The Bones of Plenty. Lois Phillips Hudson
It was all he could do to keep from looking back or at least stopping suddenly to trick the man following him into taking two more thundering steps than he took himself. And all the while he knew the street was as empty as it was when he walked out of the bank. It seemed impossible that the rolls of stiff new bills did not show right through his sheepskin coat or that it was not written on his face that Harry was going to close the Eureka Bank that Friday afternoon. It had been about fifty years since Will had been a party to any sort of conspiracy. Harry was closing the bank, but Harry was going to keep a few “friends” from suffering. It was no more real than a boyhood game.
After all, Harry had hung on for so long. It was true that the real crisis had finally come. Hoover was waiting out the last weeks of his term like a man tied across the railroad tracks in front of an express train.
Still, he couldn’t understand why Harry Goodman had managed all this time and then failed. If he had been speculating with the deposits, he ought to have gone down long before this. His extreme conservatism had made the farmers who needed loans hate him bitterly, but it should have brought him through, too. Will remembered the last statement of assets he had read, and if it was correct, Harry was stable enough. Harry had a total of seventy-five thousand dollars or so in cash deposits, and his loans seemed to be in about the right percentage. But perhaps even Harry had not been conservative enough to protect himself against the terrible deflation of property values. Men had mortgaged their farms in order to speculate in meaningless paper stocks, and when their property declined by more than half, many of the mortgages were only meaningless paper, with figures written on them that represented more than the farms could be sold for. It was all paper—just paper.
Will became aware that he was shaking his head—he felt his day-old beard scratching against his high coat collar. People he would pass in the street would wonder if he had gotten his, and he would wonder if they had gotten theirs, and he would never again be free of the knowledge that he possessed, mostly by sheer chance, a little bit of the money that belonged to at least half of his friends and neighbors. Will wondered how bad the failure was—would the depositors get back fifty cents on a dollar? Forty? Two bits? A dime?
What ought he to do with the money? The only thing he could think of was to bury it. Why put it in another bank? He’d already used up more luck than he could expect to see in the rest of his life. He decided to buy a metal box to bury it in. When he came to a notch knocked through the bank of frozen snow, he stepped down off the sidewalk and crossed the street to Zack Hoefener’s hardware store.
He thought, as he opened the door, that Zack would be sure to ask him what the box was for, but the thought came too late. He entered just as Zack came in through the rear door. Zack had been burning packing paper in the dented oil drum he used for an incinerator. His face, a complex map of abused capillaries, was purple with cold, and he smelled of smoke and whiskey. Where did he get it all the time, Will wondered. Drunk or sober he was ornery, but he owned the only hardware store within twenty miles.
Will said, “Hello, Zack,” and Zack replied with a bob of his head that sent a quiver through the massive goiter hanging from his neck.
Zack made fists of his smudged hands and leaned on his knuckles on the counter. He always made his customers ask for what they wanted; he never asked them. He wasn’t any god-damn waiter, he often said to himself.
“Have you got some kind of a good strong metal securities box—about like so?” Will measured with his hands.
“Need it to keep all those gold-mine stocks in? Save ’em for your grandchildren?” Zack demanded.
“Well,” Will said, “I’ll grant you I haven’t clipped any coupons for a while. But there’s no use starting any fires with them yet. Never can tell. Roosevelt just might get some things to moving again.”
Zack hunched his shoulders, sending another spasm through his goiter.
“Roosevelt won’t be alive ten days after he’s in office,” he said, “even if he lives long enough to be sworn in at all. Somebody else with better aim will get him.”
“Oh, you know that fellow that tried to shoot him was as crazy as a June bug.”
“Who cares how crazy he was! A bullet is a bullet, no matter who shoots it. You wait and see. He’ll never make it.” Zack bulged his eyes at Will. Then he turned and stalked to the back of the store. He plucked a small black box from a shelf, hooked two broad fingers under its dusty nickel handle, and dangled it toward Will. “Big enough?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” Will said. He reached cautiously into a pocket, trying to remember where he had put the twenties. He didn’t want to give Zack a fifty. It was quick thinking for Harry not to have given him anything bigger than fifties, but even fifties were mighty rare birds. He fell behind Zack while they walked to the front of the store and managed to get a look at the bill he had pulled out. It was a twenty.
“By God, you could buy me out with that!” Zack expostulated when he saw the money.
“Well, I’ve finally got to break it,” Will said.
“I won’t hardly have no change left,” Zack complained. “This here is the third big bill I’ve broke today. If I can’t get to the bank I won’t have no change for tomorrow.… That’s one-eighty-five out of twenty—for God’s sake.” He scraped the coins out of the little metal compartments and slid bills out from under their wire holders.
Will wondered if any of the other big bills had appeared for the same reason his had, and if so, who Harry’s other lucky friends were.
“See you later, Zack,” Will said. He drew on his gloves and tucked the box under his arm. Zack nodded his head once and then fell to stroking his goiter, thoughtfully, as though he could not quite believe that it was there.
Will bought the groceries on the list Rose had given him. They came to $5.87. That plus the cashbox came to $7.72. Subtract that from $2880 and it left $2872.28—more money than he had had in the bank in the first place, thanks to Harry’s haste and ruin. He said goodby to Herman and hurried around the corner and back up the street toward his truck. He passed Gebhardt’s Pool Hall with the hotel rooms up above, where the Gebhardts lived. It was the only two-story building on the block, and it made the bank look very small and fragile down below it. The whole bank probably had no more floor space than Will’s parlor, though it had never occurred to him before to think of it that way.
He slid his hand under his coat to pat the springy round rolls in the pockets of his shirts and overalls. When the money had been in that little building it had seemed like so much more. Before it became paper in his pockets it had been a varying number on the statements sent out from that building; then it had seemed like an entity that could be expected to exercise some care in its own behalf—not a helpless abstraction, totally dependent on the conventions and caprices of men.
Will looked down as he passed the bank and did not look up again till he was aware of the darkness of his figure mirrored in the window of Gus and Ruby’s Café-Restaurant. The sky was a little grayer with the advance of the afternoon. It was possible to believe that the sun had gone another ninety-three million miles away. It was possible to believe almost anything.
He climbed into the truck and started around the block to head for home. But more commanding than the few simple lines he had to look at in order to drive was the persistent image of his last view of Harry’s bank. There was the partition across the center of what was really only a single room. On the customers’ side of the partition were the greasy floorboards, a shelf suspended from the wall, and a hatrack. The shelf held pen, ink, deposit slips, and blank checks. Over it hung the calendar for 1933 with only the January sheet torn from it. The calendar bore the picture of a tall, narrow building more than half a continent away. The building was the headquarters for a life insurance company. Around its top radiated the beams of a halo that culminated in the legend THE LIGHT THAT NEVER FAILS.
But humble as it was, the bank had been a three-dimensional reality, and it had imparted the illusion of reality to the abstraction it housed. Now there was nothing