A note brought me there, slipped to me by a red-faced boy on my daily walk along the banks of the Mississippi. A simple note,eight words and a signature, words that could mean everything, or nothing, maybe both, scrawled in delicate cursive on a stationary note from the First St. Louis Savings and Loan.
A.C. Bodin account deposit from Williamsburgh Savings Bank. – H. William Darvell
The note confused me. Why would I care about a deposit for Anthony Bodin, our team’s scouting director? Bodin had just completed his first year with us. Quiet. Traveled less than our former scout, but, at 72 years old, not surprising. His reports came on scribbled notes, nearly illegible, and quick mentions during meetings. He was mostly unassuming, a shadow where a shadow was expected.
But the bank listed tugged at me, pricked at me. The name, a distant whisper, or memory, or more. What was the connection to me, to Bodin?
I had slept on it for days, tossing and turning, had kicked rocks on walks and argued with myself. In the end, I had to find the meaning in the note, needed to understand.
I hated going into banks, hated them since following my father into one each month to pay off his land loan, watching him count out the bills, always short, always begging for more time, lowering himself. In the end, the bank took the land from us, regardless, not paying us a dime. It’s why I kept my money under floorboards and in flour sacks, far away from the intricate bars separating the clerks and their patrons, black iron bars, twisted and unnatural, spanning the interiors, reminding me of a prison, holding captives and jailers the same. It took me years to realize, though, the bars were not the prison, the money was.
And money may have taken Mr. Bodin prisoner.
“Mr. Darvell, please,” I said through the bars fixed to the bank’s counter. “Tell him Mr. Olmsted is here to speak with him.”
The young-faced clerk nodded, his face paling, hinting at more. His mouth motioned to speak, but he caught himself, caught the words, and walked to a corner office. He knocked on the open door, spoke to the person inside, Mr. Darvell I presumed, before motioning me to a door to let me behind the bars.
Mr. Darvell was a round man. His starch-white button down shirt was stained around the collar, a dingy yellow accented by a royal blue bow-tie, squeezing his neck like a cinched bag of potatoes. But his expression was warm, welcoming.
“Mr. Olmsted, it’s a privilege.” He smiled, flashed a mouthful of teeth matching his collar, gestured to the chair opposite him, for me to sit. “Although, I do wish it was under better circumstances.”
Images of my father, forehead sweating, hands raking through unwashed hair, stuttering apologies, seeing him in a chair similar to the one being offered to me now. I couldn’t sit, couldn’t trust the chair, or what’s opposite. I scratched at my shoulder, an itch that wasn’t an itch, feigned a smile, said, “I prefer to stand, if it’s no trouble.”
He shrugged, began gathering notes, ledgers, clearing a space on his desk. Without looking up, he said, “There are many men who refuse to sit in that chair.” His eyes met mine. “It’s the men who sit there gladly who worry me most.”
I nodded, held my tongue, wanted to say men sitting in his chair worried me the most. I thought of leaving, nothing good came from banks. But I needed to know, had to know, “What’s this about Bodin?”
“Yes, of course. Let’s get to it,” he said, pulling a bank note from a drawer. “I thought it best for you to see the bank note for Bodin’s deposit. To see the authorization signature.”
He turned the note to me, pushed it across his desk. I stepped forward, squinted. “I can’t read that chicken scratch.”
“Neither could I at first, but my clerk made it out,” He paused, pulled at his collar. “Williamsburgh Savings Bank is in Brooklyn. The signature reads – William Elwart Barclay.”