I went to the bank wearing my gardening clothes. Looking back, I suppose that was my first mistake. The young branch manager refused to cash my $40 check unless I showed him three forms of identification.
Then he said,
“We have to be careful with people like you.”
I smiled.
“I appreciate careful.”
Then I asked him to pull up account number 0001.
It was a Tuesday in June.
I had spent the whole morning working around the tomato plants.
Dirt on my knees.
George’s old straw hat on my head.
My good rubber boots still muddy from the garden.
The check was from the Methodist church.
Forty dollars for four rhubarb pies I had baked for their fundraiser.
I had been banking at Farmers & Merchants in Millbrook for fifty-eight years.
So I didn’t give the trip much thought.
Shelly usually worked the teller window.
She had been there since her children were small.
Every time I came in, she asked how my roses were doing.
But Shelly wasn’t working that morning.
Instead, there was a young man standing behind the counter in a neat blue suit.
His name tag read:
BRANDON PIERCE
BRANCH MANAGER
I had heard about him.
He had transferred from the city in April.
Corporate sent him in.
I slid the check beneath the glass.
“Good morning. I’d like to cash this, please.”
He looked down at the check.
Then at my boots.
Then he leaned toward the glass and spoke unusually loud and slow.
“MA’AM. DO YOU HAVE AN ACCOUNT HERE?”
“I do.”
“I’LL NEED IDENTIFICATION.”
I was seventy-nine.
My hearing worked perfectly well.
His manners were another matter.
I handed him my driver’s license.
He lifted it toward the light and examined it.
Then he said,
“I’ll need two more forms.”
“Two more? For forty dollars?”
“A utility bill. Passport. Something showing your address.”
“Young man, I live four blocks away.”
He placed my license down on his side of the counter.
He did not return it.
“Ma’am, we have to be careful with people like you.”
The entire bank seemed to become quiet.
A woman behind me holding a toddler stopped bouncing him against her hip.
The security guard suddenly became very interested in the floor.
People like you.
I wanted to ask exactly what he meant.
Old women?
Women with dirt on their clothes?
Widows wearing their late husband’s hat?
But I didn’t.
George always used to tell me that raising your voice usually only helps the other person believe they’re right.
Near the bank entrance, there was an old photograph hanging on the wall.
Black and white.
Cheap gold frame.
Taken in 1968.
It showed a young man and woman dressed in their Sunday clothes, both holding shovels on an empty piece of land.
Most people probably walked past it without noticing.
That morning, I looked at it for a long moment.
The young woman in the photograph was smiling so widely.
She had no idea what was waiting ahead.
The farm loans during the hard years.
Arguments in the back office.
The night George came home pale and said,
“Dot, I think we’re going to lose everything.”
We didn’t.
I turned back toward Brandon.
“I appreciate careful,” I said.
He looked surprised.
I think he had expected me to become upset.
“Would you do one thing for me before I go home and collect the rest of these papers?”
He sighed.
“What?”
“Look up account number 0001.”
He frowned.
“Ma’am, I can’t just—”
“It’s my account.”
I nodded toward the license still sitting beside him.
“You already have my identification.”
He rolled his eyes toward the security guard.
Then he turned to his computer.
Zero.
Zero.
Zero.
One.
He pressed Enter.
Then stopped.
He stared at the screen.
Scrolled down.
Then back up.
He looked at me.
Then at the monitor.
Then slowly turned his head toward the old photograph hanging near the entrance.
All the color disappeared from his face.
He reached for the phone on his desk.
His hand was shaking so badly that he had to dial the number twice. I know you want to find out what happened next, so keep reading in the comments below. Leave a “YES” and give us a Like to see the full story.
