“Oh, I know. You’re as serious as sin.”
“That’s right.”
They both ate in silence for a while until Janice decided to give up her stringent facade.
“I had forgotten that you run.” She took a bite and watched as Carla did the same. “I thought you’d left for the day.”
“Without saying good-bye?”
Janice shrugged.
“I would’ve at least left you a note. After all, I do have manners, remember? Which is why I didn’t want to sit down and eat with you all sweaty and gross.”
“You’re not gross.” More like yummy. She quickly sipped her juice.
“What are your plans for the day?” Carla asked, finishing off her water.
Janice rose and began filling a glass of juice for her. “I’m glad you asked.” She put the juice away and returned to the table, handing Carla her drink. “I need to go grocery shopping, so you need to tell me what you like to eat.”
Carla held the glass as if it were foreign. “You don’t have to serve me, Janice.”
Janice rolled her eyes. “Don’t fight me on these little things, Carla. You’ll lose. Badly.”
She shook her head. “I always forget how impossible everyone is here when it comes to having guests.”
“Like I said last night, it’s southern hospitality and I know you’d do the same for me in your home.”
“Not to this extent. I’d let you get your own juice and carry your own luggage.”
“You would not. You would treat me just like I’m treating you. Doing things for people, especially guests, is how we show love around here. It’s been that way for generations, and whether you want to admit it or not it runs through your blood just like that red mud outside does.”
“I know where I come from, Janice. I don’t need reminding of my roots.”
“You can’t deny what’s in your blood. No matter how far away you go.”
“I’m not. Nor will I ever. But that doesn’t mean I can’t evolve and believe and behave differently than the way I was raised. I thought at the very least that you would be one to understand that.”
“You think I don’t understand that?”
“I don’t know. Do you? You’re sitting there arguing with me about how I would treat you in my home. Or how you think I should treat you, if I was true to my blood or my roots.”
“I’m only saying that you can’t forget where you come from.”
“I haven’t, Janice. This is where I was born. Where I was raised. That will never change. But it isn’t home.”
Janice looked at her, shocked at the statement.
“Phoenix is my home now,” Carla said. “It has been for many years.”
“But this is—”
“Where I’m from. It’s not where my heart is.”
Janice turned away, her words affecting her in ways she didn’t expect and didn’t necessarily like.
“Why does that upset you?”
“It doesn’t.”
“You’ve never been very good at lying, Janice.”
“I’m not lying. I’m—glad you’re happy. That you’ve found where your heart belongs.”
“You know, your happiness matters too. Have you ever considered that your heart might also belong somewhere else?”
Janice straightened and began gathering her dishes.
“I need to know what you’d like from the grocery store.”
Carla was quiet and Janice could feel her eyes on her.
“I’ll make you a list,” she said. “And leave you some money.”
“Carla, don’t. You know darn well I won’t take your money, so don’t make me fight you on it. I’m too tired and I’m cranky about ruining breakfast.”
She set the dishes on the counter and returned to the table for Carla’s.
“Okay,” Carla said. She offered her a soft smile. “I may be hardheaded sometimes, but I know when to back down from a beautiful woman.”
She called me beautiful.
Carla took in the last spoonful of her potatoes and handed her plate to Janice. She finished chewing before she spoke.
“Thank you. It was really good.” Her eyes were deep and seeking, like they had been beneath that tree the day of the funeral.
What is it that she’s searching for?
“You’re really good to us, Janice. Really good to me.”
“I—supper’s at six,” she said, turning to head back to the sink. How could she tell her how much she cared without giving away just how deeply that care really went? The way Carla looked at her sometimes, she’d see right into her. “I’ll keep it warm for you if you’re late.”
She heard Carla stand from her chair. “I should be here on time.”
Janice waited, expecting to hear her move. But there was only silence.
“Maybe someday,” Carla said, “when you make it out to my home, I’ll be able to repay you for your kindness.”
She closed her eyes, Carla unknowingly bringing up the very thing that had gotten to her at breakfast. It was another dream of hers that had paralleled her fantasies of Carla until the two eventually had intertwined.
Me. In Arizona. With her.
It sounded so good coming from her. Her voice bringing a long held dream to life.
But it was still just a dream. She couldn’t allow herself to get overly excited in thinking it might actually be a possibility.
She opened her eyes and was careful to steady her voice.
“You wouldn’t have to do that, Carla.”
There was another brief silence until Carla spoke again.
“Maybe not. But I’d like more than anything to get the chance to try.”
Janice heard her walk away then, and for a few long seconds, Janice felt like she’d taken her heart away with her.
Chapter Eleven
The screen door groaned as Carla pulled it open and rested her hand on the front doorknob. Janice had told her, a few times this past week, that she didn’t have to knock before she entered. That as her house guest, she should feel welcome to come and go as she pleased. Still, Carla hesitated. Not because she didn’t feel welcome or comfortable, but because she worried about walking in on Janice at an inopportune moment, the vision of her in the threadbare tank, haunting her. Janice hadn’t worn it since, and Carla wondered if it was something that haunted Janice too. The way she’d avoided eye contact when she’d emerged from her bedroom the following evening in her pajama pants and a much darker, thicker T-shirt, had led Carla to believe that maybe it did.
She knocked on the front door and Janice hollered. Carla stepped inside, and two things hit her senses at once. The warm, welcoming smell of supper, which she’d come to look forward to upon her return every evening, and the sound of old, crackling jazz. She followed the music to the den, loving the authenticity of the sound, like she’d stepped back in time when recorded music was raw and simplistic.
She saw the record player first and got lost for a few seconds in the way the lamplight reflected off the album’s glossy surface. Then she saw Janice, who was sitting next to it in one of her leather armchairs, reading a hardbound book.