Breaking the Bank (7 page)

“Mom.” Eden appeared behind her, breaking into her reverie. “Daddy wants to talk to you. Here.” She gave Mia the phone, pulled off a big piece of brownie, and disappeared before Mia could say,
No, wait, you haven't had breakfast.

“She sounds good,” Lloyd said.

“You think? That's because you haven't been talking to her teacher or anyone else at her school.”

“Do you want me to? Because I will, you know. Just give me the names and numbers. I'm there. I am
so
there.”

While Mia debated whether a conversation between Lloyd and Eden's teacher would be a good or a bad thing, she heard someone in the background say something about a latte.

“Where are you anyway? Since when are they serving lattes in Sri Lanka?”

“Who said I'm in Sri Lanka?”

“Seoul then.”

“Wrong again.” These words were followed by a silence. “So are you going to tell me where, exactly, you are?”

“L.A. And I'll be in New York next week.”

“L.A.? What are you doing in L.A.?”

“I had to see some people here. There's been interest in some of my stuff. They flew me in for a meeting.”

“Oh,” she said. “Great.” Was it? She was trying to process all this information—Lloyd in L.A., Lloyd in New York, Lloyd with a potential Hollywood deal—when she realized he was still talking to her.

“. . . So I'll be there at the end of next week. Thursday, maybe Friday. I can let you know when it's firmed up. I want to see Eden. Of course.”

“You can take her for the weekend. She'll be thrilled; in case you haven't guessed, she's missed you. Where will you be staying anyway?”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh? You won't be in the apartment in Queens?” She could not bring herself to say Suim's name.

“There is no apartment in Queens.”

“Why not?”

“Suim had to give it up. Long story.”

“I'm sure.” Mia prayed that she wouldn't have to hear it. “Anyway, I don't want to go into that now. The point is, I need somewhere to stay.” Pause. “I hoped it could be with you.”

“Stay with me! You and Suim want to stay with me?”

“Suim can't make this trip. I'm flying solo.”

“I don't know, Lloyd. I don't think I want you here.”

“What's the big deal? I'll sleep on the couch.”

“I don't have a couch. I have a love seat. And you're too tall to fit.”

“So I'll sleep on the floor. Or in the bathtub.”

“I've only got a shower. It would be kind of hard to sleep standing up—unless you're an ox. And I don't even have a real bedroom; there's only a flimsy partition in the living room—”

“Jesus, Mia,” he interrupted. “Why are you giving me such a hard time?”

“Why am
I
giving
you
such a hard time? Let me see: Could it be because you left me, left our kid, and took up with an underage Asian call girl you found under a rock? And because you owe me, big time, for child support?”

“I have every intention of giving you a check when I get there. And as for Suim, that kind of racist talk really demeans you, Mia. I hope Eden isn't listening.”

“Fuck you, Lloyd Prescott!” Mia shouted, totally losing it now.
“You are not, I repeat
not,
sleeping on the floor, love seat, fire escape, or any part of my apartment you haven't yet mentioned. So just forget about that idea.”

“Oh,” said Lloyd in an infuriatingly wounded tone. “If you really feel that way . . . I just thought it would be nice for Eden—”

“You didn't tell her, did you?” Mia asked. “That you were going to stay here?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

Mia had an impulse to hurl the phone out of the kitchen window, but what good would that do? She would be the one out a phone. Lloyd would still be Lloyd. And she would still have to deal with him.

“That was manipulative, Lloyd. Machiavellian, in fact.”

“I don't see it that way. Not at all.”

“You wouldn't, would you?”

There was a pause during which Lloyd mumbled something to someone, a waiter no doubt, about his beloved latte. Then: “So it will be okay then? For me to stay?”

“Not really. But obviously you're going to do it, whether it's okay or not.”

“Think of Eden,” he said.

“Is that a joke?” But Lloyd had already clicked off, leaving Mia with the phone still in her hand. She snapped it shut and went in search of her child.

“Breakfast,” she said when she found her, spread out on the floor in front of the television.

“I heard you yelling at Daddy,” Eden said, not looking at her. Her fingers moved across her thigh, looking for a place to start twisting and bruising.

“Well, sometimes people yell, honey.”

“Are you going to let him stay here next week?” Eden said in a small, quivery voice.

“It would mean a lot to you, wouldn't it?”

Eden seemed to think this question was an insult to her intelligence, because she turned back to the TV, uttering a sound that was a cross between a snort and a sigh.

“He can stay here.” She waited, expecting something in the way of excitement, enthusiasm, or gratitude. Instead, Eden just kept her head turned toward the television. Mia saw the tears snaking down her profile but resisted the impulse to comfort her because she knew comfort was not what Eden would welcome or even tolerate.

Instead, she returned to the kitchen, where she made eggs and toast for Eden. She called Julie while she cooked.

“I cannot believe you are letting him stay with you,” Julie said when Mia had told her the story.

“It's for Eden's sake.”

“You're about to qualify for sainthood then.”

“No. Just motherhood. Hold on,” Mia said. She wanted to make a fruit smoothie, but since the blender had no lid, she needed both hands to hold a plate over the top. “There. I'm back.”

“Is he bringing her with him?” Julie asked.

“Suim? Not this time. Thank God,” answered Mia. Julie was quiet so Mia prodded. “Why? Do I have to put her up, too?”

“It's not that. I just don't want you to get any ideas.”

“Ideas?”

“You know. Ideas about jumping his bones while he's there.”

“Julie! Are you crazy?”

“No. I just have an ex. Two, actually. So I know how these things happen.”

“Well, they aren't happening here, I can promise you that.”

“Okay . . .” Julie said slowly. “I still don't think he should stay with you.”

“That makes two of us. But I've already said yes.”

* * *

M
IA ARRANGED THE
food on a tray and brought it in to Eden. The kitchen was too small for a table, so they ate their meals in the apartment's largest room, many of them in front of the television set. Eden ignored the toast, picked at the eggs, blew bubbles in the smoothie, and then said she was through.

Mia looked sadly at the uneaten food. Not a good day. She took a bite of the eggs. They were cold, but she finished them anyway. Eden was still in her pajamas, transfixed by the television and hugging the stuffed cow Lloyd had bought for her when she turned four. The cow, named Petunia, was grimy and bald in patches, but Eden worshipped her as she would a fetish, and would consent to neither washing nor replacing her.

Mia's phone sounded again; it was Caitlin's mother, inviting Eden to the playground.

“Can I go?” Eden asked.

“If you finish your homework first,” Mia said.

“Homework!” Eden tossed Petunia up in the air and nimbly caught her on the descent. “I hate homework.”

“Me, too,” Mia said. “Do I have to do it?”

“No. But then you have to go into school tomorrow and tell your teacher why it isn't done.”

Eden thought about this for a second before getting up, hunting for her backpack, and then, when she found it, yanking the books out so that they all collided in a heap on the floor. It was another hour before she finished her two pages of math and her chapter of social studies, but finally they were out the door and on their way.

Walking to the playground, Mia and Eden passed right by the bank. Even the exterior of the building seemed to her electrically charged; Mia was sure she could feel a buzz as she walked by. But she turned her head away and wouldn't look at the place, at least not while she was with Eden. Instead, she watched her daughter pet a big, friendly black
Lab who wagged his tail so eagerly at their approach that he was impossible to resist. The dog made Mia think of Mr. Ortiz and his lone surviving animal. She had not seen him in a few days, and the hallway, she now realized, had been clean. How had it come to pass that she now worried when she did
not
encounter dog shit on the way to her apartment?

She was thinking about this when Eden tugged on her sleeve and said, simply, “Look.”

A man was standing on the corner, holding out a filthy baseball cap to collect money. He was very thin and missing several teeth. Also, he stank so badly that Mia wanted to cross the street to escape the odor. Instead, she dug into her purse for a dollar.

“Can I give it to him?” asked Eden.

Mia hesitated and then said, “All right.” Compared with what she had given that woman in Manhattan yesterday, this was nothing. But she had given the woman bills from the secret stash; they felt to her somewhat unreal. Today, she carried none of those bills. The money she had was unequivocally hers, worked for, worried over, counted, and recounted numerous times. She could not be quite so free with it.

The man, however, seemed to find the single bill a gift of astonishing grace and goodwill.

“Why, thank you, little lady,” he said to Eden. “Thank you so much.” He bowed slightly, and in so doing, swayed a bit on his feet. Alarmed, Mia thought she might have to pick him up if he toppled, but he didn't.

“He smelled really bad,” Eden said in a low voice when they were out of earshot.

“Uh-huh.”

“That's because he lives on the street and doesn't have any place to take a shower, right?”

“Right.”

“That lady yesterday . . .”

“What about her?”

“She lives on the street, too, doesn't she? But she didn't smell bad.”

“No, she didn't.”

“Why, Mom?”

“Why didn't she smell bad?”

“No. Why does she, I mean, why does
anyone
have to live on the street? I don't get it.”

“You know, I'm not sure I do, either,” said Mia.

“Can't the mayor or the president find a place for at least some of those people to live? How about at the White House? It's big enough.” Eden had gone to Washington on a school trip, and she couldn't stop talking about the White House, which to her was on par with the Taj Mahal or Versailles.

Before Mia could reply, she heard Eden's name being called, loudly, from a few feet away. It was Caitlin, and Eden ran to meet her. Mia followed behind. After she said good-bye to her daughter and made plans for picking her up a few hours later, Mia headed home. She was free for a while, though of course she had plenty to do, like start cleaning up the apartment before Lloyd descended on her; he always ragged on her for being a slob, and she just didn't want to hear it this time around. Plus, she had some work she could get a jump on. Mommy Mousie was, mercifully, squeaking away on someone else's desk at the moment, and Mia had been given a new project. It was called
All That Trash: The Real Story of Your Garbage,
and she loved it. Who knew that every ton of recycled paper could save seventeen trees, save seven thousand gallons of water, and eliminate three cubic yards of landfill space? Or that for every ton of waste we generate, another twenty tons were generated to produce the products we used? And that in spite of recycling, the per capita discard rate in 1996 was 25 percent higher than it was in 1960?

Mia devoured this data and had been peppering her conversations with such tidbits, tossing them out to her brother and mother, to Julie
and to Eden, who was initially interested but who then asked her to
please
stop talking about garbage. Settling down with the manuscript for a solid couple of hours suddenly seemed more important than cleaning up for Lloyd. So the place would be messy; he was the one who manipulated his way into staying over. If he didn't like it, he could go somewhere else.

As she reached the corner of Garfield and Fifth, she saw—and smelled—the guy who was standing there a little while ago. He was still in the same spot, but he was wearing the baseball cap now, and had substituted a cardboard coffee cup for the change he was collecting.
You already gave him money,
Mia thought.
You don't have to give him anything else.
But this rationale did not seem to satisfy her, and instead, she impulsively ducked into the bank, marched over to the machine,
her machin
e, and slipped her card into the designated slot. She requested one hundred dollars and waited.
It won't happen again,
she admonished herself.

The screen color repeated its weird mutation from light to dark, and again there was the dot of light at the center. Wasn't it bigger this time though? Yes, she was sure it was. Before it had been a pencil point; now it was the size of a popcorn kernel. She felt herself drawn into its light before it vanished, to be replaced by the familiar screen. When the whirring noise stopped, she reached for the bills.

They were hundreds; she could see that in an instant. But there were a lot of them—more than last time certainly. She quickly hunched over, as if she'd been sucker punched, to count. One, two, three— her fingers skittered through the pile. There were twenty in all. Two thousand dollars. She stared at the screen, as if it contained a clue she might have missed. Nothing.