‘I – I don’t know. Let me see. Excuse me.’ She rose from her chair, flustered, and hurried into the vice-president’s office.
She came out a few moments later. ‘You may go in.’ She edged away as Tracy walked towards the door.
What’s the matter with her? Tracy wondered.
Clarence Desmond was standing next to his desk.
‘Hello, Mr Desmond. Well, I’ve come back,’ Tracy said brightly.
‘What for?’ His tone was unfriendly. Definitely unfriendly.
It caught Tracy by surprise. She pressed on. ‘Well, you said I was the best computer operator you had ever seen, and I thought –’
‘You thought I’d give you back your old job?’
‘Well, yes, sir. I haven’t forgotten any of my skills. I can still –’
‘Miss Whitney.’ It was no longer Tracy. ‘I’m sorry, but what you’re asking is quite out of the question. I’m sure you can understand that our customers would not wish to deal with someone who served time in the penitentiary for armed robbery and attempted murder. That would hardly fit in with our high ethical image. I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. I would suggest that you try to find employment more suitable to your circumstances. I hope you understand there is nothing personal in this.’
Tracy listened to his words, first with shock and then with growing anger. He made her sound like an outcast, a leper. We wouldn’t want to lose you. You’re one of our most valuable employees.
‘Was there anything else, Miss Whitney?’ It was a dismissal.
There were a hundred things Tracy wanted to say, but she knew they would do no good. ‘No. I think you’ve said it all.’ Tracy turned and walked out the office door, her face burning. All the bank employees seemed to be staring at her. Mae had spread the word: the convict had come back. Tracy moved towards the exit, head held high, dying inside. I can’t let them do this to me. My pride is all I have left, and no one is going to take that away from me.
Tracy stayed in her room all day, miserable. How could she have been naïve enough to believe that they would welcome her back with open arms? She was notorious now. ‘You’re the headline in the Philadelphia Daily News.’ Well, to hell with Philadelphia, Tracy thought. She had some unfinished business there, but when that was done, she would leave. She would go to New York, where she would be anonymous. The decision made her feel better.
That evening, Tracy treated herself to dinner at the Café Royal. After the sordid meeting with Clarence Desmond that morning, she needed the reassuring atmosphere of soft lights, elegant surroundings, and soothing music. She ordered a vodka martini, and as the waiter brought it to her table, Tracy glanced up, and her heart suddenly skipped a beat. Seated in a booth across the room were Charles and his wife. They had not yet seen her. Tracy’s first impulse was to get up and leave. She was not ready to face Charles, not until she had a chance to put her plan into action.
‘Would you like to order now?’ the head waiter 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 signalled to the head waiter 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 towards 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 handbag, 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.
‘Buenas dias, señor. I would like to open a current 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 cheque 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 towards her.
‘Fill this out –’
Tracy had no intention of putting anything in her hand-writing. She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, señor. I hurt mi mano – my hand –
