HAZEL WALKED out of her office building, modern and glass and sleek and antithetical to all that transpired within the walls—which involved business intricacies of a turn-of-the-last-century insurance company rife with arcane evaluations and formulas and policies and products and a staff nearly chained to their desks during the day, unwilling to risk being seen enjoying the work by a boss with no apparent happy emotions in him. She stopped for coffee, her fifth cup of the day so far. Her nerves were already 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“I was hoping it wasn’t out of date.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 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 she needed to do that since it was now empty.
Clark looked up as she approached.
“All done?”
Hazel shrugged.
“I guess. There wasn’t much in there. Just this one envelope. Some old stock certificates. I doubt they’re worth anything.”
Clark stood and unlocked the gate with the key that was attached to his belt on a metal string of some sort.
“Well, miss, you never know. I would check with Mr. Hild, one of our personal bankers…”
They all must be personal bankers. The bank is lousy with them.
Hazel smiled, mostly to herself. Her mother often said that about any excess.
“He knows all about stocks and things like that. He could quickly determine if they have any value or not.”
Hazel thanked him and made her way back to the information desk to find Mr. Hild, thinking that little would come out of this and she would be no further to getting to the bottom of her mother’s…other life—her former, secret, hidden life—than she was when she first discovered the photograph.
From half a block away, Wilson could see that all was not well at his home. Or at least it was not how he had left it earlier in the day.
Sort of.
His mother stood at the start of the walk, almost on the sidewalk, holding what appeared to be a leash.
It is a leash.
No doubt Thurman was at the other end of the leash, and Wilson refrained from calling out, thinking that if he did, Thurman would get excited, lunge toward him, pull his tottering mother over, and she would break a hip. She would never forgive him for it and she would be forced to move into his house so Wilson could provide round-the-clock medical care.
Not that. Please, not that.
Instead, he waved silently. He was nothing if not cautious.
And careful. And often worried about what might happen, even if those things never did happen as he imagined them occurring.
There was another figure standing near his front door: a woman—a woman whom Thurman was seated next to. The dog was obediently sitting still, grinning, his hindquarters vibrating in anticipation of seeing Wilson again. The woman was not young, but neither old—younger than Wilson by perhaps a decade, with short, straight black hair, near luminescent in the sun, cut in a stylish manner, Wilson assumed, a style that required some hair fashion awareness. She had a hint of Middle Eastern about her, with a slight darkness to the tone of the skin on her face and her bare arms—perhaps Israeli, perhaps some other ethnicity.
Not Nordic for certain.
“Wilson,” Gretna called out. “I missed Thurman. Emily drove me over. I hope you don’t mind that I used my emergency key.”
Mother, that emergency key was for when I fell down the steps and was lying in a pool of blood—not because you missed a dog you only possessed for two weeks.
“No. That’s okay. But be careful. Thurman could easily knock you over.”
His mother waved away his objection with a sweep of her hand.
“Nonsense. We’ve already walked around the block and Thurman has been a complete gentleman the whole time. Right, Thurman?”
Thurman was up now, bouncing, doing little canine cha-cha steps, awaiting Wilson’s greeting. Now within the radius of the leash, he did jump up and rush at Wilson, obviously excited, and obviously fully aware of the limits of the leash and the stability of the woman who currently held it.
Wilson bent down and patted his head, Thurman bouncing and grinning and growling, Where were you?
Thurman had asked that question every time Wilson returned home, and no matter how often Wilson explained that he had to go to work, to school, Thurman seemed to be unable to grasp the concept.
Wilson was fairly certain that dogs would not be able to understand the convoluted process of work and money and all the rest of the abstract ideas that capitalism involved.
Or perhaps it was that Thurman just enjoyed posing the ritual question.
“Good dog, Thurman,” Wilson said. “Good dog. I’m home now. It’s okay.”
Thurman beamed at the praise.
“See?” Gretna said, now beaming as well. “He grows on you, doesn’t he? He is a good dog.”
Wilson stood back up and sniffed. He was unwilling to fully commit to this arrangement, at least to his mother.
“I suppose.”
Gretna knew posing when she saw it, and she probably knew Wilson was simply being obstreperous for show.
Wilson looked toward the front door.
“That’s Emily,” Gretna said. “Emily, this is my son, Wilson.”
Both offered the standard “Nice to meet you” response.
“Emily’s mother is at Heritage Square too, isn’t she, Emily?” Gretna said. “Mother-in-law. I meant mother-in-law.” Then she added in a softer, lower voice, “But the poor woman can’t get out much. Being in a wheelchair, you know. And she gets confused sometimes. So I asked Emily if she could take me here for a few minutes and Emily said she would be happy to. Right, Emily?”
Emily smiled and shrugged.
Wilson recognized the look of capitulation. Not a horrible forced-under-pain-of-death capitulation, but still…
“I wanted to see the dog,” Emily added. “Thurman, I mean. Your mother goes on and on about him.”
Wilson arched his eyebrows.
“No doubt she does.”
Thurman appeared to follow the conversation, then growled toward Gretna.
“Are you going to invite us in for coffee, Wilson?” Gretna asked. “Thurman likes company.”
Emily looked socially horrified, a little bit.
At least she has manners…or good sense, Wilson thought.
Obviously, Gretna noticed the look and waved it away.
“Nonsense. He’s my son. He can offer us a cup of coffee.”
She started walking toward the front door.
“Seeing as how you’ve already been inside, Mother, I guess coffee would be fine.”
Gretna offered a knowing grin to Emily.
“Such a good boy. Didn’t I tell you he was such a good boy?”
Mr. Hild looked exactly like an old-school personal banker should look, Hazel thought, wearing a very sedate gray suit, an old-school striped tie, wingtip shoes—all of which was in opposition to the standard blue blazers the rest of the personal banking crew probably had been forced to wear.
They look like they work at an upscale McDonald’s—and wear better uniforms, Hazel thought.
“Old stock certificates, you say,” Mr. Hild said, folding his hands and placing them on the desk. He had a nameplate on a little rack on the desk, obviously a subtle sign of seniority.
Hazel held her purse in her lap, with the envelope in one hand, and explained about the desk in the garage sale and finding the key and finding just the one envelope in the box and the fact that her mother never once mentioned owning any stock, or any investments of any kind.
She slid the certificates out of the envelope as Mr. Hild explained that very few companies offered paper certificates any longer. “It’s all electronic now. I miss these. Some certificates were like works of art.”
He saw the one-bite-from-the-apple logo and his eyes widened a little.
And his hand shook, just a bit, as he took them from her. Hazel thought it was because he was elderly, after all.
He laid them on the desk, staring at them.
Then he turned to the computer monitor and began to type. He was much slower and more deliberate than any personal banker she had been with up to now.
Hazel chattered on, nervous, without being sure why exactly.
“It would be nice to have a little inheritance. After I settle all her debts and sell the house, I may have a few thousand dollars, if that. I mean, I’m not looking for anything, nor am I expecting anything, and I don’t really need anything, but a little cushion would be nice, you know what I mean? Maybe I could get my condo painted or something. That would be nice. It’s been years since I could afford to do that.”
Mr. Hild did not look at her but murmured, “Uh-huh.”
He stopped typing and looked up.
“Did she…your mother, I mean…did she have any other investments?”
“No. None. Or none that I know of. She had a little over six hundred dollars in the bank when she passed. She still had a mortgage. She lived pretty simply. She was sort of an old hippie, you know, nuts and berries and wanting to live off the land—that sort of person. Not in a bad way. But she never wanted much and seemed to be very happy all the time—even with the little she had. She was a very nice person. Very content. Happy. Mostly happy, anyhow.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. Hild spread the certificates into a fan shape on the desk and entered each number into the computer, very slowly and very carefully.
He waited a long moment.
Then he moved the keyboard aside and refolded his hands.
“You should probably thank your mother. I mean…however you do that…you know…”
“It’s okay, really,” Hazel replied, almost apologetic that her mother had died and couldn’t be thanked, and now she was wondering why he would say such an odd thing.
Mr. Hild seemed to grow more flustered—for a personal banker, that is.
“Are they worth anything?” Hazel asked, breaking the tension. “It must have been years and years ago that she bought them. Probably not worth much, right?”
Mr. Hild responded with a tight financial grimace, then allowed himself a smile.
“These are real, Ms. Jamison.”
She waited.
“And that’s good?”
“Yes,” Mr. Hild said, exhaling politely, “that is good. Very good.”
“Are they worth anything?”
He looked at the screen again.
“As of the close of trading yesterday, these stock certificates, in total, were worth in the neighborhood of $1.26 million.”
Hazel stared back, a blank look on her face.
“Dollars?”
“Yes. These were purchased in 1981. The stock was trading for a few dollars a share. They would have cost her roughly $12,000. Since then, there have been a few splits, buybacks, and what have you, and as of now, their value is $1.26 million.”
Hazel blinked.
“You are talking about American dollars, right?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Hild smiled his best, cordial, we’re-a-nice-bank-to-do-business-with smile and added, in a somber, responsible tone, “And we at Umpqua Bank certainly hope that if you decide to sell them, you’ll use our bank to help you with the transaction. No fees involved. We would waive all fees for this size transaction.”
Hazel leaned against the padded back of the chair and exhaled.
“American dollars. You’re sure, right?”
“Yes. I am sure. You must realize that I seldom joke about money. It’s sort a personal banker motto here at Umpqua.”
Hazel stared at him, not knowing if laughter or tears were appropriate.
The four of them were in the kitchen and Wilson began to feel a bit claustrophobic. It had been a long time, decades really, since so many people were in that one room at the same time. Wilson did have people over on rare occasions—not recently, of course—and they never gathered in the kitchen. He kept them in the formal living room.
Gretna was offering a tour of the kitchen, explaining to Emily what changes Wilson had made over the years and which appliances had been updated.
“The sink is still the same,” she said. “Don’t make them this way anymore. Like a battleship, it is.”
Trying not to appear perturbed, Wilson switched on the coffeemaker to heat the water and pulled out three varieties of coffee and one of tea.
Thurman sat near his food dish, watching, looking a bit confused as well.
It seemed as if he was trying to follow Gretna’s conversation and maintain eye contact with Wilson at the same time. And obviously he was not eminently successful at either endeavor.
Once their coffees had been brewed—Emily had chosen tea—Gretna insisted on showing Emily the backyard and Wilson’s massive reflecting pool.
“He built it entirely by hand and all by himself. With just a shovel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Emily appeared to be impressed.
“It is. I never would have imagined such a serene view back here…I mean, looking at the house from the street.”
“Like a hidden jewel,” Gretna bragged. “An undiscovered gem. Overlooked.”
Wilson was fairly certain his mother was dropping hints, but what she was hinting at eluded him.
Thurman stood next to Gretna and growled up at her.
“Of course you can, you sweet dog. Of course.”
And with her permission, Thurman took off at a run toward the pool and launched himself into the water.
Wilson was no more than a second from shouting at Thurman, telling him he was a bad dog for jumping in the water and didn’t he remember that Wilson expressly forbade him from swimming and that these water hijinks were not allowed, but then he realized that his mother had given the poor beast permission to swim.
Emily laughed at the sight of Thurman’s energetic grin as he paddled about.
“Retrievers and water,” Wilson muttered, setting his coffee cup on the stone step and hurrying back into the garage for towels.
When he stepped back into the house holding three emergency towels, his mother was halfway across the room.
“Isn’t Emily nice?”
Wilson shrugged.
“Well, she is. And she’s a widow. With children, Wilson. You know what that means.”
Wilson shut his eyes for a second and considered what to say in response. He quickly decided not to say anything at all.
“She has children, Wilson. Young children. Younger. Youngish. I could be a grandmother. Isn’t she nice?”
Wilson scowled in her direction.
“I am sure she is a lovely person, Mother.”
Gretna nodded firmly.
“And Thurman promised me, Wilson. And Thurman would not lie about grandchildren.”
Wilson looked at his mother, then at Thurman, who was joyously dog-paddling in the water, then at Emily, who indeed was attractive and pleasant, and then back to his mother, finally making the connections that she had been implying, and then trying to determine if they were both sliding into the same memory abyss at the same dizzying rate of descent.
At that moment, in the afternoon, on a warm spring day, he was pretty sure that they were.