A Table By the Window (13 page)

“You have a good day now, Miss Reed.”

“And you too.”

She purchased three rolls of tape and a small radio with batteries. As she walked back down Main Street she found herself wondering about his former girlfriend. Even
she
knew that Atlanta was a long way off, and so distance was surely a factor in the breakup. But it seemed that two people who genuinely cared for each other would solve that problem. There had to be other issues. Perhaps his good looks and reputation as a local hero? Was it that having women fall all over him was too much of a temptation?

In which case, she would not blame the Atlanta former girlfriend one bit.

It's none of your business anyway,
she told herself, and as a sidebar acknowledged that women were just as capable of running around as were men. That led to depressing thoughts about her mother, so she pushed the whole subject from her mind and looked at the contents of the shopwindows again. The SUV was still parked outside Auld Lang Syne, so she decided to go on home.

On Third Street, a boy and girl in jackets and kneepads were roller-skating up and down the sidewalk. She moved to the edge every time they fell into single file to pass, and they drawled timid thank-yous. They happened to be in front of Carley's house when she was halfway up her driveway.

“Do you live here?” one called.

Carley turned and smiled. “Only for a few days.”

The boy's blonde hair peeked beneath a knit ski cap. “Was Miss Cordelia your grandmother?”

“Yes, she was. My name is Carley Reed.”

“We're sorry she died,” said the girl.

The boy, obviously her brother, nudged her and said something under his breath.

“It's okay,” Carley said. “I'm sorry she died too. Thank you.”

“You're the lady who brought our supper over?” the girl asked.

“Um-hmm. What's your name?”

“Kimberly. I'm eight.” She had a reddish brown ponytail, ear muffs, and hazel eyes that became slits when she returned Carley's smile. “And Micah's nine.”

The boy nodded. “Our brother Lane's eleven months old. Do you have any kids our age?”

“I'm afraid I don't have any children at all.”

He looked disappointed. “There are lots of kids on this street, but they're either too little, like Lane, or teenagers.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” the girl said magnanimously. “Besides, we have friends on other streets.”

“Sometimes Mom drives us over, or they come here,” Micah said.

“Well, I'm glad.”

The pair gave her shy good-byes and returned to the sidewalk.

After fiddling with the radio for a few minutes in the kitchen, Carley found the public radio station.
All Things Considered,
a program she usually enjoyed, was just coming on. But she found herself listening more for the sound of skates passing than to the interview with opera tenor Salvatore Licitra. Finally she turned off the dial. When she had not heard the children for a while, she stepped outside.
They must have gone in for supper,
she thought.

Mrs. Templeton was scattering something under the magnolia tree in her front yard. Carley went over to her side of the porch.

“Sunflower seeds,” the old woman said after an exchange of greetings.

“There's a bird feeder in my backyard I'll never use.”

“No thank you, dearie. I had a feeder, but the squirrels always robbed it. This way, they all get a little something.”

“Would you like me to bring over some soup?” Carley asked impulsively.

“Oh, you don't have to do that….”

“I'd be happy to. I made a huge pot.”

“Well, thank you, dearie. You're a nice girl.”

Back inside Carley ladled minestrone into a container. She became aware that she was smiling, for no particular reason.

****

With gravel snapping below and siren wailing above, Dale steered the patrol car up Deerpath Road. Headlights painted the tree trunks ghostly white. Through gaps he spotted flashing blue lights.

Happy Acre Park did not quite live up to its name, with its dozen or so mobile homes, in various stages of rust, and tiny weed-choked lots. His tires spit gravel as he braked to a stop, inches from the first patrol car on the scene. He stepped out and Marti Jenkins hurried over.

“Sorry to call you out, Chief.”

On the force for the past two years, Marti was tall and lanky, with short brown hair and a wide mouth that revealed more gums than tiny pearl teeth. She had been a court reporter until, sick of the indoors, she enrolled in the police academy. And it was obvious that she would like the two of them to be more than co-workers. Dale never let on that he noticed her moonstruck looks. She was a capable deputy, but simply not his type.

“No, you did right,” he said, even though only three forkfuls of white beans and brown rice were warming his stomach. He wore the jeans and sneakers he had changed into after his shift, and had simply zipped his leather jacket over his sleeveless undershirt.

Which makes me appropriately dressed for this place,
he thought wryly, for undershirts were mandatory dress for wife beaters. At least most times. The last time he had come out to arrest him, Elroy Chavers was naked as a fish. Wrestling and cuffing a sweaty, naked, drunken man was not high on his list of fun activities.

The rule, that he instituted himself, was that two officers must respond to domestic disputes, for they could be as dangerous as an armed robbery. He unstrapped his holster and jogged to the plank-and-cinder-block steps leading up to the twelve-by-sixty trailer with Marti on his heels. Elroy's rants and Connie's wails came clearly through the tiny windows.

“Get on inside, now!” he ordered the foursome standing on the porch of the neighboring double-wide, one of the few mobile homes in the park that actually had skirting and a tidy lawn. To Marti, he said over his shoulder, “What are they doing, hoping the kids'll see a murder?”

“I heard glass breaking a minute ago,” she called back.

Dale sprinted up the wobbly steps, tried the knob, and pounded on the metal door. “It's Chief Parker, Elroy! Open up!”

“YOU RUN AROUND WITH YORE SISTER ALL DAY, AND THINK YOU KIN JUST OPEN UP A CAN OF SOUP FOR MY SUPPER?”

“PLEASE STOP HURTIN' ME, BABY! I TOLD YOU, I THOUGHT WE HAD A PACK OF CHICKEN BREASTS IN THE FREEZER!”

“Elroy!” Dale shouted. “Don't make me break down the door!”

“GIT OUTA HERE, CHIEF. AIN'T NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!”

Rats!
Dale thought. It was impossible to back up enough on the wobbly plank to kick in the door, so he leaned into it with his shoulder and pushed. Fortunately, Elroy had done a sloppy job of repairing since the last time Dale paid a visit, and the whole frame gave way.

In a living room surprisingly unscathed, save a coffee table on its side and broken overturned lamp, a fully clothed Elroy Chavers turned from his wife to lunge at Dale, giving Connie the opportunity to sprint through the tiny kitchen and down the hall.

The alcohol in Elroy's bloodstream caused him to make stupid moves. His fist swung past Dale's nose with a good eight inches to spare. Within seconds, Dale had him in a hammerlock so that Marti could cuff him.

“We was just talkin'!” Elroy roared, attempting to wriggle free.

“Got him!” Marti said.

Dale shoved the cursing and slobbering man to the sofa, harder than necessary, so that Elroy's legs skidded across the vinyl floor. He leaned down, screamed into his face, “CALM DOWN, YOU STUPID HICK!”

With a whimper, Elroy turned his face and raised a shoulder.

“Chief?” Marti said tentatively.

Pulse pounding in his temples, Dale straightened. He had forgotten she was in the room. “Go see about Connie.”

“Sure,” she said, but hesitated, eyeing him.

Dale sighed. “Look, I lost my cool for a second. I'm not gonna hurt him.”

She nodded, and had taken only one step, when Connie launched herself from the hall, with dark hair flying and bare feet slapping the kitchen floor. “Don't ya'll hurt my husband, you hear me?”

“Connie, we don't need you in—”

She hustled into the living room, fell at Elroy's side on the sofa, wrapping arms around him and pushing his head to her shoulder.

“I didn't mean to hurt you, baby,” Elroy sobbed.

“I know, sweetie,” she sobbed back. Turning a tearful, triumphant look up at Dale, Connie said, “Ya'll can go now. We was just horsin' around. He didn't lay a hand on me.”

“Yeah?” Marti said. “How'd you get the busted lip?”

For a second the woman looked rattled. “I ran into the door.”

However inclined Dale was to leave the two to each other, he was forced to follow the letter of the law. Besides, he did not care to be called back an hour later when the argument resumed.

“Come on, Connie. You know the routine.”

“You ain't takin' him,” the woman said, wrapping arms tighter around her husband. “I won't press charges.”

“We don't need you to this time. We saw him hit you. Move away now, or we'll have to bring you in too, for obstructing justice.”

It was Elroy who convinced her, slobbering and weeping about how sorry he was, that she should go to her mother's so she wouldn't be alone.

“I'll come for you in the morning, sweetie,” she said through her tears as Dale pulled Elroy up from the sofa.

“You'll come in a week,” Dale said.

“Aw, come on, Chief!” Elroy said. “I got to work.”

“You should have thought about that earlier. I'm sick and tired of being called out here.”

****

“Okay, I'm heading back to my supper,” Dale said a half hour later, while Elroy cooled his heels in one of the two cells.

“I…have enough spaghetti to share,” Marti said, her doe brown eyes not quite meeting his. “The sauce has mushrooms, not meat.”

“No thanks.” To lighten the rejection and spare himself the sight of pain across her face, he added, “You need all the calories you can get.”

When he returned home, his answering machine was blinking. Dale pressed the button, released his brother's voice.

“Hey, Shorty! The girls have Presidents' Day off from school next month, and we're gonna visit Peggy's folks in Mobile. We could drive on over to see you on Sunday the sixteenth, if you could arrange to be off duty.”

A small jolt of panic quickened Dale's pulse. He glanced at his watch and picked up the receiver. Was 9:48 too late to telephone a household with schoolchildren?

Time zone,
he remembered with sinking spirits. There was no doubt 10:48 was too late to be calling anybody but policemen.

He's talking about three weeks away,
he reminded himself, and felt better. Between now and tomorrow, he would have time to concoct a story of why he would not be in Tallulah that weekend. Perhaps even agree to fly down to Tallahassee for a visit in early spring, so Chad would not be tempted to schedule another trip. His brother never met a stranger, and the last thing in the world Dale needed was to have him down here, running his mouth and asking questions.

One question in particular. The thought ran goose bumps up his arms.

He carried his supper from the kitchen and ate it, cold, in front of the
Tonight Show
. Switching off the television at midnight, he looked at the telephone again. Four days since he'd last dialed Riley's number. He
had
to hear her voice again.

You can't keep doing this to yourself!
he thought, even while opening his wallet.

One more time, and that's it
.

The long-distance card routed all calls through Colorado, so that his number would not show up on her caller ID. Of course she would know it was him, but would not be able to prove it without great pains, if at all.

It was 1:00, Atlanta time. Even better, for he liked her voice best when it was thick with sleep.

But instead, his ears were affronted by a recorded message, a tinny-voiced operator stating that the number had been changed to an unlisted one.

He slammed the receiver and paced the floor with face burning, heart pumping against his rib cage, cursing himself for the shortsightedness that had caused him to jump at the first high position offered in the heady days after bringing in serial killer Warren Knap.

How could he blame Riley, with her model face and figure, fine soprano voice, and big dreams of Broadway once she graduated from Oglethorpe University this spring? He would have gladly followed her—law enforcement officers were needed everywhere, and he did not even have to be the head guy. Being with her would have been enough.

But no. He was tied to Tallulah, where an exciting night meant hauling in a drunken wife beater and then cleaning vomit from the back of his patrol car. He was more of a prisoner than Elroy Chavers, for even Elroy could look forward to being released.

Aunt Helen's Roadmaster pulled into Carley's driveway at a few minutes before noon on Friday. “I promised Patrick I would remind you about tonight's game,” she said as she stood just inside the living room.

“I'll be there,” Carley said. “Here, let me take your coat.”

Her aunt shook her head. “No, I'd rather you go get yours. My second reason for coming is to treat you to lunch.”

“That sounds great,” Carley said. “But I have minestrone and a ton of chicken salad. Ever try it on raisin bread?”

“I can't say I've had that pleasure,” her aunt said after a moment's hesitation.

Carley laughed, helping her out of her coat. “I have whole wheat too.”

“Oh, why not have an adventure? Anyway, your kitchen will be a lot more peaceful than the diner.” She looked at several sealed boxes stacked in the corner. “My, you've been busy.”