Category Archives: YA

The woman who came to retrieve Cara was neither as deferential as Penny nor as icy as Ms. Carrington. In fact, with her mass of black hair held back with a white bandanna and her faded sweatshirt and denims, Beatrice Thurmond looked too laid back, too chill to be a supervisor. She gave Cara a warm smile.

“You look like your Mom. And you got a touch of your Pappy in you.”

“You knew Pappy?”

She nodded as she ushered Cara through the double doors. “Your Mom and I grew up together. She didn’t say?”

“She said I had an opportunity that I shouldn’t waste.”

Bea laughed. “That’s your Gran speaking. Audrey was always torn between those two. Loved her Daddy, but feared her Mama more.”

“Sounds about right,” Cara said.

They passed through the great room, where Ms. Carrington dealt with a fussy-looking old man in a bathrobe. Mr. White waited at the foot of the stairs; he gave Cara a slight nod and a smile, which she returned.

When Bea opened the door to the administrative wing, she took note of the scene unfolding in the great room.

“Did you come in with Mr. White?” She asked.

“You know him, too?”

“He’s a regular,” Bea said as they walked.

“Ms. Carrington doesn’t seem to like him.”

“Mm hm. Which brings us to rule number one about working in Mason Hall. What Ms. Carrington says goes.” Bea opened a door and led Cara into a plush looking office with strong wood furniture. But something didn’t feel quite right.

A pair of leather wingbacks had been placed opposite the heavy desk. The two women sat there.

“It’s a real nice office.”

“Carrington does like to make sure she has the best.”

“Oh.” Cara surveyed the room again and realized what felt so wrong.  There wasn’t a single photograph or personal effect anywhere. No knick-knacks. Generic paintings of landscapes. Not even a plant or a vase of flowers.

“But it doesn’t feel very friendly.”

Bea pursed her lips. “Make sure you don’t say that in front of her.”

“Huh?”

“Be deferential. Better yet, in Ms. Carrington’s presence, a smile and nod do better than a word. Got that?” Bea was suddenly stern, all traces of friendliness gone.

“I feel like I’m about to be fired.” Cara stared at her pumps. “Which is strange because I haven’t even been hired.”

Bea sighed. “This isn’t how I wanted to bring you on board.”

“No?”

“Nothing about this is standard, Cara. I would have interviewed you on my own, in the staff room, the way I interviewed the other folks on Housekeeping. Carrington leaves well enough alone when it comes to us. Be seen and not heard. Report problems promptly. Can you do that?”

“Of course I can.”

“I know it. Audrey wouldn’t have raised a fool, I don’t think. Not with parents like hers.”

“So why are we meeting here?”

“At a guess, I would say it was because you walked in with Mr. White. So now I’m going to ask you to do something very important.”

Cara examined the leather chair arm and nodded. “Uh huh.”

“No matter what Mr. White said or did—“

“He didn’t say or do anything.”

“No matter what Mr. White said or did, he only said good morning and sheltered you from the rain. Got that?”

Bea had a look of determination that reminded Cara of her mother, or of Gran.

“Well that’s easy enough. That’s all he did.”

“Good.”

The conversation turned casual then, as if Bea had turned a switch from formal to casual. Even when Ms. Carrington arrived wearing that same slippery smile she gave Mr. White, Bea remained casual. Quiet, yet casual.

Days like this made Cynthia want to scream. The pounding rain. The flooded inbox. A leak in the west wing. Supply delays. State inspectors. Staffing issues. Mrs. Grant’s vendetta against Mrs. Cornelius. Mr. Oliver camped out in the great room. A dozen other residents with twice as many needs and complaints. And God forbid …

She glanced out the window.  “Christ,” she said and picked up the phone. “White’s at the door, along with a girl. Hold them.”

The person on the other end spoke briefly.

“I don’t care. Just keep them there.”

Mr. Oliver, still in his pajamas and bathrobe, climbed from his usual leather chair and shuffled toward her as she strode across the room. He waved at her, mouth already moving.

“Ms. Carrington, I—“

She held up a red-taloned finger. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she replied.

He backed off. “Oh, oh. Okay.”

Like the rest of the great room, the doors to the foyer were dark wood and brass. Heavy. She pushed one open and slipped inside, She pulled her blond hair behind her ear and adjusted her glasses as she approached the pair.

“Mr. White. Good to see you again.” She reached out her hand. 

He watched her hand as she approached, like it was something dangerous. Then took it quickly, stopping her short. “Ms. Carrington,” he said. 

“I assume you’re here to visit with Mr. Mason?”

“That’s correct. I left my umbrella in the rack, as usual.” 

“May I take your coat?” She motioned to the small, empty coat rack.

Mr. White still wore his rain-spattered topcoat. “I’ll keep that with me, thank you.”

She smiled thinly. “Then let me escort you upstairs.”

“I know the way.”

“Just the same,” she said. “It would be my pleasure.” Cara didn’t think Mr White was nearly as friendly with Ms. Carrington as he had been with her.

Carrington turned to the attendant behind the glass, a mousy woman who seemed to shrink even further away.

“Penny, I’m going to escort Mr. White to Mr. Mason’s quarters. Would you please have Bea come to escort Miss Baker to my office.”

Penny picked up the phone—Cara assumed she was dialing Bea, as Mr. White and Miss Carrington disappeared through the doors. 

“If you had only listened to Granny, you could be off to college, too,” Audrey chided as gently as she could. 

“If I wanted a degree in nursing or teaching or business, yeah.”

“Those are perfectly respectable careers.” Audrey pushed the pantsuit into her daughter’s hands.

Cara groused. “But they’re not me. I want to be on stage. I want to sing. Dance—”

“Sleep on a grate in Center City.”

“Mom!”

“I never said you couldn’t sing and dance and get on stage.”

“Granny did.”

“Mm-hm. Because she don’t want you sleeping on that grate. And neither do I. You need a fallback.”

“And scrubbing old people toilets in Mason Hall is a fallback?”

“Until you find something better. And maybe it’s enough. But I can’t have you melting into my sofa with no job, no career, no hope. So until you make a plan, Mason Hall it is.” 

Audrey had given her daughter a week after graduation to enjoy her newfound freedom, then snatched it away with a word from her sometimes-friend Beatrice. Cara’s classmates had gone to Temple or CCP, but her friends—what few she kept up with—had mostly entered a desperate post-pandemic workforce where jobs were plenty but living wages scarce. A few of them had already made the arrest columns in the Inquirer or the Daily News. One was already in his grave.

“You can’t do an interview dressed like a hobo,” Audrey insisted. 

“It’s ragamuffin,” Cara corrected acidly. “Check with Granny.” 

“Your grandmother just wants what’s best for you.”

She looked away so that her rolling eyeballs wouldn’t cause a fight. She was already treading on dangerous ground. “It’s just a part-time job. Housekeeping.”

“It’s still a job,” Audrey insisted. “At Mason Hall.”

“My jeans are fine for Mason Hall.” Some part of her had given up, willing to fulfill the ragamuffin description.

Audrey hauled her only child to the bedroom. “No. Beatrice says you could be a shoo-in for this. You leave nothing to chance.”

Now as she sat in the car, she found a new worry. “The torrential rain is going to dash Audrey Baker’s hopes,” Cara muttered. 

Sheets of water battered the windshield, smearing her view. The red bricks and black shutters of Mason Hall, a mansion-turned-assisted living facility, were geometric splotches of color masked behind white and bright green streaks of young summer birch trees. The scene ebbed and flowed with the downpour.

Cara could not have felt more out of place, dressed in her mother’s second-hand navy pantsuit and battered pumps the color of mud. Well, that might actually be mud, thought Cara, as she reached down and brushed at her leg. It was a dash from their row home across the puddles to the ’83 Chrysler Malibu Audrey had inherited from her late father and that Cara, in turn, had come to own. 

“Pappy’s car. Mama’s clothes. You really are a wreck.” She twisted around, searching the back seat for an umbrella. The jacket was tight where she wanted it loose; loose where she wanted it tight. No umbrella.

A shadow filled her driver’s side window. A rap on the glass. She turned to see the smiling face of an old man under an oversized red and white umbrella. She rolled the window down slightly.

“Can I help you?”

“Saw you pull in,” he said. “I’m guessing you’re short an umbrella?”

“Yeah.”

There was a twinkle in his eye. His hair was close cropped and gray. He smelled strongly of aftershave. His tie was wide and his topcoat old. He reminded her of pappy. “May I escort you inside?”

“Thank you,” she said and rolled up the window. He stepped back so she could exit, and together they braved the weather.