Breaking the Bank

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  But no one really heard him. Instead, they were all caught up in the thick, impossible swirl of bills, bills that were, to Mia’s astonished gaze, like leaves, like seeds, like manna from heaven, raining down upon the waiting soil of the world.

  EPILOGUE

  THE STORY MADE the nightly news on NY1, Fox 5, and ABC. It ran in the three New York newspapers—the Times, the Post, and the Daily News—as well as in a smattering of papers across the country: Akron, Chicago, Fort Lauderdale, San Francisco, and Boston. There was a flurry of calls from TV and radio shows, the most memorable of which came from that most hallowed of all television goddesses, Oprah herself. In the end, though, Mia’s appearance on the show was bumped by the story of a transgendered “man” who had given birth to twins. But Oprah’s interest acted like blood in the water, and several TV executives eagerly came sniffing around. Mia sold the rights to her story to a twenty-six-year-old hotshot producer at HBO who planned to turn it into a movie. Plus, all the media attention gave her another edge: she was able to shine some unwelcome light on her slimeball landlord, forcing him, quite literally, to clean up his act. The junk was hauled out of the lobby; the hallways were washed and waxed; and, praise the Lord, the elevator was finally fixed. Lloyd got his act together, too—he started sending checks at regular intervals, and, since he was now back in the States, he set up a regular schedule for seeing Eden. Mia could tell he was impressed about the HBO offer; he even hinted about being introduced to her contacts there. How typically, totally Lloyd, Mia thought. Maybe she would actually introduce him to some of those HBO people. Then again, maybe not.

  The court eventually decided that since the money had absolutely no explicable source and could not be traced, Mia was allowed to keep whatever she received from the machine. The branch of the bank near Mia’s apartment closed down—temporarily, the sign said—but there was no indication of when, if ever, it would reopen. The ten-thousand-dollar bill, however, remained in police possession, still part of the ongoing investigation into Weed’s death. Then there was the locket, which Mia had taken to Sotheby’s for appraisal. It was, in fact, a documented piece, missing for decades, and now rapturously welcomed back into the public eye. Mia put it up for auction, where it was purchased by a major museum for a substantial sum; she kept a small portion of the money and donated the rest to a nonprofit organization whose mission it was to kindle interest in poetry in the public schools. She was truly sorry to see it go. But when she learned of its history, she knew she was doing the right thing; truly, it belonged to the Keats lovers of the world, not around her neck.

  Mia was sitting pretty now. Between the money she had socked away from the machine, the money from HBO, and the money from the sale of the locket, she was able to set up a college fund for Eden and buy a house on East Fifth Street, just off Caton Avenue. It was a small, lopsided affair, with below-code wiring and floors so pitched you could roll marbles down them. But there was a slate mantelpiece where the (nonworking) fireplace sat, parquet floors under the buckled linoleum, and a backyard that was home to both a fig tree and a crab apple. There was also a separate apartment on the top floor, perfect for a tenant, once Mia got the place into some kind of decent shape. Which she did, hiring a dreadlocked Rastafarian contractor and spending every free minute she had trolling the aisles of Home Depot and Lowe’s. After too many months of plaster-and Sheetrock-infused dust, she and Eden were ready to kiss Fourth Avenue a not-so-fond farewell and settle into their new home. There was even enough money for Mia to buy a used Prius, which was handy since she planned to invite both Luisa and Mr. Ortiz to visit, and she wanted to be able to ferry them back and forth.

  It was early June by this point. The crab apple tree out back had already bloomed, exquisitely, and its soft, candy-pink petals still carpeted the ground. Mia knew she ought to clean them up but really, they gave the place such an enchanted look—perfect for the engagement party she threw for Julie. The fig tree produced exactly two figs, both green and small and nearly juiceless, but there was always next year, right? Who knew just what fruit she might reap? She and Eden planted geraniums in the window boxes and started a compost pile in the yard. Her brother brought Gail and the girls for a visit; when she and Stu were briefly alone together in the kitchen, he handed her a large white box.

  “What’s this?” she asked. “House-warming present,” he said. “The house is warm enough as it is,” Mia said, strangely flustered. “I didn’t put in central AC.”

  “Just open it, would you?”

  Beneath the white tissue Mia found the painting of the birds’ eggs she had spied—and loved—in Stuart’s house, as well as an envelope containing a very generous check.

  “You didn’t have to,” Mia said; she didn’t know what meant more, the fact that he knew she would want the painting, or the amount of the check.

  “I know. But I wanted to.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” she murmured. “Use it well,” Stuart said. His tone was light but his look, intense. “Isn’t that your mantra these days?”

  All That Trash won a coveted award for best nonfiction of the year; at the ceremony, to which both she and Eden were invited, the author, Howard Shapiro, kissed her on both cheeks and thanked her publicly for her role in his success. After that, she was offered not one but two plum editorial jobs, and had the unprecedented luxury of choosing between them.

  EVERY NOW AND then, she ran into Fred, whose house was not far from hers. At first they kept each other at a palpable distance—only the briefest of nods, the curtest of hellos were exchanged. But one night, Mia got a frantic call from him saying that Dudley had been having seizures, and Fred was taking him to the emergency veterinary clinic on Warren Street; would she meet him there? Mia thought of Dudley, his heavy tread, his squashed face. Of course she would.

  It turned out that the cat was in end-stage bladder cancer, and Mia remained in the room with Fred while the vet administered the injections that would quiet, and then still, his great feline heart. Afterward, Mia accepted Fred’s offer of a ride home on his motorcycle, though she didn’t invite him in. Instead, they sat on the front stoop together, Fred sobbing quietly and Mia gently rubbing small, concentric circles on his back until eventually the sobs subsided.

  “Let me get you something to drink,” she said, when she saw he had calmed down. “I made lemonade. Freshly squeezed. I could pour a splash of vodka in it, too.”

  “So now you’re making drinks for me?”

  “Why not?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. “I’ll be right back.”

  She returned to the stoop with two tall glasses and a wad of napkins on a tray. Fred accepted the drink and took a sip.

  “Pretty good for an amateur,” he said. She smiled, but didn’t reply. “So,” he began again. “Do you still see that guy? The one with all that hair?”

  “Patrick,” she said, though she was quite sure Fred knew his name. “Not really,” she said. “Not anymore.”

  “Huh,” he said. He didn’t say anything else. But he let his shoulder lean against hers, and Mia did not move away. She found herself wanting to comfort Fred and, even more than that, heal him. What she felt might not have been love, but, as Bev had told her, who knew what the feeling might one day become?

  MIA HAD SEEN Patrick exactly once since the media frenzy back in the winter. They’d had a wild night of it, too. But shortly after that, he’d disappeared. Calls went unreturned; his sister, Maureen, could offer little information.

  “He just vanishes from time to time,” was the only explanation she could offer.

  “What do you do if you want to get in touch with him?” Mia had asked.

  “You wait,” said Maureen.

  So Mia waited. And waited some more. Nothing. After a couple of months, she stopped thinking about him, at least on a daily basis. Instead, she thought about Fred. Wondered how he was, and if he were dating anyone new. Somehow, the thought did not please her. She found herself hoping she’d run into him in th
e neighborhood, and when she didn’t, she circled closer and closer to his house, until finally, early one Saturday evening when Eden was off with Lloyd and the sky had turned that rich, blood-orange color that presaged a spectacular sunset, she saw him, coming down the stoop of his house, his motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm.

  “You,” he said, surprised but clearly not unhappy to see her. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a glorious night for a ride,” she said. “Don’t you think?” So he took her for a ride that night, and for one the following week, too. Still, they were slow with each other—slow and cautious, as if one of them might easily break. That was all right with Mia, though. More than all right, in fact.

  Her heart, she discovered, was resilient in ways she would not have guessed. It was stretched, it was sore, but despite Patrick’s silence, it was far from shattered. And it wasn’t like she wasn’t busy; what with supervising the renovation, finding tenants for the upstairs apartment, following the ins and outs of the movie deal, and settling into her new job, she had plenty to occupy her.

  Then the card arrived. A bright glossy rectangle of palm trees and a sky as blue as a Renaissance painting. The postmark said Mexico.

  I haven’t forgotten you, College Girl. I never will. Don’t know when or even if I’ll be back. But the future is a wide and mighty place. Maybe I’ll see you there.

  Love from your Patrick

  Patrick’s handwriting was neat and even; dividend, no doubt, of all those years with the ruler-wielding nuns. Mia traced her finger over the careful loops and dips as she secured the card to the front of the refrigerator with a magnet. “A wide and mighty place,” she said out loud, thinking not only of Patrick but of Fred, too. Who was she to say that it wasn’t?

  Reading Group Guide

  BREAKING THE BANK

  YONA ZELDIS MCDONOUGH

  BOOK SUMMARY

  Harried single mom Mia Saul tries to juggle her career, personal life, and raising her ten-year-old daughter, Eden, with not-so-great results. After her husband, Lloyd, leaves her for a manicurist, Mia struggles to regain some semblance of a normal life, but when her ex conveniently leaves the country and forgets to send child support, she finds herself scrambling to make ends meet. When she discovers a bank machine that bestows free money, Mia decides that she will share the wealth with those who need it as badly as she does.

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. Mia finds a magical ATM that dispenses free money. Do you think Mia made good decisions about dispersing the money? What would you do if you ever found such a machine?

  2. The author opens the novel with the following epigraphs:

  “Money doesn’t talk, it swears,” a line from Bob Dylan; and “Money talks, all right. It says good-bye,” from author Richard Russo. Why do you think she chose those particular quotes?

  3. Do you think Mia’s family was justified in staging an intervention? How might they have handled it differently? Was her outrage appropriate?

  4. Both Fred, the sweet, mild-mannered bartender, and Patrick, the unpredictable free spirit, intrigue Mia. Who do you think is better for her, and why?

  5. What did you think about Gerald Mofchum, the enigmatic jeweler, and his mysterious disappearance after selling Mia the locket? Was obtaining the Keats locket just part of Mia’s “magic”?

  6. How would you describe Mia’s parenting style? Do you think she is a good parent? Can you relate to her struggles as a single mom? How is her relationship with her own mother?

  7. How does Mia’s ex, Lloyd, undermine her relationship with Eden? How might she have handled Lloyd’s visit differently?

  8. In Breaking the Bank, Mia is editing a book about recycling and

  America’s growing trash problem. How does she try to incorporate “green living” into her own life?

  9. Mia seems to mourn the loss of her relationship with Stuart, her only brother. Why do you think they’re not as close as they used to be? Why does she feel especially betrayed when she learns Stuart has been talking to Lloyd?

  10. When Mia and Eden meet up with Lloyd and his new girlfriend, Suim, for dinner, Mia is surprised at her reaction to her ex: “And when he started to tackle the whole topic of wine, Mia was ready to take her fork and stab him in the thigh. Had he always been like this and she had just failed to notice? Or had she been so in love that she hadn’t cared? . . . Mia, however, was beside herself, and she moved from annoyance to rage to finally, amazingly, something like relief.” Why do you think her opinion of Lloyd changed?

  11. Do you agree or disagree with Lloyd’s decision to take Eden to his parents’ place in North Carolina indefinitely? Is it a better environment for Eden?

  12. When Mia finally breaks down and confesses where she’s actually getting her money, Patrick believes her but Fred doesn’t. Why do they respond differently? What do their reactions say about their characters?

  13. After her ordeal is over, Mia discovers “her heart . . . was resilient in ways she would not have guessed. It was stretched, it was sore, but despite Patrick’s silence, it was far from shattered.” Were you surprised by Patrick’s departure in the end? What lessons do you think Mia learned from her experience with the magical ATM?

  A CONVERSATION WITH YONA ZELDIS MCDONOUGH

  Q. Where did the inspiration for a magical ATM come from? What sort of research process did you undergo for this novel?

  A. I was having a conversation with my brother and he asked why whenever the bank made an error, it was always in their favor. I agreed, but was then reminded of an incident that happened years earlier (before the advent of ATMs) when a young teller gave me four hundred dollars more than I was supposed to get. I admit I got a little rush when I saw all that “found” money; it was thrilling and I had a few seconds of imagining what I might do with it. But I knew I couldn’t keep it and so I returned to the window and pointed out the mistake to her. She was enormously grateful; it turned out she had only been on the job for a week or so, and her error would have gotten her fired. I told all this to my brother and it prompted me to think about what might have happened if the “giver” had not been a person but instead one of the by-now-ubiquitous ATMs. Would that have changed my feelings? Those musings were the first stirrings of this story.

  In order to research certain aspects of the novel, I consulted with the community outreach office at my local police precinct; they were able to show me around the building (my first time seeing an actual jail cell and a holding pen) and outline certain aspects of police procedure. I also did some research into U.S. paper currencies, and the ten-thousand-dollar bill, to find out if such a large denomination had ever existed, and if so, when.

  Q. When beginning a new novel, do you have a set outline that you follow, or do you go where the narrative takes you?

  A. In writing fiction, I never work from an outline. Instead, I work from a voice that starts whispering, with varying degrees of intensity and urgency, in my ear. I wait to hear that voice and when I do, I am led by it. I feel like the writing, when it is going well, is less about invention and more about faithful transcription.

  Q. In your earlier works, such as In Dahlia’s Name and The Four Temperaments, and also in Breaking the Bank, a central theme seems to be a strong sense of family. How important is family to you? How much inspiration do you draw from your real life?

  A. I think family is the primal narrative; it’s the first cast of characters for every single person on earth. When I was younger and writing only short stories, my work was more concretely autobiographical, but in my novels, this has been less true. Instead, I’ve attempted to weave bits and pieces of my own experience into a larger fictional context. Sometimes the connections between the work and the life are apparent to me at the outset; other times, those connections are forged in a less conscious way and I become aware of them only after the fact.

  Q. You’ve written adult novels and a great many children’s titles. How is writing for an adult reader different
from writing for a young one? What made you decide to write in both genres?

  A. I wrote my first children’s book because my mother, a painter and illustrator, came to me with a contract in hand. At the time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write for children or if I even could. Now I find that I enjoy it very much; it offers an interesting and useful balance to the other work I do. The books that are most satisfying to me are the chapter books (I’ve written three), which are in effect novels for children.

  Q. Mia is a modern woman faced with all the agonies and ecstasies that go along with that. Did you set out to address the struggles that single working mothers face today?

  A. Not in any deliberate way, but once the character took hold, I realized that I could articulate the concerns, frustrations, and hopes of so many women who find themselves in this position.

  Q. You were the editor and a contributor to The Barbie Chronicles: A Living Doll Turns Forty. How did you come to be involved in this project?

  A. In 1998, I wrote an essay about how much I continued to love Barbie despite the backlash against her; the essay appeared in the Lives section of The New York Times Magazine and it generated sufficient interest for me to put together a book.

  Q. You wrote an article about thrift stores for The New York Times (December 5, 2008). Is thrift-store shopping a passion of yours?

  A. A deep and abiding passion. I’ve always been drawn to the lure of the old. The more worn, used, discarded, and abandoned it is, the better I love it. The smell of mildew gets my heart racing. I feel like I am rescuing these objects, finding meaning and value in what has been left behind.

  Q. What are you working on next?

  A. A novel about a fortyish former ballet dancer, somewhat bitter, somewhat dissatisfied, living in New York City. At the outset of the book, her younger sister dies suddenly, and the protagonist moves in with her brother-in-law to help out with her three young nieces and nephews.