It's Not What it seems

By 1:00 pm the green bottle of Laphroaig Scotch Whisky remained unopened on the kitchen counter with the golden liquid almost begging me to let it out of the bottle as if it were a Genie with the supernatural ability to grant me three wishes, like tuning back time. Eyeing the bottle with suspicion, I reached for my tumbler when my cell phone lit up. I had turned the ringer off at the funeral. I refused to turn it back on. “I have no reason to turn it back on.”

“She’ll never call me again.” Swirling the bottle I mumbled to myself, “I don’t need a phone.”  But the phone refused tor stop vibrating. I knew it wasn’t her.  It couldn’t be her.  But out of compulsion or maybe hope, I reached for the phone as it bounced on the countertop. 

“Mr. Parece, Mr. Joseph Parece?” The voice on the other end of the phone was firm and strong, yet hesitant.  

“What?”

“Mr. Parece,” he repeated. “I’m A.B. Andrews. I’m a manager of the Mellon Bank in New York City.”

“So? I don’t have a Mellon Credit Card and I don’t need another card. So, thanks for calling.”

“No wait. Don’t hang up.”

“Good bye - I don’t need a new credit card.” 

“Wait.” Andrews voice was frantic. He rubbed his forehead.  “Mr. Parece, my bank,” he stammered. “On behalf of my bank, I want to expression our sincere sympathy on the loss of your wife.” His voice trembled as it turned soft. 

“Thank you.” 

The manger, even though he was 400 miles away, could tell that Parece had been crying.  Standing beside the floor to ceiling window of his office that overlooked lower Manhatten, Andrews could picture, even without ever meeting Parece, that he had bloodshot eyes from crying.  

“Mr. Parece, I have a document, a legal document that has been sealed in one of our vaults here in our bank on Greenwich Street.” His voice was less wobbly.  “Sir, the document, it has been here for quite a while. I assure you, it has been here long before I was made the manager of this deportment. Well, it’s been locked in a special vault in our bank. This morning an alarm went off on my computer. The alarm signaled that it was time for me to retrieve a certain document; a special document with your name on it.  Mr. Parace, the document could only be retrieved upon the death of your wife. Again, I am very sorry.”  

The awkward silence on the other end of the line was deafening.  

“Mr. Parace, the document; well, it is addressed to you, and only to you. I can not legally open this document, nor can I send it.”  

“So, what?”

Drained by the stress of the conversation and exasperated by the progress or lack of progress, Andrews spoke up. “Mr. Parece, I must insist that you come to New York City.  Well, I can’t really require you of course, but,” his voice faltered as he tried to remain strong. “The document, Mr. Parece, it requires you to be here to pick it up. Along with the document is a cashier’s check that has been back dated 36 years. All of your expenses are taken care of. Once you arrive in my office, this check is yours and I assure you it will cover all of your expenses.”    

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Wednesday morning I arrived at LaGuardia Airport.  The Uber rumbled below the metro tracks of Astoria, through the midtown tunnel and then the dusty Toyota Prius turned south in Manhattan and headed at a snail’s pace for the financial district.  An eternity later I stepped out of the Prius and into the canyon of lower Manhattan.  

Large decorative planters, the size of anti-tank barriers, guarded the golden entrance of the bank where A.B. Andrews, just one of the nearly 4,300 Mellon employees had his desk.  A security guard, dressed more like a greeter at a pretentious wedding, except for his revolver that poked its way out from under his navy suit jacket, ushered me to a bank of visitor elevators. There he punched number 11, placed an plastic I.D. badge on my lapel and watched the door close behind me. 

 On the way up a benign beep signaled each of the passing floors. With each passing floor, I thought about my wife. Each beep, like an alarm clock, jerked me awake to a new memory, a new vision and a picture of her.  So easily I could picture her in her wedding dress on that September morning. I could see her in our house, cooking in the kitchen, laughing. She was always smiling, always adventurous, always loving life.

The elevator was fast and smooth. By the fifth beep our marriage of over 3 decades was flashing by.  

Eighth floor, I can picture Maureen as a marketing director in Pittsburgh.  She didn’t work for a bank. I’m still confused why I have to come to a bank in New York City. 

Ninth Floor, nine beeps slipped away as I thought about her work for M. & M. Marketing, a mid-size Public Relations firm located in a high-rise on Grant Street near the Steel Building. Their slogan, “inspiring action and building value”, appears on all their material, both printed and digital. Behind the reception area the slogan greets every customer. Painted in soft colors, the Bodoni font with its thick and thin strokes convey boldness and strength and power to remind everyone seated in their large waiting room of M.& M.’s skill set. They have offices, albeit, mostly small ones, on four continents. Because of the multiple offices, located on many continents, Maureen was required to travel occasionally. Sometimes her travels were short.  Sometimes they came suddenly. But she always came home exhausted and yet content.  

The beep sounded announcing the elevator had reaching the 11th floor. I can picture Maureen coming home from one of those trips fatigued and yet invigorated. She would always say, “Our program worked,” and she would smile. A smile that would light up a room and conceal her exhaustion.  My smile as well as my memory disappeared as quickly as the door of the elevator opened. Greeted by additional security, I was escorted to Mr. A.B. Andrews’ office.

His office was clean and bright and his desk empty.  Clean desks always reminded me that things are never what they appear. Mark Twain used to say that a clean desk was a sign of a cluttered desk drawer. “What else was he hiding?”  

The desk was made of blending dark birch with cherry wood to a high polished sheen. Intricate carvings ran down the corners that resembled old-world craftsmanship and yet it held modern conveniences to signify a posh lifestyle. In reality the desk did nothing but create a huge barrier separating Andrews from his clients. Rising from behind his desk, Andrews extended his hand and pointed to one of the leather chairs across from him.  

“My secretary just set up this server; what can I fix for you? How about a coffee and a bagel? How do you take your coffee?”

    “No thanks." 

The only item on his desk was a single sheet of paper. Paper-clipped to it was a cashier’s check. “This is the document I was telling you about and this is the check. If you would sign these papers,” he pulled two sheets of paper out from his desk drawer, “then I can release this to you.” He pointed to the document and then he handed me the papers. I scribbled my name on bottom lines. He examined my signature. He put the papers back in the desk drawer. Then he handed me the document with the check still attached to it.  

“If you indorse the check we will get it cashed for you immediately and what you don’t need at the present we will transfer to your home bank.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Mr. Parece, all I know is that this check for $45,000 is yours. And this sealed manilla envelope with your name typed on it is yours as well.”  

The door behind me opened and another security guard dressed in a navy blue suit stepped in.  

“Mr. Ramy, would you escort Mr. Parece to the open room next door?” Andrews rose from behind his desk, “I think you might like to open the envelope and read the document in private.” And just like that our meeting was over. The check was getting cashed and I was going into another room to open the envelope. 

It was another bright and clean room. I sat at the small desk that was aimed at the window which opened up on lower Manhattan. The clasp held the envelope locked. Bending open the clasp, I slid a pen under the glued envelope flap.  A single letter slid out, along with a key. I examined the key. It was a key to a safety deposit box. The number 317 was engraved on it. I held the key, playing with the ridges, as I reached for the letter.  

The top of the letter held a date from 2 years ago. “Joe, I love you. If you are reading this letter then you know that I have died.  I never thought it would be cancer that would get me.  But, here you are reading my note. The key unlocks a safety deposit box in this bank. You need to go to the box. I hope the check will cover your expenses. I’m sorry; I’ve always loved you.”  It was signed, Maureen.

The bank’s security boxes were on the second floor.  A glass wall separated the canyons of boxes that seemed to stretch out forever. A security guard took my key. He passed though the glass door while I waited by his desk. A few minutes later he returned. He handed me the box after returning the key. I slid the key in my pocket. The box, black and long and narrow, had a single hinge in the middle of it. I was escorted to another room, this one a small stall-like closet without windows.  The wooden paneled room was lit by an antique ceiling lamp constructed from stained glass. The desk rested up against a wall. There were two chairs. But I only needed one. I only ever need one these days. Seated alone at the desk I opened the box. It contained a pair of Diamond earrings and a stack of hundred dollar bills. They were bound together. The printed label had the number $100,000 stenciled on it. There was another envelope and another note in the rear of the box. 

I unfolded the note while looking at the stack of money.  

“My Dearest Joe, before I met you, before we were married I did some traveling. One time, as I waited for my flight home at the Jorge Chavez International Airport in Lima, I was approached by some men. I’ll never forget that day, just as I never forgot our wedding day. Just as our wedding was the beginning of our new life together, this day in Lima was the beginning of a new life for me. My ability to learn languages drew the attention of different organizations.  And sitting in the airport that day I agreed to join the intelligence community. Over the decades there were days when I walked into the public relations office, changed my clothes, added a wig and walked out the back door with a different passport and into a waiting taxi who ushered me to the airport. (Have you found my various passports in the small envelope?) Since my cancer advanced, our cover business, M. & M. Marketing, the artificial Public Relations business, was shut down.  But while I was a linguist operative, I traveled and worked on four different continents. Fluent in seven languages, I know you thought I struggled with Spanish. I’m sorry for deceiving you. I’m sorry that I was not completely honest with you. But I could never tell you that I was actually employed by our government to work behind the scenes in some sticky situations. Forgive me for concealing my secrets. But I can honestly tell you that I loved you!”   

Wedged in the back of the box was another paper. I reached in and pulled out a photograph. It was our wedding.  Looking at our wedding picture, I mumbled, “Things are never how they appear.”