I had expected the call to end with the teller putting the phone down and telling Grandpa that Mr. Callahan was busy.
That seemed like the most likely outcome.
She had already made it clear that she didn't believe he belonged at the counter asking for two thousand dollars.
I couldn't imagine her believing he had any reason to speak directly to the bank president.
She had treated his request as an inconvenience.
Now she appeared to be treating his name the same way.
Grandpa didn't help her understand.
He didn't explain where he had come from.
He didn't mention anything about his account beyond the sixty-one years he had already given her.
He didn't tell her why Tom Callahan might recognize him.
He stood there quietly and let the name do whatever it was going to do.
I found that more unsettling than an argument would have been.
I was used to seeing Grandpa solve problems by doing something.
If a machine stopped working, he examined it.
If a fence came down, he found the damaged post.
If a bill needed paying, he paid it.
But here he was doing nothing at all.
At least, that was what I thought.
The teller continued listening to the person on the other end of the line.
Her expression changed by degrees.
The faint smile disappeared first.
Then her eyebrows lifted.
She glanced at Grandpa again, and this time there was no trace of amusement in her eyes.
I wondered what she had heard.
I wondered what Tom Callahan had said.
The telephone remained against her ear.
She answered with a brief, "Yes, sir."
Then she stopped talking.
I could hear my own breathing.
The security guard stood a short distance away, his hand no longer seeming quite so important.
The people waiting in line had become very interested in the conversation.
The older woman who had laughed at Grandpa was still there.
She had shifted her handbag to her other arm.
Her gaze kept moving between the teller and the office.
I remembered the little laugh she had made when Grandpa explained why he needed the cash.
At the time, she had seemed comfortable joining in.
Now she looked as though she wanted to be somewhere else.
The teller finally lowered the receiver.
She placed it carefully on its cradle.
For a second, she stared at the telephone.
Then she looked toward the corner office again.
I followed her eyes.
The door opened.
Not slowly.
It swung outward with enough force to strike the wall.
The sound cut through the lobby.
Everyone turned.
A man in a three-piece suit appeared in the doorway.
I recognized him only from the way the teller reacted.
Tom Callahan.
He was around sixty, dressed in a dark suit that looked far more expensive than anything Grandpa owned.
He didn't pause to ask what was happening.
He stepped out of the office and moved quickly across the lobby.
Quickly enough that I wondered whether I was seeing him correctly.
A moment earlier, he had been in his private office.
Now he was hurrying straight toward the man the teller had tried to send away.
Grandpa remained where he was.
He still held his cap.
He didn't wave.
He didn't call out.
He didn't make any effort to attract attention.
He simply watched Tom approach.
I looked at the security guard.
His hand had dropped away from his belt.
The teller stood motionless behind the counter.
The polished fingernails that had seemed so important when she first looked at Grandpa were resting against the edge of her desk.
She looked suddenly unsure of what she was supposed to do next.
Tom reached us.
He stopped directly in front of Grandpa.
For a brief moment, the two men looked at each other.
I could see the change in Tom's face.
He had come across the lobby in a hurry, but now he stood still, taking in the scene before him.
His gaze moved to Grandpa's overalls.
Then to the muddy boots.
Then to the cap held between Grandpa's hands.
After that, Tom looked at the security guard standing nearby.
The guard didn't say anything.
There was nothing he could say that would make the situation look better.
Tom turned toward the teller.
The whole lobby seemed to be waiting with him.
I had no idea what the two men knew about each other.
I had no idea why Tom had come running from his office.
But I understood one thing.
The teller had assumed Grandpa's clothes told her everything she needed to know about him.
Tom's reaction suggested she had been wrong.
Very wrong.
Tom looked at her for a long second.
Then he spoke.
The woman who had laughed behind us moved toward the exit before he had finished his first sentence.
And for the first time that morning, nobody in the lobby seemed interested in Grandpa's muddy boots.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Bank President Stood in Front of a Farmer Everyone Else Had Already Decided Wasn’t Worth Their Time
All We Needed Was Two Thousand Dollars, but the Woman Behind the Counter Had Already Made Up Her Mind
Part 4 of 8
