THe
      Bank
      Deposit
     
    
   
   
    
     
      “Perhaps
      I
      cannot
      sign”
      he
      says
     
    

    
     
      positioning
      a
      shaky
      hand
      over
      the
      deposit
      slip
     
     
      finetuning
      with
      his
      other
      the
      slant
      of
      the
      pen.
     
     
      He
      doubts
      it’s
      valid,
      “will
      that
      do?
     
    

    
     
      I
      just
      had
      a
      stroke.”
     
    
   
   
    
     
      “Did
      you
      now?”
      she
      says
      behind
      the
      glass,
      __
     
    

    
     
      gold
      hoops
      dangling
      beneath
      gold-spun
      curls
      _
     
    

    
     
      perfect
      as
      the
      Queen’s
      on
      a
      twenty
      dollar
      bill
     
    

    
     
      and
      wreathing
      her
      sun-wrinkled
      face.
      _,
     
    

    
     
      Her
      voice
      casts
      a
      light
      strong
      enough
      to
      warm
      the
      dead.
     
     
      “Did
      you
      have
      any
      warning?”
      she
      asks
      __
     
    

    
     
      murdering
      the
      slip
      with
      her
      stamp,
     
    

    
     
      banging
      it
      official,
      slotting
      it
      aside.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      “Oh,
      yes,”
      he
      says,
      “a
      by-pass
      before”
     
    

    
     
      and
      lifts
      his
      t-shirt
      neck
      high,
     
    

    
     
      baring
      a
      hairy
      chest
      right
      there
      in
      the
      downtown.
     
     
      branch
      of
      the
      trust
      company,
     
    

    
     
      offering
      up
      his
      scars
      as
      evidence,
     
    

    
     
      like
      identifying
      marks
      in
      police
      reports
     
    

    
     
      or
      a
      surgeon’s
      signature
      on
      the
      body’s
      dotted
      line—
     
     
      scrawly
      as
      fate’s
     
    
   
   
    
     
      “Twenty,
      forty,
      sixty,
      eighty,
      one
      hundred,”
     
    

    
     
      she
      finger-snaps
      the
      bills,
      double
      checks.
     
     
      “Thank
      you,”
      she
      whispers,
      “that’s
      all
      I
      need,”
     
     
      and
      he
      drops
      his
      shirt
      while
      she
      stows
      his
      cash.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Brent
      MacLaine