by D. M. Pulley
It took Beatrice over an hour and a long, hot shower to unclench her fists. She combed her hair until her scalp was raw. She put on her best sweater and wool pants. She had to see Doris.
Beatrice navigated the sterile hallways and elevators of the hospital without looking up from the ground all the way into Doris’s tiny room. The woman lying on the bed didn’t even look like her aunt anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
She stood next to the bed and watched a machine move her aunt’s chest up and down rhythmically, waiting for some change at the sound of her voice. It was the first time Beatrice had tried talking to Doris since the stroke, but nothing happened.
“I didn’t know she would look through your things.”
Beatrice studied Doris’s face, half hoping it would twist with rage. Her cheekbones jutted from her gray face, and the orbits of her eyes were sunken and dark. Jowls pooled around her neck. Even her hair looked worn thin. It had only been five days, and the Doris she knew was already gone. She reached over and touched her aunt’s hand. It felt cool and still.
“It’s just that it’s been so nice having a friend. I needed a friend. I used to have friends, you know. I did. Back home.” Her voice broke as she stifled a sob. “I wish you were here to tell me what I should do.”
She stood up from the chair and wiped her tears. Doris hated to see her cry. Beatrice struggled to control herself until she could say in a clear, strong voice, “I’ll come back and see you tomorrow.”
Beatrice was waiting for the elevator when a nurse at the front desk waved her over.
“You just missed your uncle!”
“My uncle?” Beatrice repeated, and was about to say she must be mistaken when the nurse interrupted.
“Yes, not five minutes ago. If you hurry, you might catch him in the lobby. We were all so relieved to see that your aunt had another visitor.”
Beatrice frowned.
“It’s just that you seemed so young and were always alone. I hate to admit we almost called Child Services.” The nurse chuckled.
Beatrice’s blood froze in her veins. Child Services. She hadn’t considered until that moment that she was still technically a minor—a minor without a guardian. She swallowed hard and nodded.
“The timing couldn’t have been better—with your uncle, I mean. We really needed to speak with the next of kin regarding your aunt’s wishes.” The woman in the white uniform glanced up at Beatrice’s face. “Oh, don’t worry about it, hon. You just pull yourself together, okay? Your uncle took care of everything.”
“What uncle?” she wanted to shriek, but she was too terrified to stand there for one minute longer. The elevator dropped her off at the lobby, and she rushed through, half hoping and half terrified she would catch a glimpse of this “uncle.” There was no one but an old woman in a wheelchair. She was crying.
Beatrice practically ran all the way back to Doris’s apartment. Her aunt had never been married, at least not that she knew about. Had the hospital even asked for a marriage certificate? They had only asked that Beatrice sign the book every day. The book, she realized. Her “uncle” must have signed the book too.
When Beatrice finally made it back home from the hospital, she felt like she might need medical attention herself. Between her “uncle” and Child Services, she might just have a heart attack. She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and pulled open the tiny fridge. She hadn’t eaten in hours, maybe days. She couldn’t remember. A can of beer was sitting next to an open box of baking soda. There was some ketchup, a slice of bread, and half a carton of orange juice. She grabbed the juice. What uncle?
With the sudden rush of sugar, Doris’s recent late nights away from home came into focus. Maybe she was seeing someone. Maybe that someone visited her in the hospital. The light was still on in her aunt’s bedroom. Piles of paper were still arranged into neat stacks on the bed. Beatrice walked over and sat where Max had been sitting and looked at them.
One stack was all typed on First Bank of Cleveland letterhead. They were carbon copies. Beatrice had struggled to type letters similar to these at work, piling sheet upon sheet with carbon paper in between. She picked up the letter that sat on top of the stack. It was dated January 5, 1962.
Dear Mrs. Howell,
We regret to inform you that your account for Deposit Box No. 815 is delinquent. If you do not remit payment, First Bank of Cleveland will have no choice but to close your account. Unclaimed property will become the ward of the State of Ohio. You have fifteen days to comply.
Sincerely,
William S. Thompson, Director of Audits
Beatrice raised her eyebrows, looking at the letter. Max had just been talking about this over drinks. She leafed through the stack of papers. They were all similar. Beatrice counted them up and found twenty-six. She set the stack down and puzzled over them. She couldn’t think of a reason why Doris would keep copies of things like this, especially after all of these years.
The typist signature read “DED” for the first several letters, but then it changed. The dates grew more recent as Beatrice sifted through the pile. The most recent letter was dated June 12, 1977. It was signed like all of the others by Bill Thompson. The typist was MRM. Beatrice scowled. Max?
She eyed another stack. It was a pile of steno pads, each one of them covered in pages and pages of shorthand. Beatrice squinted at the top sheet and found she could only make out every third or fourth word of her aunt’s sloppy style—“sale,” “locked,” “gold,” “Cleveland.”
She set them aside and moved on to the stack of handwritten letters. A nerve twitched up her back in protest. This was trespassing into her aunt’s private affairs, but her eyes got away from her.
My Dearest Doris,
Nothing is the same since you left. The charade at work and home is killing me. I want to shout my love from the rooftops and damn the consequences. I want to spend every night with you. One day soon we will be together, and all of the lying and sneaking around will be over. Just be patient, baby. Remember our plan and how much I love you. Meet me Saturday at our place.
Forever Yours,
Bill
Beatrice’s eyes bulged as she read the last line. A man named Bill was having an affair with Doris. There was no doubt about it. She leafed through letter after letter, all written in the same scrawling hand, and all signed by Bill. There were at least fifty letters. Her eyes darted back to a bank letter signed by William S. Thompson. She picked it up and compared it to the love letter in her hand. The penmanship matched.
The papers fell from her hand. Doris once had an affair with Bill Thompson. The mystery man who had visited Doris in the hospital might have been Bill. Beatrice stumbled out of the room in a daze. She fished the lonely can of beer out of the fridge and cracked it open. It tasted awful.
Doris had a pile of old bank records in her bedroom and a safe deposit box. None of it made sense, but Box 547 might hold the answers. Beatrice rifled through her purse until she found her aunt’s keys. She fanned the key ring out in her palm, searching for the right one. The beer can hit the ground. Key 547 was gone.
CHAPTER 22
Beatrice marched into the office Tuesday morning, spoiling for a fight. Max had simply gone too far. She tried to convince herself that Max had stolen the key to help Beatrice access the box, but her stomach didn’t buy the explanation. How could she just take it like that?
Of course, Max was nowhere to be found on a Tuesday morning. She always came in late. While that had never bothered her before, suddenly Beatrice was enraged by the inequity. She looked up at the Sisters Grim, the old crone, the mousy girl in the corner, and Francine clacking on her typewriter next to her. They all worked hard. They kept their heads down. They didn’t sneak off to the bathroom to smoke, and they certainly never came to work two hours late.
As if on cue, Francine nodde
d a terse greeting.
“Good morning, Francine,” Beatrice muttered.
Beatrice tried to busy herself with some filing Mr. Rothstein had given her, but she found herself looking over her shoulder for Max all morning. When the lunch hour came and went with no sign of Max, she became even more infuriated. Was Max avoiding her? Did she call in sick? She tapped her foot against the floor. Francine glared at her, clearly annoyed. Beatrice stopped and got up, exasperated.
In the restroom, she checked her hair and makeup in the mirror and paused. Maybe her aunt’s illness had aged her, because the woman staring back at her in the mirror looked much older than the girl she remembered. Her blond hair was swept up, and she’d taken to wearing red lipstick, just like Max. She grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed her lips until they were pink again.
She was just sitting back down at her desk when Mr. Halloran opened his door and motioned her to his office. Her stomach sank a little as she grabbed her notepad. He always crowded the door so she had to brush against him to get by.
“So Beatrice, how is your special assignment working out?” he asked, staring at her legs.
She kept her knees and ankles pressed together tightly. “I’m sorry?”
“What are you finding out about Mr. Thompson’s project?” His long, manicured fingers softly traced the edge of his leather blotter. His eyes traced the line of her neck. From the droop of his eye, she could tell he’d been drinking again.
She cleared her throat and shifted in the chair uncomfortably. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided that she didn’t owe Max her loyalty any longer. Max was a thief. “Well, apparently Mr. Thompson has been performing a secret audit of the safe deposit boxes. Maxine McDonnell says she’s been following up on the records and calling customers.”
Mr. Halloran stopped gazing at her neck. “Is that it?”
“Yes . . . Well, except that some of the records are missing altogether.”
“Missing?” He raised his eyebrows.
Beatrice knotted her hands, wishing she hadn’t said so much, but it was too late. “All I know is that a few years ago a customer claimed the State of Ohio had no record of repossessing her safe deposit box . . . That’s when the audit started.”
A wide smile spread across Randy’s face. “Well done, Beatrice. I’ll be sure to let Ms. Cunningham know what a valuable asset you’re turning out to be. I’m going to be giving you all of my assignments from now on.”
Beatrice didn’t know whether to smile or frown and did neither. For better or worse, she was working for Randy. If anything Max had said could be trusted, Beatrice’s job at the bank was safe.
He stood up and grabbed a large stack of files. “These records are restricted access and quite sensitive. I need them sorted according to the footnotes and refiled. Can you get them back to me by the end of the day?”
The heavy files made her list to one side as he dropped them in her arms. “Of course, Mr. Halloran.”
He led her to the door. “Please, Beatrice, call me Randy.”
Back at her desk, Beatrice opened the first file and puzzled over the typed sheet of paper. It was all numbers—rows and rows of dollar amounts and dates. The header read “STHM” and the footer read “%$%.” She began making piles of the sheets according to the symbols at the bottom of each page as Mr. Halloran had commanded. Within minutes her desk was covered with the stacks of paper, and she realized she was drawing attention to herself and the sensitive documents. She gathered them up and began stuffing the pages into blank manila folders in her file drawer.
An hour later she carried the stack back to Mr. Halloran’s office and softly knocked on his door. When there was no response, she turned the handle and peered inside. Mr. Halloran’s desk was empty. Relieved there wouldn’t be another awkward encounter, she set the stack of files on the edge of his desk. A narrow wood door behind his desk stood open. She’d never noticed it before. There was a glimmer of white tile.
Beatrice craned her neck to get a better look inside the mysterious room. There was a large stone sink and a shower. She took a few steps forward for a better look.
“It’s pretty old-fashioned, isn’t it?” Mr. Halloran’s hot breath fell on her neck. She hadn’t heard him walk in.
Beatrice jumped. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Halloran, I was just leaving the files . . .”
“Randy,” he corrected her, smiling slyly as he stepped toward her.
She instinctively stepped back. “I’m so sorry, Randy. I was just leaving you the files and noticed the door open. It was incredibly rude of me.”
He was uncomfortably close. She took another step back.
“The whole point of these rooms is privacy. Privacy is very important, don’t you agree?” he said, and ran a finger down the length of her arm.
Panic swelled inside her. She had backed into his private washroom. His office door was shut. He lifted her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her mind raced through her options as he studied her lips. Kicking and screaming her way out of the bathroom would get her fired. His eyes twinkled as she squirmed. He really is a shark, she thought, and in a flash the answer came to her. What would Max do?
She leaned toward him, pressing her hips dangerously close to his. In her most seductive voice, she murmured, “Randy, we don’t really have time for this, do we?”
It caught him off guard. Before he could react, she eased out from the corner. One foot in front of the other, she sauntered out of the bathroom all the way back to her desk, too terrified to look back.
She sat down, knees shaking. One row behind her, Max’s desk was still empty.
CHAPTER 23
By the time Friday morning came around with no sign of Max, Beatrice was worried. It was as if she’d disappeared into thin air. Beatrice had expected a phone call, a note, something from Max to say she was sorry or at least ask how Aunt Doris was doing. Nothing came. Day after day her desk sat empty.
Beatrice kept busy filing for Mr. Halloran and avoiding going into his office. She’d taken to using the mailboxes outside Ms. Cunningham’s door to leave her work for him. He was hardly ever at his desk anyway, she noticed. The lunches had grown longer, and some days he didn’t come back to the office at all. That was fine with her.
She couldn’t stand not knowing what happened to Max any longer. After lunch, she walked over to Ms. Cunningham’s closed door.
A muffled voice behind the door said, “I need more time, Dale! You can’t expect me to trace thirty accounts overnight . . . I know we have time constraints. She missed the meeting . . . Well, I can’t take her statement if I can’t find her . . . Yes, the deposits are still there . . .”
Beatrice tapped on the door. She heard the dull thud of heavy footsteps on carpet, and then the door opened. Old Cunny stood blocking the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cunningham, but I was wondering . . .” She bit her lip.
“Yes? What?” Her boss’s terse voice, along with the strange conversation she’d just overheard, almost made Beatrice forget.
“Umm. Do you know where Maxine McDonnell is?” Beatrice asked, and then felt like she needed to add some legitimacy to her question. “Mr. Halloran had a question about one of her assignments.” It wasn’t a complete lie, she reasoned.
“I’m sorry to tell you that Maxine resigned Tuesday morning.”
Beatrice’s mouth fell open. Max quit. But she had been hoping for a promotion after she finished Mr. Thompson’s secret audit. It didn’t make sense.
“Is that all, dear? I really need to get back to my work.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Beatrice couldn’t believe it. Max was gone. She hadn’t even said good-bye. And she still had her aunt’s key.
“You know, now that I think of it,” Ms. Cunningham said, “you should go check with Mr. Thompson to see if he needs any more help. Maxine leaving has left him
shorthanded.”
With that, Ms. Cunningham closed her door.
Beatrice glanced down the hall toward Mr. Thompson’s office. She hadn’t seen him since he’d hired her. Now that she’d read his love letters to Aunt Doris, she didn’t know if she could look him in the eye.
His door was closed. She knocked softly, to no reply. Maybe he had left the office, she hoped. She knocked harder and waited. Just as she was turning to head back to her desk, the door swung open and she was face-to-face with “Bill,” as he was known to the women in her life.
“Can I help you, Bethany?”
Beatrice paused but didn’t correct him. “Ms. Cunningham wanted me to stop by and see if you needed any additional assistance.”
“Well, that was very kind of both of you. I’m doing just fine, but if I need some assistance I’ll let you know.” He started to close the door when something occurred to him. “Actually, could you please deliver something to Ms. Cunningham for me?”
He left the door open, and she followed him in. His office looked just as she remembered it. There was a photograph of a pretty woman and two smiling girls sitting on the bookshelf. Beatrice felt ill at the sight of his family, knowing he’d promised Doris he’d leave them.
He handed her a stack of files. “Thank you, Bethany. You have a good weekend.”
“Thank you, sir.” She couldn’t put into words what she really wanted to say. Looking at him, she never would have guessed he was the sort of man who would lure a woman into an affair. Mr. Thompson was paunchy with salt-and-pepper hair, and his kind eyes and warm smile were almost grandfatherly. She might have believed he really cared about her weekend by the way he talked to her, but he didn’t even know her name.
CHAPTER 24
Beatrice passed Max’s old seat on the way back to her desk. She stopped. Looking at the stapler still sitting there, Beatrice realized that Max may have left more things behind. Maybe Doris’s key was in the desk. Maybe Max had left a note or some sort of explanation.