“They’re here because they want to be here,” he said to Jack for no good reason.
While Jack seemed to understand, he looked away and shifted his weight in his ratty boots. Willing to wait in line with Morgan but not to talk.
Each cashier—there were only two—seemed to be taking their time with every customer. By the time he and Jack made it to the front, where the line split off depending on which cashier was free, Morgan was more than ready to sit down and drink a lot of coffee. But he had to deal with this first.
“Hello,” he said to the cashier, a young woman whose name tag readMavis. “I have these quarters to deposit, and there’s a safe-deposit box I need to get into.” He pulled out the ownership paperwork and the little blue envelope withBoxhandwritten in fading pencil.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I can help you with the quarters, but for the vault, you should have gone to customer service and asked for the branch manager. He’s the only one authorized to take you back there.”
Morgan whipped his head around to look, wondering how he’d missed customer service. There it was: a small cubicle with two fake wood walls guarding it from the rest of the bank.
He could have barked his frustration with a remark about needing to be saved from the inability of small towns to be efficient, but he stopped himself. And was rewarded with Mavis’s sweet smile.
“I think he’s finishing up with someone right now, so let’s take care of those quarters, shall we?” she suggested. After examining his documentation, she put the quarters through the counting machine without delay and handed him a receipt with another smile. “If you’ll stand over here,” she said, pointing to the side, “I’ll get him for you in two seconds. You won’t have to wait long, I promise.”
Morgan handed the can to her to discard, stepped to one side, did not thump his cane, looked over Jack’s shoulder, and took a deep breath. He could smell the soap Jack had used when he washed at the sink, some old bar of Ivory, and see the tanglesin his hair. The smudge of waffle batter on the corner of his jaw not hidden by the fake fur on his hood.
What was Morgan supposed to do with all the feelings flooding him? Or with the decisions he’d yet to act upon?
His musings were interrupted by a series of sharp yips and Mabel’s cry of “Mister Rocket, no!”
Mister Rocket, in a flash of brown and white, his excited dark eyes wide, raced across the small lobby from where Mabel stood at the end of the line. She’d brought the dog with her to the bank rather than leave him at home, obviously. Through the bank’s front windows Morgan could see a yellow taxi, its engine sending a plume of exhaust into the clear blue air.
He had no idea of the bank’s policy on dogs, and, in any case, there was no time to say anything about it before Mister Rocket had reached them. Balancing on his hind legs, the terrier laid his front paws on Jack’s knees and yipped again.
Jack, without hesitation, bent to sweep the small dog up in his arms. Mister Rocket wiggled happily and, with a few licks to Jack’s chin—probably cleaning off that waffle batter in addition to saying hello—settled inside the circle of Jack’s arms.
Jack’s smile as he nuzzled the dog was a stunning blow to Morgan’s gut. Jack’s bare hands moved rhythmically over Mister Rocket’s smooth fur, and his evident pleasure made a picture of him. Sparkling green eyes. Dark hair trailing across his temples.
Mabel followed close on Mister Rocket’s heels, and Morgan had never been more grateful to be saved from himself. She was talking, of course, always talking, but this time the words helped to cut through the large swathes of feelings shifting all around him.
“There you are, Mister Rocket,” she said. “Such a naughty boy.” She reached for the dog, not looking at Morgan at all. “Thank you for catching him, Jack.” She favored him with a sweet smile that transformed her face. “He was so sleepy, Ithought he wouldn’t be any bother, but now I’ll have to apologize to Joseph.”
Morgan didn’t have any idea who Joseph was, but then a middle-aged man in a nice suit came out of the cubicle, all smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his sensible, dark-framed glasses.
“Mr. Malone?” he asked, holding out his hand. “I’m Joseph Warden, the branch manager. Please come this way.”
“Mabel,” Mavis said. “I can help you here.”
Off Mabel went, cutting in line past almost a dozen people—only nobody seemed to mind. They went on chatting as if the conviviality of the moment was enough for them.
“Should I wait?” Jack asked, looking as though he was torn between going with Morgan and staying with Mabel so he could keep holding Mister Rocket.
Morgan went still at the question that, though innocent, seemed to say so much more than the words it contained.
Wait or go with you?As if there were only those two options for Jack: going with Morgan or waiting forever for him.
Ridiculous. Morgan shook his head. “I won’t be long,” he said. “You can keep Mabel company.”
He forced himself to turn away from the tableau of Mabel being waited on by Mavis; Jack, Mister Rocket in his arms, talking with them both and laughing. Smile wide, eyes sparkling. A bit of a glance in Morgan’s direction, then his focus returned to Mabel.
Leaving Morgan with nothing to do but follow the manager into his poor excuse for an office.
Morgan made himself not say anything critical as he sat, at Joseph’s direction, in the metal folding chair with its ratty cushion. He presented the key and the paperwork, signed more paperwork, and then followed Joseph down a very short corridor into a locked room, where Joseph left him.
Curious beyond belief, he used the small key to open the safe-deposit box and placed it on the table in the middle of the small room. There was only one thing in the box: a long, brown, single-entry ledger.
Flipping through it, Morgan saw that each spread of pages was dedicated to a single person: Isaac McGinlay. Bevan Lipinski. Leroy Svenson. Felix Steinberg. Herbert Winfield. And so on.
