night that wins, And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are
slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by
blossom the spring begins.
From Atalanta in Calydon Algernon Charles Swinburne
But for the grace of God and an untied shoelace, she would have died
with the others that day. She walked into the bank at precisely two
forty-five in the afternoon to close her account, deliberately leaving the
task until the last possible minute because it made everything so final in
her mind. There would be no going back. All of her possessions had
been packed, and very soon now she would be leaving Rockford Falls,
Montana, forever.
Sherman MacCorkle, the bank president, would lock the doors in fifteen
minutes. The lobby was filled with other procrastinators like herself,
yet for all the customers, there were only two tellers working the
windows instead of the usual three. Emmeline MacCorkle, Sherman's
daughter, was apparently still at home recovering from the influenza
that had swept through the peaceful little town two weeks before.
Malcolm Watterson's line was shorter by three heads. He was a
notorious gossip, though, and would surely ask her questions she wasn't
prepared to answer.
Fortunately Franklin Carroll was working today, and she immediately
took her place in the back of his line. He was quick, methodical, and
never intruded into anyone's personal affairs. He was also a friend.
She had already told him good-bye after services last Sunday, but she
had the sudden inclination to do so again.
She hated waiting. Tapping her foot softly against the warped
floorboards, she took her gloves off, then put them back on again.
Each time she fidgeted, her purse, secured by a satin ribbon around her
wrist, swung back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum keeping
perfect time to the ticktock of the clock hanging on the wall behind
the tellers' windows.
The man in front of her took a step forward, but she stayed where she
was, hoping to put some distance between them so that she wouldn't have
to smell the sour sweat mixed with the pungent odor of fried sausage
emanating from his filthy clothes.
The man to her left in Malcolm's line smiled at her, letting her see
the two missing teeth in the center of his grin. To discourage
conversation, she gave him a quick nod and turned her gaze upward to
the water stains on the ceiling.
It was dank, musty, and horribly hot. She could feel the perspiration
gathering at the nape of her neck and tugged on the collar of her
starched blouse. Giving Franklin a sympathetic glance, she wondered
how any of the employees could work all day in such a dark, gloomy,
stifling tomb. She turned to the right and stared longingly at the
three closed windows. Sunlight streaked through the finger-smudged
glass, casting jagged splotches on the worn floorboards, and fragments
of dust particles hung suspended in the stagnant air. If she had to
wait much longer, she would incite Sherman MacCorkle's anger by
marching over to the windows and throwing all of them open. She gave