When Mark and I moved from the east coast to the midwest via U-Haul with two kids and a turtle, the first thing we did was open an account with a local bank near the townhouse we were renting. Within months, though, we had found a home to buy and moved everything to another bank that was within walking distance of our new neighborhood.
Not long after that the bank got sold, another much larger one took its place a short distance away, and we continued to bank with them. We had a checking and savings account and as they got older opened up three savings accounts for each of the kids. Because of the nature of banking back then, I was there often and knew all the tellers. As far as they knew there was a husband in name only until the time Mark was with me and we were going through the drive-up to get cash to do our Christmas shopping. If there was one thing this very smart man could not master thoughout his entire life it was how to use a drive-up. He’d get flumoxxed by the whole process, stammer, get mad, and yell at me that we should have just gone inside. There we were in the drive-up lane and he couldn’t figure out how the lady behind the glass got the check and I was yelling at him, “JUST PRESS THE BUTTON FOR THE TUBE,” and he was yelling back, “A TUBE?? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT??!!” From behind the glass my favorite teller was watching all this unfold and when she sent our cash back she winked and said, “And what are you two lovebirds up to today?” I thought it was hilarious, Mark not so much.
That teller and many others left over the years and banking changed. There weren’t many reasons to go inside since paychecks were directly deposited and most things could be done online. But at the end of every year I’d go in and request the max contribution to be moved from our money market into an IRA in my name because I never had a job with a retirement account. Every year it was an easy process until it wasn’t.
Three months after Mark died I went in on a Saturday morning and made the request to someone I was vaguely familiar with. She told me that she couldn’t complete the paperwork that day, that the main branch had to send it over, and that by Monday it would be ready for me to come in and sign. I was fragile and on the verge of tears because there was not a single thing any more that was easy, even something I had done several times before.
I grabbed my purse and started to get up when she said, “I helped you cash a check in you and your husband’s name last month and I know he died. My husband died, too,” and there in front of me was someone who knew how hard all of this was and I sat back down. “He had cancer,” she said, “and it was difficult for a long time and even though we didn’t have children together my stepkids have been wonderful.” I told her that my kids were a huge support to me, too, but none of us were doing very well. “I want to tell you something,” she said and I leaned in because I was falling apart in every way and could use all the help I could get. “What I want to you to know, really know,” she said, “is that now I am a bride of Jesus Christ and you can be too.” I recoiled in shock and for the next thirty minutes she told me all the ways I could join her in this throuple. “Do I miss my husband,” she said, “of course I do but it is nothing compared to being married to Jesus Christ,” and she neither stopped smiling or breathing long enough to let me interject a single word. I was a captive of her witnessing and I was so stunned that nothing could come out of my mouth. Finally I jumped up and said I had to go and sat in my car in the parking lot with my nerves shot to hell and back again.
By the time I got home I had recovered enough to call the customer service number and lit into them about what just happened. The guy on the other end stammered his way through something I’m sure he never heard before and said he’d send it up the line. On Monday morning I got a call from the manager of the bank. She started off by saying that the paperwork was completed for a transfer to my IRA account and I said, “What about the completely inappropriate interaction by your employee? Let’s talk about that because I went in to move money from one account to another and ended up getting proselytized. When did anyone ever think that a customer with a recently dead husband needed to hear that,” and I never lifted my foot off the gas pedal of my rage. “I talked to her,” the manager said, “and we had a training session regarding what happened but I want to add that she said you seemed interested in what she was saying.” “If that were the case,” I said, “then ask her what my husband’s name was because she never thought to ask me that or anything else. She used my heartbreak to score eternal life points and might I remind you that you are a bank and I went in there for a business transaction.” And the manager said to me, “While that may be true, Mrs. Fisher, I would like to remind you that we are a business built on Christian values,” and I told her they should put a steeple on the roof but that might be bad for the bottom line seeing as how they literally were the money changers.
After that did I leave that bank? No, I still kept going because I didn’t have the energy to do anything about it even though every single time I had to go inside I’d brace myself for an old fashioned bible thumping. But this summer, nearly eight years after that interaction, I opened a checking and money market account with a credit union and started the slow process of moving direct deposits and autopays to my new accounts. Before my house sold this summer I had to go into the bank for a last hurrah to open up an account in the name of my trust because the proceeds of the sale would be made out to that and not me personally. I dealt with someone who had helped me before and explained what I needed to do, that the money would be in there for less than a week, and that I also needed to close out my IRA account with them. He listened and then got out a big binder and started leafing through the pages which gave me zero confidence in his abilities. Then he got on the phone with the main branch because nobody at this bank knew how to do anything without consulting the Mother Ship.
Twice he told me that I could leave and run errands while he completed the paperwork and twice I told him this was my last errand of the day and I was fine to just sit there. He then said, “You’re a new customer, aren’t you,” and I said “No, I’ve been a customer here for 33 years.” He marveled at that and I went through my emails while he put together the paperwork and kept consulting his binder and the bank manager (the same one I dealt with years earlier) while worship music played on a boom box sitting on top of a stool a few feet away.
When that was finished I showed him a $137 check made out to Mark from the utility company. It was a refund for the excess in our average pay account and I said, “I know this is made out to him and I have the death certificate with me. Can you just deposit the whole thing? I know I’m asking a lot but it’s not that much and there’s plenty in both of my accounts,” and he immediately said he couldn’t and I’d have to call the electric company to get it reissued. I pleaded my case, said I used to work at a bank and we’d just stamp it for deposit only, and he got up and talked to the manager then came back with the same answer and it was all I could do not to cry. If I had to call the utility company I’d have to explain why I needed it reissued which I could do so easily after Mark died but not so much all these years later. “It never ends,” I said, “this after death stuff never ends,” and he said he knew because his father died in the last year and that’s why as a courtesy the bank leaves a spouse on an account for thirty days after a death. “Thirty days is not a courtesy,” I said, “it’s actually ridiculous that a bank would think that’s enough time to be able to take care of all the things that are intertwined when a spouse dies.” He said he could see where that might be a problem then offered to make a copy of the check and send it through for review to see if they would make an exception and I told him that I would appreciate that. Seconds later the bank manager flew out of her office and said that would be enough and that they were not going to deposit the check because my husband couldn’t sign it. I looked at her and said, “That’s correct because he’s dead and no longer able to hold a pen.” She looked like a bull about to charge and then said she didn’t want to waste my time with something they had no intention of doing.
I gathered up my paperwork and left and last month went in and told the teller that I wanted to close my accounts. She said she was so very sorry to hear that, that they valued their customers and hated to see any of them go, and then offered me a chance to talk to the manager. “The manager? Oh god no,” I said, “she’s awful,” and the rest of the transaction was done in silence.
Since then I have passed by the bank many times and my only regret is that it took me so long to leave it. And while this is a banking story it’s also a story about how severing a connection to the life you used to have, even one you need to be over for the sake of your mental health, can make you cry unless you’re sitting in the car and all of a sudden hear the voice of the dead guy say, “Fuck ’em, Kath. Let’s get outta here.”