I hold the key out so that he can look at it. I have studied it often enough to know that engraved on the key is the number 104. The man looks at the number and then gazes up at me, studying my face for a second. I fight not to look away.
“And the name on the account?” he says again, still studying me.
“The name on the account is Truman Calvert. There is a note inside the box with his signature, instructing that I take out what’s inside it.”
The man gapes at me as if I said the account belongs to Mickey Mouse.
“Mr. Calvert knows I have this key.” My voice sounds somehow both assured and nervous at the same time. “He gave me this key. When I open it, I can show you his signature.”
“I am guessing you have not been in contact with Mr. Calvert in a while?” the man says, his polite demeanor from seconds earlier starting to weaken a bit.
“What difference does that make?”
The man motions to the chair in front of his desk. “Perhaps you’d like to have a seat.”
“No, thank you,” I say as calmly as I can. “I just want to open the box as Mr. Calvert instructed me to. I have the key.”
“And when were you instructed to open this box, Miss...?”
“Maras. My name is Rosanne Maras.” I don’t care if he now knows my name or shares my name with anyone. I am done protecting Truman Calvert. “And I don’t see what difference it makes, as Mr. Calvert specifically asked me to open the box.”
“It matters,” the man says, all pretense of politeness gone, “because Mr. Calvert is dead.”
Seconds tick by as I struggle to grasp these words. “What do you mean he is dead? How? When?” My mind is a thunderstorm of color.
“Mr. Calvert was killed in an army training accident. His account at this bank was closed. The box has been emptied.”
“What do you mean he was killed in a training accident? That doesn’t make any sense.” The sound of his words makes the whole room seem as if it is spinning with trembling shapes of sallow yellow and brown.
“Are you an employee of the Calverts or a distant family member?” the clerk asks, his brows puckered in consternation.
“No.”
“Then what relation are you, Miss Maras?”
“I... I find that question... rude,” I stammer, unable to think of a more refined word. I can feel the hopes I had earlier that morning evaporating as if made of morning mist.
“This is a bank, Miss Maras. Our customers expect us to be careful with the assets they entrust to us.”
“I’m... I’m just a friend.”
“Well, I regret to tell you then that Mr. Calvert reenlisted in the army and was killed in an unfortunate training accident in March.”
“But he... Who... who came for the contents of the box?”
The clerk exhales a breath and levels his gaze at me. “Hiswife. Mrs. Calvert came for the contents of the box.” There is no mistaking the accusing tone. This man surely can’t conceive of a single good reason why I have this key. Only bad ones. “If that will be all, Miss Maras?” he says.
He again holds out his hand for the key.
Burning tears of embarrassment and frustration are rimming my eyes, but I rein them in as I give it to him.
“Yes. Good day.” I turn and walk briskly out, head high, but as soon as I am on the sidewalk I allow the building tears to slip out. For a few seconds as I walk away from the bank, I imagine getting back on a bus and heading north to Rosseau Vineyard to demand from Celine my payment. But just as quickly I realize there is no longer a secret to be kept, is there? There is no pregnant maid. There is no baby. There is no Truman. He’s dead. Truman is dead.
Celine would laugh—probably chase me off the property without a penny—if I went there. And if I threatened to tell anyone, who would believe someone who spent twenty-one months in a mental institution and who is now claiming to have borne a child fathered by a respected man who had just given his life for his country? No one.
As I walk aimlessly down streets I don’t know, I realize with a jolt that I don’t want anything from Celine anyway. Nor from Truman. Three and a half years ago, that money was the only way I could see to make a fresh start. But now I am seeing things differently. I have forged my way in pain and suffering and without any favors from the Calverts. I have my new life in my grasp. It is beginning today, and I will leave San Jose with no remnants at all of the life I knew before. I will make my own way now, the Calverts be damned.
•••
