Breaking the Bank

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  This is what life with Lloyd had always been like. He was forever directing, managing, fine-tuning. There was no subject on which he did not have an opinion and no opinion he failed to share. Maybe it was her fledgling romance with laid-back Fred, or maybe it was the night in jail, but somehow, Mia felt pushed into some new place, one that allowed her to reevaluate all the relationships in her life. For the first time, she felt relieved to be done with Lloyd. It was a strange, almost giddy sensation, as if she had been filled with helium, or bouncing weightlessly on the moon. By the time she tucked into her berry-strewn Pavlova—of course Lloyd had to explain the derivation of the dessert’s name—she was actually smiling. Smiling! When she said good night to Suim, she thought, You’ve got him, you can keep him. Oh and by the way—good luck! She felt drunk, the happy, bouncy kind of drunk, though this was clearly not the case. She had accepted only a single glass of wine, and, not wanting to give Lloyd any further ammunition against her, she hadn’t even finished it. She knew, of course, that this feeling wouldn’t last. She was not about to get over Lloyd in the time it took to order and eat dinner at a phony French brasserie. But if she could feel this way for one night, then surely there would be other such nights—and days—that followed.

  THE REALLY HARD moment was saying good-bye to Eden, whom she wanted to kiss about a hundred times. Since the no-touch rule was back in effect, she had to content herself with a quick peck and a hug. “Have a good time, baby. See you next year,” she said. Lloyd grasped the suitcase by its nearly ruined handle, Eden waved frantically, and Suim nodded politely a final time. Then they turned a corner and were gone.

  Mia was not prepared for the hollowness she suddenly felt inside— gutted, like a fish—and she stood there for several minutes staring at the place on the sidewalk where they had stood. People streamed by her, but she didn’t yield until a fat guy in a tight, shiny baseball jacket bumped her shoulder hard. He scowled like it was her fault. She said nothing but slowly started walking back to the subway train. The next morning she felt no better. The prospect of being without Eden until the beginning of January seemed to demolish her. January seemed so far off it might as well have been June.

  Mia remained in bed, not sleeping, not reading, just staring up at the ceiling, whose pattern of cracks she turned into pictures—a long, knobby flamingo here, a unicorn there—the way you would with clouds. But doing it inside, and alone, was less than satisfying, and she forced herself to get up and face the Eden-less day ahead. She drank a cup of coffee and spooned down some granola while flipping through yesterday’s paper, and then devoted the rest of the morning to the sort of penitential, obsessive cleaning that she had not undertaken since Lloyd’s last visit. With an old toothbrush, she attacked the hinges that held the toilet seat in place, poured a small lake of bleach on the bathroom floor and let it sit for an hour, attached a soft cloth to the broom handle and swabbed under the stove and fridge. The sound of the phone interrupted her manic activity. Mia dropped the rag she’d been using and tripped over the mop. Could it be Eden? No. It was Julie. But Mia didn’t answer and didn’t even listen to the message. She wasn’t ready to speak to Julie yet.

  There was, however, only so much cleaning she could tolerate, and at around one, she decided to resurrect her abandoned shopping excursion. She still had money in the shoe box, and she extracted two hundred-dollar bills for holiday gifts. She was in no mood to brave the Manhattan crowds today, the last Saturday before Christmas, so she decided to keep her shopping local. That would have pleased the author of All That Trash, whose recent phone call she needed to return.

  There was a flea market in the school yard of P.S. 321 every weekend, and Mia found a woman with an impressive selection of used books. Wouldn’t Stu’s horse-crazy daughter love a gorgeously illustrated copy of Black Beauty? For Stuart, she bought a cloth-bound edition of Auden’s collected works—he had been an Auden lover since college—and, for her mother, a gardening tome devoted entirely to the propagation of cacti. Just because Mia privately suspected the plants were flesh-eating was no reason not to purchase the book.

  The rest of what she bought was entirely consumable. Bars of oat-meal and carrot soap, jars of locally produced jam and honey. Orange-scented body butter for Eden, who would, she knew, be tempted to eat it. When she was through, she could barely carry it all, and she decided to buy a shiny black shopping cart at the hardware store to wheel everything back home. It would come in handy for schlepping the laundry, too.

  It was dark by the time she got back to her apartment, the winter night filling rapidly with swollen, sooty-gray clouds. Mia’s brief good mood disappeared with the light. She stowed the shopping cart in the kitchen and dumped everything else in the middle of the living room floor, intending to deal with it all tomorrow. But then she noticed the cache of upscale chocolate bars—infused with exotic flavors like green tea and chili pepper—that she’d bought for Fred, who happened to mention that he ate chocolate three times a day. Fred was not speaking to her at the moment, but what if she were to deliver these chocolate bars, all six of them, to him personally? It was Saturday, and he would be at Juicy.

  Suddenly, this seemed like a very good idea. But first, she would take a long, hot shower. Wash her hair. Slather body butter—okay, she bought some for herself, too—all over. Curl her eyelashes. Swipe on some blush.

  It was not like she didn’t know what she was doing; she was on to herself. The question was whether it would work. She had been thinking about Fred steadily over the last few days. Regretting that she hadn’t taken him more seriously. And hoping she could mend things between them. Of course he didn’t buy her story about the cash machine; who would? But it was the truth, and somehow, she had to get him to believe her.

  Mia stood in front of her minuscule closet, wrestling with hangers to yank out clothes, and then stuffing them back inside. No to the stretchy black velvet dress—it was sexy, but it was trying too hard. No to the black cords, black jeans, countless black sweaters and shirts. None of them struck just the right note, the one that chimed festive yet abashed, casual but caring. Briefly, she considered a plum mohair miniskirt that belonged to Julie, but she decided that the shaggy wool made her look like a llama. A closet full of clothes, and nothing, but nothing, to wear.

  Nothing to wear. Wear nothing? Now that would get his attention. It would also get her arrested. Or pneumonia. Maybe both. But what if she were to pull one of those crazy stunts, the kind she had seen touted in women’s magazines about how to rev up your sex life? She wouldn’t actually wear nothing, but close to it. How about a push-up leopard-printed bra and matching panties—another good-bye-to-Lloyd present she’d bought herself—and a coat over it? Eagerly, she pawed through her closet again, unearthing a bona fide Burberry trench, replete with epaulets, plaid lining, and preppy charm. It was a castoff from Gail, who had the annoyingly patronizing habit of giving Mia her old clothes, as if she were the cleaning lady. Actually, Mia happened to know that Gail gave her cleaning lady her better rejects, such as a pair of worn-not-at-all Manolo Blahnik raw-silk mules and a Jil Sander jacket with the price tag still on it. Mia was given the second-tier stuff. But the coat, the Burberry coat, all buttoned to the neck and belted around the waist, worn over the animal-print underwear might, just might, do the trick.

  Mia stepped into the panties, fastened the bra, and started hunting for appropriate footwear. She found a pair of thigh-high brown suede boots, also from Julie (just because they weren’t speaking was no reason to forgo her footwear), that would surely add that je ne sais quoi to Mia’s happy-hooker ensemble. For it was a hooker look; Mia knew that. But tonight, she would be a hooker with a heart of gold. Or at least, of chocolate. She gave her hair a volume-enhancing tousle and anointed her wrists with a few drops of perfume; those sample bottles she got at Barneys were still going strong. Then, after stuffing the chocolate into her purse, she was off.

  It was cold, with the wind whistling up her coat; there must have been goose fles
h aplenty on her thighs and her butt. But as she walked— no, strode—she began to generate her own body heat. A regular little furnace, that was what she was. Hot and filled with glowing coals.

  Juicy was jammed. There were people crammed three deep at the bar, and more little clusters spilling off from that central crush. Strings of white twinkling lights ran along the walls and the window; a three-foot wreath decorated with silver ornaments hung over the bar. It was Christmas, all right. Christmas with a vengeance.

  It took Mia a few minutes to make her way through the crowd. By the time she had, she wished she could take off her coat—the press of bodies was making the room uncomfortably warm. But taking off the coat was not an option. Fred was down at one end of the bar. He didn’t see her right away, but when he did, he smiled, then frowned. It was the smile she chose to honor. The smile and the sky-blue shirt that he was wearing, the one that turned his eyes into two tiny lagoons. He finished with the drink he was making before walking over to Mia.

  “Hi, Fred,” she said. She was really warm now; her cheeks were red and her neck was slightly damp.

  “Hi,” he said. And nothing more. “You’re still mad at me.” The noise was so loud she had to raise her voice to be heard.

  “I guess I am, but this isn’t the time to talk about it.” Someone called his name, and he turned.

  “I know. I just wanted to give you something. A little present.”

  “You bought me a present?” Fred turned back and studied her face. “Why?”

  “It’s Christmas, right? Or it will be in a few days.”

  “I don’t get you, Mia. I don’t get you at all.”

  “Yo, Fred!” Now someone else was hailing him, demanding his time, his attention, his expertise in pouring libations.

  “Can you come outside with me? Just for a minute?” Mia wheedled. “What for? You have another crazy story for me? How about a taxi with wings? That’d be a good one.”

  “Please?” she asked. She was not begging, no, not her.

  He ignored her for a second and then called out, “Hey, Chuck, cover for me, will you?” And to Mia: “I’m giving you five minutes. Come this way.” He gestured for her to walk behind the bar, and they went through the kitchen—she waved to Emilio, who was standing at the sink—and outside. The cold air felt good on her hot face. She remembered now that there was a little garden, with slate paving stones and lilac or wisteria all along the wall at the far end. Back in the spring, it had been lovely; a fragrant, verdant surprise where she would have least expected it.

  “Here,” she said, taking the chocolate bars from her bag. “These are for you.”

  He peeled back the tissue paper and looked at them. “Chocolate.” He continued to stare at the wrappers. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “I hope the flavors aren’t too way out for you,” she said. “It’s you. You’re too way out for me.”

  “Am I?” She stepped closer. “I just can’t figure you out.” But he didn’t move away. “That story I told you? About the cash machine? It’s true.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No. Not crazy. And I can prove it, too. Just give me a chance.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what I told you. Now I’m here to show you.”

  “Show me what?” He sounded suspicious. “Look,” she said, and started to unbutton the coat. “What the—” He stopped when she reached the bra. “What are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she said. She began to untie the belt. “I think you really are crazy,” he said, but he stepped closer and encircled her bare waist with one hand; in the other, he gripped the chocolate bars.

  “Oh, I am,” she said. “Crazy for you.” Were these words even true? She wanted them to be.

  He had his lips an inch from hers when Emilio poked his head out the door. “Hey, Fred, they need you inside.” Fred dropped the chocolate bars with a small clatter while Mia quickly started buttoning her coat.

  “I’m coming,” he said. And then to Mia, “I’ll try to get off early, okay? Go back to your place and wait for me?” He knelt, gathering the chocolate.

  “Okay,” she said, thinking, Yes, yes, yes. “I’ll wait.”

  “But first we have to talk.”

  “Talk. Of course.” She retied the belt and followed Fred back inside, once again through the kitchen. She didn’t know what Emilio had seen, but she studiously stared down at the floor; the black rubber mats with their raised black dots stared back at her.

  BACK IN HER apartment, Mia shed the coat but left on the underwear and boots. Fred would enjoy it. Buzzing with happy anticipation, she made her bed and brushed her teeth—again. She was grateful to be getting another chance; she would try not to ruin things this time around. Spying the still-folded copy of The New York Times, she decided to tackle the crossword puzzle. She and Stuart had gone through an intense period of working the puzzles. Sometimes they’d get two copies of the paper and make it a contest; on Sundays, they did it together, yanking the pen out of each other’s hand. But somehow they had lost the habit. She only vaguely recalled those arcane little words: en, a printer’s measure; joe, coffee. When the door buzzed, she was so flustered that she knocked the paper off the table; it fluttered down and fanned out on the floor.

  He’s here already, she thought, hurrying to answer it. He’s here. She yanked the door open, and there, in the open rectangle, stood Patrick. Not Fred. Patrick! He had come to kill her. Of course. He had come to kill her, and it was just a question of how—a bullet, a blade, the brute force of his bare white hands as they closed tightly around her throat. Her mouth fell open, as if her jaw had been unhinged.

  “Hey, College Girl.” He barged right past her and into her apartment. “Love the look.” He rubbed his chin, with its three-day growth, thoughtfully, as if he’d had to consider the idea.

  “I thought you were in jail.” Her voice was a strangled thing. Should she scream? Hit him with something? Run down the fire escape? All of these things tumbled through her mind, like clothes in the dryer. But first she had to get dressed. She grabbed the trench coat, draped over a chair, and pulled it on. Her fingers were shaking as she fumbled with the buttons.

  “Hell, no!” he said, with that snorting laugh of his. “They try to pin all sorts of shit on me, but shit doesn’t stick to Patrick X. Fitzpatrick. I’m like rubber; everything just bounces right off.”

  “How did you find me?” She was squeaking. Mia Mouse. Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  “It wasn’t so hard.” He was wearing the same zip-up white sweatshirt she’d seen him in last time—it was a dazzling white now—and he dug around in the pocket. Did he have a gun? Was that what he was searching for? “After you left that night, I overheard someone at the station saying your last name. Saul. Mia Saul. So of course I remembered it; I’ve got an amazing memory, have I told you that? Anyway, once I knew your name, finding you was easy. Easy as pie.”

  “Oh,” she said, but she was mesmerized by the movement of his hand. When he finally took it out, she involuntarily sucked in her stomach, as if she had been hit. But then she saw that he was not holding a gun or weapon; he was holding a cell phone. Her cell phone.

  “You left this behind.” He extended his hand. “My phone,” she croaked, taking it. “How did you get my phone?” But she knew the answer to this already; the phone had been missing since the day she had gone to his house in Coney Island.

  “Maureen found it. You must have dropped it, so I wanted to bring it back.” He smoothed down his hair. “It seemed like the least I could do.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you very much.” She should have been screaming now, screaming her head off. But something stopped her. If she screamed, she would make him angry. She remembered quite well what he was like when he was angry. And she also remembered what he was like when he was not, when she talked to him like he was human. That was what she had to do now—appeal to his human side. She knew it was in
there. She had seen it.

  “I actually came to thank you, College Girl. For that money.”

  “The money,” she repeated. Fear was making her into an idiot, a mindlessly parroting idiot. Think, she told herself. Think for your life.

  “Yeah, the money. Maureen gave it to me and told me how you’d come looking for me. Not many people would do that, College Girl. Nah—that’s not right. Not any.”

  “Well, I thought you might be able to use it,” she said, trying to control her trembling. “Since it’s almost Christmas.”

  “Cash is good in any season. Christmas, Easter, Veterans Day—you name it.”

  “Cash is handy, all right,” Mia agreed. She had lost the struggle and was shivering violently.

  “You cold?” Patrick asked, staring at her more closely. “You look cold.”

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “Well, seeing as you’re not wearing very much under that coat, no wonder.” She must have looked terrified because he continued, “Hey, you don’t have to worry about me. You could parade around here buck-naked and I wouldn’t do a thing to you. Not unless you asked me to, anyway.” His grin was lewd yet charming.

  “I didn’t think you were that kind of person,” Mia said. Find the human side, she reminded herself, though the shivering did not stop.

  “And you’d be damn straight, too. I’ve always had a soft spot for the ladies; I’m not ashamed to admit it, either. I’m a leg man myself. Know many leg men? We’re a special breed; a breed apart. And seeing as I’m a leg man, I can tell you that yours are choice, Grade A specimens. Not that the rest of you is bad, either. Not bad at all. But I don’t stick my finger in the frosting without an invitation. Anyone, and I mean anyone, I ever laid a hand on has wanted it as bad as me or more. I never forced myself, you know? Never had to.”

  “No, I’m sure you didn’t.”

  Mia was desperate to get him out of there. “Hey, do you have anything to drink?” he asked.