Christmas at Harrington's Page 3

  “Thank you,” Lena said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” But even as she said it, Lena was doubtful. She’d never waited tables before and wasn’t sure she’d be any good at it now.

  “The pay’s not so great,” Bonnie admitted, “but sometimes the tips are okay.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Bonnie nodded then retreated to the kitchen again. Lena wondered if it might actually be fun working at a place like this. It seemed friendly and warm, and at least she’d have something to eat. But as more customers came in, the place got louder and busier. And seeing that Bonnie, who was obviously very experienced, seemed harried and stressed, Lena decided this wouldn’t be a good job fit for her.

  Lena had always been drawn to peace and quiet and orderliness. Perhaps that’s why she took accounting in college. There was comfort in creating tidy columns, organizing spreadsheets, and making sure the numbers added up correctly. It always brought her great satisfaction. It used to, anyway. She wondered what kind of a job they would offer her at the department store.

  “Will that be it for you?” Bonnie asked as she picked up Lena’s empty plate.

  “Yes, thank you. It was very good.”

  “Thanks.” Bonnie set down the bill and cleared the rest of the table as Lena reached for her purse, digging in her small stack of bills to remove a five and a one. “Keep the change,” she told Bonnie. It wasn’t even a 15 percent tip, but under the circumstances, it would have to do.

  “Thanks again.” Bonnie nodded. “And remember, if you need a job . . .”

  “I will.” As Lena put on her purple parka, she wondered if perhaps she might be able to handle a job like this after all. Oh, sure, she’d probably be clumsy at first. But at least she’d be good at tallying up the check and making correct change. Not all waitresses were good at math.

  She picked up her purse and headed for the door, pausing to check the clock by the kitchen. It was a quarter to nine now. She had managed to spend nearly an hour here. Perhaps it would be nine by the time she reached the boardinghouse. That seemed a respectable time to inquire about her room.

  She headed down Main Street, looking at the addresses of the businesses in hopes that the numbers would help determine which direction to go. She found Alder after four blocks, turned, and continued until she came to Third Street. There on the corner of Third and Alder was a pale pink three-story house with a weathered sign out front that read “Miller House: Rooms for Rent. Weekly and Monthly Rates.”

  She walked up to the covered front porch. A couple of sagging old sofas were wedged on either side of it, along with some plastic lawn chairs and rickety-looking tables, where several ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts. It seemed this was the designated smoking area. Hopefully that meant smoking indoors wasn’t allowed. Lena had actually taken up smoking for a while in prison. It was her little way of thumbing her nose at the world she’d left behind. But it never really suited her, plus it was expensive.

  She wasn’t sure whether to knock on the door or just walk in. How did boardinghouses work? Perhaps it was like a hotel. In that case, she figured she should try the door, which was unlocked. She opened it with a creak and slowly walked into the poorly lit foyer, where a couple of frumpy armchairs flanked a small plastic table with some dog-eared magazines on it. The wood flooring looked splintered and worn beyond repair. Miller House had definitely seen better days.

  “Looking for someone?”

  Lena glanced down the dim hallway to see a guy in a sleeveless gray T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms coming toward her.

  “Are you the manager?”

  “Nah, that’d be Lucy.” He pointed to a door with a metal “1” on it. “That’s her room, but she sleeps kinda late.”

  “Oh.”

  He pulled a pack of Camels from his T-shirt pocket and grinned to reveal a broken front tooth. “I’m TJ.”

  “I, uh, I’m Lena.”

  “You getting a room here?”

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  “Welcome, then. It’s not the Ritz, but hey, it’s better than sleeping under a bridge.” He chuckled. “Wanna smoke?”

  “No thanks.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I keep thinking I should quit.” Then he shrugged and headed out the front door. She noticed his bare feet and wondered how he could stand out in the cold for long.

  “I’m awake now,” a woman’s voice said.

  Lena turned to see a heavyset woman coming from the room. She had on a brown silky robe over a hot pink lacy nightgown. “I’m sorry,” Lena said. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, TJ’s responsible for that. I heard him telling someone that I sleep late, which is true some of the time. But not all of the time.” She yawned then stared at Lena. “Who are you anyway?”

  Lena dug in her purse to retrieve the letter from Mrs. Stanfield and quickly explained about the arrangements that had been made for her.

  “Oh, yeah, you’re in room 13. I hope you’re not superstitious.” Lucy laughed. “And your rent is paid up until the end of December, but I like rent paid at least one week in advance, so that means you’ll have to pay me for the first week of January around Christmas. And don’t think that just because it’s Christmastime I won’t remember. Because I will. It’s not that I’m a Scrooge, but nobody gets a free ride here. Understand?”

  Lena twisted the handle of her purse. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good. Now hang on a minute and I’ll get your keys and some paperwork.”

  Lena waited as Lucy went into her room again. She could hear her talking to herself as she rumbled around. “I really need to clean this place up one of these days . . . Now where is that folder?” Finally she emerged with a couple of keys and some papers. “This one is the rules, which I try to keep simple.” She handed Lena two printed pages. “And you’ll need to fill out the information form. Mostly basic stuff and emergency numbers. It’s not like we do references here.” She laughed. “No one would tell the truth anyway.”

  “Right.”

  Lucy held up a ring with two keys. “The brass one is for the dead bolt in your room, and I strongly recommend you keep it bolted at all times. And the silver key is for the front door, which is supposed to remain locked as well, although some tenants can’t seem to remember this rule.” She shook her head. “Hence the need to keep your room locked . . . if you get my meaning.”

  Lena nodded. “I understand.”

  “I can show you up there if you want.” Lucy pointed to the stairs and frowned. “But it’s on the third floor and my knees have been giving me trouble and – ”

  “That’s okay,” Lena assured her. “I can find it myself.”

  “And I leave it to the tenants to work out the bathrooms.” Lena frowned. “Work out the bathrooms?”

  “You share a bathroom with a few other tenants. Rooms 11, 12, and 14.”

  “Oh.”

  “That means you might need to schedule things like showers. Also, the tenants are expected to clean the bathrooms as well as their own rooms. All the cleaning supplies are in the hall closet. I do weekly checks, and it’s not like I put on the white gloves, but I won’t put up with total slobs either. I leave it up to the tenants to work out the details of whose turn it is to clean the bathroom. Same goes with the kitchen. Mostly I expect folks to clean up their own messes, and if I catch someone who doesn’t, they get stuck cleaning the whole kitchen. And I’ll warn you, even though I tell tenants to plainly mark any food they keep in the fridge, a lot of food snatching goes on around here. Not much I can do about it. Some tenants get mini fridges for their rooms though. Now, any questions?”

  Lena thought for a moment. “Are linens provided?”

  “There are towels in your room. I encourage tenants to use them more than once to save on water and electricity. But when you need to, you bring them to me and I’ll give you clean ones.” Lucy pointed to the rule page. “It’s all there in the rules.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is.” Lena s
miled. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you enjoy your stay at Miller House.” Lucy did a mock bow. “Not that you’ll be here long. Most people aren’t. Although we have several older tenants who seem happy to stick around. Or maybe they can’t afford anything else.”

  Lena nodded.

  “One more thing.” Lucy scowled as she shook her forefinger at Lena. “It’s written in plain black and white on the rule sheet, but for some reason a lot of tenants seem to overlook this one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No cooking in your room.” Lucy leaned forward until her nose was inches from Lena’s. “Understand?”

  Lena blinked and backed up. “Yes. No cooking in my room.”

  “That means no hot plates. No microwaves. No toasters. No crock-pots. No toaster ovens. No electric teapots. No electrical appliances – period.” Lucy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Besides blowing out the electrical fuses, this place could be a real firetrap. So I will absolutely enforce this rule. Anyone who breaks it will be thrown out. Got it?”

  “Yes. I got it.”

  “Good.” Lucy smiled. “Sorry to be so hard-nosed, but I’ve found it’s better to make myself perfectly clear right from the get-go.”

  “I understand.” Lena smiled back. “I can imagine it’d be a big responsibility running a place like this.”

  “It is.” Lucy sighed. “And it’s a mostly thankless job too.”

  “Well, thank you then.”

  Lucy pulled her robe more tightly around her. “I think you’ll be a good tenant, Lena. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Lena told her she would, but she had a feeling that she’d rather lay low than trouble Lucy for much. Not that Lucy didn’t seem like a nice person. She just seemed like someone who didn’t want to be bothered.

  The steps creaked as Lena went up. She counted each step. It was an old habit, perhaps stemming from her love of numbers, or maybe it was just her way to comfort herself. But she’d been counting things like steps since childhood. Twelve steps, then a landing and a turn, then twelve more. Twenty-four steps. If there ever was a fire from a tenant cooking in their room or the electricity went out, she would know how to count her way down to escape.

  Room 13 was the second on the left. She tried the key and was relieved to see that it worked. The door creaked, and she stepped into a sparsely furnished room with a twin bed, bedside table, dresser, and chair. The smell was musty and the chill in the air suggested that it had been unoccupied for a while. She looked across the brown linoleum floor to spot a closed heat vent in the floor. She opened it and warm air began radiating up.

  She went over and sat on the bed, testing it to discover that the mattress was thin and the box springs were squeaky. Still, it was a huge improvement over her accommodations for the past eight years. In fact, the whole room was a pleasant surprise. Her own dresser for her things – not that she had any. Her own chair to sit in and just think. Her own bedside table with a lamp she could turn on and off whenever she liked. She could read in the middle of the night if she wanted. Really, the room was perfect.

  She stood and went to the window, pulling up the blind to peer outside. The window was murky, obscured by layers of grime, so she used her palm to clear a spot and then peered down into the yards of neighboring homes. From this vantage point, they all seemed carefully aligned with straight fences separating lots. Some backyards had signs of children with swing sets, sandboxes, and toys. Some appeared to have dogs. A few had fruit trees and dormant gardens, which probably looked pretty in summer. But for the most part the yards and homes all looked neat and orderly, giving the impression that life was still relatively good for middle-class America in New Haven.

  She sighed, suppressing the small surge of jealousy burning inside her chest. What was it to her if other people were happy? Why shouldn’t she be glad for them? She pulled down the shade, slipped off her shoes, and crawled into the squeaky bed. Exhausted from the long bus ride, she was more than ready for some real sleep. All she wanted was to snuggle down for a long winter’s nap.

  Naturally, the old Christmas rhyme ’Twas the Night Before Christmas was stuck in her head now. She pulled the thin blankets and bedspread more snugly around her shoulders as she silently began to recite the familiar words of the children’s poem. She knew it by heart. As a child, whenever Christmas Eve came, Lena had nagged her mother to read it to her. Mother would wait until Father was distracted, then she and Lena would slip away – out of his earshot since he didn’t approve of such ungodly practices. Lena would curl up beside her mother and stare in wonder at the faded illustrations of the old picture book as she listened to her mother’s lilting voice read the magical story.

  As Lena was drifting to sleep, she wondered what had become of that old book. Probably sold at one of her parents’ yard sales or donated to the church’s mission fund, like she’d heard everything else had been after the deaths of her parents. Really, that seemed only fair, considering what had been taken. She had no doubts that her parents, particularly her father, had felt partially to blame for everything. And maybe they were.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Lena didn’t emerge from her room until one that afternoon. She could’ve slept longer but was worried she might end up sleeping all day and then be awake all night. Sleepless nights weren’t unusual in prison, but here on the outside she wanted to get back to normal hours. And maybe even some other kinds of normal too . . . if that was even possible.

  Standing in the hallway with a faded pink hand towel hanging over her arm like a formal waiter, she waited while someone else occupied the bathroom. She’d already tried the door to find it locked, and then a woman’s voice had snapped, “Just a minute,” in an aggravated way. Lena hoped it wasn’t rude to wait like this, but she really needed to go. Finally the door opened and a young woman and a small girl stepped out.

  The woman eyed Lena with suspicion. “Are you new here?”

  She nodded. “I’m Lena. Room 13.”

  “I’m Sally. Room 11. And this is Jemima.”

  Lena studied the little girl. Her strawberry blonde hair was messy and appeared to need a good shampoo, her Minnie Mouse sweatshirt was dirty, and her worn blue jeans were short enough to reveal a pair of skinny ankles, no socks, and canvas tennis shoes. “Jemima, what an interesting name.”

  The girl peered at Lena. “You mean like the pancakes?”

  “No, I mean that Jemima is a pretty name. How old are you?”

  “Six and a half.”

  Lena smiled at them. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you both.” And she actually was pleased, or maybe it was relief, but it felt safer to think a mother and child lived here too.

  “So . . . welcome to Miller House,” Sally said without enthusiasm.

  “Have you been here long?” For some reason, and to her own surprise since she’d been waiting to use the bathroom, Lena wanted to extend this conversation a bit.

  “Too long.” Sally reached over and slapped Jemima’s hand. “Stop picking your nose, you brat!”

  “I, uh, I hope I didn’t rush you out of the bathroom,” Lena said quickly. “I’ll only be in there a few minutes if you weren’t done yet.”

  “No, we’re done.” Sally took Jemima roughly by the upper arm. “And you need to go clean up that mess you made in our room, Pig-Pen.”

  They went their separate ways, but as Lena used the bathroom, she couldn’t get the sad, lost look in Jemima’s eyes out of her mind. What was a six-year-old doing in a boardinghouse? And why was her mother so angry? Well, that was probably obvious enough – who wanted to be stuck in a place like this?

  As Lena was returning to her room, she could hear sounds of a child crying and suspected it was Jemima. The little girl sounded tired and her mother was probably just cranky. Lena told herself to stay out of it. Really, why should it concern her? Hadn’t eight years in prison taught Lena that it was better to ignore things like conflict?

  Still, Lena could re
call the satisfaction she’d experienced when she’d put together the daycare center at the church all those years ago . . . back in that other life. It had been set up as kind of a relief nursery – a chance for moms to have a break. She remembered the gratitude some of the weary moms had expressed. And the children had enjoyed it too.

  But why should any of that matter now? Just keep walking, she told herself, go into your room, close the door, and block it all out.

  Instead, she found herself knocking on the door of room 11. “Excuse me,” she said when Sally opened the door, “but I used to operate a daycare center in our church and I remembered how moms sometimes need a break. If you’d ever want me to watch Jemima for you, I wouldn’t mind.”

  Sally’s brows drew together. “I don’t even know you. Why would I let you babysit my child?”

  Lena nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. I just thought I’d offer. I’m sorry if I – ”

  “I want her to babysit me.” Jemima poked her head out from behind Sally. “Even though I’m not a baby.”

  Sally frowned at her daughter then narrowed her eyes at Lena. “Fine. I’ll think about it. Maybe some other time.”

  “Okay then.” Lena stepped back. “But I’ll be going to work on Monday and I’m not sure what my hours – ”

  “Where are you working?” Sally asked with hungry eyes.

  “At Harrington’s Department Store.”

  Sally seemed to assess Lena’s lackluster outfit of secondhand clothes then shook her head. “You gotta be kidding. I went in to fill out an application at Harrington’s just last week, and those snobs wouldn’t even give me the time of day.”

  “Well, my job was arranged by someone else.”

  “Lucky for you.” Sally sounded spiteful. “Must be nice.”

  Lena ignored her tone. “Are you looking for work?”

  “Like it does me any good.”

  “The Red Hen Café is hiring.”

  “Seriously?” Her eyes flickered with hope. “How do you know?”

  “I had breakfast there this morning. The owner told me herself. One of the waitresses left just yesterday.”