The Dog That Whispered (7 page)

H
AZEL WALKED
out of her office building, modern and glass and sleek and antithetical to all that transpired within the walls—which involved business intricacies of a turn-of-the-last-century insurance company rife with arcane evaluations and formulas and policies and products and a staff nearly chained to their desks during the day, unwilling to risk being seen enjoying the work by a boss with no apparent happy emotions in him. She stopped for coffee, her fifth cup of the day so far. Her nerves were already jangled to their maximum, so another serving of caffeine would not make much of an impact. And it would provide a moment's respite, to think, to collect her disparate thoughts. She sat on a stool at the window, with the photo on the counter, staring at it, her finger light on the corner, as if to make sure that it all would not disappear. The sun was out, and the bright light glistered off the photo. She slipped it back into a new envelope and placed that back into a zippered pocket in her purse.

She had one more task to complete that morning.

The key that had been in the envelope with the photo hidden in the desk now rested in the coin pouch of her wallet. She assumed that it was for a safe-deposit box.

What else could it be?

A branch of the Umpqua Bank was only two blocks distant. She had driven to her office but left her car in the parking lot.

Don't want to worry about parking places. And the sun feels good
.

The cheery receptionist took a look at the key, then pointed to her left.

“One of our personal bankers can help you with this.”

I don't really want a personal banker, since I don't do business with this bank
.

Charles Harnett showed her to a chair in front of a nondescript desk with absolutely no personalization on it—apparently used by other “personal” bankers at other times. Other than a computer keyboard with a monitor, and a little metal stand with a sheaf of business cards, the desk was empty.

“An old key, right? One of ours, right?”

Hazel passed the key to him.

He pursed his lips and hummed.

Then the young Mr. Harnett began to tap away at the keyboard, swinging the mouse into action, clicking three times, then typing some more, much faster than Hazel could ever have hoped to have done.

Finally he stopped, took his hands from the keyboard, looked up with his best personal banker smile, and said, “Yes. This is current. The key is still good.”

Hazel exhaled.

“I was hoping it wasn't out of date. This is sort of a mystery to me.”

“And a Ms. Florence Jamison…three years ago…paid $250 for another ten years of use,” he said, glancing at the monitor.

“She was my mother. She passed away.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”

Hazel waited a moment, not sure what to ask next, or if Mr. Harnett was going to take her to the place in the bank where these secure boxes were kept.

He did not.

Finally, she asked, “Is this box number here? Wherever it is you have safe-deposit boxes, I mean.”

Mr. Harnett shook his head. “No. I'm afraid not. This number was originally from an older branch that must have moved or was closed. Back in the day, the bank did that often. Move, I mean. Close small branches. Consolidate and all that. All the safe-deposit boxes from the closed branches were moved to the big location on Columbia.”

“Downtown?”

Mr. Harnett nodded.

“Is it open? I mean, do I need to make an appointment or anything to go there and see what's inside?”

“No. Just show up with the key and ID. During regular business hours. That's all there is to it.”

Hazel hurried back to her car. Perhaps the box held some answers. Perhaps it held nothing—but that would be an answer as well.

Wilson taught three classes that day, “The Craft of the Short Story,” “Readings in Contemporary American Fiction,” and “Writing the Screenplay.”

He disliked the latter class the most of all his classes.

Posers, all of them. Like some Hollywood agent is sitting in some neighborhood tavern in Pittsburgh just drooling over their insufferable “coming of age” story set in some hardscrabble western Pennsylvanian neighborhood. Well, I think not. I know not
.

Three classes meant a long day, and that happened twice a week. He got on the bus, actually looking forward to getting home that evening.

Before Thurman, going home was not something he always looked forward to. To be sure, it meant leaving work, and leaving behind a slew of mostly untalented writers, and getting to spend time in silence. But with Thurman, there was a body at home now—a warm body of sorts, a creature who appeared to be ecstatic when he returned.

Maybe Thurman was so excited because he wanted to go outside.

But Wilson thought it was more than just that, although he was sure that it played a part in the dog's exhilaration.

Wilson stepped off the bus and the doors whooshed shut behind him with a wheeze. He almost said goodbye to the driver—the same bus driver had been on this route for several years now—and Wilson watched others call him by name and inquire as to his family, but he never did that, or had not until now.

And yet even though he thought about saying something, he did not.

Maybe next time
.

And as he walked the two blocks to his home, he wondered why this sudden occurrence of interest in the bus driver.

He scowled to himself.

Thurman
.

The downtown location of the bank looked exactly like a bank should look: sedate, secure, and traditional.

Hazel was not sure what a “traditional” bank looked like exactly, but this one boasted of marble and walnut and high ceilings and a hushed, monetary feel, with muted lighting.

She walked up to the information desk, key in hand, and instead of pointing, the young woman receptionist stood and escorted her past a series of open offices and to the open, very thick circular metal door of a massive safe, with a floor-to-ceiling metal fence in front and a young man seated inside.

“Clark will show you to your box. Will you need a private room?”

Hazel tried not to look totally unaware, totally naïve in the way of safe-deposit box protocols, even though she was.

Am I supposed to keep whatever is in there hidden? Are there cameras? Or snoops?

“I don't think so. Really, I'm not sure what's in here. It was my mother's. She passed away.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” the young woman replied. “If you need anything, just let Clark know.”

Clark took a look at the number and escorted Hazel into the vault, past the large boxes that looked like they could hold a small fortune in gold bullion, past the medium-sized boxes that might hold half a fortune, to the smaller boxes that could hold a few envelopes and a deed and perhaps a dance card from a long-ago prom.

I wonder if she ever went to a prom in high school? We never talked about that, did we?

“Right here,” Clark said, gesturing to a small box, in much the way that one of the models on a game show gestures to a grand prize.

With that, he stepped back.

“I'll be at my desk if you need anything.”

Hazel began to worry that there would be nothing inside…

But why would she have paid for it, then?

Or perhaps something complicated and mysterious…

But that wouldn't be like her, not at all
.

She unlocked the box, pulled out the inner metal box, and gingerly opened it. The only thing inside was a standard midsize mailing envelope. She took it and then felt around the metal interior to see if there was something else, but there wasn't.

The envelope was not sealed. She lifted the flap and pulled out a thin sheaf of official-looking documents. She turned them right side up.

On the top was a familiar image of an apple with a single bite missing.

The forms were Apple Computer stock certificates.

Ten certificates were inside the envelope, each claiming to represent the ownership of two hundred shares of common stock.

Hazel stared at them for a long moment, not sure what to think or what to do next.

Stocks? Mom never bought stocks. She never said she bought stocks. She barely knew anything about stocks or financial matters
.

She looked around, wondering what she was supposed to do now. She waited another moment, thinking that some plan of action, some path might open up and tell her what the next step would be.

No such thought occurred.

She slipped the certificates back into the envelope, tucked it under her arm, closed the box, and relocked it, not sure why she needed to do that since it was now empty.

Clark looked up as she approached.

“All done?”

Hazel shrugged.

“I guess. There wasn't much in there. Just this one envelope. Some old stock certificates. I doubt they're worth anything.”

Clark stood and unlocked the gate with the key that was attached to his belt on a metal string of some sort.

“Well, miss, you never know. I would check with Mr. Hild, one of our personal bankers…”

They all must be personal bankers. The bank is lousy with them
.

Hazel smiled, mostly to herself. Her mother often said that about any excess.

“He knows all about stocks and things like that. He could quickly determine if they have any value or not.”

Hazel thanked him and made her way back to the information desk to find Mr. Hild, thinking that little would come out of this and she would be no further to getting to the bottom of her mother's…other life—her former, secret, hidden life—than she was when she first discovered the photograph.

From half a block away, Wilson could see that all was not well at his home. Or at least it was not how he had left it earlier in the day.

Sort of
.

His mother stood at the start of the walk, almost on the sidewalk, holding what appeared to be a leash.