“My grandmother shelled peas on her porch,” he said, not looking up. “In Ottumwa. I used to help her. I haven’t done it in forty years.”
He picked up every single pea. It took him three minutes. Then he stood up, brushed off his knees, and handed me the bowl.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” he said. “I owe you an apology. A real one.”
“Sit down, Mr. Hale,” I said. “There’s iced tea.”
We sat on my porch for two hours.
Shelly brought out the iced tea. She knows where everything is in my kitchen. She’s been coming over for Sunday coffee since George died.
Mr. Hale told me everything.
The spring review. The numbers. The Millbrook branch had the lowest transaction volume of any Heartland branch in Iowa. The oldest customers. The highest cost per transaction. On paper, it made no sense to keep it open.
“Every bank in the country is doing this,” he said. “Closing small-town branches. Moving everything online. It’s how we survive.”
