Breaking the Bank (11 page)

But then he stopped and eased himself out of her. “Where did you go?” she said.

“This is not a good idea.”

“No, it's not,” she agreed.

“Then why, Mia? Why do it?”

“For old time's sake?” She tried to be jaunty but failed miserably. At least she wasn't crying. Not yet anyway.

He was silent, and so was she. When the silence stretched a little longer, Mia tried willing herself to get up and off of the mattress, but it was no use. She was lonely, she was heartsick, she missed Lloyd and the life they used to have together. She was drunk, too—weepy, self-pitying drunk as opposed to angry drunk, jolly drunk, or philosophical drunk. Weepy drunk, she knew from experience, was the worst.

Then she felt him move against her again, and within minutes, they were at it in earnest. It was wet, it was hot, and it was over all too soon. Lloyd came with a small grunt, and then remained still, breathing hard. Mia didn't know what to say, so she waited; when she ventured his name, he let out a clipped, guttural snore—he had fallen asleep. Mia wished she could drift off next to him, but the thought of Eden—who might find them together the next morning and infer all sorts of happy endings that were most emphatically not going to come true—propelled her back to her own bed. The insides of her thighs were chafed and sticky, but she fell asleep anyway, almost as soon as she closed her eyes.

M
IA AWOKE THE
next morning awash in shame and remorse. Plus she had a monumental, sanity-obliterating headache; she couldn't even open her eyes without pain. Sex with Lloyd? What a truly terrible idea. Why had she initiated such a thing? To establish the scope and shape of her own hurt, the way she might touch an iron, to test the heat, and then snatch the finger away again? Only she hadn't snatched her finger away soon enough; she'd let it stay put and now the burn remained. The thought of facing him, in Eden's presence no less, was unendurable.

There were noises coming from the kitchen; Eden's high, excited voice blending with Lloyd's deeper one. The noises added a new dimension to her pain. She kept her eyes closed and her head very still. Soon there were smells. He was making French toast, one of his specialties. His version called for cream, nutmeg, and grated orange peel; since she had none of these ingredients in her kitchen, he must have gone shopping to procure them. Eden would eat at least three slices of this confection. She would eat anything Lloyd prepared—Mia was grateful for this, if not for much else about Lloyd—and lick the plate clean, too. She had always adored her father, but since he left, she fairly worshipped him.

Mia's stomach rumbled. She was hungry. No wonder, considering her largely liquid meal of the night before. But she couldn't rise up over the wall of pain to get out of bed and deal with Lloyd. So she remained where she was, treating her throbbing head as if it were a centuries-old Ming vase, too fragile and precious to be handled. Soon she was asleep. When she next opened her eyes, the apartment was quiet and the throbbing
in her head had retreated sufficiently for her to contemplate getting up. She ventured into the kitchen, where dishes had been washed and put away. On the fridge, she found a check and a note:

Thought I'd let you sleep in. I'll take Eden today, so you can do whatever you need/want. We'll be back after dinner.

She was somewhat mollified by the check, but remained roiled, first by Lloyd's presence, and then by his absence. To shake off the mood, she took a shower in the still-clean bathroom and used one of her plush new towels. Her head still hurt when she got out, but it was a mild hurt, almost a relief when compared to the earlier pain. And she discovered that she had gotten her period. Another relief. At least she wasn't pregnant.

After the shower, she found that Lloyd had left the French toast batter in a Saran Wrap–covered bowl on the counter. There was a loaf of sliced challah bread next to it, and she made herself two slices while considering how to deal with the rest of the day. She could work on

All That Trash,
which was intermittently brilliant but also uneven. She could run errands. And she could visit Julie to confess her idiotic behavior of the night before, though the conversation would no doubt be peppered very heavily with
I-told-you-sos
. But Julie, who was on occasion prone to equally idiotic behavior when it came to men, would also be sympathetic.

Armed with something like a plan, Mia dressed, brushed her teeth—with extra vigor, as if that would scour away last night's excesses—and settled down with the manuscript. She used color-coded Post-its and Sharpies; she jotted down extensive notes that she would type up at the office on Monday. While she worked, she had the enormously gratifying sense that she was doing something tangible; her red editing pencil was a trowel, a ruler, a pair of scissors.

The palpable sense of accomplishment carried her out into the day.

It was a gorgeous morning, the weather a kind of Pied Piper, calling people out of their brownstones and apartments and into the brilliant sunshine, newspapers and cups of coffee abandoned in favor of the golden day. Mia ran into Caitlin and her mother, two other girls from Eden's grade, a woman from the exercise class she used to attend, and a puffed-up, self-important guy from the Food Co-op, whom she adroitly dodged because she was delinquent in working her shifts and knew she hadn't a prayer of catching up. And then she bumped into Fred, who looked, in the crisp October air, even better than he had last night. The bar was too dark for her to have taken proper notice of quite how blue his eyes were, for instance. The sun ignited his buzz cut to an amber sheen. And then there was that tooth.

“So we meet again,” she said, striving to sound playful. “So we do,” he bantered back. He scrutinized her face and added, “You look pretty good, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“How looped you were when you left. Julie really chewed me out. She said it was my fault you had to go home.”

“Julie worries too much. I was fine,” Mia fibbed. “Just tired after a long week at work.”

“I'm glad that was all it was,” he said, and his blue-eyed gaze held hers for a second or two longer than was necessary.

“What else would it have been?” she said, but she had a feeling she knew what was coming next and did not want to hear it.

“I thought maybe you didn't want to go out when Julie told you I wanted to come along.”

“Now why would you think that?” But Mia knew perfectly well why. She felt uncomfortable knowing it, too. Fred was a decent guy, and decent guys were hard to find. The only catch was that it seemed she had no interest in decent guys right now. Only the perfidious, reptilian ones. Like Lloyd. She burned afresh at the thought of last night. “I was really wiped out.”

“Some other time then?”

“Sure.”

“Like when?”

“It's hard to say. Between work and my daughter, I hardly ever come up for air.”

“Why don't you call me when you're free?” Fred said, digging into the pocket of his jeans and producing a card with his name and number in crisp block lettering.

“I will,” she said. “Call you.” She took the card, which she had a momentary impulse to deposit in the next trash can she saw. It wasn't that she didn't like him. She actually liked him quite a bit. But she didn't feel ready for the wild ride of courtship, the crazy dips and drops. Then she looked at Fred, all buzz cut and hopeful smile. Just a date, she thought. A quiet dinner somewhere, a drink or maybe two afterward. She could deal with a date. The card fit neatly into her wallet. She
would
call. She just couldn't say when.

“See you,” he said, giving her a last blue-eyed look, and then he was gone.

Mia continued down Seventh Avenue, wishing she had a pair of big Jackie O sunglasses. There were times when Park Slope felt a little too small, and this was one of them. Up ahead, she saw a group of people milling around on the corner of First Street. Maybe she should cross over, just in case there was someone else she knew and needed to avoid. But the light was against her, and she remained on course.

As she approached the cluster of people, the reason for the crowd became apparent. She saw several kittens in plastic carriers. A big sign read take home some love. adopt a pet today. People were cooing over dogs, fondling cats. Good thing Eden was not here; she'd want to adopt every single mutt they had. Mia was almost past the display when the sight of a small black-and-white dog stopped her. Something about the animal's pointed ears and snout looked familiar.

“What kind of dog is that?” she asked one of the volunteers, a teenage girl with a frizzy top knot and multiple facial piercings.

“Pomeranian,” the girl replied. “Isn't she cute?”

Mia would not have described the creature as cute. She was scrawny, with a terrified, slightly crazed look in her black eyes.

“Want to hold her?” the girl persisted. Without waiting for an answer, she scooped up the dog and handed her to Mia. The animal felt like she weighed about five pounds and she trembled violently. But she placed her tiny head on Mia's clavicle and looked up. Then it clicked: Mr. Ortiz had had Pomeranians, though the two overstuffed, wheezy creatures that waddled along the hallway had little in common with this waif.

Mia handed her back to the girl, who put her down again. The dog limped over to a bowl of water and took a few laps.

“What's wrong with her leg?”

“It's not her leg, it's her foot.” The girl knelt and gently grasped the dog, holding up her back right paw for inspection.

Mia saw that a couple of the toe pads were missing; the sight filled her with a small but creeping sense of anxiety.

“Some sadist burned her paw with a cigarette. Can you believe it? We found her wandering around with that back paw oozing green gunk and swollen to twice its normal size. So in the end, those two toe pads had to come off. She's lucky she didn't lose the whole foot.”

Mia could believe it. She glanced at the other animals. There was a squat, bushy dog wagging its bushy tail on one side of her and an enormous cat with only one eye on the other. The rejects. The ones no one wanted. The black-and-white Pom circled a few times with her limping yet oddly ladylike gait before she curled into herself and settled down.

“I want to adopt her,” Mia said, the words a surprise to her own ears.

“Hey, that's great!” said the girl. “She's a little love. Wait and see.” She pulled out a clipboard of forms and handed it to Mia. “Fill out
the top,” she instructed. “I'll find her records.” She began shuffling through a big stack of papers.

Mia looked again at the Pom. There was something so wounded and pitiful in her expression that Mia didn't think she could stand to see it. But she wouldn't have to. She was going to adopt the dog, not keep her.

She would forgo Rite Aid and the library in favor of the pet store on Ninth Street. She had one of the shoe-box bills with her today; she'd been keeping a couple in her bag, just in case. She would use it for dog food, a couple of toys, whatever. She would not ask Mr. Ortiz if he wanted the dog; that was not in sync with her newly assembled plan. First she had to get the dog safely home.

The girl returned with a sheet of medical records that Mia folded and stuffed in her bag. She didn't want to know what had been done to this animal; what was the point? What mattered was what was going to happen now, not what had gone on before. At the pet store, she stocked up on several varieties of dog food, dog treats, and a new leash and harness. Then, accompanied by the limping but surprisingly agile creature, Mia headed home.

It was only when she had reached her apartment building that she addressed the question of how the dog was to be walked. The landlord seemed deaf to the repeated pleas on the part of the tenants to fix the elevator, but Mia had to find a way to make sure the dog was taken out, not allowed to roam the hallways. She was willing to do it sometimes. And Eden could help. Then there was her secret stash—she could use some of that, too. It suddenly became imperative to her to make this work.

She was so psyched by her idea that she went directly to Mr. Ortiz's apartment. She pressed the bell and waited for him to shuffle to the door.

“Señora Saul,” he said. He was dressed in dark pants and a deeply yellowed white shirt. She almost never rang his bell, and she could tell
he was wondering why she was doing so now. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, you can. And here she is.” Mia held out the dog, which was cowering, naturally. Cowering seemed to be her M.O.

“You have a dog?” Mr. Ortiz reached for the creature. “She's a rescue.” Mia sidestepped the question.

“Rescue?”

“You know. She's from a shelter. If someone doesn't take her, they'll put her to sleep.”

Mr. Ortiz looked at the dog and tentatively stroked her head. She moved a little closer into his embrace.

“That would be a great pity,” he said slowly. He continued to stroke the dog, whose trembling did not stop but visibly diminished. Or was this Mia's imagination?

“I think so, too. So you'll take her?”

“I would like to, Señora Saul. But the stairs . . . my knees . . . Señor Manny. I really don't think I can.”

“I've thought about that,” Mia said excitedly. “We'll find someone to walk her. My daughter Eden will do it sometimes. And so will I.” This was a rash, extravagant promise. Walking the dog late at night, early in the morning, when it rained, sleeted, snowed . . . Then she remembered the horrible sound the other dog had made in response to Manny's brutal kick and knew she was going to find a way. “Don't worry. I can take care of it.”

“That is very, very kind,” he said. “But I can't let you.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn't be right,” he said. “It's too much trouble.”