'Tis now the very witching time of night, it said. When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.
But yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.
The teller yelped.
Another lady, a red-haired lady with tiny legs and high heels came rushing over. She edged the teller out of the way.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I need to deposit this money."
The red head's lips were pursed so tightly it was strange that she could speak at all. "Certainly. What's the account number?"
William screamed.
By morning, I felt as right as rain falling on a thirsty garden. I actually got out of bed with a smile. I hadn't wanted to get out of bed and go to work for months, and here I was admiring the shafts of October sun that found ways to get into my bedroom through gaps between the blinds and glinted on the mirror above the dresser.
The dresser just didn't turn me on anymore. And neither did the mirror reflection above it. It had grown as ordinary as the purple ditch irises that grew wild. The image that looked back at me over the last few months had become tired. The green eyes were often blood shot with dark circles underlining the lashes. But what really got me, was the smudged line of mouth that never seemed to smile anymore. This morning, that image was about to change.
I pulled the blankets neatly up across the bed, tucking in the edges until the mattress looked like a business envelope ready for the mail.
I set the coffee-pot to dribbling while I shaved, showered and consequently, shampooed. The heavy spray from the showerhead managed to soak me within seconds. Of course, most mornings I'd wanted to just fall asleep there in the stream, but today was different. I stepped back out of the shower before ten minutes went by. After dressing, I grabbed a cup of coffee, loaded heavily with cream, and shoved on loafers. There'd be plenty of time to wander through the garden and decide exactly where to plan for the iris section. Better to plan now while Fall had begun so that in the Spring, I'd know just where to plant, and how to design the bed.
I got quite a rush wandering through dying foliage. Most gardeners hated this time of year; growing season wouldn't begin until after another few months of winter. I never could understand the melancholy that went along with the end of gardening season. To me, it was like the end of the world, like Armageddon in miniature. Didn't the end of the world mean a new world, a better world? And all those mistakes I had made during the season, planting the wrong flower in the wrong spot, not fertilising quite enough, giving too much attention to my prize roses, those mistakes died along with the greenery. A new chance would come with the Spring, with the new Jerusalem.
I setting the empty coffee cup on the step and made my way to my car. I got in, slipped a twonie into the colonel's back, and headed to the bank.
Gina pulled in to the parking spot next to me as I reached work. Her poor, always breaking down Volkswagen looked more the worse for wear than it had when I'd last bothered to notice it. The dent in the driver door had rusted into a hole. We smiled at each other, nodded, and without a word between us, headed into the building
I made a beeline to my office and closed the door. Most of the tellers wouldn't see any difference; I always went to my office, lately, and closed the door. What they didn't know was that I spent almost all the day in there catching a few winks, or doodling. Today I had work to do. And the first order of business was getting Hannah into that house on Helen Lucy Rd.
Now, what did I do with that Rolodex of numbers? Last I'd seen it, it had been weighing down a paper McDonald's bag. Had it ended up in the trash? No. Someone would have fished it out. Perhaps it fell into the desk drawer. I pulled the first handle; drawer contents rattled. Inside were a chewed on pencil, three erasers halves, various and sundry paper clips, a dog-eared gardening magazine--so that's where it got to--and an old edition of Playboy Magazine. No Rolodex.
I decided, and quite quickly in light of the mess on my desk, that the best plan of action would be to ask Gina. She was the efficient one.
"Have you seen my Rolodex?" I asked as soon as I opened her door.
She looked up with what I was certain was a conspiratorial grin.
"Well, have you?"
She pointed to her shelf against the opposite wall.
"What is it doing in here?" I grabbed it and shoved it into my armpit.
Gina shrugged. "Just wanted to see how long it took before you realised it had gone missing."
"And how long has it been?"
She smiled one long and cat-like smile. "Eight months."
"Eight?"
She nodded. "We had a pool going on around the office. I said you'd not find it for at least six months. Everyone else thought you'd notice it missing after two days."
"How much did you get?"
She licked her lips. "Let me see..." She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs. "About 300 dollars. Yes. Just about."
"Damn smart ass lesbian."
"At least I know where my equipment is."
I scowled at her.
Rolodex in hand, I strolled back to my office. I sat in my important-business-man leather chair and rifled through the cards until I found the one that listed Helen's nephew. He'd never lived in Yarmouth, had only inherited the small house and kept it because his aunt had loved it. I didn't think he'd mind renting it out, but I worried that he'd want to come here himself and clean out the place. It had stayed exactly as it was, without interference, since she had passed away. Maybe he'd think it wasn't appropriate in its state; I doubted Hannah would care. In fact, I believed she would get a charge out of standing in the middle of all that frozen living. She'd probably see it as some sort of sanctuary.
I was on the phone with Richard when Gina opened my door and peered inside. I cupped the mouthpiece with my hand and queried her with a raised brow.
"Mrs. Hastings is here," she said.
Oh, great. Here my day was going almost well and I have to run smack dab into a full grown buffalo. I waved at Gina, thinking she could take care of the old thing.
To the phone, I said, "Thanks for your help. I'll see that an account is opened for you and the rent gets deposited there. Can I fax the papers?"
Gina disappeared and in her place, popped Buffalo Belle's face. She didn't wait until I'd finished my conversation. Even as Richard was explaining how he'd like to see the place lived in, Belle stormed over to my desk and pressed the receiver. The line went dead.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Hastings, I was on the phone."
"I'm not blind," she said. "I have a matter of utmost importance."
I doubted whether service charges or lack thereof could ever be as important as Hannah's safety. And I doubted that Buffalo Belle had anything important in her life to consider. What did old ladies worry about anyway? Dribbling in their drawers? Their dentures falling out?
"And what could be so important that you would hang up on one of my calls?"
"I'm being robbed."
"Robbed?"
She nodded. The hair that had been dyed and curled into little blue cotton balls jiggled.
"Yes. And your bank is allowing it."
She sat without being bid and stared at me. I wondered how long she wouls stare me down until her face crumbled into a wad of tissue. When she lifted a brown speckled hand to her wrinkled face, it shook.
I found my legs propelling me across the room. I knelt on the floor beside her.
"What's wrong?"
She fought for composure. Her mouth worked and her chest heaved. "My daughter."
"Your daughter?"
Her words spilled like tears. "She convinced me to add her name to my account--you know, just in case something went wrong-- the government wouldn't get their greedy hands on it. That was a year ago. She's been writing checks. I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to think she'd spend all of my money. I didn't..." She gasped for air. "She's been buying things. Hasn't even waited for me
to die. Doesn't even have the decency. What if I live another ten years? What will I live on?"
Although I didn't think this lady would live another ten months, let alone ten years, I chewed my tongue quiet. Really, she was in a pickle.
"How much has she spent?"
"She's taken almost everything. "
I had the feeling that what bothered her most wasn't the loss of the money, but that she worried her daughter didn't care enough about her to think of the consequences.
"Sometimes people do strange things even to the people they love," I offered.
"But why?"
I shrugged. "Maybe she's in a bind. Have you asked her?"
Belle shook her head. "She can't possibly be in a bind. She has a wonderful house, beautiful car, lovely children. I'd give them anything if they'd ask."
She took to wiping her face with a tissue. She didn't actually cry; I didn't see one tear, but I knew she was at her breaking point. God above, this was one tough lady.
"Maybe she can't afford to keep those things."
"That's no excuse."
"I know. I know. Maybe we should close your account and open you up a brand new one. One without joint signatures. Your own, like it used to be."
I didn't feel right about it, but what else could I do? I walked Belle out of my office and into the waiting area. Searching for a teller to look after Mrs. Hastings without making her wait, I noticed that every teller was clustered around Gina. Gina who stood at the counter trying to calm down a very dirty, very skinny gentleman.
The walking cadaver began to yell.
William's own shriek pierced his ears, making his hands fly to cup them in an effort to shield his eardrums from the awful sound. It even seemed to frighten the tellers. But it didn't matter. He hadn't come all this way to lose now.
He was aware that the room had taken to spinning. His feet had started moving. Moving, moving. They stepped in and out and in again. He couldn't stop. He covered his head with his arms.
Then he saw her. Oh God. How relieved he was. She came out of a room with a tall, short-haired man in a business suit.
He sprinted across the short space and grabbed her hands. Flesh, sweet mother of God, she was flesh.
"Mother," he croaked out, floundering for a rational reason why she might be here in the flesh. "The damn noises. They confused me. But here you are."
Mother gave him a strange look. She swallowed and nearly choked.
Glancing frantically at the gentleman beside her, she pulled away.
"What's wrong?" He stepped closer. "It's not true, is it? The things I imagined. They were all a lie."
A laugh of relief bubbled up through his throat. "I didn't kill you."
The man, a young man just about William's own age with short black hair and large green eyes, stepped between them.
"Is something wrong," black-haired man asked.
William tried to peer around the man's large shoulders. He noticed Mother had moved closer to the teller counter and away from him. She stared with large, frightened eyes. What was wrong? He knew his features had changed somewhat over the last year since she'd died. But surely she'd know him.
"It's me, Mother. William." William pushed aside black-haired man, all the while braving the horrible sounds assaulting his ears.
"What are you talking about?" She hugged the counter. "I don't have a son."
"No," William yelled as much to shut out the voice as to persuade his mother. "You do remember me. You do. Think. You saved me and put me on that medication. It made everything stop. Remember? I'm better now. Better because of you."
Black-haired man's feet started tapping. They tapped louder and louder and before William knew it, those feet had begun to crowd him.
"I think your business is finished," Black Haired man said. He turned to the red head behind the counter. "Gina, take Belle out back."
That couldn't happen. William couldn't let it happen.
"No." William pushed past black-haired man and headed for the counter. "Mother, wait. I need you."
The small woman took a deep breath. She seemed to grow with it; her face morphed like software graphics from one emotion to the next. It settled on annoyance. "I don't have a son. Now, be a good little Norman and go bother Alfred."
She hates you for what you did.
"It's not her fault."
"Whose fault?" black-hair said, gripping Mother by the elbow and steering her toward the office.
"What are you talking about?" Mother demanded over her shoulder. She pulled away from black-hair and stomped forward. She placed her hand on his arm.
"Are you ill, young man?"
William stared at her, watching the wrinkled skin smooth out and then pucker up again.
"Please," he said. "Help me."
He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, Mother was being hustled toward the back room again by the red haired teller, through a wicket gate and about to disappear.
William bolted toward the gate.
He felt a heavy hand grip his shoulder. No. How dare they try to stop him. He wheeled around. Black-haired man's face was as red as a pickled ham.
"Get away from me," he told him.
Black-haired man ignored him. He grabbed William's arm and pulled him toward the front door. "I think you should leave before I call the cops."
William braced his feet against the tiles. "You can't make me leave."
The man held William by the chest. Both his arms were pinned beneath the massive force, both legs lost contact with the floor as black-haired man gave a mighty shove. "Call 911," he yelled backwards across his shoulder. "The cops will have to take this guy."
William mustered everything he could, he took as deep a breath as his lungs would hold. Then he yelled and squirmed out of the man's clutches.
He charged the door and ran and ran until he couldn't run anymore.
His chest burned and his head swam. He needed sanctuary.
As soon as the weirdo escaped, I ran back to the employee lounge. "What the hell was that all about, Gina?"
Gina sat on the couch with Mrs. Hastings trembling beside her. She had managed to find a tissue in all the crap that the tellers left hanging around.
"How the hell should I know? He said he wanted to deposit. Then he freaked out.
I thought Mrs. Hastings was going to implode right there in front of us.
"Are you okay?" I asked her.
She nodded. "Why did he think I was his mother?
I shrugged. "Who knows? But I think we should give statements to the Mounties. Anyone who flips like that should at least be questioned." I sat next to her. Her trembling arm reached for mine. She laid small fingers on my sleeve.
I smiled at her. "You're one tough bird," I said.
She grinned. It relieved me. "So people tell me."
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
She shook her head. "I'd sure like a bolt of whiskey."
"I've got some rum in my trunk. Will that do?"
Mrs. Hastings bobbed her head and Gina left with a side-long look at me.
I sighed, letting go my shoulders like they had been pumped up with air.
"Fuck," Mrs. Hastings said.
That made me smile. She smiled with me.
Gina came back carrying the half-full bottle of Captain Morgan amber that I kept in my trunk for emergencies. As she kicked open the door with her high-heeled foot, I could see past her into the customer area. I noticed two uniformed policemen questioning one of the tellers. Gina obviously didn't know they were there; and as I watched, one looked toward her and to where we stood. Gina lifted the bottle in what I suppose was her rendition of a victory display. I cringed.
"Hurry up, get in here," I growled.
She scowled at me. "You're welcome," she said and crossed to take the cup from my hand. She made to pour some liquor into it.
I grabbed the bottle. "Stop. The police are coming."
She looked like som
eone had caught her pouring hot wax onto someone's vagina.
The way she grabbed the bottle back and scrambled for the bathroom wrestled a snort from me. Belle's cackle came straight on the heels of my horrendous nasal pitched honking. Soon, both of us laughed harder at the other, then we laughed harder at that, and then I don't even think the trumpet of judgement could have stopped us.
The two policemen didn't think any of it was funny. Both faces had a, I sure wish these underwear would loosen and let my yayas relax, kind of look. Belle thought that was extremely funny when I whispered it to her. Twisted drawers policemen didn't. They stood staring at us and waiting for the lull.
Thankfully, Gina knew all about perfect timing.
"Thank God," she gushed as she pulled the bathroom door tightly behind her. "You wouldn't believe the weirdo we just had in here."
With what seemed relief the two officers turned and began questioning her. Gina pointed to me. "Daniel and Mrs. Hastings threw him further into his fit."
I nodded. "We can all give statements."
"Great. We'll start right away." The officer took out a pad from his pocket.
"Start with Mrs. Hastings." I winked at Belle. "She might want to get home and sail with the captain this afternoon."
Her smile made me feel quite magnanimous. "You can use my office," I told the officer.
I offered Belle my arm. The two of us sauntered from the back room and through the teller area to my office. Gina and the two policemen followed. I pulled out my great important businessman chair for Belle.
"Thank you," she said.
I fluttered my fingers in the air. " It's nothing."
The officers had to settle for the uncomfortable chairs most bank managers have for clients. I headed for Gina's office and noticed Hannah standing in the customer area. She wore a moss-coloured cotton jacket that suited her light hair. A tall fellow who twirled a pair of sunglasses around and around stood next to her. Howard, I supposed. I felt my lips twisting into a grimace but I shook his hand anyway, noting the coldness of his touch.
"Pembroke?" I said, turning to Hannah and she nodded.
Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel Page 12
