Colette became a trust officer and endured the hounding of fast-living beneficiaries who tried everything to get advances from the sum left by a well-meaning relative for their maintenance. Some tried to bribe her; young men tried to entice her; some whined like the children they were. All of them seemed spoiled and filled with contempt for her. When she was working with the lawyers to set up the trusts, she had to explain terms up to eight times when the clients were very old. As a woman, she was expected to be understanding, tolerant, and patient. The manager of the bank told her this when she was promoted, and at that time Colette thought of her raise and agreed, jumping into the job with a forced smile for the many old people, retirees from every part of the country.

The senior officers in the bank treated her with a friendly disdain, admiring her jewel-like fingernails or the way she moved her arms while explaining terms to a client, and she saw their condescending smiles when they heard her diminishing Acadian accent. They considered her to be above average, but not exceptional, not expertly ambitious for one with her kind of looks. She also knew they had hired her because the company employed few women holding a rank above teller and needed to up the quota.

She couldn’t remember anybody’s name. In twenty years she might know some of these tanned or aged Californians, but they still would not be cousins she’d grown up with or oldsters who had seen her in a kindergarten skit or remembered her from looking through the glass in the hospital on the day she was born. Each day, she came home from work feeling that she had dragged Dirk and all the strangers around on her back for hours.

One afternoon in February, after dealing with a sixteen-year-old imbecile who wanted delivery of all his trust money immediately, and after plucking the hand of her boss from her buttocks again, she drove downtown and bought a new Mercedes diesel sedan. She needed the car the way she needed painkiller for a storming headache. Idling at the edge of the parking lot, a little wave of panic swept over her as she wondered who would like to see her new machine. Who might be impressed? She drove to Paul’s apartment for the first time since the cocktail party.

He answered the door, his finger in a small leather-bound copy of Locomotive Catechism. He was unshaven and still in his work clothes.

“What you been doing, Paul?” She pushed in past him and looked around at the plain room.

“Watching TV and counting my money. What’s your big news?”

“I got a new car. Come see.” Her hair bounced against her shoulders. It had been a long time since he had seen her excited.

When he saw the silver sedan, he said, “Ah.”