jangled to their maximum, so another serving of caffeine would not make much of an impact. And it would provide a moment’s respite, to think, to collect her disparate thoughts. She sat on a stool at the window, with the photo on the counter, staring at it, her finger light on the corner, as if to make sure that it all would not disappear. The sun was out, and the bright light glistered off the photo. She slipped it back into a new envelope and placed that back into a zippered pocket in her purse.
She had one more task to complete that morning.
The key that had been in the envelope with the photo hidden in the desk now rested in the coin pouch of her wallet. She assumed that it was for a safe-deposit box.
What else could it be?
A branch of the Umpqua Bank was only two blocks distant. She had driven to her office but left her car in the parking lot.
Don’t want to worry about parking places. And the sun feels good .
The cheery receptionist took a look at the key, then pointed to her left.
“One of our personal bankers can help you with this.”
I don’t really want a personal banker, since I don’t do business with this bank .
Charles Harnett showed her to a chair in front of a nondescript desk with absolutely no personalization on it—apparently used by other “personal” bankers at other times. Other than a computer keyboard with a monitor, and a little metal stand with a sheaf of business cards, the desk was empty.
“An old key, right? One of ours, right?”
Hazel passed the key to him.
He pursed his lips and hummed.
Then the young Mr. Harnett began to tap away at the keyboard, swinging the mouse into action, clicking three times, then typing some more, much faster than Hazel could ever have hoped to have done.
Finally he stopped, took his hands from the keyboard, looked up with his best personal banker smile, and said, “Yes. This is current. The key is still good.”
Hazel exhaled.
“I was hoping it wasn’t out of date. This is sort of a mystery to me.”
“And a Ms. Florence Jamison…three years ago…paid $250 for another ten years of use,” he said, glancing at the monitor.
“She was my mother. She passed away.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”
Hazel waited a moment, not sure what to ask next, or if Mr. Harnett was going to take her to the place in the bank where these secure boxes were kept.
He did not.
Finally, she asked, “Is this box number here? Wherever it is you have safe-deposit boxes, I mean.”
Mr. Harnett shook his head. “No. I’m afraid not. This number was originally from an older branch that must have moved or was closed. Back in the day, the bank did that often. Move, I mean. Close small branches. Consolidate and all that. All the safe-deposit boxes from the closed branches were moved to the big location on Columbia.”
“Downtown?”
Mr. Harnett nodded.
“Is it open? I mean, do I need to make an appointment or anything to go there and see what’s inside?”
“No. Just show up with the key and ID. During regular business hours. That’s all there is to it.”
Hazel hurried back to her car. Perhaps the box held some answers. Perhaps it held nothing—but that would be an answer as well.
Wilson taught three classes that day, “The Craft of the Short Story,” “Readings in Contemporary American Fiction,” and “Writing the Screenplay.”
He disliked the latter class the most of all his classes.
Posers, all of them. Like some Hollywood agent is sitting in some neighborhood tavern in Pittsburgh just drooling over their insufferable “coming of age” story set in some hardscrabble western Pennsylvanian neighborhood. Well, I think not. I know not .
Three classes meant a long day, and that happened twice a week. He got on the bus, actually looking forward to getting home that evening.
Before Thurman, going home was not something he always looked forward to. To be sure, it meant leaving work, and leaving behind a slew of mostly untalented
She had one more task to complete that morning.
The key that had been in the envelope with the photo hidden in the desk now rested in the coin pouch of her wallet. She assumed that it was for a safe-deposit box.
What else could it be?
A branch of the Umpqua Bank was only two blocks distant. She had driven to her office but left her car in the parking lot.
Don’t want to worry about parking places. And the sun feels good .
The cheery receptionist took a look at the key, then pointed to her left.
“One of our personal bankers can help you with this.”
I don’t really want a personal banker, since I don’t do business with this bank .
Charles Harnett showed her to a chair in front of a nondescript desk with absolutely no personalization on it—apparently used by other “personal” bankers at other times. Other than a computer keyboard with a monitor, and a little metal stand with a sheaf of business cards, the desk was empty.
“An old key, right? One of ours, right?”
Hazel passed the key to him.
He pursed his lips and hummed.
Then the young Mr. Harnett began to tap away at the keyboard, swinging the mouse into action, clicking three times, then typing some more, much faster than Hazel could ever have hoped to have done.
Finally he stopped, took his hands from the keyboard, looked up with his best personal banker smile, and said, “Yes. This is current. The key is still good.”
Hazel exhaled.
“I was hoping it wasn’t out of date. This is sort of a mystery to me.”
“And a Ms. Florence Jamison…three years ago…paid $250 for another ten years of use,” he said, glancing at the monitor.
“She was my mother. She passed away.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”
Hazel waited a moment, not sure what to ask next, or if Mr. Harnett was going to take her to the place in the bank where these secure boxes were kept.
He did not.
Finally, she asked, “Is this box number here? Wherever it is you have safe-deposit boxes, I mean.”
Mr. Harnett shook his head. “No. I’m afraid not. This number was originally from an older branch that must have moved or was closed. Back in the day, the bank did that often. Move, I mean. Close small branches. Consolidate and all that. All the safe-deposit boxes from the closed branches were moved to the big location on Columbia.”
“Downtown?”
Mr. Harnett nodded.
“Is it open? I mean, do I need to make an appointment or anything to go there and see what’s inside?”
“No. Just show up with the key and ID. During regular business hours. That’s all there is to it.”
Hazel hurried back to her car. Perhaps the box held some answers. Perhaps it held nothing—but that would be an answer as well.
Wilson taught three classes that day, “The Craft of the Short Story,” “Readings in Contemporary American Fiction,” and “Writing the Screenplay.”
He disliked the latter class the most of all his classes.
Posers, all of them. Like some Hollywood agent is sitting in some neighborhood tavern in Pittsburgh just drooling over their insufferable “coming of age” story set in some hardscrabble western Pennsylvanian neighborhood. Well, I think not. I know not .
Three classes meant a long day, and that happened twice a week. He got on the bus, actually looking forward to getting home that evening.
Before Thurman, going home was not something he always looked forward to. To be sure, it meant leaving work, and leaving behind a slew of mostly untalented
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