Here’s another thing I’ve observed. I think it’s part of Murphy’s Law. If it isn’t, it should be. It’s the fact that when you have something important to do, something like figuring out whether or not to tell your wife you’re going to be unemployed soon—and whether or not to tell her about something very stupid you did—and figuring out why that meth lab out on 218 showed no sign of being raided—and figuring out what to do with all the stolen money crammed into your grandmother’s antique desk—and where to hide the probably unregistered .22 revolver now in your saddlebag—and figuring out why you felt compelled to take it in the first place—all while taking your family out to dinner and pretending like nothing’s wrong—then along comes something else you have to deal with first, like chasing your father-in-law away and trying to soothe your wife’s mood while the kids fight over whether to get pepperoni or not on the pizza.
On second thought, Spence, forget about Murphy’s Law. It should be one of the laws of physics: A body at rest tends to stay at rest until acted upon by a naked lady dancing in the rain. After that, it’s going to be sandstorms and IEDs all the way to the end.
Any parent who is trying to be a good parent knows that, for most of every day, their own interests have to be put on hold while the kids’ needs and interests are tended. Which meant that Cindy and I didn’t get to talk about her father’s surprise appearance until we were in bed that night. I told her how my little conversation with him had gone, and she was furious.
“No way in hell is that going to happen,” she said. I’d heard her swear maybe ten times in our entire marriage. “No way in hell is he getting back with my mother.”
“Do you know for sure she doesn’t want to? Has she told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter whether she wants to or not. I’ll never let it happen.”
“But if she wants to—”
“It doesn’t matter what she thinks she wants, Russell! Why are you fighting me on this? You should be supporting me right now.”
“Baby, I’m not fighting you. It’s just that . . .”
“What? It’s just that what?”
I thought of a couple questions I could ask her, but it didn’t seem a good time, considering how worked up she was already. “Nothing, baby. I’m sorry. I’m behind you all the way, you know that.”
“You should be,” she said, and then leaned over against me, laid her head on my chest and let her hand rest on my stomach.
We stayed like that for a couple minutes, me not moving except to stroke her hair every once in a while. It had taken me a while to learn to be quiet like that with her. Back when we first got married, I thought it was my job to solve all of her problems, so anytime she would bring something up, I would add my two cents by saying, “Maybe you should do this,” or “Have you thought about trying that?” Then one day she came right out and told me what she thought of my suggestions. “I don’t need you to fix everything, Russell. Telling you what’s bothering me doesn’t mean I want you to fix it.” She kept hitting the word “fix” like it was something dirty.
“Okay,” I said. “Then I guess I don’t know what it is you do want me to do.”
“Sometimes all I want is for you to listen,” she said.
So that’s what I’d been trying to do unless she comes right out and asks for my opinion. It isn’t easy.
After a while that night she started talking about one of the other bank tellers, a woman named Theresa whose thirty-six-year-old son still lived with her and had gotten some twenty-year-old who worked at the mall pregnant. Talking about somebody else’s problems seemed to calm Cindy down.
“The thing is, the girl wants to have the baby and get married, but Theresa’s son works part-time at best as a substitute teacher.”
“The son doesn’t want to get married?”
“He’s almost forty years old and living with his mother. What do you think?”
“Sounds like maybe Theresa’s going to have a couple more mouths to feed.”
“Actually she’s thinking very seriously about transferring her savings to a bank in Mexico or some island somewhere, then packing up and retiring. Leave her son to either grow up or else stew in his own juices, she said.”
“That’s how she put it—stew in his own juices? That’s pretty clever.”
“Umhmm,” Cindy said, and moved her fingertips in a circle atop my chest.
I waited until I was sure she didn’t want to say any more about it. Then I said, “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. After I dropped Pops off yesterday, one of the other residents stopped me as I was headed for the door. He wanted my advice on what to do with all the cash he’s saved up over the years. I told him I’d ask you about it.”
“Which one was it?” she said.
“Which guy? You know, I don’t even know his name. Tall, thin guy, early eighties probably. I think he used to be an engineer of some kind. I’ve sat and talked to him a couple times when Pops would fall asleep on me, but I don’t recall I ever asked his name.”
“Well what makes him think that I would have any investment advice? I don’t know anything about investments.”
“I think he’s looking to put it somewhere safe. In a bank or credit union, something like that. It’s all in cash. Actual cash.”
“How much cash is it?”
“Sweetie, I didn’t inquire of the specifics, you know? But the way he talked, I got the feeling it was a lot. Like maybe his life savings or something. Apparently there are old people who do that. Lived through the depression, stock market collapse, and now they keep everything they have stuffed under a mattress.”
“Except that now somebody else is changing his sheets,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“So he wants to put it in the bank now?”
“I don’t know, I’m guessing. I do remember telling him about you and the girls, and I probably told him that you’re a bank teller in town.”
“We have to report any cash deposit over two thousand.”
“Report to who?”
“There’s this thing called the Suspicious Activity Report that goes to the federal government. I think that only applies to what it says, though. Money coming from a suspicious-looking person. But even if it’s not suspicious, if it’s more than ten thousand the person has to fill out a special IRS form. These days you can’t even make a lot of small deposits. That will trigger a Suspicious Activity Report too.”
“Interesting,” I said. “A guy wants to put his own money into an account, where the bank can use it and make a profit from it, and the government has to investigate him.”
“Yep. That’s pretty much the way it works.”
“So what should I tell the old guy next time I see him?”
“Personally? I’d tell him to spend it and enjoy himself. That’s one thing you can still do with real money. Actually spend it.”
“Spend it or give it away,” I said.
“Hey. Maybe he’d like to buy me a new car.”
“I’ll mention that to him.”
“Thanks,” she said, and chuckled a little. “Tell him I like the color red.”