“It’s my job. For whatever reason, my father used the Mormons at some point to get info on our family tree. He was careful to only show me the part with him and my mother in it, but I’m sure I can get the rest if I go straight to the source . . . The point is, Mr. Clark would accept my family tree, since it uses research done by Mormons!”
I found what I was looking for on the internet in no time. The Mormons had gone completely modern. All I had to do was enter my info and my parents’ names on their genealogy website, and I nearly instantly obtained the family tree that would serve as proof of my lineage. I had planned to march straight back to that teller with the document to give him a piece of my mind, when I got a call from Mr. Clark’s secretary.
The branch president had agreed to meet with us the next day, at twelve o’clock sharp.
I couldn’t tell which was oldest: the president, the furniture in his office, or his secretary.
As we settled into a pair of cracked-leather armchairs, I took a closer look at our host. Impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit and bow tie, Mr. Clark wore rectangular glasses that rested on the tip of his nose, and had a bald head and white mustache. He looked like a well-dressed version of Geppetto, which I found sweet. Despite his charming appearance, the man kept a poker face throughout my entire explanation, leaning down and closely inspecting the documents I had brought. He studied my family tree with utmost care and attention, muttering “I see” on three different occasions, while George-Harrison and I awaited his verdict with bated breath.
“This . . . is quite a complicated matter,” he finally said.
“What’s so complicated about it?” asked George-Harrison.
“Strictly speaking, a family tree does not constitute an official document. Yet, this one does attest to your roots. The safety-deposit box in question hasn’t been opened for thirty-six years. In just a few months, it would have been declared abandoned, and its contents seized by the bank. You can imagine my surprise at this visit from someone claiming it.”
“But aren’t you holding proof of my hereditary rights in your hand right now? I’m Sally-Anne Stanfield’s daughter.”
“That much is clear, I grant you that. You do also look a lot like her, I must say.”
“You remember my mother, after all these years?”
“Do you have any idea how many years my wife resented me for not having approved your mother’s loan? Or the countless times she told me I should have stood up to my board of directors, insisting that their fears had been unwarranted? You have no idea how many years your mother cast a cloud—albeit indirectly—over my entire existence. Probably best I don’t give you the actual number.”
“Then you know the truth, you know what happened.”
“I know that she fled the country after her brother’s accident, abandoning her mother to go live abroad. Like anyone who had a relationship with the Stanfields, I was dismayed to learn all this.”
“Did you know Hanna?”
I picked up the slightest twitch in his face at the name.
“She was a lovely woman,” he said. “Never willing to listen to those doctors. Hanna . . . was a saint, as I live and breathe.”
“Listen to them about what?”
“About pulling the plug on her son, about turning off the machines that kept him alive. To ensure that Edward received the best possible care, she sold all her paintings, one by one, with the legendary Stanfield estate following soon thereafter. She lost most of her fortune. She eventually moved into a modest little apartment, all by herself, spending her days watching over her son at the clinic and waiting for a miracle that never came. Technology grew more and more sophisticated, yet nothing could bring Edward back to life. She sacrificed everything for him, and when he finally died, it wasn’t long before poor Hanna followed suit.”
“How long did Edward last?”
“At least ten years. Maybe longer.” Mr. Clark lifted up his glasses, dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief, and coughed.
“Let’s get back to what you came here for. You are aware this document proves your brother and sister are also Miss Stanfield’s rightful heirs? Or rather—your mother’s, I should say.”
“Indeed, I am.”
“The rental contract expressly stipulates that only she or one of her children be allowed access to the safety-deposit box.”
Mr. Clark took my family tree in his hands, along with the contract itself, and handed both to his secretary. She had been listening the whole time, with the door to her adjoining office cracked open. It was as though Mr. Clark wanted a witness to prove he hadn’t broken any rules, that he had remained a faithful servant of the bank over which he presided. The secretary returned a short while later, nodding to Mr. Clark to let him know everything was in order.
“Well, then. Shall we?” sighed Mr. Clark.