if anything jumped out at me. If that didn’t work, I would go back through them more thoroughly a second time.
It took a while, but after thumbing through 15 books, it dawned on me to check the fattest books next, back to front, because the odds were that the box number was high. I struck gold with a heavy tome titled The Riverside Shakespeare: On page 1569, at the bottom right corner, the page number was circled in black ink. By coincidence, I noticed, the last line on the page was from The Winter’s Tale , and the quote seemed ironic, considering the situation: Would they else be content to die?
Now that I had the correct book, I was to look for two more notations that would tell me the correct bank, and these were harder to remember. Something about a square and a triangle and “x marks the spot.”
I held the book to me and closed my eyes, praying that God would bring the memories I needed back to me. It had been so very long since Eli had told me all of this; what had given him the right to believe I would still remember after all this time?
Frustrated, I started on page 1 of the nearly 2000-page-long book and flipped through, page after page, until I found what I was looking for. On page 17, a small triangle had been lightly drawn around the number, and then, on page 43, the same thing had been done with a square. I knew I was supposed to use these numbers to find the page and listing of the correct bank in the phone book.
I had seen a telephone directory in the kitchen, so I stood and made my way back there, first checking out the seventeenth listing on page 43 and then the forty-third listing on page 17. One was a personal residence and one was a dog groomer. Neither was a bank.
Back to square one. I put the phone book down on the counter and tried, again, to clear my mind. What now, Lord? I prayed silently.
X marks the spot , I could almost hear Eli say in reply.
X marks the spot—of course! I wasn’t supposed to use the local phone book, because the box hadn’t been rented locally. Heart pounding, I ran to the guest bedroom, where I remembered seeing five or six other phone directories for the state of Florida.
They were still in a heap on the floor, and it didn’t take long to look inside each directory’s back cover until I came to the one with a big “X” marked across it in black ink. The directory was for the Orlando area.
Hands trembling, I sat on the edge of the bed and turned to page 43, the seventeenth listing.
Boss Lumber.
I tried again, page 17, the forty-third listing.
American Fidelity Bank.
Bingo.
Seven
“Hey, Harriet,” I said into my cell phone as Tom steered us toward the interstate. “It’s Callie. I need some banking info.”
“Sure,” Harriet replied. God bless her, she always knew when my tone meant “right away, no time to chat.” At the moment, though I was sure she was dying to ask me questions, she held her tongue. “What can I tell you?”
“Can I get into a safety deposit box without showing ID?”
Because Harriet had worked for a bank before becoming office manager of the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, she was always my go-to gal for banking procedures.
“Depends,” she replied. “Do they know you there?”
“No. I’m trying to get into Eli’s box. But I feel sure they don’t know him, either.”
“Hmm…” she said, and I could picture her chewing her pencil—or twirling it into her deep red hair. “There’s a chance they won’t ask, but if they’re doing their job right, they will. Everybody’s more careful these days, you know. If I had to lay odds, I’d say there’s about a ninety percent chance you’re gonna have to show your driver’s license to get into that box. And the name on the license has to match the name on the box or you’re out of luck.”
“I was afraid of that,” I said.
“Even if they don’t ask for ID,” she said, “you’ll have to sign the signature card, and it has to look just like the sig they
It took a while, but after thumbing through 15 books, it dawned on me to check the fattest books next, back to front, because the odds were that the box number was high. I struck gold with a heavy tome titled The Riverside Shakespeare: On page 1569, at the bottom right corner, the page number was circled in black ink. By coincidence, I noticed, the last line on the page was from The Winter’s Tale , and the quote seemed ironic, considering the situation: Would they else be content to die?
Now that I had the correct book, I was to look for two more notations that would tell me the correct bank, and these were harder to remember. Something about a square and a triangle and “x marks the spot.”
I held the book to me and closed my eyes, praying that God would bring the memories I needed back to me. It had been so very long since Eli had told me all of this; what had given him the right to believe I would still remember after all this time?
Frustrated, I started on page 1 of the nearly 2000-page-long book and flipped through, page after page, until I found what I was looking for. On page 17, a small triangle had been lightly drawn around the number, and then, on page 43, the same thing had been done with a square. I knew I was supposed to use these numbers to find the page and listing of the correct bank in the phone book.
I had seen a telephone directory in the kitchen, so I stood and made my way back there, first checking out the seventeenth listing on page 43 and then the forty-third listing on page 17. One was a personal residence and one was a dog groomer. Neither was a bank.
Back to square one. I put the phone book down on the counter and tried, again, to clear my mind. What now, Lord? I prayed silently.
X marks the spot , I could almost hear Eli say in reply.
X marks the spot—of course! I wasn’t supposed to use the local phone book, because the box hadn’t been rented locally. Heart pounding, I ran to the guest bedroom, where I remembered seeing five or six other phone directories for the state of Florida.
They were still in a heap on the floor, and it didn’t take long to look inside each directory’s back cover until I came to the one with a big “X” marked across it in black ink. The directory was for the Orlando area.
Hands trembling, I sat on the edge of the bed and turned to page 43, the seventeenth listing.
Boss Lumber.
I tried again, page 17, the forty-third listing.
American Fidelity Bank.
Bingo.
Seven
“Hey, Harriet,” I said into my cell phone as Tom steered us toward the interstate. “It’s Callie. I need some banking info.”
“Sure,” Harriet replied. God bless her, she always knew when my tone meant “right away, no time to chat.” At the moment, though I was sure she was dying to ask me questions, she held her tongue. “What can I tell you?”
“Can I get into a safety deposit box without showing ID?”
Because Harriet had worked for a bank before becoming office manager of the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, she was always my go-to gal for banking procedures.
“Depends,” she replied. “Do they know you there?”
“No. I’m trying to get into Eli’s box. But I feel sure they don’t know him, either.”
“Hmm…” she said, and I could picture her chewing her pencil—or twirling it into her deep red hair. “There’s a chance they won’t ask, but if they’re doing their job right, they will. Everybody’s more careful these days, you know. If I had to lay odds, I’d say there’s about a ninety percent chance you’re gonna have to show your driver’s license to get into that box. And the name on the license has to match the name on the box or you’re out of luck.”
“I was afraid of that,” I said.
“Even if they don’t ask for ID,” she said, “you’ll have to sign the signature card, and it has to look just like the sig they
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