Prologue
Mapleridge August 2004
Joan looked tranquil as she left the bank - which was misleading. She was used to projecting stability and calm no matter what, like a loon floating majestically down a lake, unseen legs churning madly below the surface, much like her stomach. Her adult students led lives careening from crisis to crisis and avoiding classroom chaos meant she had to maintain an unflappable demeanour. Once, two students matter-of-factly discussed old bullet wounds: hers to the stomach, from a drunken uncle who fired a rifle blindly through a door she happened to be behind; his, a head shot from a jealous husband catching him in the wrong bed, which explained an eye that now wandered in a different sense. If she could sustain a placid exterior in the face of hearing that, this was easy. Her interior though was seething.
She could have chewed nails and spat rust. She had assumed encounters like the one she’d just had were things of the past, thankfully dead and buried. She knew Mapleridge - isolated as much by attitude towards invading summer cottagers as by actual physical location, and struggling to maintain its small-town flavour despite recent moderate growth - sometimes exhibited thirty-year-old attitudes, but she thought they were restricted to those with limited education and a bigoted world view. For them, the hour-long trip to Westerbrook, the nearest city, was rare and scary. Toronto was a foreign country. So she had been shocked to find a dinosaur managing the local branch of a national bank.
She had bought her house from Mrs. Wheeler three years ago. Mrs. W. offered to take back a mortgage, and while it might have been more convenient to have direct withdrawals from her bank account, Joan’s life at the time had been hectic and leaving the mortgage with Mrs. W. for the first year had been simplest. It had taken her only a few visits to drop off her monthly cheque to realize it was not a financial investment for Mrs. W. but a way to guarantee a monthly visitor at Maplehome, her new residence. Quick in-out visits were out of the question so Joan learned to allow an hour or two. And to be prepared for tea and stale cookies. Originally, she had intended to transfer the mortgage to the bank after that first year, but her obligatory visits became both educational and enjoyable as she heard stories of how Mrs W. had raised two children and supported an invalid husband in the days when Mapleridge was still a lumbering town. So she renewed it annually until Mrs. W. died and things changed. Joan assumed Mrs. W.’s children, who had long ago moved elsewhere, wanted the cash for travel or education funds or whatever, so while she would miss Mrs. W., she was quite prepared to arrange a conventional bank mortgage.
What she was not prepared for was her reception there. When she called and asked to make an appointment with the loan officer, she was advised the manager of the small bank handled all loan applications himself, so she made an appointment to meet with him at 10:45 the following morning.
When she arrived and explained her purpose at the counter, the young woman apologized, saying he wasn’t immediately available but should be shortly. Joan understood about crises and appointments running overtime, so she graciously took a seat in the waiting area, picking up a months-old magazine to pretend to read while she surreptitiously watched passing customers.
Twenty minutes later, an unusual group arrived: three attractive young women in business clothes with a 60’ish man in an out-of-date baggy suit with too-short pants not quite covering his white socks. Balding, he had chosen the comb-over look. Joan wondered how long those side hairs were that he plastered across his scalp, and whether he really believed the style actually flattered or disguised.
He held the door for the young women, ushering them in with a courtier-like bow and sweep of his arm. The first one through, knowing he couldn’t see her face once she was past him, rolled her eyes. When the second one said to the tellers, “Your turn guys,” Joan realized they were employees returning from break.
“Here he is,” said the young woman who had originally seated Joan. “Your turn.”
“Turn for what?” wondered Joan, a little miffed that she had been kept waiting for no better excuse than a prolonged, self-indulgent break.
The young woman introduced her to the man as his 10:45 appointment and gave him two message slips, which he read as Joan stood patiently in front of him. He glanced back and forth twice between Joan and the messages and she could tell he was deciding which to deal with first. “You’re here,” he said. Joan wasn’t sure he was even aware he had spoken aloud and sensed the only reason he had chosen to deal with her first was because she was standing right there expectantly.
When they entered his office and she started to explain that she wanted to arrange a mortgage, he interrupted. “Where’s your husband?” he asked.
“I’m single,” she answered, and before she could supply additional details, he interrupted again.
“Then you’ll need a co-signer, your father or a brother or someone like that.”
By nature, Joan had always been cooperative, a collaborative problem-solver who believed in finding common ground with others, then working towards a mutually acceptable solution for any disagreements. However, she had learned that there were people who viewed such an approach as personal weakness, who would try to steamroller towards their own decision, to Hell with the other person. So she had learned to combat that, realizing you can’t cooperate with someone who sees every problem as having winners and losers and is determined to win at all costs.
That other side to her character now burst through.
“Let me give you some information,” she began in an intense but controlled voice. She held up her hand in a ‘Stop’ sign when he began to interrupt again. “Let me finish,” she said in her firmest teacher manner. “First, I’ve owned the house for three years, and simply need a mortgage because the former owner, who held the mortgage, died. I made a large down payment, and since, have made hefty monthly payments which have never been late. As well, property values have increased since I bought it, so my equity is substantial. Secondly, I’ve worked as a teacher since finishing school 13 years ago, the last 7 here. I’ve never been unemployed, nor is there any likelihood of that happening given my seniority. Thirdly, I have three accounts at this bank - a chequing account which has never been overdrawn, a savings account in which I keep a minimum balance of $1000, and a retirement savings account into which I transfer money from the savings account whenever that balance reaches $3000. I’m not exactly sure how much is in it right now, but it’s considerable. Finally, I’ve never carried a balance on my credit card. It’s very clear you don’t want my business so I’ll transfer everything to the Credit Union.” Standing, she added, “I will also write a letter to your head office explaining my reasons for this change. I am sure there are some women in senior positions who would be appalled at the way you represent them.” Then she left, not waiting to see if his reaction would be self-righteous indignation or obsequious boot-licking.
Once on the street, she walked to the park along the river and sat on a bench to calm herself, watching the whirls and eddies which were the main signs the deep water was not still. When she had moved to Mapleridge, she had opened accounts at the bank as there were only two choices and she recognized the name of the bank but not that of the local Credit Union. Only later did she start to hear stories about the bank’s inefficiency and arbitrary decision-making, but it had never affected her. Until today. No question now that the inertia which had kept her from changing had been overcome.
She recalled one joke that had made the rounds the previous year when the Credit Union was robbed. “Why did he choose the Credit Union over the bank?” it went. After a suitable pause, “He didn’t want to wait too long in line.”
Joan’s outrage that there was someone in a senior position who believed a woman was incapable of independence gradually diminished. As it did, and she wondered how it was possible in this day and age, she realized he reminded her of a Superintendent of Education she had once dealt with. He too had had antiquated views, but had been doing the job so long and was so close to retirement, his employer left him in his position for the last few remaining years, rather than risk a wrongful dismissal suit.
But she did not need a man to support her financially, manage her practical affairs or do renovations around the house. Her positive, cheerful personality reasserted itself as she imagined the bank manager dressed like a French aristocrat, being led towards a guillotine with an overhead sign saying ‘More than 50% of the brotherhood of man is female’.
But the situation also rekindled another awareness, one Joan had been feeling with increasing force and frequency. It would have been nice to have had someone at home to listen to her about her workday, someone to hug her because she was loved, someone to share a bed with.
She knew finding mortgage money would not be a problem. The other though…