Breaking the Bank (36 page)

“I understand how hard this is for you,” Stuart said after they had been walking in silence for a few minutes.

“No, you don't,” she said. “You don't understand at all. Everything's always gone your way: school, marriage, work, kids. Well, I haven't been so lucky. And instead of understanding me and supporting me, I feel like you're punishing me.”

“Punishing you? For what?”

“For not being rich enough, or successful enough. For not staying married. For being a loser,” she said, kicking the sidewalk with the toe of her boot, in precisely the way, she realized, that Eden did.

“This is your script, Mia. Every word of it.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“Maybe it is,” she said. She was tearing up again and wished she had not dumped his handkerchief. “But that's how I feel. I miss you, Stuart. No, I miss the person you
used
to be.” There, she had gone ahead and said it; she hadn't realized just how hurt she was until the words were out.

“I miss you, too.”

“I'm not the one who's changed.”

“Yes, you have.”

“How?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“It's the bitterness. You're letting it eat you up so that there's nothing else left. You resent my success, you detest my wife, you scorn my kids. I constantly feel judged by you: I'm a sellout, I have no scruples, I'm a shit.”

Bitter.
There was that word again. Hadn't Julie called her bitter? But with Stuart, she felt she had just cause.

“You broke bread with the enemy!” she burst out. “You talked to Lloyd; you listened to Lloyd. You think Lloyd is more trustworthy than I am. Even after everything he's done.”

“Not true,” Stuart said. “Not true and not fair. You're so reductive: black, white, good, bad. I know Lloyd gave you a raw deal. Believe me, I know, and I'd like to punch the guy out. But how will that help you? Or Eden? She still loves him, you know. She still loves him, and she always will.”

Mia was silent, hating him for being right. However she felt about Lloyd, she would have to find a way to endure him because of Eden. Expunging Lloyd was a luxury she couldn't permit herself. But she wasn't ready to give up her grievance against Stuart.

“And then there's Gail. She's despised me from the start.”

“Only because she thinks you despise her.”

“Well, I do.”

“I love her, Mia.”

“I can't imagine why.”

“Then you need to enlarge your imagination.”

“But she's so condescending! Snobbish! Empty, calculating, and dishonest—let's see, have I missed anything?”

“Are you through yet?” Stuart asked.

“Not really,” Mia replied. “In fact, I was just getting started.”

“I'm willing to concede that you two got off on the wrong foot. And I'm sorry for that; maybe I should have stepped in earlier on. Then things might not have gotten to this point.”

“That,” said Mia with mild astonishment, “is the first time I've heard you apologize for anything connected to her. You're always so defensive where she's concerned.”

“I guess I am,” he said. “And maybe she hasn't always been the most sensitive. She's tough because she's had to be.” When Mia didn't say anything, he added, “Look, I'll talk to her, if you want. That is, if you're willing to meet her halfway.” Mia still didn't answer. But she ceased ranting about Gail, at least for the moment.

They came to Bethesda Fountain, which was silent and dry. The Angel of the Waters, with outstretched wings, stood at the center of the fountain. Her bronze gaze was downcast, as if she were ashamed of something. A sparrow landed lightly on the top of her head and then fluttered away.

“So where does that leave us?” Stuart asked. “A shit and a loser. Except you're not a loser, Mia. Never to me.”

“Is this my cue to say you're not a shit?”

“In a word, yes,” said Stuart.

“Okay, so you're not a shit,” she said. “At least not a
total
shit.” She smiled, the first smile of the day.

“Do you remember the last time we were here together?” Stuart asked, looking at the statue. “It was the night I graduated from high school.”

“I remember,” she said.

“Aimee Polansky and Gretchen Dineen were with us. And Tobin Wheeler.” He paused. “Oh—and Josh Horowitz, too.”

“My first love,” she said.

“We all got so wasted,” Stuart said. “I brought a couple of six-packs, and so did Josh. Didn't we take off our shoes and wade in the fountain?”

“I did,” she said. “You were too chicken.” She could see herself at seventeen, tucking her long, gauzy skirt into the elastic band of her panties, singing what even then were old Beatles tunes in varying off-key harmonies, wishing she could have slipped off somewhere to make out with Tobin, whom she hardly knew but found wildly sexy, instead of Josh, her ostensible boyfriend at the time.

“You always had a lot of spirit,” he said, looking at her with admiration. “You still do.”

“Is that what you think? God, judging from that inquisition— excuse me, intervention—at your house, I'd never have known.”

“Okay, so we were too harsh,” Stuart said. “And I was clumsy. But it's because I love you, you dope. Love and am worried sick about you. Don't you get it?”

“Jesus, don't get all smarmy on me,” she said. “Otherwise, I'll have to throw up, and I dropped your handkerchief back there, so I won't even be able to wipe my mouth.” But it was good hearing Stuart say that he loved her, especially when he sounded like he meant it.

“I have another one,” Stuart said. “Do you need it?” He produced a second white folded square from the depths of his coat.

“Do you buy them by the caseload or something?” She took the handkerchief anyway, and this time, she stuffed it deeply into her own pocket.

“Mia, I'm not going to support Lloyd in a bid for full custody, or anything even approximating it. What I am going to suggest, though, is that you let Eden stay with him for a while, at least until after your court date.”

“How do you know about that? Have you been talking to Chris Cox?”

“Of course I've been talking to him; I found the guy for you, didn't I? And it's as a professional courtesy to me that he's not charging you a cent. Do you have any clue about what his hourly rate is?”

“Big deal. So he costs a lot,” she bristled. “That doesn't give you the right to pump him for confidential information about me.”

“Mia,” Stuart said, putting a hand on her arm. “I haven't even asked why you had to spend a night in jail. So just stop, okay?”

She looked at the hand on her arm, as if trying to decide exactly what she should do about it.

“Oh, all right,” she said finally. “Pump away.”

Stuart walked her to the Fifth Avenue subway station. Before she descended the subway stairs, Stuart once again put his hand on her arm.

“I didn't even buy you lunch,” he said.

“Next time.”

“Okay. But that means there has to be a next time. Will you call me? Or at least take my calls when I call you?”

“I guess.”

“Come on, Mia. I thought we were past that.”

“Let me get through this court date, okay?”

“Fair enough.” He stood there fiddling with a loose button on his coat. “I'm going to be there, you know.”

“You are? Why?” How could perfect, perfectly in-charge Stuart have a loose button? She wished that he would pull it off, throw it away. Go buttonless, live a little.

“It's open to the public. Didn't Cox tell you?”

“Yes, but you're not exactly the public.”

“No. I'm your brother.”

To Mia's surprise, he did yank the button off, though perhaps not intentionally. It went scooting along the curb, then veered into the sewer grating at the corner. There must have been a plop, but it was too small and far away to be heard.

“You lost your button,” she said.

“Yeah, well. I've lost things before.”

“Haven't we all?” She grasped him tightly, enfolding him in the hug that she wouldn't give him earlier in the day.

O
N THE SUBWAY
platform, Mia thought briefly about the heaps of clothing still on her bed, but the prospect of returning to the apartment to deal with them was too daunting. Instead, she transferred to an F train and took it out to Fred's house. Fred was not home; he was at the bar already, but she had the set of keys he had loaned her.

Once inside, she flopped down onto the couch and tilted her head back.
Eden,
she thought.
Eden, Eden, Eden.
Maybe Stuart was right about letting her remain with Lloyd for the time being. But
only
for the time being. After the court date, she was going to get her back, no matter what it took. She would go down to North Carolina herself, she would camp out on the Prescotts' doorstep, she would—a rasping, wheezy sound distracted her, and then Dudley flung himself into her shins with the force of a bowling ball headed for a strike. She gathered all seventeen sloppy pounds of him onto her lap and pressed her face into his magnificent, misshapen skull.

M
IA SPENT THE
following day on the couch. She sat on the couch, and she reclined on the couch. She shifted from her stomach to her back, and then curled up on her side, like a shrimp. For variety, she relocated to the floor next to the couch, stroking Dudley whenever he waddled by. The other two cats studiously ignored her, but Dudley, well, Dudley was her
man.
Fred was tender and solicitous, bringing her coffee, a scone, freshly squeezed tangerine juice while she was parked there, but eventually he had to go. It was New Year's Eve day, and he needed to be at the bar early.

“I'll call you later on, okay?” he asked, standing by the door. “To check in on you?”

“That's fine,” she said without any enthusiasm. She had tried reaching Eden at least six more times, but none of those times had she picked up. Mia was sure that Lloyd had found some pretext for which to take her phone; what else could have kept her from answering? Mia's inability to make contact with Eden had left her hobbled and in pain, as if her ankles had been broken.

“And you'll come to the bar tonight?”

“I guess.”

“You've got to come, Mia. You need to get out.”

“Okay,” she said. “I'll be there. You don't have to worry about me. I'm all right.”

“If you say so,” he said dubiously. “Anyway, I wish I could hang out longer, but I really have to go.”

Once she was alone, Mia considered her options. TV, but that meant she actually had to get off the couch and climb the stairs. A
book would be good, but she had just finished the novel she'd been reading and didn't have anything new with her. She tried Eden for the seventh, eighth, and ninth times, and, of course, there was still no answer. She was about ready to pour herself a drink—it was almost New Year's Eve after all—when the cell phone bleated. Eden!

“Hi, baby,” she said, holding the phone tightly pressed to her ear, as if she could touch her child by proxy.

“I like it when you call me ‘baby,' College Girl,” said a male voice. “In fact, you just made my day.”

“Patrick.” Mia's mood plummeted.

“Guilty as charged.” When Mia didn't answer, he continued, “You all right there, College Girl? You don't sound all right.”

“No,” said Mia. “I'm not.” And with that, she was crying again, crying as if she could not stop.

“Is it the boyfriend? He been smacking you around? ‘Cause if he has, I'll have to come over there and kick his fucking ass. I'll take him apart, limb by fucking limb. Just say the word.”

“Fred's not the problem,” said Mia, hiccupping through the tears. “It's my daughter, Eden.” That was all she could say before the sobbing started again.

“Hey, this is not good. Not good at all.”

“No, it isn't,” she agreed. “It's terrible.”

“How about I come and see you, College Girl? I was calling to wish you a happy New Year. But I could do it in person.”

“See me?” said Mia. “See me where?” He couldn't come here; it was out of the question.

“Anyplace you want. You name it, I'm there.”

“Well, I don't know . . .” Mia said, but then thought,
Why not?
She was going to go crazy, sitting around here all day, brooding about Eden. But she would not invite Patrick here, nor would she let him into her apartment. She would meet him somewhere else. Somewhere public.

“You can cry on my shoulder,” Patrick was saying. “Might make you feel better.”

“Okay,” she said, sitting up straighter and dislodging Dudley from her lap. He gave her an insulted look and huffed off. “There's a coffee shop on the corner of Union Street and Fourth Avenue. Can you meet me there in about an hour?”

“On my way,” he said.

P
ATRICK WAS ALREADY
seated and waiting for her by the time she arrived. He had exchanged the white sweatshirt for a white parka— maybe he was channeling Emily Dickinson?—and his long blond hair had been smoothed back into a ponytail. He was freshly shaven, too— the line of his jaw, newly visible, was crisp and well defined. When he spotted her, he smiled and scooted a menu across the table in her direction.

“The New College Inn,” he said, referring to the name printed in bold letters across the menu. “Figures you'd pick this place. Tailor-made for you.”

“I guess,” she said, peeling off her coat and hanging it over the back of her chair.

“So why all the waterworks?” he asked. He put his white hands palms down on the table and waited.

“My ex-husband took my daughter to see his parents for Christmas. And now he says he's not going to bring her back.”