Breaking the Bank (30 page)

“He should have gotten her into rehab sooner; he shouldn't have believed her when she said she was clean; he shouldn't have left her on her own. But that girl wanted to get high, and there was nothing anyone, not even Patrick, could do to stop her. That's just how people are. They do what they do. The rest is just luck.”

Mia said nothing, but pulled out the envelope and laid it on the
table.
Maureen could open it herself,
she thought.
Open it and keep the money.
But this did not deter her. The important thing was that she gave it. What happened after that was not in her control.

“Hey, I didn't even offer you nothing,” said Maureen, grinding out another cigarette. “Want some coffee? Or cake? I've got a Sara Lee banana cake in the freezer; I can stick it in the microwave.”

“That's all right,” Mia said. Her lungs were whimpering for relief. “I'm not hungry. I just wanted to be sure Patrick got this.” She slid the envelope over toward Maureen, who picked it up and pressed it to her chest.

“You're nice,” she said, as if she had just decided. “I'll give it to him when he comes home.”

“Send him my regards, too, okay?” Mia stood. “I hope things start to go better for him.”

“Like I said before: it's all a matter of luck,” said Maureen, standing up along with Mia. “Good, bad, and everything in between.” The barrette holding her hair suddenly popped open, and rippling blond waves poured down around her shoulders. Maureen's hair, like Patrick's, was beautiful; it seemed to belong to some other woman in some other life. Maureen didn't appear to notice though; she just gathered it back into the barrette as she walked Mia to the front door. Mia heard the lock turn behind her.

M
IA TOOK THE
N train from Stillwell Avenue into Manhattan. Usually, the N made good time, but today there was a delay due to “an incident on the tracks,” an MTA euphemism for God knew what sort of mayhem, and she was forced to sit and fume for almost thirty minutes. Finally the train started moving again, and when it reached Fifty-seventh Street, she hurried out. She didn't have much time before she had to be back in Brooklyn to pick up Eden. But she missed the weight and feel of the locket around her neck and was intent on going to Mofchum's. Either he could fix the chain or sell her a new
one. Not that she couldn't have picked up a gold chain elsewhere, but she wanted it to come from him. Besides, she was burning to ask about the inscription. She had not put Eden's picture in the locket after all; she hadn't wanted to cover up the writing.

Mofchum's business card was in her pocket, but Mia didn't need it; she knew the address by heart. She walked quickly along the street, scouting for the numbers: 335, 337, 339—here it was. Or rather, should have been. She stopped short in front of the window, which was as dirty as she remembered. But now it was empty. The shop was dark, and she pressed her face against the glass door, trying to see in. The interior was as empty as the window; there was no sign of the clutter she remembered, no sign of the affable Mofchum. Mia stepped back and looked up. The sign was obscured by some complicated arrangement of scaffolding; for all she knew, it might have disappeared, too. She reached inside her coat to feel for the locket and the ruined chain; they, at least, were still there.

Mia glanced at her watch. It would be tight, but she decided to walk to the diamond district on Forty-seventh Street. Store after store held stalls of dealers hawking gold, diamonds, and precious stones. Mia ducked into the first place she saw, purchased the plainest, least expensive chain she could find, and fastened the locket around her neck. It felt good to have it back. She raced to the subway and managed to slip into the arriving D train only seconds before the doors shut. Though she had to stand the entire way, she was only five minutes late for pickup; and in Mia's book, five minutes didn't count at all.

“Do you have a lot of homework?” she asked Eden when they were on their way home.

“I did it all in afterschool,” reported Eden. “Every little smidgen.”

“Yay for you,” Mia said. And yay for her, too. Tonight there would be no pitched homework battle, and that alone was a huge relief. “How about a game of Scrabble to celebrate?”

“Only if I get a seven-letter word,” said Eden. The last time they had played, she had been ecstatic after having made the word
grunted
; she now expected a repeat performance every time.

“Eden, you know it's just a matter of luck,” she said, echoing Maureen's words. “You can't predict which letters you're going to pick.”

“I can,” said Eden confidently. “Don't you know I have superpowers, Mom? I can read your mind, too. Like I know you're going to let me stay up late tonight, aren't you?”

Eden turned out to be right about that one, and even though she didn't make a seven-letter word, she played a very respectable game and lost to Mia by only three points. Mia never intentionally let her daughter win; she thought it would be an insult to Eden's intelligence, but she was glad that the margin of loss was so small.

When Eden was down for the night—Mia had agreed to let her sleep in her bed until after she was back from visiting her grand-parents—Mia went into the living room with the newspaper, a
New Yorker
magazine, and a new novel by a friend-of-a-friend that she had been meaning to start. Proust was for another decade, she decided. But she couldn't sit still; she had no
sitzfleisch,
as her mother would have said. She was exhausted, but at the same time revved up, and she badly needed to unwind. Every time she thought about the money she had just given away, she got a little rush, intoxicating and sweet. She imagined Patrick holding the envelope, opening it, and finding her card and the bills inside. Not that she wanted to see him again. She had done what she needed to do; the money was the piece of her that she freely gave. Now she was through. But she couldn't stop thinking about it, and thinking about it made her more, not less, stoked. And then there was Mofchum, whose business phone had been disconnected and name she had been unable to locate through directory assistance, at least not in the five boroughs, New Jersey, or Connecticut. There had been a moment of hope when she discovered a Sylvia Mofchum on Staten Island, but the woman knew nothing of Gerald and could not help her.

A drink, that was what Mia needed. Something mellow and smooth. But a quick search of her cabinets revealed that she was almost out of options: there was barely a finger's worth of gin, and the bottle of vodka turned out to be empty. No wine, no beer. Maybe she could run out to the deli for a six-pack, but what if Eden woke up? Mia didn't want to risk it.

She contented herself with the gin, stirring it into some cranberry juice and adding a desiccated bit of lime. She sipped it as slowly as she could, trying to make it last. What she really wanted was one of Fred's who-knew-what-he-would-come-up-with-next concoctions, something truly surprising. She salivated, just thinking about it.

So what was going on with Fred anyway? He must still be annoyed at her. But the splash of gin had done its work: Mia felt all soft around the edges, soft and slightly blurred. She was going to call Fred at Juicy. Right now, in fact. But she must have misplaced her phone. She checked her purse, her pockets, under the cushions on the love seat. It was not in any of those places. She felt confident it would turn up, though; for the moment, she used Eden's phone. The keypad was so tiny it might as well have been designed for a doll. Mia had to squint to see the numbers.

“Hey, sailor,” she quipped when Fred answered. “Looking for a good time?”

“Very funny,” he said. “Are you wasted?”

“Hardly. I had one drink. One teeny-tiny drink.”

“Sounds like it wasn't so teeny.”

“Scout's honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“No. But you were.”

“How did you know that?”

“I know things,” Mia said. “I just do.”

“You're making fun of me,” Fred said, with a distinct chill to his voice. “Again.”

“I thought you liked it when I teased you.”

“I changed my mind.”

“I'm sorry, Fred,” said Mia. Whatever ebullience of spirit had been brought on by the liquor was now completely and totally dissipated. “I really am.”

“It's okay. Sort of,” he said stiffly. Clearly he was still angry. “Anyway, what's up? I heard from Emilio that you stopped by this morning.”

“I just wanted to know if you'd had any more visits from the police,” she said, rubbing a worn spot on the love seat, as if the action of her fingers might somehow repair it.

“I haven't,” he said. “How about you?”

“Actually, I did.”

“No shit? Did they search your place again?”

“They arrested me.”

“Jesus, Mia. You must have been scared.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

“And I guess you're not going to tell me, either.” Now he was angry again. Damn, just when she thought he was thawing.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “I spent the night in jail,” Mia confessed in a small voice. “Really?” He sounded incredulous. “I didn't want to talk to the detective without the lawyer there, and that big snowfall delayed him. So I had to wait in a cell until he showed up.”

“Snow? You mean, this all happened the night Kyra and I were over, and you waited until now to tell me?”

“I would have told you sooner, but you didn't call.” Mia kept rubbing that worn spot on the love seat—rubbing, rubbing, rubbing— until she ended up tearing the fabric even more. Stuffing sprouted from the quarter-sized hole.

“I wanted to,” Fred said. “But I wouldn't let myself.”

“Why?”

“I already told you: I just don't think things are going to work between us if you keep holding out on me.”

“I haven't even told the lawyer everything yet.”

“You haven't slept with the lawyer,” he retorted. “Or at least, I don't

think
you have.” Mia decided to let that one slide.

“Okay,” she said, sitting up straighter now. “Okay. If it's so important to you, I'm going to tell you where I got that bill.”

“I'm listening,” said Fred. “I know this will sound unbelievable, and I know that it
is
unbelievable, except that it also happens to be true. There is a cash machine at my bank that has been giving me money without debiting my account. Extra money. First, it was just a hundred, then a thousand, and finally it gave me a ten-thousand-dollar bill. The one you saw. The one I sold to Weed.”

Mia waited for a response, but Fred didn't seem to have one. “Are you still there?” she asked. “If this is your idea of a joke, Mia,” he said finally, “you'll have to play it on someone else. Because I'm not laughing.”

“I'm serious,” Mia said. “Completely serious. I've never been more serious in my life.”

“You really think this is funny, don't you? Getting your kicks at my expense?”

“Fred, you're taking this all wrong—”

“No, it's you I was wrong about. Dead wrong,” he said, and with that, he hung up.

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE
Lloyd was scheduled to come to New York to pick up Eden, Mia hardly slept at all. Eden snored lightly beside her, bracketed by both Petunia and the new reindeer, whom she had named, inexplicably, Sparrow. Just when Mia finally drifted into a light, dream-splattered doze, Eden popped up like a jack-in-the-box, ready for her big trip.

“I've got my suitcase all packed,” she said, giving the overstuffed valise an affectionate little pat. “And guess what? I even folded everything.”

“That's great, but we're not seeing Daddy until later this afternoon, remember?” said Mia, stumbling into the kitchen in a quietly desperate quest for caffeine.

“I know,” said Eden serenely. “I just want to be ready.”

“Ready,” echoed Mia. Who was ready? Not her. Not a chance.

It was a light day at the office, so with the help of more coffee and liberal infusions of Tylenol, Mia was able to coast through the morning. In the afternoon, there was a holiday party—she steered clear of the spiked punch—and she was out of there by four, beating the rush back to Brooklyn. She picked up Eden first, then the suitcase, and maneuvered them both back onto the subway train to Manhattan. They were meeting Lloyd at Balthazar, a restaurant in Soho, and while Eden was a veritable glass of champagne—all bubbles and pop—Mia was filled with a lead-weighted sense of dread. She didn't want to see Lloyd, much less have dinner with him. She had already had a lengthy, exhausting conversation in which they had chewed over the details of her two encounters with the police; that was more than enough Lloyd for Mia. But she was doing it for Eden.

They walked along Spring Street, suitcase bumping the sides of Mia's legs. She wished Eden would have let her buy a new one. This one was well past its prime, all stained and torn in one corner, but Eden would not part with it; it was the suitcase she had always used for her weekends with Lloyd, and her attachment was strong. She called it “The Little Suitcase That Could,” which made Mia smile. Though right now, with its frayed, ready-to-snap handle, it looked more like “The Little Suitcase That Can't Anymore.”
Oh well,
she thought.
Lloyd will just have to deal with it.

Lloyd. She spotted him as soon as they arrived. He was wearing a bright red cashmere scarf and stood a good half a head taller than anyone in his immediate vicinity. The red was like a traffic light, a fire truck, a brand-new lipstick. It was the pure, primary red of a St. Valentine's Day die-cut heart,
her
heart, the one that Lloyd stomped, trampled, and ground into the dirt when he left. Even though he had his back to her, Mia knew that he was flirting with the pretty blond hostess in the lacy, low-cut top. The girl tipped back her head and laughed at something he said, exposing her smooth white throat. Then Eden scooted over and he turned to wrap her in a huge hug while delivering a cool, off hand hello to Mia. It was only when they were led to a prime piece of restaurant real estate—center table, right by the window—that Mia realized there was one more in their party. She was a tiny woman in a paisley coatdress and black ballet flats. Suim. He had brought Suim along to dinner. Mia felt her face flame. He hadn't told her about Suim. He hadn't dared.