Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [51]
He enters through the revolving door and is deposited at a perfume counter just inside the entrance. Men stand in a cluster, trying to attract the attention of a blond woman in a smart red dress who is spraying an atomizer onto their inner wrists, flirting a bit as she does so. Sexton longs to be among those men, lighthearted with the holiday, spending slightly too much on an easy gift for the wife. He doesn’t even know what kind of perfume Honora prefers. She always smells like soap.
He wanders through the millinery department and then passes by the glove counter. He is pushed aside (“Excuse me, sir, I didn’t see you”) and finds himself in the hosiery department. He is fairly certain Honora would like hose. Once he walked into the bedroom when she was mending a stocking with a tiny hook that was all but invisible. She hadn’t wanted him to see her doing that, and so she very quietly let the sewing fall into her lap while she spoke to him. He can’t remember the conversation now. He can recall only the image of Honora in her white slip on the bed, the slip not even reaching her knees, her legs bare and beautifully formed.
He imagines her at home waiting for him. She will be sitting on a chair in the kitchen, flipping through the pages of a magazine, looking out the window from time to time, worrying about him driving in the snow.
The image is unbearable.
“You can appreciate,” Rowley said, his voice cold, not a hint of drink upon him. No sign of the affable and lazy bank president who had wanted to talk cars and baseball scores and leave the decision-making to the girl out front. No, this was a different Rowley altogether, and, sitting across from the man (not having been invited to remove his coat), Sexton had an image of Rowley’s shoulders strung up like a puppet’s. “You can appreciate, Mr. Beecher, that in this current economic climate, this bank, and indeed most of the banks that I am familiar with, are taking a very close look at the loans that have been issued. And, frankly, in so doing, we have discovered an irregularity with your particular loan. Now that we have all the paperwork in front of us.”
“I’m sorry?” Sexton asked, attempting a smile.
Rowley smiled thinly back at him. “As you recall, Mr. Beecher, you came in on Friday, September fourth, requesting a loan of seven hundred dollars for the purpose of home improvement.”
He’s enjoying this, Sexton thought. Of course he is. Man bites dog bites cat. The bank would have tremendous shortages now, for which Rowley would be held responsible.
“At that time, you told us that you owned your home on, let me see, Fortune’s Rocks Road. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Beecher?”
A bead of sweat angled across Sexton’s temple. With an effort at the nonchalance of innocence, he shook his head. “I’m not sure what you mean, Ken.”
A small flinch, like a tic, passed across Rowley’s features, and Sexton realized that the Ken had been a mistake. The paneled walls that once seemed the very epitome of graciousness now felt oppressive, the windowsills too high, the room taking on the punitive menace of a classroom. “I’m sure there’s been an error of some sort in the paperwork,” Sexton added.
“There’s a very simple way to settle this. I can pick up the telephone and call Albert Norton over at the Franklin bank. I’ve been reluctant to do that, Mr. Beecher, as you can appreciate, for it would almost certainly precipitate an investigation into your loan with them.” No need to play the innocent now, Sexton thought: Rowley had him in his sights. “However, I am afraid that we shall