Breaking the Bank

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  EVER SINCE THANKSGIVING, Mia had been in a quiet but persistent state of alarm. Her situation, seen through the damning eyes of her family, seemed even worse than she had believed it to be, and she was both furious at them for pointing it out and bewildered about how to remedy it. She had been oscillating back and forth between those two poles—rage and panic—when she discovered a blank envelope stuck in her bag. It contained a one-line note in Betty’s writing and three hundred-dollar bills.

  Use it well.

  Those words again! They kept cropping up. And the money . . . what was she to make of that? She couldn’t figure her mother out anymore. When Mia’s father died—quite suddenly, of a coronary, his eye pressed against the lens of a telescope for what had been his final and, she prayed, glorious vision of the vast, starry skies—she had assumed that Betty would remain on Ninety-ninth Street, teaching her classes, rallying around her various causes, filling the walls of the apartment with one huge, sloppy canvas after another. Her mother had seemed to belong to the Upper West Side, and the Upper West Side had belonged to her. No new luxury apartment building, no self-interested politician, no alteration in the zoning laws had escaped the ever-humming throb of her moral indignation. Mia had grown used to her mother’s preoccupation and not minded it so much; she had her father, and she had Stuart. And then there were those moments when Betty could be really and truly present: witness the humbling of the gym teacher, the white bag with its red, red heart. Yet Betty’s sudden departure and subsequent reinvention of herself had left Mia feeling more forlorn than she would have expected.

  WHEN MIA HAD gotten home from Greenwich, she’d found a message from Stuart on her machine. “I want to talk,” he’d said. “Soon.” She listened to it a few times, but she wasn’t in any hurry to return the call. “Hey, Judas, how’s it going?” were about the only words that came to mind. She had promised she would consider letting Eden spend some time with Betty. Well, she was considering. No need to discuss it again, was there?

  She did, however, call her mother, to thank her for the money, which, though generous, nonetheless left a gritty residue of annoyance. Why the secrecy? Why hadn’t she stood up for Mia when Stuart and Gail were on the warpath?

  “You’re overreacting,” Betty said. “They were not on the warpath.”

  “Oh, really? So why was I maimed and bleeding by the end of the conversation?”

  “Really, Mia, you are so dramatic. You always were,” said Betty. “Maybe I had good reason to be,” Mia shot back. “Maybe that was my bid for attention.”

  “I’m sorry if you don’t think I gave you enough attention,” Betty said in a humbled tone. “I always tried to be a good mother to you.”

  “And you were,” Mia hastened to assure her. The image of Betty’s face—darkened by the sun, wizened, frail—suddenly swam into Mia’s mind. It was the old mother-daughter push-pull: say something mean, then scurry to retract it.

  She backed off, and the conversation chugged along peaceably enough for a few more minutes, until Betty mentioned bringing Eden out west during the winter school break.

  “We’ve been over this a dozen times,” said Mia, bristling again. “It’s a suggestion. Only a suggestion.”

  “Which I have said I would consider. So please stop mentioning it, okay?”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Betty said testily. “You’re so quick to shoot down all of Stuart’s and Gail’s ideas—”

  “Gail is a she-devil who has bewitched my poor brother.”

  “Mia, honey, your attitude toward Gail is not going to improve the situation, can’t you see that?”

  Actually, I can’t, Mia wanted to say, but she was sick of this topic, sick and tired and more than a little scared. She had no energy to argue with her mother, particularly not in the same way they had been arguing since Mia was a teenager. So she swallowed her anger in one large and dyspeptic gulp, and said nothing. Her heart felt scuffed, and it hardened against Betty, as if it were growing a protective shell. Then, succumbing to the undertow of panic that had been threatening to engulf her ever since Stuart and Gail’s little intervention, she said, “Okay, okay. I will bring Eden to visit after Christmas and see how she likes it. Now will you and Stuart please get off my case?”

  TEN-PLUS YEARS ago, Mia hadn’t planned on getting pregnant. She and Lloyd had wanted to wait until they were a little further along in their respective careers before starting a family. He was deep into his indie-film thing, scrambling and scheming to get the funding for the documentaries that he believed ought to be made, the stories he believed needed telling. She had just been promoted to associate editor in the children’s division of the small but tony publishing firm of Williams, Hatch, and Rabinisky. WHR, as it was known in the biz, had a reputation for publishing only the best, the most engaging and original of books. Working there, Mia had felt she’d found an oasis of quality in a rapidly degrading marketplace. As far as their children’s list went, they had more Newbery and Caldecott winners than any three other houses combined. It was a great job, and Mia loved every single thing about it, including but not limited to her diminutive though light-flooded office in the Flatiron Building; her bosses, the revered Mr. Williams and Mr. Rabinisky (Hatch had died some years earlier); her smart and funny coworkers; the framed book jackets of WHR’s classic titles that lined the halls; the bars of French lavender soap with which Nettie, the office manager, always stocked the ladies’ room. And when

  The Secret Journey of the Great Gray Owl, the first book Mia had championed since her promotion, was picked as a Newbery silver medalist, Mia’s star seemed to shine very brightly indeed. Oh, it was a grand situation, all right, and when she found out that the stick had turned blue, she did spend a stunned evening on the couch, feeling utterly unprepared for the maelstrom that she sensed was whirling around inside her hapless uterus.

  But then she snapped out of it. Lloyd was happy; why shouldn’t she be happy, too? They had wanted kids; this had been part of their game plan all along. So what if it happened a little sooner than expected? And then, right after she had found out but before she had told her boss, WHR was sold to a Dutch conglomerate, and everyone was fired on a single, soul-draining day.

  Mia took the loss of her job as a sign that she was on the right path, and decided not to look for work. Instead, she grudgingly allowed herself to become the star in Lloyd’s latest not-for-TV movie, which was about her pregnancy. He documented the whole thing using a handheld camcorder, shadowing Mia relentlessly during her ensuing stages of largeness. The vomiting, the swollen ankles, the tedious visits to the ob-gyn—he got it all. The culmination was the birth, at the end of which he was able to sweet-talk one of the nurses into holding the camcorder briefly so that his snipping of the umbilical cord could be preserved, like the rest of the messy, bloody business, for the ages.

  Once Eden actually arrived, Mia felt as if she and Lloyd had acquired an extremely time-consuming but endlessly interesting new pet. Lloyd was great about all the day-to-day stuff with her; he handled the soiled diapers, the barfed-on clothes, the nights pierced by her hiccuppy wailing, with unusual aplomb. And gradually, Eden ceased being this unpredictable little creature, totally dominated by the intake and expulsion of various bodily fluids, and settled into being, well, herself. Despite the fatigue, the exasperation, the at times punishing twenty-four/seven-ness of being Eden’s mother, Mia had never wanted to be anything else.

  And now here was Lloyd—and her brother, too—saying that she was inadequate to the task, and that Eden, child not only of Mia’s heart but of her soul, too, would be better off with someone else. The unfairness of this, the casual disregard for Mia’s decade-long involvement with Eden, was as galling as it was hurtful. Well, she wasn’t going to roll over and play dead on this one. She was going to fight back with every weapon in her limited arsenal, and that bill, fairly smoldering beneath her bedroom floorboard, was first in her line of attack.

  IN EARLY DECEMBER, Mia returned to
Solly’s office on West Thirtieth Street. Her own office—at least until the cookbooks were finished—was on West Twentieth, so it was easy enough to take a brisk walk uptown during lunch. The temperature had dipped; Mia retied her scarf around her neck and briefly considered buying a knit cap from one of the vendors who stood on Broadway, rubbing their hands in the cold. But in the end, she decided not to stop, just to keep going until she reached the wind-blown street, even colder and more desolate-looking than the first time she visited. She was about to hit the buzzer when two parka-wearing guys emerged from the building, and she slipped into the open door as they went out. She had deliberately decided not to call Solly and tell him she was coming; maybe the element of surprise would work in her favor.

  Her knock on the door was sharp and confident, at least to her own ears. And that was how she wanted to appear: Sharp. Confident. There was a momentary silence during which Mia considered the idea that perhaps Solly was not there. But then she heard his deep, smooth-as-melted-chocolate voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Phelps? Remember me? I came to see you a few weeks ago.” Mia heard some shuffling sounds and then footsteps. And then there was Solly, larger than life, ushering her once more into the room which was, if possible, even more crowded than before. He wore a navy blue jacket over gray flannel pants, and his shirt was the crisp white she remembered from last time. His bow tie—it seemed to be a thing with him—was scarlet.

  “You again?” he said, maneuvering his bulk past a metal filing cabinet that was parked almost directly in front of the door. Mia was sure it had not been there before.

  “Me again,” she said. Her scarf caught on the corner of the file cabinet and she carefully tried to free it without snagging the wool.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” said Solly, settling in at his desk. The same battered-looking chair was facing it, though the fish was gone; the glass bowl was empty and dry. “I wondered how you were progressing with that sale. I haven’t seen it posted anywhere; I’ve checked.”

  “No progress,” Mia said. “That’s why I came back. I thought maybe you would still be interested.”

  “I am interested,” Solly said. “Very interested. But I told you before: my interest is contingent upon information. I have to know where you got that bill before I can try to sell it.” He looked at her with those cold blue eyes. Mia looked back, refusing to let herself be intimidated.

  “I inherited it. From my father.”

  “Reasonable enough. Why couldn’t you tell me that before?”

  “Because there’s been some contention about it in my family. My brother feels it should have gone to him. I didn’t want to bring all that up before; I wanted the sale of the bill to be a private matter.”

  “So you wanted to sell it behind your brother’s back?” Solly said. “It’s mine; I can do what I want with it.”

  “It says that? In your father’s will?” Solly’s voice was neutral, but his look was penetrating.

  “Yes. The bill was left to me.”

  “I see.” He made a bridge of his fingers and contemplated them before continuing. “When did he die?”

  “My father?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Your father. When did he die and leave you this bill?”

  “Last September,” Mia said. Not true; her father had died years earlier.

  “So you waited over a year to try to sell it.”

  “I told you: the will was contested, there was a lot of friction with my brother. But that’s all resolved now.”

  “Yet you still want to do this on the sly.”

  “I prefer to think of it as discreetly.”

  “Semantics. Pure semantics. One person’s discretion is another’s dirty little secret.”

  “Call it what you’d like. The bill is in my possession; it’s mine. And I’m asking you if you want to help me sell it.”

  “Did he have other notes?” Solly asked. “Was he a collector?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The bill. Was that the only one? Did he collect paper currency? Did he have other denoms? Foreign notes, too? What about coins? Silver? Gold?”

  “No, he didn’t collect currency or coins. It was just the bill you saw. That was the only one.”

  “How did he come by it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mia said. She didn’t like where this conversation was going and wanted to redirect it—quickly.

  “Didn’t you ask?” Solly peered into the empty fish bowl, as if musing on what had become of its former occupant.

  “He’s dead. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t really expect an answer. I don’t see what any of this has to do with the sale of—”

  “But what about your mother? Is she still alive? Did she know about the bill? Did she have any idea about where he had gotten it?”

  “My mother doesn’t have any idea of where it came from—”

  “That’s because she never saw the bill; she doesn’t know about it because your father—may he rest in peace—never left it to you in the first place.”

  Mia expelled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Caught. Well, what had she expected? It was the flimsiest of stories, hastily cobbled together from equal parts of necessity and desperation.

  “I came by that bill in a legitimate way,” she said. “I just can’t tell you how.”

  “And I suppose the check is in the mail, too,” he said dryly. He leaned back in his chair, and waited.

  “You have to help me,” she pleaded. “Help you? I’m running a business, not a charity.” He gazed at her sternly. “If you want me to help you, you have to be willing to help me. Tell me where you got that bill.”

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “Then we have no further business. Unless . . .” He paused, as if for effect.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you’re interested in selling me that locket.”

  Mia didn’t say anything. She had wondered whether he would bring up the locket, and because of that, she had tucked the thing under her blouse before she arrived.

  “No,” she said finally. “I’m not.”

  “Are you sure? I could make you a good offer. It might be worth your while.”

  “I said no.”

  “Well, then, I guess we’re through here, aren’t we? Good day, Ms. Saul.”

  “How do you know my name?” Mia demanded; she had given him an alias—Sarah Stein—because she hadn’t wanted to reveal her identity.

  “I have my ways. Just because I have a fondness for old things doesn’t mean I’m not conversant with more . . . modern . . . methods.”

  Mia stood abruptly, knocking her chair over. To mask her alarm, she busied herself righting it; Solly made no move to assist her. But then, why should he? No reason at all. Just like there was no reason for him to believe her about the bill, no reason he should have risked his professional reputation for her. The words Use it well seemed more and more cryptic. How was she to use it? Why hadn’t the machine given her any advice about that?

  “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she said. She gripped the chair tightly. “Again.”

  “I’d hardly say it was a waste. You’re the owner of some very intriguing items . . . currency, jewelry . . . Who knows what you might turn up with next?”

  Mia didn’t answer; she had already said too much, much of it potentially incriminating. She was ashamed of having come here again, ashamed that she had asked for something she had no right to expect. The only dignified thing left to do was to leave, in a hurry. She didn’t wait for the elevator, but walked quickly down all nine flights and out onto the street.

  TWELVE

  THAT NIGHT, MIA took another longish walk, this time over to Juicy. Eden was with a new friend—Luisa, an uncommonly beautiful child with big dark eyes, lashes thick as fur, and a black braid that ended at her coccyx. Luisa was a year younger than Eden, but since she lived on the floor above them, she was what Mia considered a default frie
nd: the kid you hung out with chiefly because she was around. Not that Eden minded. Nor did Mia. Luisa was sweet, polite, and soft-voiced. And how convenient for all concerned that the girls could so easily head up and down to each other’s apartment.

  Mia felt cold; she wished she had stopped for that hat earlier in the day. She tied her scarf over her head, which gave her the distinct look of a nineteenth-century refugee but also offered some warmth. She was on a mission to find Julie, who had not returned any of her most recent calls. Julie’s mailbox was full, so Mia couldn’t even leave another message. She veered between worry and annoyance; she wanted Julie to be all right, but if she were all right, then couldn’t she have managed to get in touch? Mia badly wanted to dump the story of Thanksgiving in Julie’s lap; Julie loathed Gail even more than Mia did, if such a thing were possible, so she was sure to get some sympathy from her. And even, perhaps, advice. Julie was made of tougher stuff than Mia was, and she had some excellent strategies for dealing with the Gails of the world.

  But when she arrived at Juicy, Julie wasn’t there. Fred was, though, and he welcomed her like some long-lost landsman.

  “Cold out there, huh?” he asked, stepping around from the bar, which was not yet crowded, and giving her a hug.

  Mia was momentarily speechless. Since when were she and Fred on hugging terms? She replayed the feel of his arms around her, decided it wasn’t bad, and allowed herself to smile.

  “Very,” she said, taking the scarf off her head and sitting down on a stool.

  “Want something to warm you up?” asked Fred. “Does it have a lot of bite?”

  “Just a little.”

  “How much is a little?” She couldn’t afford to get drunk, not even tipsy. She burned to think of what Lloyd had told her brother about the night she was last here. Since when had he become a charter member of the temperance committee anyway? Mia remembered the nights the two of them used to go out drinking and stagger home at three, four, five in the morning.

  “Enough to take the chill off, but not enough to make you shit-faced,” said Fred cheerfully.