“Thank you,” he said, taking the envelope and putting it in his pocket. “Thank you kindly.
Sounds like real good advice.”
He used the arm of the chair for support and awkwardly raised himself up. “I’m so stiff,” he said, “I must be getting old. And I ought to be ashamed of myself, acting like such a damn fool in public. I hate to be so much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Joanna assured him.
Harold Patterson held out his gnarled hand, and Joanna shook it warmly, hoping her outward appearance camouflaged the lump in her throat. She didn’t want him to see how much his distress affected her.
Standing before her, he seemed shrunken some how, as though the very act of talking with her about his problems had robbed him of some of his vitality. He seemed far more frail than when he’d first walked into her office a short time earlier. It hurt Joanna to see this proud old man reduced to near tears, awkwardly mumbling apologies and thanks.
There was much Joanna Lathrop Brady should have thanked him for. Buying all those Girl Scout cookies was only the barest beginning. Although she hadn’t learned the truth of the matter until much later, Harold Patterson’s behind-the-scenes lobbying had resulted in Joanna’s being nominated for Girl’s State the year after her father died. And when she graduated from Bisbee High School the year after that, Harold had delivered an inspiring if homespun commencement address.
As they shook hands now in Joanna’s office, she remembered that other long-ago handshake on a warm May night under the lights of the baseball stadium. The principal had called out Joanna’s name, and she had marched across the stage to the place where Harold Patterson, as president of the school board, was dispensing the coveted red and-gray diplomas. Every graduate in line both before and after Joanna Lathrop received a straightforward handshake, and so did Joanna.
But after that, and before she could continue across the stage, Harold had grasped her by both shoulders and held her for a moment. Looking her straight in the eye, he said, “Your daddy would have been very proud.” Then he had winked at her, given her a gentle shove, and sent her on her way.
Other people had said much the same thing to her that night, but Harold’s words were the only ones she remembered specifically. The timely encouragement and comical wink, both from her father’s old poker-playing buddy, had given her a much-needed boost. His kindness had helped propel her across the stage and somehow granted her permission to toss her red cap with its gray tassel high in the air along with everybody else’s when the long ceremony was finally over.
Now, with the tables suddenly reversed, what comfort could she offer him in his time of need?
“We’re here to help, Mr. Patterson,” she said softly “Anytime. It’s no trouble at all.”
Harold Lamm Patterson nodded and started toward the door, where he paused with one hand on the knob. “What’s Milo Davis going to do with out you if you go and get yourself elected?” he asked.
Joanna had been wondering that herself, but it wasn’t a subject she had broached aloud, not with Lisa and certainly not with Milo. It seemed as though talking about what might happen if she won could bring her bad luck, sort of like stepping on a crack and breaking your mother’s back.
She laughed. “Nobody’s indispensable, Mr. Patterson. I’m sure Milo and Lisa would get along without me just fine.”
“Well,” Harold Patterson said, “they may just have to.”
When he finally limped out of her office, Joanna followed him as far as the office window. His mud-splattered Scout was parked out front in the place usually reserved for one of Milo Davis’ several Buicks. To Joanna’s surprise, the old man by passed the Scout. And instead of utilizing the crosswalk, he marched across Arizona Street on a long, jaywalking diagonal, making straight for the bank.
“That poor man,” Lisa said, as she and Joanna watched him cross the street.
“You mean because of his daughters?” Joanna asked.
Lisa nodded. “What a mess. How old is he?”
“Eighty-four?”
“Jeez. And here he is with his whole life blowing up in public before his very eyes. How can he stand what they’re doing? How could anybody?
Lisa was twenty-three years old. Recently engaged, she and her fiance’ were busy planning a big, spare-no-expense wedding that was scheduled for sometime the following summer. Both of Lisa’s parents were still alive and well. Listening to her “Most of the time,” Joanna said quietly, “you are a lucky girl.” Joanna was startled by how young Lisa seemed how young and inexperienced.
“It’s because you have to, because God doesn’t give you a choice.”
And, she added silently to herself, because you never know how much the people you love are going to hurt you until it’s far too late.
ALL HIS life, Harold Patterson had been the kind of man who, when faced with a particularly onerous task, would lay out the entire job in a very orderly fashion. Then he would set about doing each separate part of the chore, carrying each one through to completion before going on to the next. Today was like that. He had mentally organized each separate part of his scheme before ever coming to town Having gathered insurance forms, he headed straight for the bank.
When Sandra Rose Henning had graduated from high school, her scholastic standing should have made her a shoo-in to receive scholarship help. She was offered some, but not enough to make a difference. Faced with the grim reality of two disabled parents to support, she had chucked the idea of going on to college. In June, while her classmates were busily planning their fall school wardrobes, Sandy hustled down to the local First Merchant’s Bank and wangled herself a job as a teller.
Thirty-two years and fifty-five pounds later, she was still there, only now she was the manager of the Warren Branch. First Merchant’s had changed some over the years, and rumor had it that the bank was about to be gobbled up by an out-of-town conglomerate.
Still, scuttlebutt said that all of Bisbee’s neighborhood branches, strung like so many pop-beads along what had formerly been a ten-mile bus route, would soon be consolidated into a single large branch at the new shopping center in Don Luis. That rundown area, once a primarily Mexican enclave, was now the unlikely location of a new shopping area that boasted the town’s only Safeway, and soon, perhaps, the town’s only bank.
Sandy Henning wasn’t particularly worried about the coming merger. Regardless of what happened, she was sure she would still have a job. If it meant being demoted to “personal banker” or even going back on the teller line, that hardly mattered. Sandy liked people, and people liked her.
She was seated at her desk when Harold Patterson marched into the bank. She had been Harold’s “personal banker” since long before a worried banking industry had invented the term.
When she had been promoted and moved from the downtown branch to Warren, Harold’s accounts and business had followed her, even though, from a geographical standpoint, the bank in Old Bisbee was seven miles closer to the Rocking P which should have made it more convenient. But the uptown branch didn’t have Sandy.
Sandy’s heart went out to Harold as soon as she saw him. Despite his advancing years, he had always stood ramrod straight. Now, though, his shoulders drooped, as if the weight he carried on them was more than even his tough old spine could bear. And his step, while certainly not faltering, seemed somewhat slower, more hesitant.
Sandy rose to greet him. “Good morning, Mr. Patterson. How are you today?”
“Fair to middlin,” he answered. “Can’t complain.”
Although he could have complained, Sandy thought, and probably should have.
She and Holly Patterson would have graduated from high school the same year-if Holly had stayed around long enough to bother, that is. During their junior year, Holly had eloped with some high-flying, fast-talking real-estate developer from California. The marriage hadn’t lasted more than three months, but when it was over, Holly Patterson didn’t come home to what she had often called “backward Bisbee.” Sandy Henning had always considered Holly’s abrupt departure a case of good riddance. A week after Holly’s much-publicized return, a single glance at Harold Patterson’s haggard face did nothing to change the banker’s mind.