The Cat's Miaow

The Cat's Miaow

Beverly doesn't like her new situation—she doesn't like it at all. A few short weeks ago she thrived at the top; not anyone else's top, but her own, personal top. At Brown Home Health Beverly was the business' sole receptionist. She alone prepared and transmitted invoices to Medicare and Medicaid. Resultant payments allowed the business to survive and profit. Beverly scheduled visits for a dozen personal care aides. She interacted frequently with Brown's two registered nurses, and inventoried and ordered supplies as needed. Brown occupied a suite of offices in a modern downtown structure. Floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows comprised one-quarter of Beverly's office. At Brown Home Health, 43-year-old Beverly flourished. She was the cat's miaow.

But things change. For its survival, the agency depended primarily on payments from the Medicare system. As Beverly neared the end of her second year of employment, legislators in Washington revamped the Medicare payment system. "There will be less money less frequently now," explained Lawton Arenson, Brown's owner, when he announced a pending merger. His two businesses—Brown Home Health and Arenson Health Services—must become one, he explained, or neither would survive. "As of next month, Medicare will no longer pay for a number of previously-billable services. This will adversely affect all of us to some degree—but I have no choice in the matter."

Beverly now works at Brown-Arenson Home Health. Her mentor and previous supervisor, Janet, opted to retire rather than accept a reduction in pay and position. A fun-loving workaholic with heart, Janet is deeply missed.

At Arenson Home Health—the other agency—Jessica Gill, Arenson's personal assistant, was the cat's miaow. Beverly must now share an office with the attractive, effusive twenty-year-old. As a consequence of the merger, Jessica has become Beverly's immediate supervisor.

At Brown-Arenson Beverly's sole responsibility is Medicaid billing. Arenson personally prepares and transmits Medicare invoices. Her once-stunning office is now a windowless, three-sided workspace. To Beverly's right and at her back are yellowing walls; a carpeted six-foot partition separates her from the front third of Brown-Arenson's office. When she looks to her left, Beverly sees Jessica's ever-immaculate desk, which is not partitioned. The phone rings, and Jessica's prim voice chirps, "Brown-Arenson Home Health, how may I help you?"

Upon his arrival at the office, without instruction, Jessica prepares Mr. Arenson's coffee. Steaming mug in one hand, notepad in the other, she sweeps past Beverly. The rear one-third of their aging suite is dedicated to the owner's office; his door seldom closes. When Jessica leaves her desk, Beverly is charged with the responsibility of answering the phone. As she stares at her phone, dispirited, Jessica's tinkling effeminate laughter seems to mock her. I'm the cat's miaow now—don't you forget it. Jessica addresses Lawton Arenson by his first name. Always.

Arenson has never spoken an unkind word to Beverly—quite the contrary. He greets her each time he arrives at the office, but looks through instead of at her. Beverly knows this is due—in part—to the fact that she's dowdy in comparison to her nemesis. Her wardrobe is limited. Her clothes don't define her—they hang on her. Everything about her screams anonymity and poverty.

Beverly's income supports a family of three, and she receives minimal state and federal assistance. Two dollars per hour in excess of minimum wage doesn't allow her to be choosy. Shopping at Neiman Marcus might improve her appearance, but an expensive wardrobe wouldn't change her body shape or personality. The middle-aged woman likes and respects Arenson, but she won't subordinate herself to him. At Brown-Arenson the striking immaculately-clad man is the big kahuna, and Beverly's mannerisms acknowledge this in her interactions with him. But when they exit the office, they step onto a level playing field where no man or woman is her superior. Many individuals may be more fortunate—but none are better. Ever. Beverly doesn't doubt that she unconsciously conveys this attitude, too, in her interactions with Arenson. She doesn't care. She needs her job, but unlike Jessica she will never stoop to being subservient or flirtatious.

Pencil-thin tendrils of sunlight pass through the window to the left of Jessica's desk. Beverly is transfixed on them when Jessica reappears to close the blinds with a snap of her wrist. "Beverly," she purrs, "when you have a moment Lawton needs to see you."

"Sure," Beverly mumbles, rising quickly, brushing pastry crumbs from her black pullover cotton blouse. "Do you have any idea what it's about?" She feels foolish, but she's unable to stop the anxious words from tumbling out.

"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing." Jessica dismisses her by reaching for her phone. Wishing to look professional, Beverly steps into Arenson's office with pad and pen in hand. He instructs her to close the door, and as she does Beverly hears Jessica hanging up her phone. The sound is somehow ominous.

Five minutes later Beverly emerges from Arenson's office. Contrary to his wishes she closes the door behind her. At once she sees the cardboard box atop her desk, and without looking, she knows it contains her few personal possessions. Jessica is nowhere to be seen.

Beverly is  startled by the shrill screech of the telephone, but after one ring it stops. Arenson answers it, she assumes.

Is that Jessica on the phone? The thought crosses Beverly's mind, and instinct assures her she's correct. She's tempted to snatch the receiver from its cradle to satisfy her curiosity, but what would she say? I hope you're happy now? I'm sorry if I rained on your self-indulgent parade? Please forgive me for threatening to upset your apple cart? The voice of reason, an integral aspect of Beverly's character, tries to intervene. Jessica's not to blame. She's a pawn; she did what she needed to do to protect her job. Don't take your frustration out on her.

Minutes later, cardboard box in hand, Beverly leaves Brown-Arenson's office for the last time—moments after sweeping the contents of Jessica's desktop onto the floor.