Breaking the Bank (12 page)

“Then the dog will be put to sleep. Killed.” Mia knew this would get him.

“You are sure?”

“Who's going to adopt her with that foot?”

“I don't want her to die,” he said, more to the dog than to Mia.

“Neither do I,” Mia said. Impulsively, she squeezed Mr. Ortiz's shoulder. The dog seemed to cringe when she got close. “You're doing the right thing, Mr. Ortiz,” she said. Then she handed him the bag of dog paraphernalia and retreated, before he could change his mind.

L
ATER, SHE WENT
to Julie's. Shoes were everywhere: the floor, the sofa, the chairs, the table. Julie was a fanatic about footwear and had decided to use her night off to sort through every pair she owned. Mia moved aside high-heeled boots, suede clogs, and raffia slides in three colors—tangerine, lime green, and pink—in order to create a place to sit down.

“How are you?” Julie wanted to know. “Totally hungover?”

“Not anymore.”

“That's good.” The shoes were being arranged in groups: one for the shoemaker, another to give away, a third to put back in her closet. “Anyway, how is it going with Lloyd?” When Mia didn't answer, Julie gave her a swift, sharp look. “Okay, you better tell me about it.
All
about it.”

So Mia did. When she finished, Julie tossed a black velvet ballet flat in her direction. It just missed her head. “Watch out,” she said, tossing the shoe back. “You almost hit me.”

“Too bad I didn't,” Julie said. “It might have woken you up. How could you? Didn't I tell you not to do that? Not even to
think
of doing that? Sleeping with an ex is always a terrible idea.” Julie, who had two exes, had slept with both of them.

“You were right.” Mia sighed.

“So then—why?”

“Why did you?”

“I was younger.”

“By about . . . let's see . . . a year?”

“Listen, it's only because I did it that I know what a disaster it is. There's no reason both of us have to go through it, is there?”

“Well, it's too late now.”

“True. Now it's a matter of damage control.” Julia slipped on a pair of red patent-leather spike heels with big red flowers at the toe. “Are these hot or are they tacky?” She stepped back.

“Tacky,” said Mia. “Get rid of them.”

“What did you say to him this morning?” Julie removed the shoes and held them almost tenderly, as if loath to let them go.

“I haven't seen him yet. He made Eden breakfast and then they disappeared.”

“When you do see him, apologize in as few words as possible and then never bring it up again. It's done, over, finished.”

“I don't see that it makes much difference whether I mention it again or not.”

“Oh no,” Julie said firmly. She finally deposited the red shoes in the discard pile, but not, Mia could see, without some regret. “You're trying to save face. And saving face is crucial.”

Mia stayed for dinner: frozen burritos in the microwave, Diet Coke, and a virgin box of Mallomars. As they were saying good-bye, Julie handed her a shopping bag bulging with shoes.

“Would you drop these off at the bar on your way home?”

“What for?”

“Because I promised them to Fred. His daughter is in some local theatrical thing, and they're scrounging for costumes.”

“I guess they're all playing call girls?” Mia peered into the bag; the red heels were right on top.

“Very funny. Now could you please just take them over? It's on your way.”

“Will Fred be there?”

“Do you care?”

“Well,” said Mia, picking up one of the red shoes and holding it in her hand. “Sort of.”

“You said you weren't interested, so what's the big deal?”

“I bumped into him today. On Seventh Avenue. I don't want him to think I'm stalking him.”

“If you aren't interested, he'll figure it out. So don't worry. Now would you please just go?”

Mia took the bag—it was heavy, but she wasn't going to protest any more—and started out toward the bar. The place was crowded, and she was greeted by the seal-like yelps of merriment emanating from a group seated at a large, central table. The bar was packed, too, and it was only when she was directly in front of it that she was able to see Fred, smoothly moving back and forth as he poured, mixed, stirred, and shook. Mia spied a bottle of gin and felt her stomach clench with the memory of last night's excess, but she composed her face into a reasonable facsimile of a smile when her eyes met his.

“Hey,” was all he said, but Mia could tell he was glad to see her. “Hey, yourself.” She couldn't find a seat at the bar and resigned herself to standing. She set the bag on the floor close to the bar, so no one would step on it.

“Are you following me?” asked Fred. His hands were in constant motion as he spoke; Mia watched, lulled despite herself, by the way he moved them.

“It looks that way, doesn't it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I'm not. This afternoon was an accident. And tonight . . .”

“You realized that I'm the guy of your dreams, and you had to come and tell me about it.” He grinned and the chipped tooth winked hello.

“Not exactly. The guy of my dreams left me for a Korean manicurist and I stupidly let him stay in my apartment anyway.”

“Now why would you do a thing like that?” Fred's blue eyes were bright with concern.

“Because he's the father of my kid, and he's always known how to sweet-talk me.”

“Ah . . .” said Fred, but it was a wise and knowing
ah,
and hearing it somehow made Mia feel understood, even appreciated.

“Anyway, I brought something I think you wanted.”

“You did? A present for me?”

“Not a present. And it's not technically for you.” She hauled out the bag.

“Julie's shoes!” said Fred, looking down. “Kyra will flip.”

Before Mia could respond, a waitress put in an order for drinks, and for a few minutes, Fred's back was turned while he worked. Mia studied him openly, the span of his shoulders, the ever-so-slight bounce in his step. He turned back to her again. “Thanks for bringing these.” Then he looked at her more carefully and said, “I think you need a drink.” Mia must have looked slightly sick at his words because he quickly added, “Don't worry—it will be something without any sting.” He got busy again and handed her something in a tall glass. The liquid was ruby-colored and garnished with a sprig of mint and the thinnest half-moon of orange. Mia took an experimental sip, followed by another, longer one.

“Delicious,” she said. “What's in it?”

“Pomegranate juice, ginger ale, and a hint of mango nectar. Good for whatever ails you.”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Fred. “Even sweet-talking exes.”

“You have one, too?”

“Do I ever.” Fred sighed in a deeply theatrical way. “But you don't want to know about that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said. And it was true. “But not tonight. Okay if I call you?”

“You have my card,” he said. “Right.” She sucked the drink down through a straw. Of course she had his card—it was in her wallet. “And I'll use it, too.” She tried to pay for her drink, but he refused her money. So she set the empty
glass on the bar and said good night. Two leggy young women had their arms around each other's shoulders and were doing a drunken version of the cancan while their respective dates—and several other guys—looked on appreciatively. Mia resisted the impulse to pet the blonde one—she had a headful of ringlets as if she were a dog. A dog! Didn't she promise Mr. Ortiz she would walk the dog? Jesus, she was so impulsive sometimes. Most of the time, really. She had better hurry.

It had gotten colder. She walked along Seventh Avenue, arms clasped tightly around her chest. As if that would help. She couldn't decide whether she hoped that Lloyd would be awake or asleep when she got home. In either case, she was going to stay as far away from him as she could manage in six hundred square feet. She took the stairs up to her floor, and when she came to Mr. Ortiz's door, she was surprised to see that he had pulled it open and was standing there, as if he had been waiting for her. He wore his paisley robe and ruined slippers; the dog was clutched tightly in his arms.

“I'm here to walk her,” said Mia, guilty for not having remembered earlier.

“No,” he said. “She doesn't need to be walked.” Mia must have looked puzzled, so he added, “It's really like a little miracle, Señora Saul. You won't believe it until you see it. Come.” He gestured for her to follow.

Mia waited a beat before entering the apartment. She had never been in there before, and was not sure she wanted to see how Mr. Ortiz lived. But she followed him down a long hall whose walls sported a faded and dirty coat of aquamarine paint. At the end of this hallway was a room that seemed to be their destination.

“There,” he said, extending his arm. “Can you believe it?”

Mia wasn't sure what he meant: the brocade sofa with its taut covering of clear, impervious vinyl, the large still life on black velvet—a massive bowl of fruit containing oranges, pineapples, and bananas that
had the heft and menace of weapons—the six ornately carved chairs crammed around a small octagonal table. But somehow she sensed that none of this was what Mr. Ortiz was intent on showing her, and so she looked again and noticed the open bathroom door and the plastic box on the floor.

Mia got closer and saw that the box was filled with kitty litter, and right in the center of the kitty litter was a small, tight coil of excrement. Mia was too stunned to comment. Did he really just call her in and ask her to walk down the hall to look at this? The poor guy. He was losing it, he really was. She summoned the nerve to look at him; he was smiling beatifically. Nuts, she thought with pity. Totally nuts. Then the significance of what she was seeing hit her, and her slow-breaking smile mirrored his.

“The dog?” she asked. “Did it in there?”

“Yes!” Mr. Ortiz said, looking down on her with a kind of melting rapture. “She went right in. Knew just what to do. Now I don't have to worry about the elevator or my knees ever again.”

“A dog that's litter box trained. Pretty amazing.”

“Señora Saul, would you hold her for a moment? While I clean up?”

Mia took the dog. The creature was not trembling now, not even the slightest bit. She had come home, Mia thought. She had come home, and she knew it. Stiffly, Mr. Ortiz bent down and scooped at the kitty litter; a moment later he flushed the toilet. Done. Mia waited until he washed his hands and dried them on a tiny, fringed hand towel that was the same faded color of the hallway. Then she handed him back the dog. They said good-bye at the doorway to his apartment and Mia felt oddly fortified for whatever she might face in her own.

But the feeling evaporated as soon as she stepped inside to find Eden and Lloyd, asleep together on the love seat. Eden was in Lloyd's lap; Lloyd had his neck stretched back, and his head was resting against
one of Mia's pillows. But when Mia attempted to slip past them, he opened his eyes and looked straight at her.

“Bed?” Mia asked softly. Lloyd didn't answer but shifted Eden's body slightly so that he was cradling her in his long arms, a limp, outsized doll, and then he stood up. Eden's eyelids fluttered and she mumbled something incomprehensible, but she didn't wake. Mia sat on the love seat, nervously picking at stray threads, until Lloyd had deposited Eden on the trombone-splattered sheets and came back into the room.

“We went to the zoo today,” he volunteered. “Prospect Park?”

“Bronx. She went crazy over the snow leopards. She wants to be a snow leopard for Halloween.”

Mia was silent. How was she supposed to find a snow leopard costume anyway? Maybe Eden would change her mind by then.

“About last night . . .” Lloyd began. “It was a mistake,” Mia said quickly. “A big mistake, and I'm sorry.” She hoped that this would suffice.

“I'm sorry, too,” Lloyd said. “I shouldn't have gone along with it.” Now that was decent of him, Mia thought. But then he spoiled it by adding, “More sorry for you, though. You aren't handling things very well.”

“I'm not handling things very well?” It took all her willpower not to scream. “You
left
me, Lloyd. You left
us.
That's a lot to handle, okay? You can find it in yourself to forgive me if I sometimes don't do a very good job.”

“But you've got to handle it. For Eden's sake. And for your own, too. You can't let yourself get stuck in the past. It'll wreck you, Mia.”

You wrecked me,
she wanted to say. But would not allow herself to. She resumed pulling threads out of the love seat with a new ferocity.

“Anyway, I'll be going tomorrow,” Lloyd continued. “Eden will miss you.”

“I'll miss her, too. But I'll be back,” he said. “When?” she asked. “It's hard for me to say right now.”

“Well, it's hard for Eden not to know.”

“Look, there's no point in trying to make me feel guilty.”

“Why not?” she asked. “You should feel guilty. You
are
guilty.”

“Guilty of what? Of not loving you anymore?”

This was like a fresh blow, and she said nothing, not trusting herself to speak.

“I still love Eden though. I love her very much,” said Lloyd. “Then try showing it.”

“You don't think I show it?” Lloyd was genuinely incredulous. “Why don't you ask Eden about that? I'll bet that she'll have a different interpretation. I think she knows I love her. And I think you know that she knows.”

With that, Lloyd stood and reached for the pump to inflate the air mattress, which was folded neatly on the floor. Mia stood, too. She wished she could deliver some perfect parting shot, but suddenly, all the vitriol and fight was sucked right out of her, and she was sad, just sad, without being even the least bit drunk.