“How do you know about that? Have you been talking to Chris Cox?”
“Of course I’ve been talking to him; I found the guy for you, didn’t I? And it’s as a professional courtesy to me that he’s not charging you a cent. Do you have any clue about what his hourly rate is?”
“Big deal. So he costs a lot,” she bristled. “That doesn’t give you the right to pump him for confidential information about me.”
“Mia,” Stuart said, putting a hand on her arm. “I haven’t even asked why you had to spend a night in jail. So just stop, okay?”
She looked at the hand on her arm, as if trying to decide exactly what she should do about it.
“Oh, all right,” she said finally. “Pump away.”
Stuart walked her to the Fifth Avenue subway station. Before she descended the subway stairs, Stuart once again put his hand on her arm.
“I didn’t even buy you lunch,” he said.
“Next time.”
“Okay. But that means there has to be a next time. Will you call me? Or at least take my calls when I call you?”
“I guess.”
“Come on, Mia. I thought we were past that.”
“Let me get through this court date, okay?”
“Fair enough.” He stood there fiddling with a loose button on his coat. “I’m going to be there, you know.”
“You are? Why?” How could perfect, perfectly in-charge Stuart have a loose button? She wished that he would pull it off, throw it away. Go buttonless, live a little.
“It’s open to the public. Didn’t Cox tell you?”
“Yes, but you’re not exactly the public.”
“No. I’m your brother.”
To Mia’s surprise, he did yank the button off, though perhaps not intentionally. It went scooting along the curb, then veered into the sewer grating at the corner. There must have been a plop, but it was too small and far away to be heard.
“You lost your button,” she said.
“Yeah, well. I’ve lost things before.”
“Haven’t we all?” She grasped him tightly, enfolding him in the hug that she wouldn’t give him earlier in the day.
ON THE SUBWAY platform, Mia thought briefly about the heaps of clothing still on her bed, but the prospect of returning to the apartment to deal with them was too daunting. Instead, she transferred to an F train and took it out to Fred’s house. Fred was not home; he was at the bar already, but she had the set of keys he had loaned her.
Once inside, she flopped down onto the couch and tilted her head back. Eden, she thought. Eden, Eden, Eden. Maybe Stuart was right about letting her remain with Lloyd for the time being. But only for the time being. After the court date, she was going to get her back, no matter what it took. She would go down to North Carolina herself, she would camp out on the Prescotts’ doorstep, she would—a rasping, wheezy sound distracted her, and then Dudley flung himself into her shins with the force of a bowling ball headed for a strike. She gathered all seventeen sloppy pounds of him onto her lap and pressed her face into his magnificent, misshapen skull.
TWENTY-TWO
MIA SPENT THE following day on the couch. She sat on the couch, and she reclined on the couch. She shifted from her stomach to her back, and then curled up on her side, like a shrimp. For variety, she relocated to the floor next to the couch, stroking Dudley whenever he waddled by. The other two cats studiously ignored her, but Dudley, well, Dudley was her man. Fred was tender and solicitous, bringing her coffee, a scone, freshly squeezed tangerine juice while she was parked there, but eventually he had to go. It was New Year’s Eve day, and he needed to be at the bar early.
“I’ll call you later on, okay?” he asked, standing by the door. “To check in on you?”
“That’s fine,” she said without any enthusiasm. She had tried reaching Eden at least six more times, but none of those times had she picked up. Mia was sure that Lloyd had found some pretext for which to take her phone; what else could have kept her from answering? Mia’s inability to make contact with Eden had left her hobbled and in pain, as if her ankles had been broken.
“And you’ll come to the bar tonight?”
“I guess.”
“You’ve got to come, Mia. You need to get out.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m all right.”
“If you say so,” he said dubiously. “Anyway, I wish I could hang out longer, but I really have to go.”
Once she was alone, Mia considered her options. TV, but that meant she actually had to get off the couch and climb the stairs. A book would be good, but she had just finished the novel she’d been reading and didn’t have anything new with her. She tried Eden for the seventh, eighth, and ninth times, and, of course, there was still no answer. She was about ready to pour herself a drink—it was almost New Year’s Eve after all—when the cell phone bleated. Eden!
“Hi, baby,” she said, holding the phone tightly pressed to her ear, as if she could touch her child by proxy.
“I like it when you call me ‘baby,’ College Girl,” said a male voice. “In fact, you just made my day.”
“Patrick.” Mia’s mood plummeted.
“Guilty as charged.” When Mia didn’t answer, he continued, “You all right there, College Girl? You don’t sound all right.”
“No,” said Mia. “I’m not.” And with that, she was crying again, crying as if she could not stop.
“Is it the boyfriend? He been smacking you around? ‘Cause if he has, I’ll have to come over there and kick his fucking ass. I’ll take him apart, limb by fucking limb. Just say the word.”
“Fred’s not the problem,” said Mia, hiccupping through the tears. “It’s my daughter, Eden.” That was all she could say before the sobbing started again.
“Hey, this is not good. Not good at all.”
“No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “It’s terrible.”
“How about I come and see you, College Girl? I was calling to wish you a happy New Year. But I could do it in person.”
“See me?” said Mia. “See me where?” He couldn’t come here; it was out of the question.
“Anyplace you want. You name it, I’m there.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .” Mia said, but then thought, Why not? She was going to go crazy, sitting around here all day, brooding about Eden. But she would not invite Patrick here, nor would she let him into her apartment. She would meet him somewhere else. Somewhere public.
“You can cry on my shoulder,” Patrick was saying. “Might make you feel better.”
“Okay,” she said, sitting up straighter and dislodging Dudley from her lap. He gave her an insulted look and huffed off. “There’s a coffee shop on the corner of Union Street and Fourth Avenue. Can you meet me there in about an hour?”
“On my way,” he said.
PATRICK WAS ALREADY seated and waiting for her by the time she arrived. He had exchanged the white sweatshirt for a white parka— maybe he was channeling Emily Dickinson?—and his long blond hair had been smoothed back into a ponytail. He was freshly shaven, too— the line of his jaw, newly visible, was crisp and well defined. When he spotted her, he smiled and scooted a menu across the table in her direction.
“The New College Inn,” he said, referring to the name printed in bold letters across the menu. “Figures you’d pick this place. Tailor-made for you.”
“I guess,” she said, peeling off her coat and hanging it over the back of her chair.
“So why all the waterworks?” he asked. He put his white hands palms down on the table and waited.
“My ex-husband took my daughter to see his parents for Christmas. And now he says he’s not going to bring her back.”
“No wonder you’re freaked out,” said Patrick. “But why? What’s his beef ?”
“He says I’m not a fit parent. Because I spent a night in jail.” Mia suddenly felt self-conscious. She still had no idea what Patrick was in for that night, and she was no
t sure she wanted to find out.
“So? Plenty of innocent people end up in jail. Doesn’t he know that?”
“Evidently not,” she said, staring down into her water glass.
“What’ll it be?” asked the waitress, who had appeared with her pad.
Mia hadn’t even looked at the menu but that didn’t matter; all coffee shops in New York had the same food.
“Rice pudding,” she said. “And a cup of coffee. No, make that tea.” The last time she’d had coffee here she had rued it for hours.
“I’ll have a spinach omelet, rye toast, and home fries,” said Patrick.
“Bacon or sausage with that?” the waitress wanted to know.
“No bacon.” He handed her the menu and leaned over. “I’m a vegetarian. No leather either.” He stuck his foot out in the aisle to display one white canvas sneaker.
“So is my daughter,” said Mia.
“You miss her a lot.”
“Yes,” she said, eyes pooling again. “I really do.”
“Of course you do,” he said soothingly. “She’s your kid. Your only kid, right? So all your eggs are in that basket.” Mia nodded, grateful. “You’ve got a lot invested in that, haven’t you? Like, just about everything.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Everything.”
“That ex of yours really sucks,” Patrick said. “First, because he dumped you. And now, because he’s stolen your kid. ‘Cause that’s what he’s done, you know—stolen her.”
“I’m not sure a judge would see it that way.”
“Judges,” Patrick said. “Bunch of thimble-dicked shit suckers.”
Mia didn’t say anything, but opened a packet of sugar to empty into the tea when it appeared.
“So he doesn’t like that you were in jail. What was it, anyway? One night? Big fucking deal.”
“One night,” said Mia. The tea, which had arrived along with their food, was good, hot, and sweet. “What about you? Have you ever been in jail?”
“You mean, like, done time?”
Mia just nodded, wide-eyed.
“Nah. I’ve spent a night or two here and there. But I’ve never gone behind the wall.” He seemed quite calm as he said this, and he began to eat his eggs. “What’d you do, anyway? I mean, I know we weren’t going to bring it up, but . . .”
“It’s a long story,” said Mia.
“Aren’t they all?” asked Patrick, and raised his golden eyebrows with such contained eloquence, such understated compassion, that she found herself telling him everything, but everything, the words bubbling up and pouring out of her mouth like foam from a shaken bottle of beer.
“You mean to tell me that there’s a machine that’s just handing out money? Money that it doesn’t record?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.”
“I believe it,” said Patrick.
“You do? Why? No one else has.”
“I do because you told it to me, College Girl. And I believe in you.” Delicately, he took a bite of his omelet.
Mia wanted to cry all over again.
“Hey, don’t look so weepy,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand. She let him take it. “Maybe you should eat something. You haven’t touched your rice pudding.” He looked at the glutinous mound and then pushed it aside. “Here—have some of my toast.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“I insist.” He raised the toast to her lips. The surface was lightly browned and gleamed with butter; she could smell the yeasty odor of the bread. Patrick’s hand remained where it was until she finally opened her mouth for a bite, just a small one. Oh, it was good. So good. She didn’t know she was this hungry, and she kept taking bites until the entire piece was gone. He was still holding her other hand in his, and she withdrew it slowly, even reluctantly, so that she could pat her mouth with a paper napkin.
“So I’ve got another question for you, College Girl,” he said. “How come a girl like you is so hard up for a buck? Don’t you have a family who could help you? Friends?”
“I do,” she said. “But there’s a little tension in my family right now. More than a little. And my best friend, well, she and I had a kind of falling-out.”
“How about the boyfriend? Couldn’t you touch him for a loan?” She shook her head, and he didn’t press any more. Mia took another sip of her tea. There was no doubt that Patrick was a strange guy, but in that moment, she decided she liked him. He was the first person who had heard her story and not implied that she was crazy—or a criminal.
“So tell me more about this machine. It sounds pretty wild,” he prompted.
“Do you want to see it?” she asked.
“The machine?”
“Yes. I haven’t shown it to anyone, but I want to show it to you.” Mia felt as if she had crossed some boundary, stepped neatly outside her life and into some other, parallel zone, in which Patrick was not an alien to be feared and reviled, but a kindred spirit, or even, God help her, an alter ego.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll just finish my eggs.” He continued to eat, with no particular haste or impatience. When the check came, he wouldn’t let Mia anywhere near it. “I called you, remember? Besides, I owe you.”
“No, you don’t,” said Mia. “Not a thing.”
ONCE THEY WERE actually on their way, Mia was nervous. She hadn’t tried the machine since it gave her that ten-thousand-dollar bill. She hadn’t even gone near it. Now, the bank was almost empty, and no one was using the cash machines at all. Still, she felt like she was being watched.
“It’s that one, on the left,” she told Patrick in a low voice. She approached it warily. He stayed close, but averted his eyes while she tapped in the code, asking for one hundred dollars. The machine emitted its customary whirrs and hums; no lights, and certainly no music. Mia grabbed the bills as they were ejected from the slot.
Twenties, just twenties. And there were only five of them.
“Shit,” she said, raising her face to look at Patrick. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“It’s not what you thought?”
“No!” she exploded, thinking of Chris Cox, of her brother, of the judge who would, in a matter of days, have to sift through and weigh every word she uttered. “No, it’s not.” She stuffed the money in her bag and charged out the door, nearly colliding with a woman on her way in. Patrick hurried to follow.
“Slow down,” he called when she was halfway up Garfield Place. “You’re going to bust a gut.”
Mia slowed, but only a little.
“I can’t believe it,” she said when he had caught up to her. “I have to appear in court on January fourth, and what am I going to say to that judge? Can you tell me that? Can you?” She was yelling now, yelling right in the middle of the street. An old man with a cane glanced in her direction and edged away, giving her a wide berth.
“Just calm down. You’re going to kill yourself, give yourself a heart attack or something.”
“You’re right: if I lose my daughter, I will kill myself.” Her head throbbed, and she felt like the energy was pouring right out of her, glugging away into the gutter like so much dirty water.
“Don’t say that, College Girl,” Patrick said with unexpected tenderness. “You can’t say that.” He leaned close, his face hovering near hers for a second. Then he kissed her.
At first, Mia was too surprised to pull away, and by the time it occurred to her to do this, it was too late. His kiss was galvanic, electrifying, brain-sizzling, crotch-drenching—every single hackneyed, porn-derived cliché she could think of. She kissed him back like she was drowning and he was the rope, like she was choking and he was the open window, like she had waited her whole life to do it, which, she thought giddily, maybe she had. It was Patrick who pulled away first, and when he did, he looked as dazed as she felt.
“Well, fuck me stupid,” he said softly, gripping her tightly by both shoulders. “Who knew a College Girl would be like this?”
“Now what?”
she asked, breathing heavily, a bitch in radiant heat.
“I don’t know. I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“The machine,” she moaned, as the rank reality of her situation settled itself back down in her, obliterating her options, canceling out her choices. “What am I going to do about that machine?”
“Listen, tell me again about all the times it worked. Every single time you tried, every single time it happened.” He looped an arm around her shoulders, and slowly, they started to walk back down the block.
“Well, the first time was in September. I had bought groceries and ended up leaving them in the street. So I needed to get some food for Eden. For supper.” Her voice caught a little when she said Eden’s name, but she went on, recounting all the times she had gone to the machine and received something more than she had asked for.
“So what was different about today? Anything?”
“Only that someone—you—were with me.”
“I have an idea. We’re going back to the bank.”
“What for?”
“To try it again.”
“It won’t work. You saw; you were there.”
“You didn’t let me finish, College Girl. We’re going to try it again, but this time, I’m not going to stand so close. I’m going to be off to one side, see? I’ll be able to watch what’s happening. But I won’t be right in front of the machine.”
“Like that will make a difference?”
“You never know, do you? I mean, maybe they don’t teach you everything in college.” Mia had to smile at that.
Together, they walked back into the bank and neared the machine. But before Mia touched the keypad, Patrick moved off to the right. He could see her, could see everything she was doing. Just from a slight remove. She inserted her card and punched in the request. One hundred dollars, just like every other time. There was a rapid flickering of the screen from dark to light to dark again. She waited, lungs flattened by anxiety, for the machine’s whirring to stop. Then she reached for the bills, and, as she did, her mouth opened into a perfect O.
Breaking the Bank Page 28