“Stay right here,” she instructed Eden.
“Where are you going?”
“Over there.” She pointed to where the woman in the bag sat.
“Why?”
“I have to do something.”
“Tell me,” Eden said, a familiar whine creeping into her voice.
“I’ll tell you everything in just a minute, sweetie,” Mia said patiently, now quite sure of what she had to do.
She stepped from the awning into the rain, which had tapered off a bit, and toward the woman. She thought of Mr. Ortiz and his dog, the guy on the street with his coffee cup. The shame of that exchange was breathing in her ear now, propelling her forward. Wanting to help someone wasn’t enough. You either helped. Or you failed.
The woman looked up. Her eyes were large and brown; the lid of one of them drooped a little, making it seem as if she were winking, a slow, private gesture.
“Here,” said Mia. In her hand were three twenties. “These are for you.”
THREE
MIA WAS ROUSED the following morning by the bleating of her cell phone. She groped around the floor near her bed until she found it, sitting on top of the copy of Swann’s Way she had been moving around her bedroom for months, without summoning the energy to open and read.
“Hello?” Her voice was sleep-cracked and raspy, which she hated; it always put her at a disadvantage. What time was it anyway?
“Mia honey?”
“Mom. Hi.” Mia leaned back into the pillow, trying to keep her voice low. Sometime in the middle of the night, Eden had had a bad dream and had climbed into bed with her. She was still there, burrowed into the blanket on one side of the mattress, and Mia didn’t want to wake her.
“You sound congested. Do you have a cold?”
“No. No cold.”
“Then what? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Of course not. I’ve been up for ages,” Mia fibbed. Back when she and Stu were still teenagers and living at home, Betty had made it clear that sleeping late was for losers, deadbeats, slackers. She herself took great pride in the fact that she rose between five and five thirty every morning. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, she would announce proudly.
“That’s good,” her mother said. “I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Oh, that I am,” Mia said. “Busy as a bee.”
“But not too busy to pay us a visit,” said her mother.
“A visit?” How was she going to afford a trip out west?
“I was actually hoping you’d come for Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving is not until the end of November,” Mia said. “If you want to get a good deal on the airfare, you have to book early.”
Mia knew her mother was right about this, so she approached the subject from a different angle.
“What about Stu?” she asked. “Did you invite him, too?”
“Well, I think he and Gail were planning to go to her family. But if I tell him you and Eden are coming this year, it might change his mind.”
“Really?” asked Mia. Her mother didn’t just live in a different state now; she lived on a different planet. Didn’t she know that Gail would no sooner spend a holiday weekend in New Mexico with Mia and Eden than she would board the New York City—bound train from Greenwich stark naked and singing “Amazing Grace”?
“Yes, it would be so wonderful to see all of you. Hank wants to do the cooking; did you know he’s a fabulous cook?”
“So you’ve said.” Mia had her doubts about this; her mother had always displayed a cheerful and marked indifference to food. Stuart used to say that it wasn’t Betty’s ear that was tin; it was her palate.
“He’s found all these regionally inspired recipes. Fire-roasted turkey. Sausage, sage, and chipotle stuffing.”
None of which Eden will eat, Mia thought. But why bring that up now?
“I can talk to him about it if you’d like,” Mia offered.
“Would you? That would be so nice. He thinks the world of you, Mia honey. I just love that the two of you are still so close.”
“Yeah, that’s us all right. Couldn’t be closer.”
They talked for a few more minutes before saying good-bye. Eden rolled over, flung an arm out in Mia’s direction, but remained asleep. They had stayed up late the night before making popcorn and brownies, which they ate while watching Saturday Night Fever on late-night TV. Even all these years later, the sight of John Travolta with his blow-dried black hair and eyes as cool and blue as a Siberian husky’s stirred something in Mia. Regrettably, Travolta had of late lost his avid, lupine look and had instead puffed out like a blowfish. He’d become a Scientologist, too. Johnny baby, she wished she could ask, where did you go? As if he—or any of the other men she’d wanted to ask, ex, brother, father—could have told her.
Lying in bed, Mia mulled over her mother’s request and knew that, irritated as it would make her, she would call her brother and extend the invitation. Though if this plan did actually materialize, she didn’t know how she would pay for the plane tickets or, worse, tell her mother that she wasn’t able to. Betty was not an ungenerous soul, but she was certainly not rolling in dough the way Stuart was. And her mother did not believe that any money she did give to Mia would be used well. You’re extravagant, Betty had said, more than once. You’re worrying about rent and you take her to Barneys?
STILL HOLDING THE phone, Mia rummaged around for her clock, which had, as it turned out, gotten kicked under the bed. It was a bit dusty, and she tried to muffle the resulting sneeze. Eden stirred, but slept on. It was past ten. Mia debated waking her; if she didn’t, she would never be able to get her to go to sleep that night and tomorrow morning would be a fresh hell.
She was just about to do it when the phone bleated again. It was probably her mother, calling with something she’d forgotten to say during their initial conversation. Calls from Betty usually took place in several installments; when Mia clicked back on, she didn’t even bother to read the number on the screen. But it was not her mother on the line. It was Lloyd.
“Hey,” he said in that rich, resonant baritone of his that always got to her, even now, after everything he had done. “How’s it going?”
“How’s it going?” she echoed. “What do you mean, How’s it going? Where have you been all this time? What about Eden? Did you just forget about her?” Mia tried to keep her voice down. But Eden must have had a Daddy radar that worked even when she was asleep, because she briefly lifted her head from the pillow and gave Mia a baleful look.
“I know I should have called sooner, but you have no idea how crazy things have been. But I’m calling now, aren’t I? Let me talk to Eden.”
“Well, isn’t that just dandy! How about all that time when she didn’t hear a word from you, not a single word—”
“Who’s that?” Eden sat up.
“Is she right there? I know she’s there. Let me talk to her.”
“Is that Daddy?” asked Eden at practically the same moment. When Mia didn’t answer, Eden reached for the phone. “It is Daddy, I know it is. I want to talk to him!”
Mia handed the phone to Eden and then, so she was not tempted to eavesdrop, got out of bed. The apartment was cold, and she found a sweater to pull on over her T-shirt and sweats. But she couldn’t locate her flip-flops or even a pair of socks, so she padded into the kitchen barefoot. It was still a mess from the night before—bowl sloshing in the sink, dots of batter blobbed all over. The brownies were on the counter, and Mia broke off a piece to munch on while she made coffee. She could hear Eden, still in bed, giggling. Snatches of conversation drifted in her direction.
“And then that stupid teacher—”
“Mom and I went to—”
“So the boy who sits behind me—”
“I miss you; when are you coming?”
Was it an accident that Mia overheard that last sentence in its entirety, or had Eden’s voice gotten louder, for emphasis? She stood, still barefoot, still chilly, in the kitch
en, looking out the window as she sipped her coffee. It was not much of a view—a glimpse of the tiny backyards on Garfield Place—but it was better than the constant stream of cars and trucks that barreled down Fourth Avenue. And there was something so uselessly, heartbreakingly hopeful about the way people made use of even the smallest of outdoor spaces, cramming them with grills, picnic tables, aboveground pools, sandboxes, flower pots, metal chairs, a collapsed beach ball, a rusted red tricycle.
“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.”
* * *
MIA 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.
&nbs
p; 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.
Breaking the Bank Page 5