William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I walked down the concrete stairs toward the loading dock, the weight of the keys heavy in my coat pocket.
The lobby of the State Bank of Hartford smelled of old paper and furniture polish.
A bank officer named Mrs. Gable, no relation to my lawyer, sat behind a glass partition, her fingers tapping a computer keyboard.
“There is a ten percent penalty for early withdrawal before age fifty-nine and a half, Mr. Edwards,” she said.
“I understand,” I said.
“And the state will withhold another five percent for taxes,” she added, pointing to a line on the blue paper.
“Please write the check for eight thousand dollars to the Gable Law Firm,” I said. “And put the remaining balance in a cashier’s check to me.”
She clicked her mouse, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room.
“Sign here,” she said, sliding the white form through the slot in the glass.
My signature looked small and shaky on the gray line, a simple stroke of blue ink that erased fifteen years of quiet security.
Mrs. Gable returned with two checks, their edges perforated and clean.
