S Is for Silence

him, was writing to inquire about the above-referenced account on which there’d been no activity for the better part of five years. Interest had been accruing and was, of course, properly credited, but the bank was wondering if perhaps there was something more they might do for him. They’d recently established an investment arm for valued customers. Since Loden Galsworthy was numbered among their very best, Mr. Freiberg suggested that perhaps the bank might put him in touch with one of their financial experts for an analysis of his portfolio. Tom read the letter twice. This had to be an account of Loden’s that Cora had either overlooked or knew nothing about. Mr. Freiberg had probably never met his valued customer and clearly had no idea he was writing to the deceased—the late Loden Galsworthy. When he turned to the next page and his eye settled on the account balance, he barked out a laugh. $65,490.66.
    He couldn’t believe his good fortune. For weeks he’d walked around with his head in a noose and suddenly he was free. He knew exactly what to do. He got up from the desk and crossed to the closet where Cora maintained what amounted to a shrine to her dead husband’s memory. Being the sentimental fool she was, she’d held on to a number of items that had belonged to him, among them his personalized stationery and his Mont Blanc fountain pen. Tom extracted an envelope, several sheets of letterhead, and a few pieces of blank paper. He then sat down at Cora’s typewriter (Loden’s before his death) and flexed his fingers, preparing himself as though for a piano recital. Using the blank paper and a bit of ingenuity, he composed a letter thanking the vice president for his concern. He confessed he’d been out of the country and had just returned to the States after four years away. Having the account brought to his attention was fortunate, as he was currently entertaining an investment opportunity for which the above-referenced funds would be swiftly set to work. He requested that the account be closed and the money forwarded to him at the post office box he’d maintained during his absence. This was, in fact, a post office box that Tom had set up some time ago so that any private business of his wouldn’t come under Cora’s nose. He rolled a sheet of Loden’s stationery into the typewriter and went to work. His typing was clumsy, but he managed to get a clean copy after three tries. If the bank had kept any previous correspondence from Loden Galsworthy, it might be noted that the typeface, the writing paper, and the fountain pen nib were all a match. Now all he needed was Loden’s signature.
    On Cora’s office wall, there was a certificate of appreciation for work she’d done as a Red Cross volunteer in 1918, when she was twenty-one years old. It was a boilerplate document, hundreds of which must have been doled out to the women who’d donated thousands of hours of free labor, but she’d framed it and hung it as though she were the sole recipient. Loden Galsworthy had been one of the three signatories. She’d told Tom that she and Loden often spoke of the amazing coincidence of this link between them before they’d even met.
    He took down the framed certificate and spent twenty minutes or so perfecting Loden’s signature. Then he signed the letter, folded it, placed it in the envelope, and added a stamp. All in a day’s work. He’d drop it in the mail on his way to the bank. This was truly a gift from the gods, an answer to his prayers. He felt incredibly light and free. He hadn’t realized how anxious he’d been until the crisis had passed. Now he didn’t have to worry about Cora’s penury. No more wheedling, no more maneuvering. In one stroke, all his problems had been solved. As icing on the cake, his lunch with Chet Cramer the day before had gone very well. He knew Chet had agreed to listen to his pitch only because he and Livia coveted membership in the country club to which the Padgetts belonged, but he thought his presentation had been effective. Chet had not only seemed interested, but he’d asked Tom to work up a business plan to pass on to his accountant. Tom intended to work on that shortly after lunch.
    He drove to the bank and made a deposit, tucking the forged dividend check in with some miscellaneous checks of his own. With the $65,490.66 that would soon be his, he no longer needed the measly $356.45, but he’d already forged Cora’s signature so why not proceed? He’d