One week later a police cruiser pulled in behind Anita’s car in front of the former Whitworth estate. An army of landscapers were buzzing about weeding, mulching, and planting. Construction vans and delivery trucks came and went. Officer Kevin Collins opened the back door of the cruiser and Mike Carson stepped out and looked up at the mansion.
“This ain’t a bad place to shack up,” Mike said.
“Ain’t a bad place for a job either. Keep your nose clean, Carson. Give it a shot,” Collins said closing the back door.
“Man, I don’t know anything about taking care of old people,” Mike complained.
“On the job training. You’ll be fine. C’mon, it’s time to grow up.” Mike, who towered over him, stood close and looked down.
“You know what I mean, big man. Be a man,” Collins replied pushing him back with his splayed fingertips. Mike looked up at the building again and back to Collins shaking his head.
“This ain’t me.”
“What is you? Are you going to get your shit together or are you going back to what gets you behind bars?”
Mike didn’t know what he was going to do yet. He knew two ways of life, the old neighborhood where he and his friends did everything but get a job to get their hands on some money, and jail. There were things about his old neighborhood, his old life, he missed.
“I don’t want to go back to jail,” he said still grimacing at the building that offered a job he didn’t want.
“Come on, man. I got you a job. I got you a spot in a decent halfway house. Time to step up and stay out of your grandfather’s basement. He’s been through enough,” Collins said. “And I spoke up for you with the judge. You owe me a little fucking gratitude. This is not going to happen again. I promise you that.”
“Why?” Mike asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you do all that for me? All you’ve ever done for me before was put me in jail.”
“First of all, you put you in jail. Secondly, because my grandmother asked me to.”
“Your grandmother? Are you shittin me, dude?”
“No, I am not. Her mother knows your grandfather or something. She asked me to get you on the right path. Against my better judgment, I did it.”
“HER mother? Your great-grandmother is still alive? You have got to be shittin me, man. Your great-grammy told you so and you did it? Holy shit,” Mike said laughing.
“Yeah, I’ve got great genes, hilarious. Keep in mind your grandfather asked her to so ultimately, we’re here because your pop pop said so.”
“Fuckin family, bruh.”
“Right? Let’s go. Get in there.”
“What ever happened to that guy anyway? Didn’t he go to jail? Did they seize the place or something?” Mike asked, stalling. Going in this place was admitting defeat. He really didn’t want to go back to jail but he didn’t want to work like a dog for minimum wage either. There were better ways to live.
“The Whitworth guy? Nah, no one knows where he is. Some do-gooder bought the place and is turning it into some kind of charity nursing home. He’s probably in a nut house somewhere. That’s my guess. Always was a little off.”
Mike blew out a sigh and turned toward the door. The cop patted him on the the back.
“Go get ‘em.”
Mike turned to give him a disgusted look then headed for the door. He stepped through the doorway into the lobby and saw a custodian cleaning windows.
“Yo. Miss Harris here?” he asked.
“Mrs. Harris, and yes, down the hall,” he replied pointing down the hall toward the office.
“Shouldn’t you start at the top and work your way down? You’re dripping on what you’ve already cleaned.”
The guy pointed down the hall without a word. Mike held his hands up in a defensive position and headed in that direction. When he was out of site Mr. Miller took two steps up the ladder and started cleaning the top pane of the floor-to-ceiling window.
Mike walked into Mrs. Harris’ office and found her shuffling through paperwork.
“Hello, are you my new orderly?” she asked.
“Not yet. You Mrs. Harris?” he replied.
“Yes. And you are?”
“Michael Carson.”
“Mr. Carson. Have a seat. Do you have a resume?”
“Nah.” Mike slouched down in the seat legs apart with one knee bouncing up and down.
“OK. Well, Mr. Clark told me to expect you. We are scheduled to open in three weeks and I need an orderly. You were recommended by…” She shuffled some papers. “Judge Henson. Should I be worried?”
“Nah.”
Anita stared at him a few seconds waiting for more information. When she saw none was forthcoming she picked up her cell phone and got up from her desk. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” she said and went into the next room.
“Sure, yeah,” he told the empty room. He could hear her on the phone even though she tried to speak softly.
“Mr. Clark. This is Anita Harris. I’m here with Michael Carson regarding the orderly position and I just wanted to verify that this is the candidate you requested for that position. Yes, of course. You’re sure? Because I think that… Alright, thank you. Garrett, yes, thank you, Garrett.”
She returned to her seat and smiled at him. “When can you start?”
“Whenever.” She paused once again expecting more and getting nothing.
“Great. It’s been really great getting to know you. We’ll see you Tuesday at nine.”
“See ya.” Mike said, got up and walked out. Anita walked behind him as far as the front door where Mr. Miller had finished the top window panes and had worked his way down to the middle. Construction noise was coming from another part of the building, then a crash. The three of them froze, looked at each other, then heard laughter. Mike laughed. Anita sighed.
“Three weeks?” she asked Mr. Miller.
“We’ll be ready,” he replied.
Mike used finger guns to point to the clean top pane and gave the guy a sarcastic double thumbs up for which he was returned an equally sarcastic smile.
“See ya, Tuesday,” Mike said walking toward the door. “Might be a little closer to 9:30 though.”
“I really need you here at nine, Mr. Carson,” she called after him.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said walking backwards out the door and not quite slamming it shut.
“Why does it feel like everyone is in charge but me?” she asked Mr. Miller. “Hey, can you take care of those fixtures in the parlor? I need…”
“Pardon me, Mr. Miller?” Garrett called from the top of a nearby staircase. “Could I get you to get started on that second floor project we talked about?”
“I’ll send someone down,” Mr. Miller said to Anita walking away.
“Yep, sure. Of course,” she said. Already feeling overwhelmed by managing the facility she practically ran to her office blinking fast to ward off tears.
Beth Fisher 