“Eden? Is that you?” A saleswoman with brilliant red hair and lizard cowboy boots approached. Eden looked up.
“Hi, Victoria.”
Again, Mia was stunned. Was Eden on a first-name basis with all the sales help here?
“And this”—Victoria turned to Mia—“must be your mother.” She said it like being Eden’s mother was some kind of prize. Which, of course, it was, but Mia was not used to other people seeing it that way. Victoria looked at Eden, whose arms were laden with clothes, and she hurried over to take them from her. “I’ll just put these in a dressing room for you,” she said, bustling off.
While Mia settled herself on a folding chair, provided by the solicitous Victoria, Eden tried on clothes—a denim jacket lined in hot pink satin, a dropped-waist, pale green dress—with feverish energy. Victoria came over from time to time to offer comments or advice, but mostly, Mia and Eden were left alone, to mull over the options—and their varying, dizzying costs—by themselves. Is this what went on when Lloyd brought her here? Mia could not imagine her enormous ex squished onto this diminutive seat, sitting passively while Eden flung garments all over the dressing room floor. No, Lloyd probably strode around the place as if he owned it, sprinkling his wit and his brilliant aperçus like pixie dust, charming the saleswomen, hogging all the oxygen. And why the royal treatment? Lloyd must have spent a fortune here. Mia fumed, thinking of the delayed child support checks and imagining a secret stash of expensive clothing that Lloyd must have kept somewhere in Queens. She was just getting herself all worked up about Lloyd—again—when Victoria reappeared, cradling something soft and blue in her arms.
“I thought you might want to see this,” Victoria said. “It just came in.”
“This” was a coat made of the softest, most exquisite material imaginable—the skin of a newborn lamb, no, of an unborn lamb, fetal skin, that was what it was, Mia thought as she tentatively reached out to touch it. High-waisted, with covered buttons, the coat flared out toward the hem, full and swingy. It looked like it belonged to a czarina, circa 1900. Mia could practically see the snowflakes sparkling on the coat’s shoulders as the czarina stepped into an elaborate sleigh pulled by white horses—then she blinked, and she was back at Barneys, unable even to conjure a price for this coat. However, Eden, with her aversion to meat, would not even be interested in such a thing, would she? Wrong.
“Can I try it?” she asked. Her face had opened like a rose in June.
Mia was about to say “I don’t think so” when the price tag for the coat fluttered into view. One hundred and twenty-five dollars. How could it be? Was it defective? Stolen? Cursed in some invisible but most definitely lethal way? One hundred and twenty-five was reasonable. One hundred and twenty-five was doable. One hundred and twenty-five was just a little more than what Mia might have spent if she ordered Eden a coat—and Eden needed a coat—from the Land’s End catalog that was somewhere on the floor under her bed.
“I think it’s your color,” Victoria purred, helping Eden into it.
“Wow, it feels great,” said Eden, running her small hands with their painted—black—nails along the sides of her body.
“And it’s warm, too,” added Victoria, leading Eden to a full-length mirror. “You won’t even know it’s winter out there.”
Mia was still puzzling over the price when she spied the rack from which the coat must have been taken. While Eden and Victoria were engaged in admiring Eden’s appearance, Mia inspected the garment label sewn inside one of the coats. One hundred percent polyester. Cold wash; delicate dry. No wonder it was so cheap—it was a magnificent, glorious fake. Mia strolled over to where Eden was preening.
“What do you say we get it?” she asked.
“Could we?”
“We could.” Mia thought about the bills and smiled a small, guilty smile.
“Wow, oh wow, oh wow!” said Eden, slapping Mia a high five and then breaking into a goofy little circling motion with arms that looked like she was stirring a large pot; she called it her victory dance.
“Good choice, Eden,” said Victoria approvingly. She waited for Eden to unbutton the coat, and then sashayed over to the register. The lizard boots made a little tap, tap sound on the polished floor as she went.
When Mia paid, she almost expected the bills to emit a strange glow or smell, alerting Victoria to their possibly illicit nature. Nothing of the kind happened; Victoria took the money, made the change, and handed Eden the black shopping bag with its discreet, silvery lettering. There were hugs—well, for Eden anyway—and a promise to return. And then they were on the escalator again, heading down. Eden clutched the shopping bag in both arms, as if not trusting the handles. But just before they spun through the revolving door, Eden stopped.
“We didn’t get anything for you,” she said.
“That’s all right. This was your day,” Mia answered.
“But it’s not a shopping spree if you’re not shopping, too.”
“I didn’t know this was a shopping spree.” They were blocking the door, and Mia motioned for Eden to step out of the way.
“Of course it’s a shopping spree,” said Eden, sounding magnanimous and condescending in equal measure. “So you have to get something, too. What do you want?”
What did she want? Mia was stumped. And even if she had known, she didn’t think she would find it at Barneys.
“Sweetie, I don’t think there’s anything for me here,” she began. But when she saw the disappointment seep across Eden’s face, she added, “Maybe somewhere else, though. Let’s keep looking.”
They began ambling downtown and west and, because Eden said she was hungry, decided to stop at a small noodle shop whose entire clientele consisted of Asian businessmen with cushioned laptop cases, skinny ties, and glasses. They ordered vegetable dumplings and two kinds of noodles. Eden liked the chopsticks—which she handled with some dexterity—and Mia suspected their novelty encouraged her to eat. Whatever the reason, Mia was happy. Maybe she should home-school Eden. Then they could have field trips to Barneys to study the fish, followed by geography lessons in which they sampled cuisines from around the world. Very educational. And so much less stressful than Eden’s present situation. Of course Mia wouldn’t be able to work any longer, but she didn’t care; she wouldn’t miss Mommy Mousie for a New York minute. Not even for a New York nanosecond.
“This has been the best day ever,” Eden announced when they were back outside.
Better than the time you went with your father? Mia wanted to ask. But didn’t. She did, however, sense that it would be permissible to drape her arm casually across Eden’s shoulders. She only half listened as Eden chattered, really just wanting to feel the subtle architecture of Eden’s small bones, to inhale the familiar girl-child scent of her as they walked.
“Mom.” Eden slowed and pulled her arm. “Look at this.”
“This” did not turn out to be anything so remarkable: a small, easily ignored jewelry store wedged in between a deli and a florist. The faded sign read MOFCHUM AND SONS. ESTATE JEWELRY. Through the grimy window, which had probably not been cleaned in a decade, Mia saw watches and chains, bracelets and pins, all heaped together with little or no apparent care. It was exactly the sort of shop that Lloyd would have loved and wanted to make a documentary about; she could see him striding in, surveying the scene, taking over. All the more reason for Mia to avoid it.
“Let’s go in,” Eden said. “This might be the place.”
“The place?”
“Where we find something for you.”
Mia had hoped Eden had forgotten about the idea of Mia’s buying something for herself. Wrong. Reluctantly, she followed Eden inside. Behind the counter sat a slope-shouldered man with a broad, freckled forehead. His watery green eyes looked Mia and Eden over, though he didn’t say anything, just nodded in their direction.
“This is so pretty,” said Eden, gesturing to a cameo brooch pinned to a piece of black velvet. “Look at her face—it’s, like
, perfect. How did they do that?” Mia leaned over to see. The girl’s tiny features were expertly carved, and a tendril of hair escaped from her chignon, grazing her smoothly rendered cheek. The thing was no bigger than a domino.
“That’s one of the best pieces in the shop,” said the man behind the counter. His voice was reedy, as if he didn’t use it often. “You have a good eye.”
“I know,” Eden said serenely. “People have said that to me before.”
“Are you looking for cameos? Because I’ve got others.” He began to look around, his head stretching on his neck like a large turtle. Mia didn’t know how he could locate anything in all the mess. The displays—if you could grace them with such a word—were no better than those in the window, everything crammed and jumbled. But Eden seemed entranced—touching this, exclaiming over that.
“All this stuff is really old, right?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” said the man. “And every piece has a story.”
“Really? Tell me about this one.” Eden pointed to another pin. Eight little gold birds sitting on a golden branch. Several sparkling chips— red, blue, green—were set into their tails.
“Oh, now that. Well, that piece was made in Canada, yes, it was. And an older gentleman bought it for his granddaughter, who must have been, let me see . . .” He looked at Eden, clearly trying to assess her age. “Eleven. Yes, that was it. Eleven.”
“I’m almost eleven,” Eden said proudly.
“Well, this little girl’s name was Alice, and she . . .”
Mia stopped listening. She was trying to figure out a way to extricate herself without actually having to buy something. Eden’s impulse was undeniably sweet and even laudable, but the last thing Mia needed now was a piece of jewelry when she was worried about her rent, electric bills, and Eden’s impending orthodontia. Then she saw it. A flat gold locket, maybe two inches across, suspended from a braided gold chain. It was perfectly round and sported no embellishment of any kind. Simple, but elegant. Rich, but restrained. The kind of thing that looked like it would be passed down, woman to girl, for generations. She had to touch it, to try it on.
“Now those earrings—the stones are topaz, by the way—were worn by a famous actress on the Broadway stage . . .” the man was saying to an increasingly enchanted Eden.
The locket seemed to settle into the perfect spot on Mia’s neck. It was heavy enough to feel substantial but light enough to be worn every day. Peering down, she clicked open the cunningly hidden clasp at the bottom. A pair of time-bleached photographs, a tow-headed boy and girl, squinted back at her. Someone’s darlings. She closed it again. Under her fingers, the gold tablet felt smooth and almost edible; she had an urge to take it in her mouth. What would gold taste like anyway?
“Ah, you found it!” He turned his gaze to Mia. “Keats’s locket.”
“Keats? Who’s he?” asked Eden.
“An English poet who lived a long time ago.”
“Did he own that necklace?”
The man smiled. “Not likely. I just call it that because it seems like something he would have liked. Something he might have given to Fanny.” He directed this comment to Mia.
“Fanny?” Eden asked.
“His beloved,” the man answered. “But he died young and didn’t get to marry her.” When he saw the look on Eden’s face, he continued. “Fanny would have cherished that locket; she would have worn it every day of her life, to remember him when he was gone.”
“That’s so sad,” said Eden, seeming to forget that this was all an invention.
The man nodded. “She might have put a little picture of him inside. Not a photograph, of course. But a tiny drawing. Or a lock of his hair.”
“Hair? Eeew! That’s so creepy!” said Eden. But she was clearly delighted by these morbid details.
The man bent over and began hunting for something now; he lifted yellowed newspapers and moved aside crumpled paper bags. “Here,” he said, offering Mia a hand mirror with a beveled edge; the glass was speckled with dust, and a jagged crack ran down its center.
“Bad luck?” she said, but she was teasing; her bad luck had happened already, and it had had nothing to do with a mirror.
“You have to buy that,” Eden declared.
Mia hesitated. The locket felt so good around her neck. Like it belonged there. But it wasn’t as if she really needed it. Then she looked at Eden, whose expression had turned oddly serious.
“Maybe I do,” she said finally. “How much is it?”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
Two hundred and fifty was very reasonable for this locket. In fact, given the high price of gold, it was a steal. Still, that same two hundred and fifty dollars could have gone toward so many other things. But Mia wanted the locket. Wanted it in a way she had not wanted anything in a long time. At least any material thing.
“I could do a little better if you were seriously interested. Say two hundred?”
Mia looked at the man, presumably the Mofchum—or one of them—indicated on the sign. She saw the dispirited slope of his shoulders, the defeated look of his mottled forehead. How long had it been since he’d made a sale? How long could a little dump like this, the kind of little dump that made New York so quirky and so interesting, stay afloat?
“Two hundred,” she repeated, and peeled the bills into his hands.
“I’m glad it’s going to you,” he said. “You’re its rightful owner.” Mia must have looked puzzled because he said, “Every piece has its rightful owner. It may take years for the two of you to find each other. But usually you do.”
Mia declined a bag; she had already decided she wasn’t going to take the thing off. Before she left, he pressed his card—graying, with worn, bent corners—into her hand. GERALD MOFCHUM. FINE JEWELRY. BUY AND SELL.
“Come back and see me again,” he said. “And bring your daughter.” He turned to Eden. “I’ve got something for you, too.” He fumbled through one of the display cases until he found what he was looking for—a link bracelet that jingled with a cluster of gold-tone charms. “Let me tell you about this . . .” he said. It was another ten minutes before they left the shop and emerged onto the street.
“See?” Eden said. “I told you that was the right place.” She shook her wrist and the charms on her bracelet tinkled.
“You were right.”
“Where’s the locket? I want to touch it.”
Mia leaned forward so Eden could reach.
“Who are they?” Her fingers had found the clasp, and she snapped the locket open, revealing the two blond children.
“I don’t know,” said Mia. “But someone must have loved them very much.”
“Are you going to leave them in there?”
“No, I’ll keep them somewhere safe. But I want a picture of you in there.”
Eden thought about that for a moment and then asked, “What about the other side?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Mia said.
Eden looked like she was going to say something else, but a raindrop landed on her head with a small plop and she looked up instead. Mia followed her gaze. Clouds that had been hovering for much of the day had begun to gather and darken. She wondered whether it would be worth buying an umbrella. As soon as rain threatened in the city, the streets seemed to spawn guys hawking cheap, folding versions with spokes that turned inside out in the slightest wind. The insistent cries of the vendors—UM-brella, UM-brella—were one of those distinctive New York melodies.
Looking around for one such vendor now, Mia saw instead a small black woman wearing a green plastic trash bag over her clothes. She was sitting with her back against a building, her legs tucked under her like a cat. A cardboard box sat in front of her.
As Mia and Eden approached, Mia could see that the woman had actually done a decent job of adapting the bag into a garment; there were holes cut for her arms, and she tied a sash of some kind around her waist. The cardboard box with its neatly lettered message—PLEASE H
ELP—held a few coins and a single crumpled dollar bill.
When she and Eden reached the woman, the sky suddenly opened and it began to pour. Quickly, the woman grabbed the box and scooted it underneath her, using the bottom of the bag as a kind of tent. Then she pulled the neckline of the bag up and over the back of her head. All this was done in mere seconds, as if she had done it many times before. Watching, Mia felt as if she were coming apart, a stuffed toy with sawdust leaking in a slow, snail-like trail behind her. She quickly ushered Eden under an awning, where they stood, shaking off the rain.
“My Barneys bag is wet,” said Eden, rubbing the drops away with her forearm; again, the charm bracelet jingled.
“It should be okay until we get home.”
“I wanted to keep it. I’m collecting shopping bags.”
“You are?” This was news to Mia.
“Well, I’m starting today. This is going to be the first one. And now it’s ruined.”
“Not ruined,” said Mia. “We’ll leave it out to dry when we get home, and I’ll press it flat under some books. It will be fine.” All the while Mia was mouthing this soothing parental patois, she was watching the woman wearing the garbage bag. She huddled under it, managing to keep reasonably dry. It would have been easy enough for her to get up and try to find shelter elsewhere. Or maybe not. Maybe her feet hurt or she knew that there was a good chance she’d be asked to move. She didn’t look unhappy though. She looked resigned, adjusting the bag more securely over her head, wiping water from her cheek.
Mia thought of the last few hours: wandering through Barneys, ogling, fondling, getting, spending. Then the stop at the jewelry store. More ogling. More spending. Around her neck Mia now wore a golden locket; in her bag was the card that Gerald Mofchum had given her. Buy and Sell. But there were other transactions, weren’t there? What about Give and Receive? She flashed onto the bills, bills that were not technically hers yet had somehow found their way into her hands and her wallet.
Breaking the Bank Page 4