Free The Girls by Helen Yglesias Page B

doctors’ offices, banks, a church, an imposing new synagogue. Naomi’s bank was on a corner of this broad tree-lined avenue. Jenny had been here on an earlier visit, before the first breast cancer operation, when Naomi had wanted Jenny on all her accounts “just in case.” That was a year and a half ago. The decor was the same—plush, comfortable armchairs and sofas, little tables, coffee served, good lavatories—but the very pleasant Cuban woman Jenny had dealt with then was gone.
    The woman now handling Naomi’s accounts was a Russian Jewish émigré who spoke excellent English. Her open face had a Middle American look, with its fair-skinned, blue-eyed evenness and its beauty parlor hairdo. Her slightly overweight body was neatly held together in a light-green polyester suit, and she wore a gold chain at her neck and gold hoops on her earlobes. Jenny chatted with her about her move from Minsk to Miami Beach. She had studied English all through school back in the Soviet Union. It was a popular language there, lots of students took English. She had come to the United States because she loved freedom —the word as she pronounced it appeared in italics. She also loved Miami Beach. She had come seven years ago. She didn’t miss Russia, no, and anyway it was very bad there now, she had family and friends, they were suffering, they didn’t know from one day to the next what would happen. Economically. Nobody cared about politics anymore. But economics, that was a different story.
    She praised Naomi. “Mrs. Rybinski is a lady. A lot of these women at her age, they’re hard to deal with, but Mrs. Rybinski is a lady. We never have any trouble. It’s a pleasure to deal with your sister. She likes to know what her balance is maybe a little too much, every few days, but she’s a lady when she asks.” She paused, proudly presenting Jenny with her business card, on which her name appeared as Tatyana Weiss. She invited Jenny to call her Anna. “More American,” she said. “Easier to pronounce.” Everything between them was pleasantries until her face closed down against whatever she was reading on the computer screen.
    “You’re Flora Strauss’s sister?”
    “Yes,” Jenny said.
    “How many sisters are you?” Tatyana Weiss seemed to be continuing their casual conversation, but her expression was suddenly formal.
    “Four, actually, counting myself.”
    “And your name is …?”
    “Jane Witter,” Jenny said. “I’m on my sister’s accounts. I’m the name on my sister’s accounts.”
    But the pleasant face had entirely closed itself off. “I can’t give you any information about Mrs. Rybinski’s accounts,” it said, and turned aside as if the transaction had been completed.
    “I don’t understand,” Jenny said.
    “That’s the only information I can give you.”
    “That’s preposterous.”
    “Bank policy,” the woman said. “Have a good day.”
    “Can you tell me if I am listed on my sister’s accounts?”
    “No information,” the woman repeated. “Bank policy.”
    “I filed a power of attorney with you. For my ninety-year-old sister. Are you telling me that it’s no longer operative?”
    “Yes, madam. It is no longer operative.”
    “And I’m no longer on her accounts?”
    “I can give you no further information.”
    “Can she do that? Change everything? Without notifying me? And how about the bank—shouldn’t you have notified me? Or something? Doesn’t the bank have any responsibility? To me? To the fact that the woman is ninety years old?”
    “Would you like to see the manager? He will be available after two o’clock. That’s all I can do for you, madam.”
    “What’s the matter?” Jenny said. “We were a couple of human beings a few moments ago. What happened? I’m just trying to determine the state of my ninety-year-old sister’s accounts.”
    “Have a good day, madam.” Tatyana Weiss picked up her phone and turned her back on Jenny altogether, gathering up the