Breaking the Bank

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Is there a problem with my having it? It’s not like it’s been reported stolen or missing. Or has it?” That Gerald Mofchum might have sold her a piece of stolen jewelry was too disheartening to contemplate.

  “That’s what Costello and her crew are working on now. So far, there’s no evidence that it was acquired unlawfully. But paired with the bill, it doesn’t look good for you.”

  “What can I do about it?”

  Cox looked at her steadily. “Not much,” he said at last. “We’ll just have to see how far Costello wants to take it.”

  AFTER COX LEFT, Mia decided she would stay in the apartment, despite Fred’s loudly voiced concern about her safety. But once the shock of Patrick’s visit had worn off a bit, Mia was not worried, at least not about that. She replayed the entire scene, several times, in her mind. Not once did she catch a glimmer of violence, brewing or actual. Crazy as it might have seemed to Fred, she was certain that Patrick would not harm her.

  The mailbox downstairs had been stuffed, and she now sorted through its contents, discarding the junk, saving any real correspondence for last. In this category was another postcard from Julie that read, I don’t care if I get skin cancer; my tan is amazing. I’ll fill you in on the details when we speak, but I really think Dean is The One. XOXOXOX

  The postmark was weeks ago; clearly, Julie had been trying to stay in touch. Mia felt a pang when she thought of their last conversation but squelched it. There was also a two-page, single-spaced letter from the author of All That Trash, in which he thanked her profusely for her editing. You really saw to the heart of this story, and helped me bring it to life, he wrote. If the book does well—and it certainly seems poised to—I owe it to you. Mia read the letter three times before putting it aside. What a sweet man. And what a thrill it was to think that her work could help give birth to this larger, more significant work.

  But the distraction of the mail lasted only so long, and soon Mia was thinking of Eden. Again. She had not spoken with her in days, and she suddenly felt like she couldn’t bear one more second without hearing from her. She called, waiting impatiently as the number rang and rang. No answer. Finally, she heard Eden’s breathless message and then the ubiquitous beep. Mia wasn’t sure whether she wanted to talk to her daughter badly enough to call Lloyd’s parents, but, after about a minute, she decided that she did.

  Lloyd’s mother, Virginia, answered.

  “Mia dear, how are you?” she asked. She sounded so worried. God only knew what Lloyd had been telling her. Mia fought the bitterness that seemed to flood her mouth. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. It doesn’t matter what they think. I love Eden. And Eden loves me.

  “I’m fine, Virginia; how are you?”

  “Oh, getting along, getting along. We had a lovely holiday with Eden, just lovely . . .” She trailed off, clearly embarrassed. “But we missed you, dear. We really did.”

  “Well, um, I missed you, too.” This, actually, was true.

  “Well, I suppose you’re calling to talk with Eden,” Virginia said brightly. Clearly, that was sufficient soul-baring for one conversation.

  “I am actually. Is she there?”

  “No, Lloyd took her to see a play over at the college; they’re doing A Christmas Carol. I would have gone, but my arthritis was acting up so I had to stay behind.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Mia, wanting to get off the phone now.

  “Aging and its discontents,” said Virginia. It sounded like she was striving for lightness. “I’ll have Eden call you when she gets back, all right?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Mia said. “Thanks so much.”

  “Not at all, dear,” said Virginia. There was a pause. “I do hope everything will be all right . . .” she said, sounding tentative again.

  “Everything is fine. Really.”

  “Oh, I’m glad to hear it,” Virginia said. “You know how much we love Eden . . .”

  “Happy New Year,” said Mia, just wanting to end this.

  “Happy New Year to you, too.” Virginia’s voice sounded thin, as if it were stretched on a rack and was ready to snap.

  AFTER THAT HIGHLY uncomfortable exchange, Mia went back into her bedroom to attack the piles of clothing once more. When the phone rang, she was sure it was Eden, and she made a lunge for it.

  But it was Lloyd.

  “I heard you talked to my mother,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I’m sorry her arthritis is bothering her.”

  “Thanks for the sentiment. I’m sure she appreciates it.”

  Was he being sarcastic?

  Did she care? “How was the play?” she asked, stuffing a hanger back into the closet.

  “Not bad for a piece of provincial theater. Eden loved it, though. She’s ready for Dickens now. I’m going to get her the book.”

  “Is she right there? Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s actually not here now.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s out with my father.”

  “Well, would you make sure she calls me when she gets back? I want to talk to her.”

  There was a major pause, enough time for Mia to start feeling anxious. Was he trying to prevent her from talking to Eden? Because that was what it felt like.

  “Actually, I think you and I need to talk first.”

  “Okay,” she said, abandoning the strewn clothes once more. “I’m listening.” She nudged the clothes aside and made a place for herself on the bed.

  “I’ve been thinking that maybe Eden shouldn’t come back to New York in January.”

  “What?” Mia experienced this last comment as a physical attack.

  “You heard me: she needs a change of environment.”

  “Did Eden suggest this, Lloyd? Or is this your idea?”

  “It’s my idea, of course,” said Lloyd at his most lofty. “I’m still the parent. The one in charge.”

  “Like I’m not?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “That’s a crock, and you know it,” she spat.

  “Is it?” he asked. “Look, I told you that I didn’t know what you were doing, but that whatever it was, it had to stop. Eden’s told me everything—about the visits from the police, the fact that you spent the night in jail. She’s freaked out, Mia. Totally freaked out. You’re in some kind of trouble. I can see that and I’m even sympathetic, I really am. Still, sympathy has its limits. I can’t let you or whatever crazy mess you’re in hurt Eden. So I think it would be better if she didn’t go back to New York, at least not right away.”

  “You can’t do that! It violates the terms of the divorce agreement!”

  “Under the circumstances, those terms are no longer . . . operative. And I know that any family court judge you might care to petition will back me up.”

  “I’m calling my brother; that’s what I’m doing. I’m hanging up on you right now and calling my brother. He’ll know what to do to get her back home where she belongs—”

  “I’ve already spoken to your brother. And he agrees with me that, at the moment, it might not be in Eden’s best interests to be living with you.”

  “Stuart. Said. That?” The enormity of this betrayal was like having her head dunked suddenly into black water, cold and churning. She had to struggle for breath.

  “Yes, he did. He said that he agreed you were volatile, unstable, and—”

  Mia put the phone on the bed, under a mound of clothes. Lloyd continued to talk, enumerating her many failings as a mother and as everything else, too, but his voice, his deep, rich, mellow voice, was rendered inaudible by the mounds of fabric. She didn’t care about what he was saying. The only thing she cared about was Eden: how to get to her, how to get her back. She sank to the floor, allowing herself to howl, to wail like the wounded thing that she was; she remained there until her breathing was less ragged and the howls had subsided to whimpers. When she reached for the phone again, Lloyd was gone. She called Stuart’s office, and someone answered on th
e second ring.

  “Is Mr. Saul in the office today?” she asked.

  “Yes, he is; would you like me to transfer you to his secretary?”

  But Mia had already hung up. He was there. Good.

  Mia endured the subway ride into Manhattan in a kind of rage-steeped fugue. Everyone in the car infuriated her: the man seated to her left, with his open-legged sprawl, squeezing against her thighs and hogging her space; the young woman across the aisle tweezing her eyebrows with the kind of narcissistic abandon that should have been reserved for her own bloody bathroom; the kid whose iPod was cranked up so loud Mia could discern all the lyrics of the rap tune he was grooving to; the overweight mom who barked at her toddler while impatiently yanking on his hand.

  By the time she reached Fifty-ninth Street and Lexington Avenue she was ready to pop. She marched the few blocks to Stuart’s office on

  Park Avenue, signed in at the security desk, and zoomed to the twenty-first floor in a sleek, empty elevator. Fortunately, she knew Stuart’s secretary, Anita, well enough to ask her to keep the visit a surprise until she was actually upstairs.

  “Is it his birthday or something?” asked Anita.

  “Something,” said Mia darkly.

  Stuart’s office was posher than posh. There was heavy mahogany paneling everywhere, thick carpeting that soaked up the sound of any human footfall, hulking leather-covered chairs in the reception area, and enough floral arrangements to stock a funeral parlor. She waited outside the door while Anita knocked discreetly, and then, in response to Stuart’s “Yes?” Mia walked into the office.

  “Hey, Mia!” said Stuart, getting up from his desk. “Anita didn’t tell me you were here.” He crossed the room, reaching out his arms to give her a hug.

  “Fuck you,” she said, nimbly sidestepping the embrace. “Fuck you and your phony good cheer.”

  He stopped, looking stunned. “What’s with you anyway?” he said. “What’s with me? What’s with you?” She was so angry she had to hold on to her own wrists; otherwise, she would start hurling things: the crystal paperweight, the stapler, weighty law tomes, or the brass clock that squatted on the gloomy, ostentatious credenza.

  “Would you please keep your voice down? You’re in my office, for Christ’s sake.” His eyes glanced nervously toward the door, which Anita had tactfully closed behind her.

  “I know where we are.”

  “I don’t even know what’s bugging you; care to clue me in?”

  “Lloyd,” she said, his name pure bile in her throat. “Lloyd is bugging me.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Did you?”

  He fingered the collar of his shirt, looking uncomfortable. “Well, yes, I did, but—”

  “No buts, Stuart! I’m not interested in your buts. Lloyd just told me that he’s not bringing Eden home in January. And that you said you’d back him up!”

  “That’s not exactly what I said.”

  “That’s what you meant, though! And that’s what he heard. Eden. He’s taken Eden away from me, and you’re just going to stand there and let him do it.” She started to cry then, not as loud or hard as before, but with an even deeper, more piercing kind of sorrow.

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the arm. “We’re going to take a walk.”

  Once outside, she and Stuart headed west and north, past the hot-dog vendors and the T-shirt hawkers, past the gorgeous old Plaza Hotel, past the flocks of fat, jaded pigeons that could scarcely be bothered to move out of their way, until they reached Central Park. Mia hardly minded the sharp wind biting her ears; it was an almost blessed distraction from her fury with her brother, her grief about Eden.

  She was still crying, albeit more softly now, and Stuart handed her his crisply pressed linen handkerchief. She took mild pleasure in filling the snowy square with mucus, tears, and the cloudy black remnants of her mascara. When she was done with it, she balled it up and let it fall from her hand. He could pick it up if he wanted to, but he seemed oblivious.

  “I understand how hard this is for you,” Stuart said after they had been walking in silence for a few minutes.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “You don’t understand at all. Everything’s always gone your way: school, marriage, work, kids. Well, I haven’t been so lucky. And instead of understanding me and supporting me, I feel like you’re punishing me.”

  “Punishing you? For what?”

  “For not being rich enough, or successful enough. For not staying married. For being a loser,” she said, kicking the sidewalk with the toe of her boot, in precisely the way, she realized, that Eden did.

  “This is your script, Mia. Every word of it.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

  “Maybe it is,” she said. She was tearing up again and wished she had not dumped his handkerchief. “But that’s how I feel. I miss you, Stuart. No, I miss the person you used to be.” There, she had gone ahead and said it; she hadn’t realized just how hurt she was until the words were out.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “I’m not the one who’s changed.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “How?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

  “It’s the bitterness. You’re letting it eat you up so that there’s nothing else left. You resent my success, you detest my wife, you scorn my kids. I constantly feel judged by you: I’m a sellout, I have no scruples, I’m a shit.”

  Bitter. There was that word again. Hadn’t Julie called her bitter? But with Stuart, she felt she had just cause.

  “You broke bread with the enemy!” she burst out. “You talked to Lloyd; you listened to Lloyd. You think Lloyd is more trustworthy than I am. Even after everything he’s done.”

  “Not true,” Stuart said. “Not true and not fair. You’re so reductive: black, white, good, bad. I know Lloyd gave you a raw deal. Believe me, I know, and I’d like to punch the guy out. But how will that help you? Or Eden? She still loves him, you know. She still loves him, and she always will.”

  Mia was silent, hating him for being right. However she felt about Lloyd, she would have to find a way to endure him because of Eden. Expunging Lloyd was a luxury she couldn’t permit herself. But she wasn’t ready to give up her grievance against Stuart.

  “And then there’s Gail. She’s despised me from the start.”

  “Only because she thinks you despise her.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “I love her, Mia.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Then you need to enlarge your imagination.”

  “But she’s so condescending! Snobbish! Empty, calculating, and dishonest—let’s see, have I missed anything?”

  “Are you through yet?” Stuart asked.

  “Not really,” Mia replied. “In fact, I was just getting started.”

  “I’m willing to concede that you two got off on the wrong foot. And I’m sorry for that; maybe I should have stepped in earlier on. Then things might not have gotten to this point.”

  “That,” said Mia with mild astonishment, “is the first time I’ve heard you apologize for anything connected to her. You’re always so defensive where she’s concerned.”

  “I guess I am,” he said. “And maybe she hasn’t always been the most sensitive. She’s tough because she’s had to be.” When Mia didn’t say anything, he added, “Look, I’ll talk to her, if you want. That is, if you’re willing to meet her halfway.” Mia still didn’t answer. But she ceased ranting about Gail, at least for the moment.

  They came to Bethesda Fountain, which was silent and dry. The Angel of the Waters, with outstretched wings, stood at the center of the fountain. Her bronze gaze was downcast, as if she were ashamed of something. A sparrow landed lightly on the top of her head and then fluttered away.

  “So where does that leave us?” Stuart asked. “A shit and a loser. Except you’re not a loser, Mia. Never to me.”

  “Is this my cue to say you’re not a shit?”

  “In a word,
yes,” said Stuart.

  “Okay, so you’re not a shit,” she said. “At least not a total shit.” She smiled, the first smile of the day.

  “Do you remember the last time we were here together?” Stuart asked, looking at the statue. “It was the night I graduated from high school.”

  “I remember,” she said.

  “Aimee Polansky and Gretchen Dineen were with us. And Tobin Wheeler.” He paused. “Oh—and Josh Horowitz, too.”

  “My first love,” she said.

  “We all got so wasted,” Stuart said. “I brought a couple of six-packs, and so did Josh. Didn’t we take off our shoes and wade in the fountain?”

  “I did,” she said. “You were too chicken.” She could see herself at seventeen, tucking her long, gauzy skirt into the elastic band of her panties, singing what even then were old Beatles tunes in varying off-key harmonies, wishing she could have slipped off somewhere to make out with Tobin, whom she hardly knew but found wildly sexy, instead of Josh, her ostensible boyfriend at the time.

  “You always had a lot of spirit,” he said, looking at her with admiration. “You still do.”

  “Is that what you think? God, judging from that inquisition— excuse me, intervention—at your house, I’d never have known.”

  “Okay, so we were too harsh,” Stuart said. “And I was clumsy. But it’s because I love you, you dope. Love and am worried sick about you. Don’t you get it?”

  “Jesus, don’t get all smarmy on me,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll have to throw up, and I dropped your handkerchief back there, so I won’t even be able to wipe my mouth.” But it was good hearing Stuart say that he loved her, especially when he sounded like he meant it.

  “I have another one,” Stuart said. “Do you need it?” He produced a second white folded square from the depths of his coat.

  “Do you buy them by the caseload or something?” She took the handkerchief anyway, and this time, she stuffed it deeply into her own pocket.

  “Mia, I’m not going to support Lloyd in a bid for full custody, or anything even approximating it. What I am going to suggest, though, is that you let Eden stay with him for a while, at least until after your court date.”