“Just a moment, please.” Stanley left us and went to a man at a nearby desk. He whispered excitedly into the man’s ear, and they both looked at us.
The man rose and approached, extending his hand to Papa. “Mr. Bennett, my name is Soren Parker, vice president of this branch of the Wells Fargo Banking System. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. We’ve been curious about this deposit box for decades. Each new employee is told all about it, and there is a bet running that no one would show up and claim it.”
“Well, here I am.”
“It’s remarkable,” Mr. Parker said. “The deposit box was leased in 1849, the year the bank started, and it’s been moved through the years as the buildings have been remodeled. The lease to the box expires in one year, and by California law, we must let it remainintact for three years beyond that before the courts step in. I was afraid I’d have to wait four more years to look inside.”
“You won’t need to wait any longer,” Papa said.
“What is the history behind the box, may I ask?” Mr. Parker studied Papa, eager to know. “How did someone eighty years ago know a man named Grant Bennett from Los Angeles would come and retrieve it?”
We had already discussed what we would say, and though it wasn’t a true story, it was the best we could do to explain.
“My great-grandmother, Ally Bennett, put gold in the safety-deposit box and left it there, passing it along to her son, Grant Bennett, my father. I was named after him, and I inherited the box, but I’ve only recently learned about it in my father’s will.”
“How marvelous for you. Under state law, we would have had to make every effort to find the inheritor, but I’m happy it didn’t come to that.” He smiled. “Are you ready to see what’s inside?”
“Very much so.”
“Good.” Mr. Parker accepted a key from Stanley, and the four of us walked through a set of doors and arrived at a massive safe. As we stood to the side with Stanley, Mr. Parker opened the safe, and we entered.
Hundreds of deposit boxes of varying sizes covered two walls, while several tables lined the center of the room. Mine had been safety-deposit box 201, and it had been chosen for its size.
“I know right where it is.” Mr. Parker walked us over to the wall. “I’ll need some help, Stanley.”
Stanley stepped forward, and the two men removed the box, setting it on a nearby table. Then Mr. Parker handed the key to Papa.
“Do you mind if we stay?” Mr. Parker asked. “We’ve been dying to know what’s inside.”
“Not at all.” Papa nodded. “Please stay.”
My heart pounded hard as Papa inserted the key and opened the box.
There, lying just as I’d left them, were the four gold ingots. Each was stamped with the receipt number we’d been given atthe assayer’s, the name F. D. Kohler, twenty-two karats, and the amount of money it was worth in 1849, which was 7,545.55 dollars.
“Look at that,” Mr. Parker said. “Genuine gold rush ingots.”
To me, the ingots were only a day old, but to Mr. Parker and Papa, they were eighty years old.
“Congratulations, Mr. Bennett,” Mr. Parker said.
I grinned at Papa, excitement bursting out of my chest.
“What is a troy ounce worth today?” I asked Mr. Parker eagerly.
“The same as it was worth in 1849.”
My smile fell as I stared at him. “I don’t think you understand what I mean. A troy ounce was worth twenty dollars and sixty-seven cents in 1849. How much is a troy ounce worth in today’s money?”
“Twenty dollars and sixty-seven cents. It briefly rose to almost fifty dollars an ounce during the American Civil War, but it returned to the same rate shortly after and has stayed consistent ever since. It has less buying power now than it did in previous generations, but sixty thousand dollars is still a good deal of money.”
I was speechless as I tried to comprehend what he was saying.
“There has been no inflation in the cost of gold?” Papa tried again.
“No. It stays consistent, thanks to the Gold Standard Act of 1900, which set the amount per troy ounce and does not allow it to increase or decrease.”
My stomach turned, and I was afraid I was going to be sick. We only had sixty thousand dollars?
