realized, looking out at the shadowy form of the Payne house from the kitchen window. She still had to dust the furniture. But she had a problem. She had not thought to pack casual clothes for cleaning and packing, so she changed into her plaid flannel pants, the long-sleeve T-shirt she used as a pajama top, and slippers. She found a can of furniture polish beneath the sink. The doorbell rang as she was attempting to get it to spray.
    â€œI’m Ruby Moore, from just across the street” drawled a fortyish woman holding a quart-sized covered casserole by the handles with hot pads. She wore a thick beige fleece jacket over a pink knit sweat suit and tennis shoes. Graying brown hair, cut short in a wedge shape, emphasized her flushed cheeks.
    â€œPlease, come in,” Carley said with a backward step.
    She did, and moved aside so that Carley could close the door. “And I’m so sorry about Miz Cordelia. She was a good neighbor.”
    â€œThank you.” Carley introduced herself, though her visitor obviously knew who she was. “May I make you some coffee or tea?”
    â€œI just had a Dr. Pepper. And you look busy.”
    â€œI’m trying to be busy. The nozzle’s clogged.”
    â€œThat’s because it hasn’t been used for a while. It happens a lot at my house for the same reason, if you get my meaning. Do you have some rubbin’ alcohol and a needle?”
    â€œI saw a safety pin in a dish in the bathroom,” Carley said. “I’m not sure about alcohol.”
    â€œ All us old people have rubbin’ alcohol,” Ruby said, with a wink. “I can’t stay long. My parents are coming for supper in about an hour. I’d invite you to join us, but they’re bringing about three hours’ worth of videos of their Florida vacation, and trust me, you’d rather pass. But I have you some chicken-tortilla casserole here.”
    â€œWhy, thank you.” Carley followed her into the kitchen. “I was going to open a can of tuna.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” Ruby set the casserole on the stove. “I hope it’s good. I got the recipe off the Internet. Now, go get that pin and alcohol, sweetie.”
    She was sitting at the table with an empty teacup when Carley returned after finding both items in the bathroom. While the nozzle soaked in a little alcohol, Ruby asked what Carley did in California.
    â€œI’m an English literature teacher,” Carley replied.
    â€œWell, we’re both in education, aren’t we? I work in human resources for the Lamar County School Board.”
    Partly to deflect questions about teaching, but mostly because she was interested, Carley asked how long Ruby had lived in Tallulah.
    â€œAll my life. My daddy has a farm about five miles southwest of town.”
    â€œWhat does the town’s name mean?”
    Ruby proved herself the right person to ask. “It’s Choctaw for ‘Leaping Waters’ because of the springs about a half mile beyond the middle and high schools. Daddy has a cigar box filled with arrowheads his daddy found while plowing his fields, so you know they lived all over here. But the federal government forced out most of the Choctaw to