writers, and getting to spend time in silence. But with Thurman, there was a body at home now—a warm body of sorts, a creature who appeared to be ecstatic when he returned.
Maybe Thurman was so excited because he wanted to go outside.
But Wilson thought it was more than just that, although he was sure that it played a part in the dog’s exhilaration.
Wilson stepped off the bus and the doors whooshed shut behind him with a wheeze. He almost said goodbye to the driver—the same bus driver had been on this route for several years now—and Wilson watched others call him by name and inquire as to his family, but he never did that, or had not until now.
And yet even though he thought about saying something, he did not.
Maybe next time .
And as he walked the two blocks to his home, he wondered why this sudden occurrence of interest in the bus driver.
He scowled to himself.
Thurman .
The downtown location of the bank looked exactly like a bank should look: sedate, secure, and traditional.
Hazel was not sure what a “traditional” bank looked like exactly, but this one boasted of marble and walnut and high ceilings and a hushed, monetary feel, with muted lighting.
She walked up to the information desk, key in hand, and instead of pointing, the young woman receptionist stood and escorted her past a series of open offices and to the open, very thick circular metal door of a massive safe, with a floor-to-ceiling metal fence in front and a young man seated inside.
“Clark will show you to your box. Will you need a private room?”
Hazel tried not to look totally unaware, totally naïve in the way of safe-deposit box protocols, even though she was.
Am I supposed to keep whatever is in there hidden? Are there cameras? Or snoops?
“I don’t think so. Really, I’m not sure what’s in here. It was my mother’s. She passed away.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” the young woman replied. “If you need anything, just let Clark know.”
Clark took a look at the number and escorted Hazel into the vault, past the large boxes that looked like they could hold a small fortune in gold bullion, past the medium-sized boxes that might hold half a fortune, to the smaller boxes that could hold a few envelopes and a deed and perhaps a dance card from a long-ago prom.
I wonder if she ever went to a prom in high school? We never talked about that, did we?
“Right here,” Clark said, gesturing to a small box, in much the way that one of the models on a game show gestures to a grand prize.
With that, he stepped back.
“I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”
Hazel began to worry that there would be nothing inside…
But why would she have paid for it, then?
Or perhaps something complicated and mysterious…
But that wouldn’t be like her, not at all .
She unlocked the box, pulled out the inner metal box, and gingerly opened it. The only thing inside was a standard midsize mailing envelope. She took it and then felt around the metal interior to see if there was something else, but there wasn’t.
The envelope was not sealed. She lifted the flap and pulled out a thin sheaf of official-looking documents. She turned them right side up.
On the top was a familiar image of an apple with a single bite missing.
The forms were Apple Computer stock certificates.
Ten certificates were inside the envelope, each claiming to represent the ownership of two hundred shares of common stock.
Hazel stared at them for a long moment, not sure what to think or what to do next.
Stocks? Mom never bought stocks. She never said she bought stocks. She barely knew anything about stocks or financial matters .
She looked around, wondering what she was supposed to do now. She waited another moment, thinking that some plan of action, some path might open up and tell her what the next step would be.
No such thought occurred.
She slipped the certificates back into the envelope, tucked it under her arm, closed the box, and relocked it, not sure why
Maybe Thurman was so excited because he wanted to go outside.
But Wilson thought it was more than just that, although he was sure that it played a part in the dog’s exhilaration.
Wilson stepped off the bus and the doors whooshed shut behind him with a wheeze. He almost said goodbye to the driver—the same bus driver had been on this route for several years now—and Wilson watched others call him by name and inquire as to his family, but he never did that, or had not until now.
And yet even though he thought about saying something, he did not.
Maybe next time .
And as he walked the two blocks to his home, he wondered why this sudden occurrence of interest in the bus driver.
He scowled to himself.
Thurman .
The downtown location of the bank looked exactly like a bank should look: sedate, secure, and traditional.
Hazel was not sure what a “traditional” bank looked like exactly, but this one boasted of marble and walnut and high ceilings and a hushed, monetary feel, with muted lighting.
She walked up to the information desk, key in hand, and instead of pointing, the young woman receptionist stood and escorted her past a series of open offices and to the open, very thick circular metal door of a massive safe, with a floor-to-ceiling metal fence in front and a young man seated inside.
“Clark will show you to your box. Will you need a private room?”
Hazel tried not to look totally unaware, totally naïve in the way of safe-deposit box protocols, even though she was.
Am I supposed to keep whatever is in there hidden? Are there cameras? Or snoops?
“I don’t think so. Really, I’m not sure what’s in here. It was my mother’s. She passed away.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” the young woman replied. “If you need anything, just let Clark know.”
Clark took a look at the number and escorted Hazel into the vault, past the large boxes that looked like they could hold a small fortune in gold bullion, past the medium-sized boxes that might hold half a fortune, to the smaller boxes that could hold a few envelopes and a deed and perhaps a dance card from a long-ago prom.
I wonder if she ever went to a prom in high school? We never talked about that, did we?
“Right here,” Clark said, gesturing to a small box, in much the way that one of the models on a game show gestures to a grand prize.
With that, he stepped back.
“I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”
Hazel began to worry that there would be nothing inside…
But why would she have paid for it, then?
Or perhaps something complicated and mysterious…
But that wouldn’t be like her, not at all .
She unlocked the box, pulled out the inner metal box, and gingerly opened it. The only thing inside was a standard midsize mailing envelope. She took it and then felt around the metal interior to see if there was something else, but there wasn’t.
The envelope was not sealed. She lifted the flap and pulled out a thin sheaf of official-looking documents. She turned them right side up.
On the top was a familiar image of an apple with a single bite missing.
The forms were Apple Computer stock certificates.
Ten certificates were inside the envelope, each claiming to represent the ownership of two hundred shares of common stock.
Hazel stared at them for a long moment, not sure what to think or what to do next.
Stocks? Mom never bought stocks. She never said she bought stocks. She barely knew anything about stocks or financial matters .
She looked around, wondering what she was supposed to do now. She waited another moment, thinking that some plan of action, some path might open up and tell her what the next step would be.
No such thought occurred.
She slipped the certificates back into the envelope, tucked it under her arm, closed the box, and relocked it, not sure why
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