A Table By the Window by Lawana Blackwell Page A

too.”
    â€œHow thoughtful of you.”
    â€œThat’s the beauty of small-town living. But I’m afraid the telephone goes through Hattiesburg. They can’t turn it back on until next week, so I said never mind. All you young girls have cell phones anyway.”
    â€œActually, I don’t,” Carley said, smiling at the “young girl” reference. A cell phone was one of those expenses she could not justify in the past, not with debts still hanging over her. “But I’m sure there are pay phones?”
    â€œIn the library. And you’re welcome to come to the office and use ours.” Loretta ran a finger through the dust on an end table. “That’s what happens when a house sits empty. I’ll give you the number for my cleaning service if you like.”
    â€œI kind of enjoy dusting.”
    â€œThen you’ll have a good time.” She motioned to a brown space heater sitting out a bit from the back wall. “We have more cold weather coming. Do you know how to light them?”
    Carley was vaguely familiar with their workings, for a couple of the houses her mother had rented had had them. “I think so.”
    â€œI’ll just refresh your memory before we leave. I’m sure there are matches in the kitchen. The piano must have sat between the windows. Mrs. Walker left it to the senior citizen center. That’s where her television went too.”
    They meandered about the house. Leading off the living room was a bedroom with a black iron bedstead, a chair upholstered in sage green, and a chest of drawers.
    Beyond that door, a short hallway ended at a bathroom, with doors on each adjacent side. The room to Carley’s right had no bed, just a long table, a wooden chair, and tall piece of furniture with drawers and a mirrored door. “That’s a chifforobe,” Loretta said. “They’re very sought after by antique collectors. This was probably Mrs. Walker’s sewing room. I do recall that the serger machine went to Mrs. Hudson.”
    Through the open doorway of the opposite bedroom, Carley looked at the afghan folded over a quilt at the foot of a cream-colored iron bedstead. A hairbrush and bottle of Jergens lotion sat upon an old bowfront dresser with round mirror. Goose bumps prickling her arms, she turned and walked back down the hall with Loretta following.
    Against the back wall of the living room, an open arched doorway led to a kitchen three times as roomy as the one in Carley’s apartment. The refrigerator doors were propped open with a broom. Loretta helped Carley roll it out so that she could plug it in.
    â€œThe china cabinet must have gone here,” Loretta said of the empty space beside it. That went to Sherry.”
    â€œSherry?”
    â€œI forgot, you’re still learning who everyone is. Sherry Kemp is Mrs. Hudson’s youngest daughter. I’m not sure how many other children there are.” She twisted the cold water faucet. After a sputtering noise, water ran from the tap. “Good. But you’ll need to leave it dripping during nights when the weather’s below freezing. I noticed a thermometer on a porch post.”
    â€œDripping?” Carley joined her at the sink.
    â€œJust enough to keep it moving.” She turned the cold water so that a long drip plopped from the tap every half second or so. “Most frame houses have exposed pipes. They’re probably wrapped, but even so, you don’t want to take a chance on their freezing and bursting.”
    Beyond the kitchen was a wide sunny room housing a sagging sofa and chair of faded green velveteen, and a washer and dryer. Carley was looking out the back window when she heard, “Come see, Carley.”
    She followed the voice to her grandmother’s bedroom. Loretta stood in front of a chest of drawers against the near wall, out of sight range from the hall. Three photographs in identical silver frames were arranged on