“I can help you with that,” she says, shooting him a bright smile. He keeps his eyes on her face, away from her blouse, where the buttons are battling it out in a magnificent tug-of-war across her breasts. Don’t do it, Sam. Don’t look down. She scans the paperwork, turns to her keyboard. “You got your Halloween costume ready?” she asks, her long pink fingernails click-clacking across her keyboard.
Sam smiles, the response he would have once offered on the tip of his tongue. No, but I like yours. Hot bank teller. Very clever.
“Not yet,” he says instead. In his mind he’s already on his way to the Parlor, where he’s scheduled to meet Annie in twenty minutes. She doesn’t know that the letter arrived. She wasn’t home when the mail came, and he opened the letter standing at the mailbox, feeling the weight lifting. Finally. A letter was included from a physician on staff, saying he had deemed Margaret of sound mind. Relieved, Sam went inside and wrote checks to the credit card companies before calling the Parlor to reserve the table in the back and a bottle of the 2009 Château Palmer Margaux with notes of graphite and licorice and a $150 price tag.
Sam reaches for a mini Snickers from the bowl next to the cup of pens as a piece of paper shoots out of the printer. The girl sets it down in front of him. He feels obscenely awkward; surely she’s not accustomed to people walking in here worth $2 million. But her expression is immobile, and he has to hand it to her. She’s a real pro.
“Okay,” she says with a wink when he finishes signing. “You want this in cash?”
He laughs. “Definitely. Maybe you can dump it all into a few large trash bags?”
She laughs along and then hesitates, unsure. “You serious? You want cash?”
“No,” he says. “Cashier’s check is fine.”
She taps the keyboard again as he feels a rise of excitement.
“All set,” the girl says, sliding a check toward him.
$274.18.
“This isn’t right.” He looks up at her, panic surging through his body like a jolt of adrenaline. “It’s um . . . more.”
She returns to the screen. “Let me see.” She traces a finger down the screen, checking the tally. “Sorry, you’re right.” He exhales, relieved. “I should have explained that we recently started charging four dollars to close an account. Wish there was something I could do, but it’s programmed in here automatically.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Banks, man. They sure do know how to screw the little guy. Anyway, that explains the discrepancy.” She shoots him a bright smile. “Anything else we can help you with today? We’re offering a pretty good deal on a new Visa.”
“No, I think that’s it,” he says, his voice wobbly.
“Well, thank you for banking at NorthStar, and oh—here.” She pulls a Tootsie Pop from a drawer and slides it to him. “It’s my birthday. I’m giving these out.”
“Thank you.” He takes the lollipop and turns around, barely making it to a chair in the waiting area. He’s having a hard time breathing and his palms are tingly and he has to remind himself that the impending sense of death isn’t real. He’s experiencing the symptoms of a panic attack. Which is unnecessary, because there’s an explanation for this. There has to be. Another account with a different number, maybe. Something in his father’s name.
“Tell me that isn’t Sam Statler.” It’s a man’s voice, coming from behind him. Not now. He turns around.
Crush Andersen. Class of 1993. All-star linebacker, known for taking Joey Amblin’s dare and downing six liters of Orange Crush at a field party after they lost the state finals. “How you doing, man?” Crush says, slapping Sam’s hand and pulling him in for an awkward hug.
“I’m good, Crush, I’m good.” Except for a serious concern that he’s about to vomit.
“Yeah, man?” Crush says. “What’s happening?”
“Oh, you know,” he says. “Same old same old.” Sam doesn’t know why he says this, other than it’s what he expects a guy like Crush is used to hearing when he asks this question, and then Crush is telling him how the other day Jesse Alter came in, and what is this, some sort of class reunion at NorthStar Community Bank? Sam tries his best to feign attention—three years as assistant branch manager, six as a volunteer EMT for the fire department—but he needs to focus on keeping his lunch down. “What about you?” Crush lowers his voice and curls his lip. “Your dad still with the Sports Illustrated model?”
“It was Talbots,” Sam says. “And no, that didn’t last. Listen, Crush.” Sam takes Crush by the elbow. “Any chance you can check and see if there’s an account here under his name? Ted Statler.”
“Sorry, buddy, not authorized to share that information,” Crush says, then leans in close and winks. “But why don’t we go discuss it in my corner suite?” He leads Sam to a small glass cubicle and sits down behind the desk, gesturing for him to take a seat on a hard plastic chair. Crush pecks at the keyboard as Sam tells himself it’s going to be okay. His mother made a mistake. The account is not in her name, it’s in his father’s. It’s—
“Nope,” Crush says. “No account for any Statler except your mom.”
“All right then.” Sam smacks his thighs. “Thanks for the help.”
“Nice to see you, man. And listen, dude. A bunch of us might go watch the game this weekend. You should come. You’re not too good for us, are you, Stats?”
His legs feel weak as he stands. “No, Crush. No way, man. Of course I’m not.”
Chapter 10
I’m in the bath, a chorus of bubbles popping at my neck, a chill in my bones. Everything is cold. The air, the water, Sam.
Three days now he’s been in a state. Grouchy, short, showing exactly zero interest in my (fake) volunteer position. I thought he’d be at least a little curious to hear about the interesting pieces of trivia I picked up as the town’s newly anointed resident expert, but I got barely a half-hearted grunt the other morning when I asked him if he knew that in 1797, Chestnut Hill came within one vote of being named the state capital. And then the incident with the Post-it note. It was stuck to the front door, neon-green paper and fat Sharpie letters so I’d be sure to see it on my way out. Can you move your car up. Patients need room.
That’s it. Not even the common decency of proper punctuation. It wouldn’t have been that big a deal if that note hadn’t basically been our only communication all day, as apparently he also wasn’t in the mood for happy hour. (A headache, he claimed. I recommended two glasses of water and a good night’s sleep, choosing to stay silent on the fact that his headache probably had something to do with the two cans of beer I heard him open downstairs, where he stayed for an hour after the Somber Superintendent of Schools left, forlorn as usual, at five thirty.) It pains me to say it, but it’s a side of him I haven’t seen before, and which I don’t particularly like: trudging around, all Eeyore-eyed.
But too bad. I’ve decided I’m not going to allow Sam’s crankiness to get me down.