Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [52]
Sexton sat forward. “But in essence I did. Really, what does a day or two matter — particularly since it was over a holiday weekend and business was suspended for three days?”
“There can be no debate on this matter,” Rowley said. “As a banker, I cannot tolerate any irregularities. Seriously, Mr. Beecher, can you imagine a depositor not minding the irregularity, say, of a miscalculated sum in his passbook?” Rowley waited a moment for an answer to his rhetorical question. “No, I think not,” he answered himself.
Is the bottle in that right-hand drawer an irregularity? Sexton wanted to ask. “Could we talk about restructuring the loan?” he asked instead.
“No, that will not be possible.”
The trickle of sweat pooled on Sexton’s cheek.
“And I am afraid, Mr. Beecher, that while I have refrained from notifying the Franklin bank in hopes that you and I might reach an easy settlement here, I did have to speak with the head office of your company. We were unable to reach you by telephone, you see.”
Sexton briefly closed his eyes and watched his life tumble away from him. His job. His car. His house.
“You spoke to whom?” Sexton asked.
“I have it in my notes here. Mr. Fosdick himself, I believe. Yes, that’s right.”
Sexton took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. Rowley too was sweating, Sexton noticed. His collar was limp and — was it possible? — dirty.
“Mr. Fosdick has asked me to have you call him at your earliest convenience. I do encourage you in future, Mr. Beecher, if you are to continue in business of some sort, to install a telephone at your residence.”
In business of some sort.
“So then. Not to prolong this unpleasant matter. We should like repayment in full of the loan in question no later than Wednesday of next week.”
“But I can’t raise that kind of money by next week,” Sexton said, stifling a note of rising panic that had crept into his voice.
“No, I thought not. But, as I recall, Mr. Beecher, you mentioned you drove a Buick? What do you imagine it’s worth now?”
Sexton was silent.
“I’m trying to find a way for you to keep your house, Mr. Beecher. Frankly, I consider this an awfully generous gesture on my part. If your automobile is worth what I think it is, then it could go a fair distance toward repaying this loan we’re speaking of.”
Sexton thought frantically.
“So you’d say it’s worth how much, Mr. Beecher?”
“Four hundred and seventy-five dollars,” Sexton said. “That’s what I paid for it.”
“Well then, Mr. Beecher. If you would be so kind as to deliver the Buick to the address I have written on this piece of paper next Wednesday, we would be most grateful. As you will see, the address is that of an auction house. I can’t guarantee the four hundred seventy-five. Indeed, I should think not in this economic climate. But with commission we might net four hundred.”
Panic blossomed in Sexton’s voice. “Without the car, Mr. Rowley, I can’t make a living.”
Rowley winced as surely as if Sexton had begun to cry. “I hope we’re not going to have a problem here,” Rowley said quietly.
With a supreme effort, Sexton stood.
“Well then,” said Rowley, relief evident in his voice. And without a trace of irony added, “Good luck to you.”
“May I help you, sir?”
A lithe, diminutive woman, beige of hair and of face, who suddenly seems so precisely the color of the product she is selling that Sexton wonders if she has sprung to life from behind the counter, tilts her head to catch his attention.
“Can I show you anything in particular? Are you looking for a gift for your wife? Your girlfriend? Is she tall or is she short?”
“She’s . . . long,” Sexton says. “She’s very long.”
The beige woman looks sharply up at him, as if she might be dealing with a fruitcake. Or a man who’s celebrated just a bit too heartily at an office party around the corner. Sexton struggles to attention. The task seems monumentally difficult, but he cannot go home to Honora