And then she said, “Carly, you’ve been working here three years. You can call me Margaret.”
“I don’t think I can,” I said. And I meant it. I don’t know why. It just felt wrong. Like calling your old
kindergarten teacher by her first name.
She almost smiled. “All right,” she said. “Mrs. Whitaker it is.”
The next Thursday, there was a check on the counter for one hundred and twenty-five dollars
instead of one hundred.
The note said: Carly — Cost of living. — M.W.
That was all. Just those three words. She never mentioned it again. And every Thursday after that,
the check was for a hundred and twenty-five.
It was in the fourth year that I found her on the bathroom floor.
It was a Thursday in February. Gray and cold, with old snow crusted along the sidewalks. I let myself in at nine like always. I called out, “Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker!” like always.
