On keeping secrets

Mr. Bankerman knew her best. And that wasn’t saying very much. Carla visited her safety deposit box on the 13th of each month and he hadn’t missed a single one of those days in the last 17 years. He came quite close the year his wife delivered their baby. The townfolk were placing bets on whether or not he’d leave her bedside in the heat of the moment if it overlapped with Carla’s bank day. But alas it didn’t come to that.

On each visit, Carla would disappear into the viewing chambers for 30 minutes, then leave just as plainly as she’d come in. Mr. Bankerman’s role in her life was small, but Carla hadn’t spoken at length to anyone in town since the incident back in '21. So even monthly transactions were considered somewhat momentous occasions for someone looking to tell a good story.

I’d come into the bank only two days after her passing was reported and I hadn’t imagined the slightly irked tone with which Mr. Bankerman excused himself from his desk when I asked for assistance. It struck me as I sat there: He thought he was going to be named beneficiary. All those years telling stories at church about her vault visits and here I was to claim what he thought would be his prize. As if I were purposely jockeying him for position instead of following through with what I was tasked to do. I tried to understand his disappointment. How could he have known her best if she chose to gift her key to me?

His bank manager composure returned with him.

“What’re your plans?” he asked as he handed me a small slip of paper.

“My…plans?”

“Well, yes. It’s quite a sum. You must have some idea of what to do with it.”

I glanced down at a bank statement and back up at him. We stared at each other from opposite ends of disbelief.

Twenty-thousand dollars.

She’d not so much as joined me for a silent visit. Why did she leave me twenty-thousand dollars? This thought consumed me more than any idea of what to do with it. I’d sooner trade it to have a chance to know her.

He interjected on the conversation starting in my mind, “follow me, Ma’am. There’s more.”

“More? More money?”

“Well, I can’t be so sure of that, Ma’am. But there is here this matter of a safety deposit box. I’ve no way of telling you what’s in there.”

“Of course. The key. I… I forgot.”

I was stunned, really. I hadn’t expected money on top of whatever was in the safe. I followed him into the vault. He stopped and tapped twice on Box 13.

“Here she is.”

We inserted both our keys and turned them at the same time, as you do with boxes like this. The sound of the lock mechanisms churned my stomach and my mind started whirling thinking about how I’d gotten here.

Carla may have graced Mr. Bankerman with her presence out of personal necessity once per month. What he didn’t know is that for the past few years, she and I had our own Monday through Friday ritual during the Spring, Summer, and Fall, except when it was raining. As soon as I became a teenager, I’d planted myself on a bench along her customary walking route to eat my lunch, truly hoping she’d have a seat with me one day. I was much younger than she, but I was drawn to her sadness and wanted to befriend her, even more-so since my mother was the only one in town who would never entertain questions about the incident. So I stayed on, even though my greetings were only ever returned with a polite nod of her head.

Until three days ago. She’d stopped in front of me on after her bank visit and started searching through her purse. It was almost surreal. Why did she stop today? What was she looking for? It was clear the purse was practically empty, so I wondered as she fumbled whether she was talking herself into it or out of it. Whatever it may be.

Moments later she lifted out of her bag a worn, small, rectangular envelope with the number 13 printed on it and placed it gently on the table in front of me.

“Take care, Lisbeth,” she said.

Her digging had simply extended what would have otherwise been too quick of a transaction. And she'd remembered my name.

I was brought back to the vault with the scraping of the metal box as Mr. Bankerman slid it out of its resting place and placed it on the observation table.

“I’ll leave you be. Take your time.”

I hovered in the quiet, acknowledging the life changing moment I was standing in. There was a line being drawn and I was about to step over it. To take a small fortune, and whatever lie in this personal safe. The belongings of not just someone…but Carla. My heart jumped with excitement for the first time since Monday and the sense of responsibility lifted with the cold, thin lid. I found inside only one item: a small, black notebook.

* * * * *

June 13, 1938

This will be my last entry. Seventeen years-ago today, I lost you. For seventeen years I have existed, the last two of which have been slower and more painful than the rest. You didn’t fight to live, as I have. Surviving against all odds with a pulse, but no heart to beat. It’s taken its toll. My body is ravaged- a miracle I’ve lasted this long is what the doctor said last week along with, “trust the process”. So, I am. And I can feel it in my bones, this process coming to an end. I have forgiven you, even though you couldn’t forgive yourself. This diary is my testament.

I’ll see you soon, my love.

Forever yours,

Carla

Indeed, Mr. Bankerman’s Carla days were over. And after all these years, mine were just beginning.