The Currency of Goodwill

The banker lived across the cove in a bright yellow house with a wide veranda and a gently rolling slope of a front lawn. We would often catch a glimpse of him on the glassed in front porch, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper, still wearing a jacket and tie and looking out of place. A well maintained car sat in the neatly graveled driveway and the grass was unfailingly trimmed and green. Every couple of summers, a crew of island men came and repainted the entire house, always the same sunny yellow with white trim. This was the money man, the man who decided whether your farm loan was extended or your boat refitted or your new tractor financed. He lived slightly apart from the community, avoiding becoming overly friendly for fear it would compromise his judgement or make him enemies. The men tipped their caps when they passed him, the women smiled and the children were taught to be extra respectful around him.

He arrived at the bank each weekday morning precisely at 9 o'clock, parked his car in the square and unlocked the double doors with a ring of keys he carried in his vest pocket. He and the two Swift girls, Amy and Margaret, were the bank's only employees and they took their responsibilities seriously. Each of the girls went home for dinner at exactly noon and returned exactly at one just in time for his wife to arrive with a picnic basket - a hot dish and a thermos of black coffee, fresh bread and homemade pie. Routine and order mattered to the banker and each evening he left at 4 on the dot, double checking each window and securely locking the front doors before driving the short distance home. He and his wife were also apart in that they were childless and their evenings were spent with books and backgammon and a glass or two of red wine, served in delicate long stemmed glasses with cheese and fruit. They were an educated and upper class couple, liked and respected but not completely fitting in with the small village, a little too "city-fied" for most folks, a little too elite. Folks don't much like one person knowing all their business, Nana remarked, 'specially when it's about their money.

And the banker did know their business down to the last dime, every signed note, every loan schedule, every bit of collateral. He knew when someone was about to hit hard times and when things were looking up. He knew the cost of lumber and netting, a rebuilt boat engine and a single lobster trap, he knew when women were preparing to leave their men long before the men caught on. He knew the price of every schoolbook and hymnal, what gas and a cord of firewood were going for, how much was owed on every last house and piece of farm equipment. He knew rents and the cost of mainland whiskey, when passage crossing fares were about to be increased, the last penny of every tax and not only when it was due but the odds of it being paid. He watched over prosperity with a smile and hardship with kindness and during the aftermath of the hurricane, the lights in the bank burned well into the night as he sat with the families who had lost their livelihoods and worked out terms for new loans, improvising solutions and ideas and long term plans. It was then that the island folk realized how deeply he cared and the walls of distrust and suspicion began to come down piece by broken piece. The banker gave up his suit and tie for jeans and cardigan sweaters, swapped his wine glass for a cold can of beer on McIntyre's steps and his wife was invited to the covered dish suppers at the church. The banker still knew every last detail of every life but now he was trusted with the knowledge. Don't life work in funny ways, Nana said as she beat an old carpet on the back clothesline, It took a hurricane and the better part of his life to prove himself. Takes some folks three or four times that long.