“Would you like to order now?” the captain was asking.
“I’ll—I’ll wait, thank you.” She had to decide whether she was going to stay.
She looked over at Charles again, and an astonishing phenomenon occurred: It was as though she were looking at a stranger. She was seeing a sallow, drawn-looking, middle-aged, balding man, with stooped shoulders and an air of ineffable boredom on his face. It was impossible to believe that she had once thought she loved this man, that she had slept with him, planned to spend the rest of her life with him. Tracy glanced at his wife. She wore the same bored expression as Charles. They gave the impression of two people trapped together for eternity, frozen in time. They simply sat there, speaking not one word to each other. Tracy could visualize the endless, tedious years ahead of the two of them. No love. No joy. That is Charles’s punishment, Tracy thought, and she felt a sudden surge of release, a freedom from the deep, dark, emotional chains that had bound her.
Tracy signaled to the captain and said, “I’m ready to order now.”
It was over. The past was finally buried.
It was not until Tracy returned to her hotel room that evening that she remembered she was owed money from the bank’s employees’ fund. She sat down and calculated the amount. It came to $1,375.65.
She composed a letter to Clarence Desmond, and two days later she received a reply from Mae.
Dear Miss Whitney:
In response to your request, Mr. Desmond has asked me to inform you that because of the morals policy in the employees’ financial plan, your share has reverted to the general fund. He wants to assure you that he bears no personal ill will toward you.
Sincerely, Mae Trenton Secretary to the Senior Vice-president
Tracy could not believe it. They were stealing her money, and doing it under the pretext of protecting the morals of the bank! She was outraged. I’m not going to let them cheat me, she vowed. No one is ever going to cheat me again.
Tracy stood outside the familiar entrance to the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She wore a long black wig and heavy, dark makeup, with a raw red scar on her chin. If anything went wrong, it would be the scar they remembered. Despite her disguise, Tracy felt naked, for she had worked in this bank for five years, and it was staffed with people who knew her well. She would have to be very careful not to give herself away.
She removed a bottle cap from her purse, placed it in her shoe, and limped into the bank. The bank was crowded with customers, for Tracy had carefully chosen a time when the bank would be doing peak business. She limped over to one of the customer-service desks, and the man seated behind it finished a phone call and said, “Yes?”
It was Jon Creighton, the bank bigot. He hated Jews, blacks, and Puerto Ricans, but not necessarily in that order. He had been an irritant to Tracy during the years she had worked there. Now there was no sign of recognition on his face.
“Buenos días, señor. I would like to open a checking account, ahora,” Tracy said. Her accent was Mexican, the accent she had heard for all those months from her cell mate Paulita.
There was a look of disdain on Creighton’s face. “Name?”
“Rita Gonzales.”
“And how much would you like to put in your account?”
“Ten dollars.”
His voice was a sneer. “Will that be by check or cash?”
“Cash, I theenk.”
She carefully took a crumpled, half-torn ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. He shoved a white form toward her.
“Fill this out—”
Tracy had no intention of putting anything in her handwriting. She frowned. “I’m sorry, señor. I hurt mi mano—my hand—in an accident. Would you min’ writin’ it for me, si se puede?”
Creighton snorted. These illiterate wetbacks! “Rita Gonzales, you said?”
“Sí.”
“Your address?”
She gave him the address and telephone number of her hotel.
“Your mother’s maiden name?”
“Gonzales. My mother, she married her uncle.”
“And your date of birth?”