#172
He returned to the Warbucks & Erewhon union Trust Bank on Fawcett Avenue.
Initially he stood outside, staring at the grand building, almost turned on his heel. Stopping him was something distantly related to a backbone.
He had on something old, a three-piece suit by Walter Plunkett he’d worn the first time he met Louise, the one he’d borrowed from the Big O (hadn’t that been destroyed?) and wondered if, maybe, he should’ve tried something in blue.
Having pushed through the plate-glass door, he hoofed it up to the customer-service area. No Louise at her desk, meaning he was forced to join a long, zigzagging queue that crossed the tiled floor and had no end — but before he knew what was afoot, Jack was looming over a till occupied by the elderly Mister Winkle, never one for speed.
Jack forced himself to smile, yet Mister Winkle looked more alarmed than pleased — perhaps because Jack’s fabricated grin had come across gruesome. No mirror to check, so he eased off on the charm.
“I’m here to see Miss Starkwell,” he announced.
“Really, now?” Mister Winkle said in languid fashion. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I do.”
“Then I will have her paged. What is your name, sir?”
“Jacob Curtiss.”
“Just a moment, sonny — please wait over there.” Mister Winkle lifted an ancient claw to point to the other side of the open space, which was when Jack noticed all the other customers had vanished. Was it closing time?
While he waited, Jack did some browsing. First there was the wall Bulkhead had crashed through — it was still an airy mess that looked out onto the street — and next up sat an oddball lump of metal on a perch over near the main entrance.
“Twilight Over Hoboken.”
Jack briefly closed his eyes.
She was behind him, just like the second time they crossed paths. He could feel a cautious smile shimmy across his face and prayed it didn’t mimic the one that had scared Mister Winkle.
“Sorry?” Jack said finally, as he turned about to face Louise — who, straight off the bat, was back to being the business-like Miss Starkwell.
Behind tortoiseshell cat’s eye spectacles were a pair of wonderful emerald-green eyes that didn’t know him from, well, Jack.
The girl was wearing a green and white leaf-patterned sleeveless dress and black silk shoes, with silk baby blue pom-pom ribbons on the toes. Her hair hung straight, with the ends curling upward. While she also had a smile, it was a polished and friendly number, not in any way related to recognition. She was being courteous to a complete stranger.
“That sculpture you’re looking at. It’s Twilight Over Hoboken,” Miss Starkwell went on, “by famous Italian-American artist Pierre Picolino. Do you know him?”
“I’ve heard the name.” Jack found it difficult to breathe, but he knew the rest by rote and allowed the words to spill out. “I don’t see it.”
“You don’t see what, sir?”
Throat dry, he could barely swallow. “The twilight.”
“It’s an abstract sculpture. You’re supposed to use your imagination.”
“Still.”
“There’s always something there, sir, if you look closely enough.”
Jack scrutinized the girl’s face. No, there wasn’t. Not anymore. Never would be again.
“Please…call me Jacob.” A flailing plea was in his heart, if not in the wonderfully steady tone he used.
In return the girl looked through him. Only seconds had passed and Jack was already losing her attention. “Mister Curtiss, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Is there something in particular you needed to see me about? We’re quite busy.”
The truth? He wanted to see beyond her spectacles, right down into places he’d recently traversed and where he’d discovered such — what? Bliss? Bliss. Yes. He pined to hold her and kiss her and tell her everything would be fine; tell himself the exact same thing. Lie to them both.
“Mister Curtiss?” Miss Starkwell tilted her head. She looked cagey.
“Yes. I wanted to say thank you.”
Jack heard a veiled exhalation of relief.
“I’m so happy to hear we could be of assistance.” Miss Starkwell had no clue what he was talking about. As always, she covered beautifully, even held out her hand. They shook right there next to Twilight Over Hoboken.
“Goodbye then,” Miss Starkwell said. “Please call, if ever you need our help.” The girl was turning away when Jack stopped her with a lie.
“I want to take out a loan,” he fudged.
Miss Starkwell hesitated. “Mister Winkle is our loans expert.”