Needing Noel | Chapter Three
Fifty-two year old Constance Widowmaker stowed her lunch bag beneath her desk. Her telephone extension was ringing. The display showed that the call was ringing in on the customer accounts help line. She let it ring; the small chrome clock on her desk told her she still had a minute left of her lunch break and she firmly believed that if you started to give the company a minute here and a minute there, they’d take over your life before you knew it.
And she wasn’t about to let that happen.
That the customer would have to wait, couldn’t be helped really. She had been practically forced to take the early lunch because of a new single mother that worked on the other side of her small, tidy cubicle. Because of the new employee’s situation – of her having to run her pair of no-doubt illegitimate children to or from day care – Constance had to change her lunch hour. Because she had chosen to not marry, to avoid the inconvenience and pain of motherhood, she was being punished. Was that fair?
The line stopped ringing; voice mail had jumped in to intervene.
The front-line operators should know better than to transfer calls to her. She obviously couldn’t be blamed if the customer didn’t get helped.
She was almost ready to work but it was too cold in the cavernous call center for her. They probably kept it cold because some survey somewhere told them that workers performed better when cold or uncomfortable or something. So she wrapped her cardigan around her shoulders and surveyed her booth. The phone started ringing again.
She groaned, unhooked her headset from its cradle and slowly snuggled it into place over her heavily hairsprayed coif. There was no hurry.
Third ring. She paused once more before answering and wiggled her mouse to bring her computer terminal to life. How could she be expected to be a help anyone without the computer up and running?
Fourth ring. Voice mail would pick up the call before the phone rang once more. She was tempted to let it go because she wasn’t one hundred percent ready and because the smell of other people’s microwaved lunches was overwhelming and nauseous (why can’t those suck ups take it to the lunch room instead of eating at their desks – that’s the reason there was a lunch room?) but decided to grace the caller anyway.
“American National, can I help…”
The caller cut her off. “Finally. Yes.” Bad start.
“Can I help you sir?”
“Yes. I need some information about an account at your bank.”
“The account number please?”
“Actually, I just have a question about…”
“I can’t help you without the account number sir.” She heard the breath, deep and long, on the other end of the connection.
“Zero four four, nine nine seven, eight seven six six, one zero zero zero.”
The keys rattled on her keyboard rattled as she typed. “And your name sir.”
“Christian Jones.” She heard him grunt. “No. Wait. Noel Jones. I’m sorry, no.” He read the statement holder’s name again. “Anna Noel Brantly.”
“Well which is it?”
“Noel. The account is in the name Anna Noel. It’s my wife’s name.”
“Hmmm.” The keys rattled again. “Are you a signer on the account sir?”
“No. I never knew about the account until today.”
“Well then, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can help you with.” She smiled to herself. She would enjoy this.
“Well I don’t want to access the account or anything I just need to ask a couple of questions. Like, when was the last activity on…”
“Like I said sir, if you’re not a signer on the account, I can’t help you.”
“Listen, I just need to know…”
“I’m sorry sir. At American National, we have strict confidentiality rules.”
“Can you confirm that the account exists? That it has a balance? That it has recent activity?
“Oh, no sir, that would go against our confidentiality policy.”
“Confidentiality from who? I’m her husband.”
“And you are not a signer on the account, is that correct?”
“Yes, but don’t I have rights as a husband? Aren’t there laws in this country regarding the finances of husbands and wives?”
“Not in the country of our charter.”
“Charter?”
“Oh, yes sir. Here in the Grand Cayman Islands, the laws protecting the privacy of individuals who place their trust in the banking system override any rights you think you might have. No person but the account signer has access to any account entrusted to this institution. It is a bond not even the government can break. It is specifically why people put their money here. What that means to you sir, is that you have no rights to any account in this bank. Unless you are a signer.” She pressed the mute button on her headset, stifling a rising laugh. To think, she almost missed this call.
“So you’re saying you can release no information to me about this account?”
“Correct.” She could sense the glorious frustration in her caller, the near explosion of energy.
“Lady, you don’t understand how big of a deal this is. This account belongs to my wife and I never knew about it. I haven’t seen her in six months. You might be able to confirm whether she’s even alive.”
“And your wife obviously wanted her privacy sir. It is my duty, to my customers, to protect that privacy.”
He sighed again. “And what if I call pretending to be her.”
She grew serious. “You could try that. But you wouldn’t know her password and the account would be locked.” She could hear the deflation in her caller. The letdown. It made her day.
“Is there anything else I can do for you sir?”
All she heard next was the click of her caller’s handset being replaced in its cradle.
* * * * *
Christian slammed the phone back into its cradle and punched the wall next to the phone. He winced in pain as his hand slipped right through the thin plasterboard.
So close.
All he could think as he sunk to the floor, tears of frustration streaking down his face, was that his wife, his love, was out there in the world somewhere, waiting to be reunited with him.
* * * * *
The joy of the moment had not ended for Constance Widowmaker. She stood above the sight line of her booths walls and looked around the call center. There was no supervisor walking the floor in her section.
Good.
She pressed the ‘9’ key dialed nine to secure an outside line then dialed the West Virginia telephone number listed in the account’s contacts and notes section.
Her eyes sparkled. He heart raced with the pleasure of being able to strike back a little at a world that seemed to hold nothing but shit for her. She listened as the long distance connection clicked through a network of fiber optic lines and telephone switch rooms, snaking its way through the digital world to reach out and ring the phone of her customer.
The ring came suddenly, loudly and more clear than normal. Or maybe her perception was heightened by euphoria.
Her mood began to deflate at the third ring. Wasn’t her customer home? The fourth ring found her spirit sinking further. “Damn,” she said, disappointed, as a voice mail system answered and an electronic voice read back the number she had called and invited her, politely to leave a message.
“Ms. Jones,” she said at the tone. “This is Constance Widowmaker at American National in Grand Cayman. I’m calling as a matter of courtesy. A security measure really. Its standard policy to inform all account holders of unauthorized inquires into their accounts. I just received a phone call from a man posing as your husband, said his name was Christopher Jones or something. Anyway, he was given no information or access to the account of course so you need not worry. And if you have any questions at all, please call me at our toll-free service number and ask for me by name or ask for extension three three two nine. I’ll be on shift until four p.m. Pacific Standard Time. Thank you.”
She disconnected the call, satisfied that the message was clear and reassured that allowed someone out in the world know that she had done something of value.
Her phone rang again. She took the call immediately and put the last one out of her mind.
* * * * *