Breaking the Bank (33 page)

“When you say you ‘knocked them down,' do you mean you, personally?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“That must have been some job.”

“Yeah, well, it was right after my divorce. It was a good outlet. Kept me from thinking too much. Or killing someone.”

Mia nodded as she glanced around the front room. It was tidy and comfortable, with a low, streamlined sofa in a pewter-colored velvet, a tweed-covered armchair, and a round braided rug. There was a small mantel, on which stood a crudely fashioned vase with a bilious green glaze dripping down its sides. Mia picked it up to inspect it.

“Pretty hideous, huh?”

“Now that you mention it, yes.” Mia put the vase down.

“Kyra made it. It's from her green period.” He smiled.

“Got it.” She smiled back.

“You know how it is when you're divorced—you've got to work extra hard to make your kid feel like she still has a home with you. Living with an ugly vase is nothing compared with what I've done. Or what I'd do.”

“So where should I put my bag?” Mia asked, shrugging off her jacket.

“In my room,” Fred said, reaching for it. “Want to go up?”

“Can we wait a little bit?” Mia asked. She was all right, on the way over here, pressed like a strip of masking tape to Fred's back as they sped along on his motorcycle. But all of a sudden she was feeling something like aftershock, and she badly needed to sit down. “Actually, I was hoping for a drink.”

“Not tonight, Josephine,” Fred said, mock sternly. Then, relenting slightly, he added, “How about a cup of steamed milk with a little splash of pixie juice to give it bite?”

“Perfect,” she said, sinking into the chair. She remained there while Fred puttered around in the kitchen. He had a nifty Italian espresso maker with a steamer attached; it made a ferocious huffing sound, like it was ready to blast off. Fred returned with a mug of something white and frothy. A dusting of brown hovered on the surface of the foam. She sipped, tasting cinnamon, vanilla, and a hint of something stronger that she thought was cognac.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” she said. “You're not having one?”

“I'm okay,” Fred said, looking serious as she sipped. “But you're not.”

“No?” She tried to keep her voice light.

“No. You're coming apart at the seams, Mia. I'm worried about you.”

“Join the club,” she said. The cognac-laced milk was making her joints all loose and limber; God, but she had been wound up tonight. Tight as a spring. It was good to let go, relax a little.

“Well, maybe they're right to worry.”

“Why, Fred?” she burst out. “Why? I'm doing my best here. Can't you see that?”

“I know you are, baby,” Fred soothed. “But you've got to admit that some of your choices are a little . . . questionable.” Mia waited, knowing what was coming next. “This Patrick person, for instance. You just happen to get a little visit from a guy you met in jail? You're lucky he didn't kill you.”

“I know,” she said, looking down into her cup and watching the tiny white bubbles burst.

“And what if Eden had been there when he showed up? Huh?”

“I said I
know.
” She drained her mug.

“When are you meeting with that lawyer?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“After work?”

“The office is closed for the holidays. I'm a free agent until January.”

“Well, I'm glad you're going to meet with him.” He waited, studying her. “Are you going to tell him about the cash machine?”

“Only if he asks,” said Mia. “So far, he's said he doesn't want to know where I got that bill. He just wants to focus on Weed—the where, when, and how. He says he wants to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that I had nothing to do with his death.”

“And how about me? You said you would show me,” Fred said in a low voice.

“Is it really so important to you?”

“Yes,” he said, “it is.”

“Then I will.”

“When?”

“Give me a couple of days, okay? After Christmas?”

Fred said nothing, so Mia added, “Come on. I'm scared even to go back to that neighborhood right now. You can understand that.” This was not, strictly speaking, true. Still, she didn't have to tell that to Fred, did she?

“Okay,” he said finally. “You do love to stall though.”

“I'm not stalling,” she said, standing up and walking over to where he sat. “Not really.”

He looked like he didn't believe her; why should he? She was lying. Again. Suddenly, she felt very, very tired. What was the point of being with Fred, of being with anyone, if she had to lie about everything, especially what was most essential to her? It occurred to her that she'd had to do plenty of lying—to herself, mostly—when she'd been married to Lloyd. Not at first, of course. But as his overbearing ways began to stifle and then anger her, she had had to pretend that he was brilliant, he was strong; that he took over because he deserved to. There
had been a price for her self-deception, one she hadn't even realized she'd been paying. And now here she was, doing it again.

“All right,” she said, settling onto the couch next to him. “I guess I am stalling. Even though I said I would show you, I don't want to.”

“Why, Mia?” he asked, lifting his thumb to trace the line of her jaw. “Don't you trust me?”

“You'll think I'm crazy.”

“Oh, that,” Fred said with that smile of his, the one that was all chipped tooth and sparkling. “I already know you're crazy; what else is new?”

“Stop!” She slapped his arm lightly, but with intent. “I'm trying to tell you something.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I'm listening.”

“It's just that ever since that machine started giving me money, money that I didn't ask for, money that I didn't expect, I've felt, oh, I don't know, charmed, somehow. Like I'd been chosen for something special. Not that you'd think it from looking at my life, especially lately. But to me, do you see? It felt like that to me.”

Fred said nothing, but he was looking at her with the sort of slack-mouthed attention men usually reserved for the World Series or the Super Bowl.

“This machine has been my secret, my private jackpot, maybe even my private hell, but it's been mine. All mine. And I haven't wanted to tell anyone about it.”

“Not even me,” said Fred. It was not a question; it was an answer.

“Not even you.” There, she had just come out and said it. She waited for something, anything to happen—skies to fall, lightning to flash, bolts of thunder to be hurled from on high—but nothing did. Fred sat quietly; he didn't press, didn't ask, and didn't say anything more. His silence was not golden, thought Mia; it was like a prism, scattering rainbows all over the place.

“Maybe we could go upstairs now . . .” she said, placing first one arm, and then the other, around his neck.

“Maybe we could,” he agreed.

But they didn't go upstairs; they did it right there on the sofa, and this time it was especially tender and sweet. Mia didn't think of Lloyd, not even once. She wanted to tell this to Fred but then decided no, better not. The omission didn't feel like a lie; it felt like a different kind of truth.

M
IA WAS VERY
grateful for the distraction of being at Fred's; it kept her from missing Eden too much. She had been tempted to call her several times, but each time, she held off. Let Eden call her if she needed to. Instead, Mia puttered around Fred's place, looking for things to do, like polishing a pair of candlesticks she found tucked away in a cupboard and then buying long white tapers that she lit when they sat down together for dinner.

“Nice touch,” Fred said, touching the rim of his wineglass to hers, “very nice.” One of the perks of dating a bartender was that he always served excellent wine. And unlike Lloyd, he didn't analyze it endlessly. He just handed her a glass of whatever he had poured and said, “Try this. I think you'll like it.”

She also made the acquaintance of Fred's three cats, a pair of ginger-colored females and a seventeen-pound long-haired gray male. The male was rather repulsive, with a squashed-in face and a slow, almost waddling gait, but he had taken a shine to Mia, plopping himself down on her feet or lap when she least expected it. The first time, he parked himself on her face when she was sleeping, causing her to emit a small, strangled scream.

“What?” said Fred sleepily, as he moved out of the orbit of her thrashing. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“I . . . I don't know,” Mia said, panting a little. “It felt like something furry and hot was stretched out over my mouth. I couldn't breathe.”

“Oh, that was Dudley,” Fred said affectionately, looking around for the cat. “Hey, boy.” Fred stroked the animal on its abysmally low forehead.

“Does he always do that?”

“Only when he likes someone. He must have a thing for you.”

“How nice,” Mia said, shuddering as she pulled the covers up around her neck.

But the force of the animal's affection—patient, unwavering, asking so little in return—began to eat away at her reserve. When she tentatively patted his head, she was rewarded with his purr, a rich, vibrato hum. A gentle scratch under his chin yielded a look of slitty-eyed adoration. Soon, she was mincing shrimp scraps to add to his dinner, and combing out mats in his silky gray fur.

“I've never seen him take to someone new so quickly,” said Fred. “It's like he's decided you're his person.”

“Maybe I have a secret power that he senses,” Mia said. “Something mysterious and compelling.”

“That's you all right,” Fred said without a trace of irony. “Mysterious and compelling.”

F
RED INVITED
M
IA
out to Bensonhurst, where he would be spending Christmas Day. Since Mia had no other plans, Bensonhurst seemed as good a place to be as any. Well, perhaps not as good as Capri or Gstaad. But since she hadn't been asked to any of those places, Bensonhurst would have to suffice. With its detached single-stories, its driveways, and its lawns, it reminded Mia of the burbs. Fred led her to a brick house, on top of which blinked a trio of stars and a lone angel with outstretched wings. Down below were a full-scale crèche and about twenty-five cars parked around it.
Adoration of the automobiles,
thought Mia.

“I have a big family,” Fred said. He shifted the bag of presents he was carrying from one hand to the other. “You're not shy, are you?”

There were easily forty people in the house, which was all gussied up for the holiday with artificial wreaths in every window, artificial garlands wound around the banister and door frames, and a light-studded, tinsel-clotted artificial tree that grazed the ceiling. Fred steered her through the crowd, stopping to kiss, hug, or pump the hand of everyone he saw.

“There's my mother,” Fred said, gesturing to a sixtyish woman across the room. She was solid rather than fat, squeezed into a black sequined top and black pants. Her hair was a cascade of dark waves; Mia thought she might have colored it with shoe polish. Even at this distance, it was impossible not to notice her inch-long fingernails, painted a dark, frosted scarlet.

“I call her the Babe of Bensonhurst,” added Fred. Mia hung back for a second, but Fred took her hand and gently led her along. “Come on, I'll introduce you.”

“Freddie!” the woman said, and grabbed Fred in a hug; she caught him somewhere between his waist and his chest. Fred hugged her back, grinning at Mia over his mother's inky head. Mia felt a little knot of discomfort begin to tighten inside, the diminutive form of his name a little warning bell pinging in her head. Lloyd's mother was prone to this kind of thing, too, with her
Timmy this
and
Timmy that.
But then Mia reminded herself of all the ways in which Fred was nothing at all like Lloyd.

The woman broke away from Fred and extended her hand with its vivid nails in Mia's direction.

“I'm Bev,” she said. “Glad you could join us. Any friend of Freddie's is a friend of mine. What's your name?”

“Mia.”

“Well, Mia, I hope you brought your appetite. The food's in there. Freddie, take her inside and fix her a plate.”

Which he did: roast turkey, sweet potato puree, glazed ham, pickled beets, green beans, lasagna, garlic bread. Mia was suddenly
ravenous and took seconds of mostly everything. The beets. The beets were delicious. So tangy. She had never had better beets. And the sweet potatoes—so light and fluffy. Finally, she put her fork down.

“I hope you saved room for dessert,” said Fred.

After everyone had eaten, the group splintered off in several directions. The kids went into the bedroom to watch a DVD; a bunch of guys turned on ESPN. Bev organized a card game in the kitchen—all turquoise Formica, circa 1974—and began to shuffle.

“Mia, can I deal you in?” called Bev.

“I'll sit this one out,” Mia said. She disliked most card games, but in the interest of being sociable, she would sit and watch.

“Okay, if you change your mind, just let me know,” said Bev. Her hands on the deck were practiced and light; the cards skittered across the table.

“What's the game?” whispered Mia.

“It's called Fuck Your Neighbor,” said Fred.

Loud, fast, and explosive, it was not a game with which Mia was familiar. Even though she couldn't quite catch the rules, she still found herself enjoying it.

Bev yelped with delight when she made a good play and cursed with impressive brio when she lost. Finally, she gathered the cards into a neat stack and shooed everyone away from the table.

“Game's over,” she announced, hoisting her tubby little body up. Encased in the tight black clothes, she reminded Mia of a seal. “Freddie's making a fresh batch of coffee.”