Five Minutes as My Granddaughter

“Grandpa, you can’t keep letting strangers handle your money.”

My niece said it loudly enough for three people in the bank lobby to hear.

She was pointing at the young woman standing beside me.

The strange part was that I had known that young woman for less than ten minutes.

My name is Arthur Malone. I was eighty-one years old when this happened, a retired history teacher living alone in a two-story brick house outside Richmond, Virginia.

And five minutes earlier, I had asked a complete stranger to pretend she was my granddaughter.

Her name was Lucy Reynolds.

She was twenty-five, worked at a small bookstore two blocks from the bank, and had been standing behind me in line holding a deposit envelope and a paperback novel.

I turned around and asked her the most ridiculous question I had asked anyone in years.

“Would you mind pretending to be my granddaughter for five minutes?”

She blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Just five minutes.”

I expected her to move away.

Instead, she studied my face.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Is someone bothering you?”

“Not yet.”

That made her smile a little.

I nodded toward the customer-service desk.

“It’s my birthday.”

It wasn’t. I don’t know why I said that.

Maybe admitting I was lonely felt worse than lying about a birthday.

Lucy looked toward the teller, then back at me.

“What exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Stand beside me. Maybe call me Grandpa once.”

She stared at me for another second.

Then she tucked the paperback into her bag.

“Okay, Grandpa.”

I laughed.

I hadn’t expected that.

Neither had she.

For five minutes, we stood at the counter while I asked about a savings account. Lucy said almost nothing. She just stayed beside me.

That was enough.

The teller, Mrs. Campbell, had worked there for years. She knew my name and asked how I was doing.

Lucy answered before I could.

“He’s doing pretty well.”

Mrs. Campbell smiled.

For a moment, I felt foolish.

Then I felt something worse.

I wished it were real.

We walked outside together.

That should have been the end of it.

Then I heard my name.

“Uncle Arthur?”

My niece Beatrice was crossing the parking lot.

Her son Ryan was beside her.

Beatrice looked at Lucy.

Then at me.

Then at Lucy again.

“Who is this?”

I adjusted my grip on the small blue bankbook in my hand.

Lucy started to step away.

“I should probably—”

Beatrice moved closer.

“Did you go inside with him?”

Lucy stopped.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked me to.”

Ryan laughed once under his breath.

Beatrice held out her hand.

“Uncle Arthur, give me the bankbook.”

I put it inside my jacket.

“No.”

Her expression changed.

Not anger.

Concern.

Beatrice was very good at looking concerned.

“We need to talk.”

The Papers on My Kitchen Table

Beatrice followed me home.

Lucy didn’t.

Before leaving, she wrote her phone number on the back of a bookstore receipt.

“In case you need anything.”

I folded it and put it in my wallet.

Ryan watched me do it.

That mattered later.

At home, Beatrice placed a folder on my kitchen table.

I recognized the papers.

She had brought them twice before.

Power of attorney.

The first time, she said it was for emergencies.

The second time, she said everyone my age should have one.

This time she brought a pen.

“We can stop pretending this isn’t becoming a problem.”

I poured myself water.

“What problem?”

Ryan leaned against my refrigerator.

“You asked some random girl to pretend she was family.”

“I asked her to stand beside me.”

“At a bank.”

I looked at him.

“Yes, Ryan. I know where I was.”

Beatrice pushed the papers toward me.

“That’s exactly why we’re worried.”

I had taught American history for thirty-eight years. During that time, I had watched thousands of teenagers attempt to explain why unfinished homework was technically complete.

I knew when someone was avoiding the real subject.

“What does Lucy have to do with these papers?”

Beatrice sighed.

“Nothing. Hopefully.”

She tapped the signature line.

“This lets me help manage things before something bad happens.”

“Manage what?”

“Your accounts. The house. Bills.”

“My bills are paid.”

Ryan opened a cabinet without asking and took out a glass.

“For now.”

I looked at him.

He filled it with water.

“Mom’s trying to help you.”

Beatrice lowered her voice.

“The house is too much for you anyway.”

There it was.

I sat down.

“Too much how?”

“The stairs. The yard. Maintenance.”

“I pay someone to cut the grass.”

“That isn’t the point.”

She opened another page.

There was a brochure underneath it.

An assisted-living community.

I had seen that brochure before too.

“We could sell this place while the market is good,” she said. “You’d have somewhere safe, and I could handle the money.”

I placed my water glass on the brochure.

A wet circle spread across a photograph of smiling seniors playing cards.

“No.”

Ryan straightened.

Beatrice stayed seated.

“Uncle Arthur, this is not about taking something from you.”

“Then stop asking me to give you control of it.”

Silence.

Ryan looked toward the hallway.

On the wall was a photograph of my wife, Ellen.

She had been gone four years.

Cancer.

Eleven months from diagnosis to funeral.

After she died, people kept telling me to stay busy.

So I did.

I went grocery shopping on Tuesdays.

The pharmacy on Thursdays.

The bank every Friday.

I didn’t need to go every Friday.

Most weeks I had nothing important to do there.

But Mrs. Campbell knew my name.

The security guard, Dennis, asked about baseball.

If I missed a Friday, somebody noticed the next week.

That was more than I could say about most places.

Beatrice stood.

“If you refuse to plan responsibly, we may have to consider whether you’re still capable of managing these decisions.”

I looked at her.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m worried about you.”

She gathered the papers.

Ryan didn’t move.

His eyes had settled on my jacket.

The bankbook was still inside it.

Then he looked away.

The Grandson Who Called Every Sunday

My grandson Matthew arrived the following afternoon.

He was thirty-three and worked for an engineering firm in Washington.

He called me every Sunday at seven.

Almost exactly seven.

He sent money when I needed repairs.

He arranged a plumber after my kitchen pipe burst.

When my furnace failed, Matthew found the contractor.

He was a good grandson.

But I couldn’t remember the last time we had eaten dinner together.

When he came through the door, he didn’t take off his coat.

“Who is Lucy Reynolds?”

I almost smiled.

“Hello to you too.”

“Aunt Beatrice called me.”

“Of course she did.”

He followed me into the kitchen.

“She said some woman went into your bank with you pretending to be your granddaughter.”

“That’s mostly accurate.”

Matthew stared at me.

“Grandpa.”

“She works at a bookstore.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

I opened the refrigerator.

“Are you staying for dinner?”

He checked his watch.

Small movement.

Probably unconscious.

I closed the refrigerator.

“Never mind.”

His hand dropped.

“I can stay.”

“You already checked.”

“I have a meeting later.”

“Then go to your meeting.”

He pulled out a chair.

“Tell me about Lucy.”