She rinsed out her coffee mug and put it in the dishwasher. Her handbag was near the refrigerator. This was where she'd kept it for years, ever since the children were little. But for a while recently she had started keeping it in her bedroom. Ever since that time a few months back when she started to notice bills disappearing from her wallet. But she had started leaving it out again now that she was keeping enough money for lunch locked in her desk at work.
"I should be home at the usual time, dear," she called into the living room. "Don't lean on the door to the fridge when you look in, and don't hold it open too long."
This time there wasn't even a grunt.
Purse in hand, Eileen Mikulka hurried out to her car.
She seemed to be having a harder time getting to work on time these days. She used to come in much earlier than eight o'clock. But her employer had lately cut her back to a strict forty-hour work week, insisting that it was for her own good. After all, she wasn't getting any younger.
It seemed to be harder for her these days. She now had too much time in the morning to get ready. As she drove up the lonely wooded road she wondered if she could start sneaking in earlier again. Probably not. Other bosses might not tiotice that she had started coming in at the old, early time. Maybe they would even applaud her diligence. Not her employer. When he said 8:00 a.m., he meant 8:00 a.m.
In fact, this was one of the traits she admired in him. Unlike a lot of men these days, her boss meant what he said. He was also serious and strict and punctilious. He liked order to his world. Her employer was very much of the old school, which was just fine with Eileen Mikulka.
A high wall rose beside her car. As she rounded a bend, she noted a lighter spot in the rough shape of an arch. The wall had been damaged more than a year earlier and had only recently been repaired. Mrs. Mikulka assumed it would take many years for that one spot to fade in with the rest of the wall. She doubted she would be around to see that far-off day when the wall finally matched once more.
Her thoughts turned once more to Kieran, sitting on the couch in the living room, day after day. Wondering who would take care of her poor lost son on that day, Mrs. Mikulka drove the rest of the short way to work.
The wall led to a gate. Mrs. Mikulka steered her car under the watchful gaze of two granite lions and headed up the gravel drive to Folcroft Sanitarium.
The big brick building was coming to life in the warm smile of early spring sunlight. The crawling ivy that clung to its sides had lately darkened and was ready to bud. Beyond the sanitarium, Long Island Sound invited morning pleasure boaters to enjoy the unseasonable warmth.
Mrs. Mikulka watched the crisp white sail of one boat close to shore as she walked from the parking lot to the side door of the building. It was so nice to see people enjoying themselves. Kieran didn't seem to have that anymore.
When she thought of her son, she immediately thought of the poor kittens trapped in the storm drain. They were so pathetic. Dripping wet and meowing pitifully. You just wanted to take them and cuddle the daylights out of them.
How her son could say something so awful about those cute little creatures was beyond her. Maybe it was the lack of a male role model. His father passed on when Kieran was still in his twenties. He had already been a handful at the time. He'd only gotten worse in the past decade.
She shook her head as she pushed open the fire door.
It was cool inside the stairwell. Mrs. Mikulka climbed up to the second floor.
It was dark in her office. A flick of a switch and the overhead lights hummed to life. As she did every morning, Mrs. Mikulka went to her desk and locked her handbag in the bottom drawer. Getting back up, she carefully smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt.
She cast a glance at the inner office door. A brass nameplate read "Dr. Harold Smith, Director."
Not a sound issued from inside. Still, Mrs. Mikulka knew that her employer was already on the other side of that door, toiling away, Dr. Smith rarely missed a day, and only then because he was away on business of some sort. It made her feel good that there was still someone in this crazy world who treated his work as seriously as Dr. Harold Smith. Mrs. Mikulka ran some water in her little sink, starting the coffeepot in the corner.
There was an empty can in a cupboard that she had decorated with a piece of old wallpaper. It was for the office coffee fund. When she picked it up, the change inside rattled. She shook it out into her palm. She didn't bother to count it. There was always the right amount.
As part of her duties every morning, Mrs. Mikulka got her employer a little something from the cafeteria. It was not something he had requested. Dr. Smith's wife was a notoriously bad cook and, well, Eileen Mikulka had decided to see to it that the poor man had something to keep his strength up. He worked so hard.
The first time she had done it, she paid out of her own pocket. The first time was also the last time. Dr. Smith liked to pay his own way. On the second day the change had appeared in the coffee-fund can. It was always the exact right amount, down to the penny.
The coffeemaker was just beginning to gurgle as Mrs. Mikulka left the office.
She headed down to the cafeteria, which was at the tail end of the breakfast rush. Individual trays were being prepared and loaded on carts for Folcroft's patients. A few doctors and nurses sat scattered at the cheap tables around the room.
Mrs. Mikulka took a tray from a stack and went to the serving line. There was only one person in front of her, a lean young man in a blue suit.
A woman in a starched white uniform and redcheckered apron was ringing up the man's order. "Good morning, Eileen," the cafeteria worker said as she worked the old-fashioned register. "Good morning, Helen."
The young man glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh, morning, Mrs. M.," he said, offering a pleasant smile. "I didn't realize it was you sneaking up on me."
Mrs. Mikulka returned the young man's smile. "Good morning, Mr. Howard," she said.
Assistant Director Mark Howard was a new addition to the Folcroft family. He was such a nice young man. Always so cheerful. Although lately he seemed a bit more careworn than when he'd first arrived at Folcroft two years earlier. That was no doubt due to his great responsibilities. Folcroft administered to the needs of many elderly and invalid patients. Mr. Howard took that duty very seriously. So nice for a man his age to treat his job with such sobriety.
Mrs. Mikulka wondered briefly how old he was. Probably about thirty. Younger than Kieran and already in a position of authority.
"You're a little late getting down here today, aren't you?" Mark Howard asked Mrs. Mikulka as he paid for his food.
"A little," she admitted. "I was still on time for work," she added hastily. "It was just something I saw on the television this morning slowed me down."
"Not those poor kittens?" the cafeteria worker asked as she prepared Dr. Smith's usual breakfast. Two halves of toast. Dry. No butter, no jelly.
"You saw?" Mrs. Mikulka asked. "My Kieran showed it to me. Wasn't it terrible? The poor dears."
"They say it might be hours before they get them out," the cafeteria worker said knowingly.
With a bemused smirk, Mark Howard extricated himself from the conversation. "I'll see you in a bit, Mrs. M.," he said softly, not wanting to interrupt.
Still grinning, he carried his tray with its bowl of cornflakes, carton of milk and glass of orange juice out the side door and was gone.
Mrs. Mikulka felt her face flush. She didn't know what was wrong with her this morning. She certainly hadn't wanted to seem like a gossip in front of Mr. Howard.
Paying hastily for her breakfast tray with the change picked from the coffee-fund can, she hustled upstairs.
The coffee was ready. She filled a mug from the pot and placed it on the tray beside the plate of toast. She walked to the inner office door and rapped a soft knuckle beneath the nameplate even as she pushed the door open.