Playing Dead by Julia Heaberlin Page B

hand and suggested hell might not exist. I think I tried to pronounce the word “conceptual” to no avail. Granny was big on jump-starting our vocabularies at a very young age.
    “Ms. McCloud, your mother has no other business with this bank. According to our computer”—she paused and tapped the space bar three times—“the box has not been opened for a number of years. We are not privy to any legal authority you may have over Mrs. McCloud’s affairs. You brought no documents with you. You are not listed here as the one person who has permission to open the box.”
    “Who is?” I asked impatiently.
    “Ms. McCloud, you must know I can’t divulge that. All I know is that your driver’s license says you have the same last name. A common last name, I might add. In this era of identity theft, I would think you would be grateful that we undertake such diligent precautions.”
    The truth was, she was right. I knew it. I kicked myself for not talking to Mama’s lawyer before showing up.
    “Our father just died,” I persisted.
    “I’m real sorry about that,” Sue Billington replied tightly, unmoved. As I stood to go, she beamed a row of snowy veneers at me, probably a month of her salary. She chose that moment to parcel out the piece of information she knew I’d want most.
    “You and your sister should really coordinate with your brother, don’t you think? He was here recently asking about the same box. He was much more polite, if I do say so.”
    Then she bent, retrieved a paper towel and Windex from under her desk, and, with a businesslike spritz, wiped my fingerprints off the glass and into oblivion.

    I slipped on my Maui Jims as I exited the bank into the blinding sun, wondering why people thought sunglasses helped them hide.
    I’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable in my life.
    The perfectly innocent new mother pushing a stroller by me right now had no idea I wasn’t staring at her sleeping baby because he was adorable under his ducky blanket but because I wanted to warn him that life was not going to be what he expected. That it was random and unforgiving. Forget Daddy’s death, Mama’s dementia, their apparent lies. Tuck’s death alone proved that.
    A fresh wave of grief rolled over me. For Daddy? Or Tuck? I blinked back tears.
    Who could be impersonating Tuck? Why?
    The man in a suit wrestling with an overstacked Subway sandwich on the bench across the street had no idea that I wondered,
Is it you? Are you pretending to be my dead brother? Are you watching me?
    Get out of your head
, my psychologist brain advised.
Do something
.
    The sandwich guy tossed what was left of his early dinner in the trash and wandered up the street to report back in either at his boring office job or to a goon in a cowboy hat and a black vehicle.
    I took over his spot and dialed up W. A. Masters, our family lawyer. A brilliant legal mind and an old University of Texas buddy of my grandfather’s, W.A. didn’t use office technology inventedafter the electric pencil sharpener—certainly not a cell phone. His equally ancient secretary, Marcia, promised to hunt him down the old-fashioned way, walking over to Riscky’s, a barbecue joint and his favorite place to drink a tall glass of iced tea with four Sweet’N Lows in the late afternoon while he sorted through the next day’s round of court appointments.
    I assumed that W.A. knew nothing about this key or the contents of the safe deposit box, that it was another of Mama’s secrets, popping up like dormant locusts released from years of imposed napping. At the moment, I actually felt relieved that Ms. Billington, armed with window cleaner and her rolls of crimson tape, was an implacable fortress in the way of anyone trying to get in before I did.
    I hung up and felt a little better. I did wish I hadn’t worn such a short skirt, something plucked out of Sadie’s bag, because the bellman across the street was enjoying the view. My sweaty thighs were sticking to the