Something Old - Dianne L. Christner [3]
Her mother, like most members of her Mennonite congregation, shunned such frivolity. Gabriel of the Bible, the angel who visited the Virgin Mary, probably looked nothing like these gilded collectibles. Nevertheless, the manger scene caused warm puddles to pool deep inside her heart, a secret place of confusing desires that she kept properly disguised, covered with her crisp white blouse and ever-busy hands.
The pine-scented tree occupying the corner of the room moved her with wonder. Not the ornaments, but the twinkling white lights, little dots of hope. The cheery music jingling in the background was not forbidden. She mouthed the words to “Silent Night.” In December they often sang the hymn at her meetinghouse. But her singing was interrupted mid-stanza as her employer’s gravelly voice brought her out of her reverie. Instinctively, she lowered her arm and whirled.
Mr. Beverly’s lips thinned and his white mustache twitched. “Katy. We need to talk.” Bands of deep wrinkles creased his forehead. “I have bad news,” he said. His petite wife stood at his side, twisting her diamond ring.
Apprehension marched up Katy’s neck. Could it be a terminal illness? In their late seventies, the couple kept active for their age, always off on golfing vacations. Katy had grown fond of them. Smiles softened their conversation, and their hands were quick to hand her trusted keys and gifts. They even bought her a sweater for her birthday, made from some heavenly soft fabric. Katy gripped the duster’s handle with both hands. “Oh?”
“We’re going to have to let you go.”
Her jaw gaped. Never had she expected such news. “But…but I thought you were pleased.” Her mind scrambled for some slipup, some blunder.
Mrs. Beverly rushed forward and touched Katy’s white sleeve. “No. No. It’s nothing like that. Our son wants us to move to Florida.” She glanced at her husband. “At our age, it’s overdue.”
Katy propped the duster against an armchair and smoothed the apron that covered her dark, A-line skirt. “But is this what you want? Is there a problem with your health?”
Mrs. Beverly glanced at the beige shag carpet and back to Katy’s face. “Just the usual, but we’re not getting any younger.” Mr. Beverly squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “We’ll give you a good reference.”
Katy didn’t need a reference. She needed a job. This particular job. Her best-paying, two-day-a-week job. To Katy, the tidy, easy-to-clean house classified as a dream job fast becoming a nightmare, if she was to lose it just when the doddy house came up for rent. Forcing a smile, Katy nodded. “I appreciate that. When will you leave?”
“Right away. We’re turning the house over to a Realtor. Our son is coming to help us sell some things. There’s really no need for you to come again. I’m sorry we couldn’t give you more notice. But we are giving you a Christmas bonus.”
Katy patted Mrs. Beverly’s manicured hand. “Thank you. You have
enough to worry about; don’t concern yourself with me.” She bit her lip, thinking, I do that well enough for the both of us.
“We’ll leave you to your work, then,” Mr. Beverly cut in. He nudged his wife’s elbow, but she looked regretfully over her shoulder at Katy. “Come along, dear,” he urged. Then to Katy, he called, “Your money’s on the counter as usual. Please leave us your house key.”
“Yes sir,” Katy replied, watching them depart through an arched entryway. Mr. Beverly paused under the mistletoe to peck his wife’s delicate cheek before they headed out for the mall. The tender gesture gripped Katy. It never ceased to amaze her when folks who never went to church loved like that. At least she assumed they didn’t go to church, for she dusted their wine collection, R-rated DVDs, and sexy novel flaps without noticing any evidence of Christianity