Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel (16 page)

He walked at least 20 minutes and that 20 minutes led him to the 24 hour Irving Station. It felt good to reach a destination. And perhaps someone inside could tell him where the bank was located. He sat inside hovering over a cup of stale coffee waiting to see if the shift changed.

The clerk looked sleepy. She yawned from behind the counter where she stood in front of a wall stacked with cigarettes.

"Is it okay if I buy a coffee and sit at that table?" He pointed to the small round table with two chairs that took up space at the front of the store.

The clerk didn't look especially happy about the question. William decided to ask another. "Do you know where the bank is?"

She gave him an odd look. "Which one?"

He told her as he pressed the spout of a coffee thermos. Steaming liquid poured into the styrofoam cup.

"That one is down on Main Street," she said. "If you follow this road down to the next set of lights, you'll come to Main. Turn left and keep going. It's on the right hand side."

William settled into his chair, satisfied. He drank coffee after coffee waiting for 10 a.m. The Irving Station shift changed and the new clerk kicked him out.

The clerks were all busy when he entered the bank, but everyone smiled. Some tellers gathered around the water cooler and laughed together. At first, William worried they laughed at him, but when one woman mentioned a Rolodex to renewed chuckles, he realised he couldn't have been in their conversation at all.

He waited as long as he could to gather the courage to stand in line. By the time his turn came up, there was nobody left in the bank. It made him nervous. He felt vulnerable.

"I'd like to deposit some money," he finally said.

The clerk pulled out a slip and began writing the date. "Which account?"

This was the moment of truth. William swallowed hard. He pasted what he hoped was an inviting and genuine smile on his lips. "Hastings. Hannah Hastings."

The teller smiled in return. William felt his muscles relax. "And do you know the account number?"

"No."

The teller rifled through a large plastic covered data book. It took many long moments before she set it down. "I'm sorry, there's no Hannah Hastings listed. But this thing only comes out every two weeks. Maybe she opened her account recently."

William nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes. That would be her."

"Well, I'll have to look at the paperwork. It will just take a few seconds."

Somehow the teller looked less friendly. She looked mean. They all looked mean. She didn't want to look anything up. She wanted to get away from him. She wanted to keep him from Hannah.

"You just don't want to give me that information," he got out.

The clerk frowned. She furrowed her brow. "You've misunderstood, sir. I don't know the information. I have to look it up."

William bit down on this tongue. He stared at the teller. She stared back.

Look at her, William. She's laughing at you.

"No, no she isn't. Shut up."

"I beg your pardon?" The teller's demeanor altered. She stepped away from the counter.

"I need to deposit this money." William said, confused.

The teller quirked her head. "Yes, I know. I have to go get the number."

She's going to call the cops. She's going to go out back and let them know you're here.

"So what? What if she does call? I haven't done anything wrong." William couldn't help the rise in his voice. He felt his voice growing louder and louder and more and more frantic until he feared it would find a pitch so silent it would get taken over by one of those other voices. It would be all this woman's fault. All because she wouldn't give him the number. Damn her. Damn her. Damn...

'Tis now the very witching time of night, it said. When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.

But yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.

The teller yelped.

Another lady, a red-haired lady with tiny legs and high heels came rushing over. She edged the teller out of the way.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I need to deposit this money."

The red head's lips were pursed so tightly it was strange that she could speak at all. "Certainly. What's the account number?"

William screamed.

By morning, I felt as right as rain falling on a thirsty garden. I actually got out of bed with a smile. I hadn't wanted to get out of bed and go to work for months, and here I was admiring the shafts of October sun that found ways to get into my bedroom through gaps between the blinds and glinted on the mirror above the dresser.

The dresser just didn't turn me on anymore. And neither did the mirror reflection above it. It had grown as ordinary as the purple ditch irises that grew wild. The image that looked back at me over the last few months had become tired. The green eyes were often blood shot with dark circles underlining the lashes. But what really got me, was the smudged line of mouth that never seemed to smile anymore. This morning, that image was about to change.

I pulled the blankets neatly up across the bed, tucking in the edges until the mattress looked like a business envelope ready for the mail.

I set the coffee-pot to dribbling while I shaved, showered and consequently, shampooed. The heavy spray from the showerhead managed to soak me within seconds. Of course, most mornings I'd wanted to just fall asleep there in the stream, but today was different. I stepped back out of the shower before ten minutes went by. After dressing, I grabbed a cup of coffee, loaded heavily with cream, and shoved on loafers. There'd be plenty of time to wander through the garden and decide exactly where to plan for the iris section. Better to plan now while Fall had begun so that in the Spring, I'd know just where to plant, and how to design the bed.

I got quite a rush wandering through dying foliage. Most gardeners hated this time of year; growing season wouldn't begin until after another few months of winter. I never could understand the melancholy that went along with the end of gardening season. To me, it was like the end of the world, like Armageddon in miniature. Didn't the end of the world mean a new world, a better world? And all those mistakes I had made during the season, planting the wrong flower in the wrong spot, not fertilising quite enough, giving too much attention to my prize roses, those mistakes died along with the greenery. A new chance would come with the Spring, with the new Jerusalem.

I setting the empty coffee cup on the step and made my way to my car. I got in, slipped a twonie into the colonel's back, and headed to the bank.

Gina pulled in to the parking spot next to me as I reached work. Her poor, always breaking down Volkswagen looked more the worse for wear than it had when I'd last bothered to notice it. The dent in the driver door had rusted into a hole. We smiled at each other, nodded, and without a word between us, headed into the building

I made a beeline to my office and closed the door. Most of the tellers wouldn't see any difference; I always went to my office, lately, and closed the door. What they didn't know was that I spent almost all the day in there catching a few winks, or doodling. Today I had work to do. And the first order of business was getting Hannah into that house on Helen Lucy Rd.

Now, what did I do with that Rolodex of numbers? Last I'd seen it, it had been weighing down a paper McDonald's bag. Had it ended up in the trash? No. Someone would have fished it out. Perhaps it fell into the desk drawer. I pulled the first handle; drawer contents rattled. Inside were a chewed on pencil, three erasers halves, various and sundry paper clips, a dog-eared gardening magazine--so that's where it got to--and an old edition of Playboy Magazine. No Rolodex.

I decided, and quite quickly in light of the mess on my desk, that the best plan of action would be to ask Gina. She was the efficient one.

"Have you seen my Rolodex?" I asked as soon as I opened her door.

She looked up with what I was certain was a conspiratorial grin.

"Well, have you?"

She pointed to her shelf against the opposite wall.

"What is it doing in here?" I grabbed it and shoved it into my armpit.

Gina shrugged. "Just wanted to see how long it took before you realised it had gone missing."

"And how long has it been?"

She smiled one long and cat-like smile. "Eight months."

"Eight?"

She nodded. "We had a pool going on around the office. I said you'd not find it for at least six months. Everyone else thought you'd notice it missing after two days."

"How much did you get?"

She licked her lips. "Let me see..." She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs. "About 300 dollars. Yes. Just about."

"Damn smart ass lesbian."

"At least I know where my equipment is."

I scowled at her.

Rolodex in hand, I strolled back to my office. I sat in my important-business-man leather chair and rifled through the cards until I found the one that listed Helen's nephew. He'd never lived in Yarmouth, had only inherited the small house and kept it because his aunt had loved it. I didn't think he'd mind renting it out, but I worried that he'd want to come here himself and clean out the place. It had stayed exactly as it was, without interference, since she had passed away. Maybe he'd think it wasn't appropriate in its state; I doubted Hannah would care. In fact, I believed she would get a charge out of standing in the middle of all that frozen living. She'd probably see it as some sort of sanctuary.

I was on the phone with Richard when Gina opened my door and peered inside. I cupped the mouthpiece with my hand and queried her with a raised brow.

"Mrs. Hastings is here," she said.

Oh, great. Here my day was going almost well and I have to run smack dab into a full grown buffalo. I waved at Gina, thinking she could take care of the old thing.

To the phone, I said, "Thanks for your help. I'll see that an account is opened for you and the rent gets deposited there. Can I fax the papers?"

Gina disappeared and in her place, popped Buffalo Belle's face. She didn't wait until I'd finished my conversation. Even as Richard was explaining how he'd like to see the place lived in, Belle stormed over to my desk and pressed the receiver. The line went dead.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hastings, I was on the phone."

"I'm not blind," she said. "I have a matter of utmost importance."

I doubted whether service charges or lack thereof could ever be as important as Hannah's safety. And I doubted that Buffalo Belle had anything important in her life to consider. What did old ladies worry about anyway? Dribbling in their drawers? Their dentures falling out?

"And what could be so important that you would hang up on one of my calls?"

"I'm being robbed."

"Robbed?"

She nodded. The hair that had been dyed and curled into little blue cotton balls jiggled.

"Yes. And your bank is allowing it."

She sat without being bid and stared at me. I wondered how long she wouls stare me down until her face crumbled into a wad of tissue. When she lifted a brown speckled hand to her wrinkled face, it shook.

I found my legs propelling me across the room. I knelt on the floor beside her.

"What's wrong?"

She fought for composure. Her mouth worked and her chest heaved. "My daughter."

"Your daughter?"

Her words spilled like tears. "She convinced me to add her name to my account--you know, just in case something went wrong-- the government wouldn't get their greedy hands on it. That was a year ago. She's been writing checks. I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to think she'd spend all of my money. I didn't..." She gasped for air. "She's been buying things. Hasn't even waited for me to die. Doesn't even have the decency. What if I live another ten years? What will I live on?"

Although I didn't think this lady would live another ten months, let alone ten years, I chewed my tongue quiet. Really, she was in a pickle.

"How much has she spent?"

"She's taken almost everything. "

I had the feeling that what bothered her most wasn't the loss of the money, but that she worried her daughter didn't care enough about her to think of the consequences.

"Sometimes people do strange things even to the people they love," I offered.

"But why?"

I shrugged. "Maybe she's in a bind. Have you asked her?"

Belle shook her head. "She can't possibly be in a bind. She has a wonderful house, beautiful car, lovely children. I'd give them anything if they'd ask."

She took to wiping her face with a tissue. She didn't actually cry; I didn't see one tear, but I knew she was at her breaking point. God above, this was one tough lady.

"Maybe she can't afford to keep those things."

"That's no excuse."

"I know. I know. Maybe we should close your account and open you up a brand new one. One without joint signatures. Your own, like it used to be."