The security guard arrived a moment later.
He was a broad man in a dark uniform.
He approached the counter with one hand resting near his belt.
I noticed that before I noticed anything else.
Grandpa noticed it, too.
The guard stopped beside us and looked at him.
"Sir, would you mind stepping away from the window?"
Grandpa didn't argue.
He didn't demand to know what he had done wrong.
He moved aside immediately, leaving the teller's window clear.
His obedience was so calm that it made the guard's posture seem even more unnecessary.
I stayed beside him.
My face was hot.
I wanted to ask the guard whether he had been told what actually happened.
I wanted to explain that we had come in for a routine withdrawal.
I wanted to point out that Grandpa had done nothing except answer a series of insulting questions.
But Grandpa was looking beyond the security guard.
He wasn't watching the teller anymore.
He wasn't looking at the people waiting in line.
His attention had settled on the offices at the back of the bank.
One of them stood behind a glass partition.
The room was separated from the lobby, and its furnishings looked more expensive than anything near the public counters.
Grandpa studied that office for a few seconds.
Then he turned his attention back to the teller.
His voice was as mild as it had been when he first approached her.
"Could you tell me if Tom Callahan is still working in that office in the back?"
The teller's expression changed.
She seemed almost amused.
She glanced in the direction of the office and then back at Grandpa.
"Mr. Callahan runs this bank."
She spoke as though that fact should have ended the discussion.
"He doesn't handle ordinary cash withdrawals."
Grandpa gave a slight nod.
"I understand."
The security guard remained beside us.
I could feel him watching Grandpa, waiting to see whether the situation would become more difficult.
It didn't.
Grandpa adjusted the cap in his hands.
Then he asked the teller for one small favor.
"Would you let him know that Earl Doyle is here?"
She stared at him.
For the first time, I saw a hint of irritation break through her professional expression.
"Sir, I really don't think—"
"Just tell him my name, please."
Grandpa didn't raise his voice.
He didn't lean toward her.
He didn't give her any reason to believe he was issuing a demand.
He sounded like a man asking someone to pass along a message.
That was all.
I looked from him to the glass office.
I knew Grandpa had been banking there for a long time.
He had mentioned the institution often enough over the years, usually when he was talking about paying bills, depositing money, or handling some piece of farm business.
But I had never heard him mention Tom Callahan.
I had no idea whether they knew each other.
I had no idea why Grandpa wanted to speak to the bank president.
And I certainly didn't understand why he had remained so calm while the teller treated him like an inconvenience.
The teller let out a breath.
It was loud enough for us to hear.
She looked at the guard, then at the people waiting behind us, as if she expected somebody to confirm that this was a ridiculous request.
Nobody said anything.
The older woman who had laughed earlier was looking down at her handbag.
The man with the phone had lowered it.
The lobby had become strangely quiet.
The teller picked up her telephone again.
I could tell from her expression that she wasn't taking Grandpa seriously.
She was going to make the call, but she seemed determined to show everyone how little she thought of it.
She pressed the number for the back office.
Then she lifted the receiver and spoke.
"Mr. Callahan? I'm sorry to interrupt you."
She glanced at Grandpa.
"There is a man out here named Earl Doyle. He says he knows you."
She paused, listening.
Her expression suggested she expected to be asked to send him away.
Grandpa stood beside me, his cap held neatly in both hands.
He wasn't watching the teller now.
He was looking toward the office.
The security guard shifted his weight.
I heard a faint noise from the coffee machine near the entrance.
Then the teller said something else into the phone.
"Yes, sir. Earl Doyle."
She listened again.
Only a few seconds passed.
But the atmosphere in that lobby had changed enough that I felt it before I understood why.
The teller stopped looking amused.
Her eyes moved toward the glass partition.
I followed her gaze.
The office door was still closed.
Grandpa didn't move.
He simply waited.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Name She Had Treated Like a Joke Reached the Corner Office, and Suddenly Nobody Was Laughing Anymore
All We Needed Was Two Thousand Dollars, but the Woman Behind the Counter Had Already Made Up Her Mind
Part 3 of 8
