Here’s what happened to the rest of them. Karen kept the house in the separation. She sold Brian’s watch and the Wolf range on consignment and put the $7,200 toward the second mortgage. She took a job as a receptionist at a veterinary clinic in Centerville for fifteen dollars an hour. She called and told me it was the first honest paycheck she’d earned in twenty years. In the fall, she enrolled in the veterinary technology program at Sinclair Community College, taking classes at night. “I’m fifty-four,” she said on the phone. “I’ll be fifty-seven when I finish.” “You’ll be fifty-seven anyway,” I told her. She laughed.
The $61,000 comes back to me at $618 a month. By my math, it will take ten years, and I’ll be ninety. I’ve told everyone I intend to be here. The bank’s legal department finished its review in January. Mr. Okafor called me into his office to tell me personally. Because their teller hadn’t compared the forged signatures against my signature card on file, as their own procedures required for withdrawals over $10,000, First Miami Valley agreed to reimburse me $15,000 as a goodwill settlement. I signed a release, and Philip read every word of it first. I used part of the money to set up a small account at the bank for Ben, for college or for a fishing boat, whichever he decides he needs more.
Diane still lives in her brick bungalow on Maple Street. She goes to counseling on Wednesdays, and to my private amusement, she’s started volunteering at the church food pantry. She arrives at eight, leaves at noon, and sorts cans. The other volunteers tell me she’s the most careful counter they’ve ever had.
“She counts everything twice,” Gloria says.
“I’m not surprised,” I say.
She sends the church a check for fifty dollars on the first of every month. She also sends one to me, though she doesn’t owe me anything. Brian’s restitution covers my money. Her note always says the same thing: “For the coat.”
I cash them and put every one into the food pantry fund.
We sit together on Sundays, second pew on the left. She holds my hand during the hymns.
I went to the bank last week.
It was a Thursday in October, a mild, bright morning, and the maples along Kemp Road were turning red and gold. I parked in my usual spot and walked in on my cane, in a wool coat with a velvet collar that Karen bought me for Christmas. It’s gray. I haven’t owned a green coat since.
“Mrs. Lane!” Brittany came around the counter. “Good morning! What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to withdraw three hundred dollars.”
She smiled. “For Ben’s birthday?”
“For Ben’s birthday.” I handed her my ID. “He’s eighteen.”
She counted it out in twenties with great ceremony, then compared my signature on the slip to my signature card, carefully, line by line, as she does every time now. My signature is small, upright, and firm, the way it’s been for fifty-three years.
I tucked the bills into a card with a drawing of a fish on the front.
“Will there be anything else?” Brittany asked.
I thought about it.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to ask you a security question.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“What’s my cat’s name?”
She laughed, bright and a little wet. “Pickles.”
“And what’s his favorite food?”
“Tuna.”
“And what was my husband’s name?”
Her smile softened.
“Harold,” she said. “It’s Harold, Mrs. Lane.”
I tucked the card into my purse and picked up my cane.
“Thank you, dear,” I said. “I’ll see you on the first Monday.”
When I got home, I sat down at the kitchen table, opened my green ledger, and wrote the balance in pencil, the way I’ve done every first Monday for fifty-three years. It was smaller than it used to be, but it was mine.
Then I closed the ledger, put the kettle on, and called my daughter. She answered on the first ring.
