I'll grab something on the way. Sit down. There's grits on the stove. He sat. He always sat when she used that tone.
"I need you to drive me to the bank today," she said, sliding the folder across the table. "Piedmont National, the Buckhead branch." Elijah opened the folder. His eyebrows climbed.
A million dollars? Cash? "The seller wants a cashier's check. I need to authorize the withdrawal in person." Grandma, you could just wire it.
"I could," she poured herself coffee, "but I want to look them in the eye when I do it. Your grandfather always said money moves better when people see your face." Elijah closed the folder. He didn't argue. 22 years with this woman had taught him that arguing with Sylvia Bennett was like arguing with weather.
It happened around you whether you liked it or not.
By 9:30 they were in Elijah's Honda Civic heading east on Interstate 20 toward Buckhead. The neighborhood changed fast. Strip malls and check-cashing stores gave way to glass towers and manicured hedges. The Piedmont National Bank branch sat on Peachtree Road sandwiched between a luxury car dealership and a boutique that sold handbags worth more than Elijah's tuition. Sylvia smoothed her dress, checked her purse.
Inside it, her ID, her account card, and a photograph of Theodore on their wedding day. Ready? Elijah asked. "Been ready," she said.
The Piedmont National Bank branch on Peachtree Road smelled like leather and lavender. The floors were Italian marble, polished to a mirror shine. A crystal chandelier hung from the double-height ceiling, scattering light across rows of mahogany desks. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers. Everything about this place said the same thing.
You'd better belong here. Sylvia pushed through the glass doors. The air conditioning hit her like a wall. Behind her, Elijah held the door, scanning the lobby the way young black men learn to scan unfamiliar spaces, quickly, quietly, cataloging exits. The lobby was half full.
A man in a navy suit signed documents at a desk. A woman with a Chanel bag checked her phone near the water cooler. A younger couple whispered near the brochure rack. Every face was white. The nearest teller, blonde hair pinned back, name tag Amanda Pierce, was sorting papers when Sylvia approached.
Amanda looked up. Her smile appeared and disappeared in the same second, like a light switched on by accident. Can I help you?
Good morning, dear. I'd like to speak with the branch manager, please. I need to make a large withdrawal. Amanda's eyes traveled down Sylvia's dress. The faded floral print, the scuffed shoes, the purse with a stitched-up handle.
Amanda's fingers stopped moving on the papers. How large? $1 million. Amanda blinked. Then she pressed her lips together in the way people do when they're trying not to laugh in church.
She glanced at the teller beside her, a young man named Colin Reeves, and raised her eyebrows. Colin looked at Sylvia, then looked away fast. One moment, please. She picked up the phone. Sylvia heard fragments.
An elderly woman says she wants... Yes, a million. I know. No, I'm serious. Amanda hung up and covered her mouth.