Forty One Years to the Penny

“And you said it could.”

“The joint owner has the authority to ask for it, yes. Your daughter signed the request.”

“Did Pam say anything?”

He thought back. “Not much. He filled out the form himself and put it in front of her. She read it. She signed. One signature from a joint owner is all it takes.”

“I know you broke no rule, Mr. Stahl. That is why I did not come in here with a complaint. I came in with the registers.” I kept my hand on the box. “But nobody in this building thought to pick up a telephone and call the woman whose name is on the card.”

He did not answer right away.

“We have training every year,” he said finally. “On older customers. On what to watch for. Money going out in strange amounts, a new friend, a relative who suddenly wants access. We’re told that when family raises a concern, we take it seriously.”

“I’m glad you do,” I said. “I mean that. There are women in this town who have been robbed blind by their own kin, and somebody ought to be watching. But you were watching for a person taking an old woman’s money. Nobody took a dime of mine. What got taken on Monday was my say. And you handed it over because a man in a clean shirt sounded sure of himself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Stahl said. “I believe that’s a fair way to put it.”

Walt Hendricks spoke up then. He had not moved from his spot in line.

“Stahl, that woman caught a nine-dollar mistake on my account at the lumberyard in 1994. In my favor. Drove the refund out to my place herself because she said it would bother her over the weekend.” He put his hat back on. “Confused. Good night.”

We waited after that, an odd fifteen minutes. Mr. Stahl stood there with me, which I gave him credit for, when he could have gone back and shut his door. The other windows started up again, but nobody who finished their business left. Donna Pruitt took a very long time with a deposit slip.

Then we heard Jan on the stairs.

She came up with a sheet of that gray slick paper the film machine prints on, and she did not hand it to Mr. Stahl. She walked it past him and laid it on the counter next to my register, side by side, and put one finger on the bottom line.

“Statement ending March 31, 1997,” Jan said. “Becker, Lowell D. or Rita M. One thousand, eight hundred forty-six dollars and nineteen cents.”

She looked at my page. She looked at hers.

“To the penny,” said Jan Olson. “Twenty-nine years ago. I’d like to see anybody else in this lobby do it for last week.”

The young mother laughed out loud. Even Mr. Stahl smiled.

I took my glasses off and let them hang.

“Mr. Stahl, I’d like three things, and then I’ll get out of your way. They aren’t large.”

“Please.”

“First. I’d like that limit taken off my card before I leave this window, and put back exactly as it was last Friday.”

“Kendra can do that right now.”