woods. The wall was broken by a wide metal gate with a guard in a small outpost. I rolled up.
“Jim Whelan,” I said. “Got a job interview.”
A man in a light gray uniform with a security badge ironed on the front checked his clipboard.
“Whelan… Yep. You’ll see Alonzo Waters. Ground floor. They’ll tell you where at reception. Visitor parking on the left.”
“Thanks.”
The gate retracted with a lot of metal scraping on metal and I rode up the paved road. In another hundred yards, I arrived at the Blue Ridge Sanitarium.
The tall house looked like a plantation manor, which was probably what it had been until 1891. A solid, three-story mansion in red brick with white trim, fronted by four white pillars.
I veered toward the empty visitor lot and parked the Harley. The grounds were quiet but for insects buzzing in the humidity. No one was strolling the paths or sitting on any of the stone benches that lined them.
At the black-painted front door, a speaker box looked out of place on the old wood. I pressed the red button.
A woman’s voice came through. “Can I help you?”
“Jim Whelan, here to see Mr. Waters.”
The door buzzed and clicked. I turned the knob and pushed into the sanitarium’s cool confines. Hardwood floors led to the reception area. The scent of cleaning products hung over the that of the old wood. An air-conditioning unit shared wall space with an oil painting of a bowl of fruit. The sanitarium seemed caught between being a plantation house and a healthcare facility. Maybe that was the point—to give the patients a sense of being at a home, rather than in a hospital.
A middle-aged woman with a dark ponytail waved me over. She wore the same security uniform as the guy out in the booth. Her nametag said Jules and her eyes grazed me up and down unapologetically.
“Well, hello handsome. Who are you here to see?”
“Alonzo Waters.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re here for the orderly position?”
I nodded.
“Huh. If you say so. You don’t look like an orderly to me. Hot doctor from one of them TV shows, maybe.”
I didn’t return her smile but waited until she was done being obnoxious, arms crossed, my boots planted to the floor.
“Strong, silent type,” Jules said with a small laugh, her gaze still roving. “Well, I sincerely hope you get the job. You’re a sight for sore eyes. Plus, we’re short a few orderlies since the last two moved out of town.”
Good. If the sanitarium was short-handed, they’d be eager to hire and start me as soon as possible.
“No chitchat?” Jules heaved a dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay. Alonzo will be in the dining hall now, straight back through the double doors. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I said and strode where she pointed.
“Ah, he speaks! Good luck, handsome.”
I felt Jules’ gaze follow me and shrugged it off.
The dining hall had white floors and walls, with tall windows letting in the June sunlight. A dozen square tables, each set for four. A man with a visible dent in his head the size of a coaster sat with a nurse at one table by the window, slowly eating soup. He gave me a hard, sharp look as I came in.
I looked him in the eye and gave him a respectful nod. His eyebrows shot up, then he pursed his lips with a grunt and went back to his soup.
A plump lady in a white chef’s coat stood behind a small case of pastries and salads. Coffee brewed behind her in tall silver canisters. She was talking to an older black man, who looked to be in his sixties, his hair gone gray. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt tucked into white trousers. Black belt, black boots. A huge ring of keys jingled on his waist.
I drew closer and the lunch lady jerked her chin at me. “Can I help you?”
The man turned around. “You must be Jim Whelan,” he said.
I nodded and offered my hand.
“Alonzo Waters,” he said, sizing me up. “Want to be an orderly, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got a résumé?”
I pulled two pieces of paper folded into fours from my jacket pocket. “Yes, sir.”
“Sir,” Alonzo said with a chuckle. “You hear that, Margery?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Come on, let’s sit and talk.” Alonzo led me to an empty table for four and sat across from me. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“Trying to cut down, myself.” Alonzo perused my résumé. “Twenty-four years old. Graduated from Webster High, South Carolina. Straight to work at