Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“Actually, Sarah, I need the printed statements for our joint checking account,” I said, speaking slowly and keeping my hands steady. “For the last three months, please.”
She tapped her fingers on the edge of her keyboard, her computer screen reflecting in her safety glasses as she scrolled through the records.
“We can print those right out for you,” she said, looking up with a slight frown. “There is a ten-dollar fee for paper archives, though. I can take it right from the account if you like.”
“That is fine,” I said, sliding my debit card across the smooth black counter.
“It will just take a moment,” she said, her fingers moving over the keys again. “We had some trouble with the network this morning, but it seems to be running now.”
The printer behind her began its rhythmic, high-pitched whining, pulling paper from a tray in the back of the small office.
I touched my silver wedding ring, spinning it slowly around my knuckle while I waited for the machine to finish.
The joint account had held our shared life for twenty-two years, the deposits from my teaching salary and his medical practice mingling until they were indistinguishable.
