I drove all the way back to Bentonville, to a brown brick building off Main Street, and walked into the bank president’s office.
“Wilbur,” I said as he hung up the phone with a look of surprise, “I need help sending money. You do wire transfers?”
A great-great-grandson of Bentonville’s founder, Wilbur had looked old when I was just a boy. As an ancient man, his hair had turned silver white, and he sported eyebrows that you could take shelter under. “Brynner Carson, your aunt said you were back in town. Let me get my manager to help you. I never did learn to work the computers.”
A moment later, an older man, in his fifties, with salt-andpepper gray hair and thin wire frame glasses stepped into the office.
Wilbur stood up and pointed to me. “Chuck, you need to help Brynner with this transfer. Go on, he doesn’t bite.”
I followed Chuck to a side office, growing more uneasy by the minute. I recognized the man, though I couldn’t put my finger on just where I’d met him. “Before we start, could you answer me a question?”
Chuck shrugged. “If Wilbur Benton says so, I could answer twenty.”
“You don’t have any daughters who graduated from Benton back when I went there, do you?”
He shook his head. “Both my sons were three years behindyou—”
“It’s all good. Just wanted to check.”
I explained about the transfer, and Grace, and the scorpion, leaving out the kiss that just didn’t work out, and gave him Grace’s instructions. He punched numbers into a computer for a few minutes, then frowned.
“This routing number’s no good. Are you sure the destination account is right?”
Could Grace have gotten the numbers wrong? “I don’t know.”
He pointed to a cubicle. “Use that phone, confirm the routing numbers, we’ll try this again.”
So I sat down in the chair. First I dialed the hospital, but the phone rang and rang, without answer. Then another idea came to me. I dialed her confirmation number and waited.
A woman answered. “Suquamish Convalescence Center, how may I direct your call?”
I almost didn’t answer in time, focusing instead on where I’d called. “I’m calling on behalf of Grace Roberts. I need to speak to someone in—”
“Accounts. I hope you don’t hang up the way she does.”
The phone beeped, and for thirty seconds, I listened to a recorded announcer talk Medicaid benefits, and how I, too, could plan for many happy years.
When the phone clicked again, a voice like black ice spoke. “Ms. Roberts, I’ve been waiting for your call. Can we play a little game? I call it ‘Guess the latest excuse.’”
“If you want to play with yourself, be my guest, but not while I’m on the phone.” I forced myself to take deep breaths. Who knew what the history here was? “I just need to confirm an account number for wire transfer.”
He coughed, cursing, and when he spoke again, his voice was deep and calm. “I’m sorry, sir, we had a misrouted call. How can I help you?”
“I told the receptionist I’m calling on behalf of Grace Roberts. Do you want this money or not? Because she’s trying to transfer it to you. If you do want it, now would be a great time to give me your account number.”
“Hell yes, we want it. She’s always a month late and a thousand dollars short. I could throw her daughter out and use the bed for a paying customer.” He relayed a set of numbers.
Grace had transposed a six and a nine in two different places. “Thank you. I’ll schedule the transfer right away.” I tapped my pen, willing myself to not say anything else.
And the idiot opened his mouth again. “How much is she shelling out? It better be at least half of what she owes.”
“How much does Grace need?”
“Let me put it this way. Even if she paid twenty thousand right now, I’d want another twenty-five for the next six months, on account of her being completely unreliable. From now on, she pays in advance.”
There was a time, when I was younger, when holding on to money mattered. When I looked at my BSI paychecks and opened my interest statements. I’d never gotten a hug from a bank note or had a savings bond watch me while I was sick with the flu. Once a year, I met with the investment banker who ran Dad’s accounts, and mine when the family fortune passed to me. It made for a good nap. “What’s your name?”