Breaking the Bank (2 page)

“There's no magic at Target, Mia,” Lloyd said; his condescension dripped like honey.

“She needs new underwear, not magic,” Mia said.

“Were you always so humdrum?” asked Lloyd.

Humdrum pays the bills,
she wanted to say. But when they quarreled, Eden would get very quiet and start twisting a piece of her own skin— elbow, cheek, thigh—until it turned pink and eventually blue, so with great effort, Mia controlled herself.

Then quite abruptly, Lloyd decided to pick up and travel with Suim to Asia; he would not say how long he planned to be gone. At first, he was good about staying in touch, showering Eden with postcards, with gifts: a red lacquer box, an expensive-looking doll with a parasol, an enormous fan. But after a couple of months, nothing— not a word, not a forwarding address. Eden was alternately furious and weepy; Mia was sure part of her daughter's behavior was linked to Lloyd's disappearance, and she planned to mention this to the psychologist tomorrow.

M
IA RUMMAGED IN
her bag for her key. Their building was right on Fourth Avenue, a cheerless corridor filled with auto-body shops, car
washes, and discount beverage warehouses. Traffic whizzed by all day and night; the multilane thoroughfare was bisected by narrow, weed-infested islands littered with broken glass, flattened beer cans, and used condoms. But Fourth Avenue was changing and the rising hulks of big new buildings—co-ops, condos—were crowding the sidewalks, grabbing at the sky. These behemoths boasted pools and gyms, parking garages and doormen. None of this would help Mia and Eden; in fact, apartment buildings like theirs would soon fall prey to the renovators or the wrecking ball. Then Mia and Eden would be priced out of even this marginal neighborhood.

The building itself—red brick, lighter brick trim, heavy glass doors enhanced by decorative black iron scrolls—was not without a certain faded elegance. Once inside the lobby, though, the desolation and deterioration were evident: the terrazzo floors were cracked and the Art Deco bas-reliefs on the walls were stained and peeling. One wall was overpowered by peel-and-stick mirrored tiles that were glued, inexplicably, to two-thirds of its surface, and the space was filled with a varying assortment of cast-off furniture that seemed to change monthly: a red velvet sofa spilling its upholstered guts, a scarred coffee table of some obsidian-like substance, a pair of office chairs in cracked turquoise vinyl.

Because the elevator had been broken for weeks, Mia and Eden climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. They passed the apartment of their across-the-hall neighbor, Manny, a tough Hispanic guy of about twenty-five. Mia did not know his last name; on his buzzer were the words
Cloud Nine.
He had decorated the had-to-cost-a-thousand-dollars steel door he'd installed with puffy, spray-painted clouds in shades of pink, baby blue, and yellow. People showed up at all hours of the night looking for him; Mia knew this because if he did not answer, they rang her bell instead.

“Where
is
he?” they implored. “I gotta see him
now.
” Mia was sorry for these lost souls, but there was nothing she could do.

Directly next door lived Mr. Ortiz, a widower with a pair of fat, white, soiled-looking Pomeranians. Even Eden, confirmed dog lover that she was, could not abide the obese, wheezing creatures and shrank back whenever she saw them. Mr. Ortiz walked stiffly and with difficulty. Ever since the problem with the elevator began, he had taken to opening his door and letting the dogs do their business in the hallway, much to the annoyance of the other tenants, especially Manny.

“Your dog shits here again and I break his snout,” he snarled one day in Mia and Eden's hearing. “You get that, Ortiz?”

“I am so sorry, Señor Manny,” said Mr. Ortiz. His gnarled hands were clasped, and his furrowed forehead shone. “My knees—” He gestured in their direction. “Terrible, terrible. I can't make it down the stairs.” The dogs, sensing his distress, circled anxiously. “They're all I have.”

“Well, pretty soon you're not gonna have them. I'm tired of living with the stench.” He stared into the face of one of the dogs, which had come close to where he stood.

“What are you looking at?” he said. In response, the dog uncoiled its long pink tongue to lick his shoe.

“Jesus H. Christ, Ortiz,” said Manny. “Keep that mutt away from me.” He yanked on the steel door, which emitted a percussive sound as it crashed shut.

Fortunately, Manny, Mr. Ortiz, and the dogs were not in evidence today. Eden dumped her backpack on the floor just inside their apartment door, pried off her sneakers, and headed for the tiny alcove off the kitchen that constituted her bedroom.

“Hey, where do you think you're going?” called Mia to her retreating back.

“Later, Mom,” she said in that irritating, condescending tone she had lately begun to adopt.

“Not later. Now.” Mia's voice was louder and sharper than she meant. But then, this kid could really take it out of her. Eden stopped, and Mia pressed her advantage. “I want an explanation.”

“For what?” Eden turned to face her.

“What do you mean, for what? Your hair, Eden.”

“I told you already: I was bored.”

“That's not an answer, that's—” Mia began, but then the sound of voices—one angry, the other pleading—in the hallway stopped her midsentence. Even though she knew she shouldn't, she went to the door to listen. Eden was right behind her.

“I thought I told you to keep those goddamn dogs out of the hallway. Enough is enough. I just
stepped
in it, man. Do you get it?
I stepped
in
your
dog's
shit
!” Manny's voice was loud enough to be heard even without Mia's opening the door.

“Señor Manny, I am so, so sorry,” Mr. Ortiz said. “I was just going into the apartment for a paper towel; I was coming right back—”

“I warned you, Ortiz,” interrupted Manny. “I warned you more than once. Now the warnings are over, man. Over.”

“Señor Manny, no, please, please no!” Mr. Ortiz said. “I'll clean your shoe myself, I promise. Here, just give it to me and I'll be happy to—”

There was a sudden, excruciating yelp and then the sound of the steel door slamming. Mia and Eden looked at each other and then, very cautiously, Mia opened her own door a crack. Mr. Ortiz was bent over the body of one of the dogs; its small, white head bloomed with blood. The other dog whimpered pitifully. Quickly, Mia closed the door.

What to do? Go out and confront Manny? Comfort Mr. Ortiz? Call the ASPCA? Before she could figure out a plan, she looked at Eden, in whose eyes tears were pooled, and everything else stopped for a second.

“Did he kill it?” Eden asked in a small voice.

“I don't know,” Mia said, encircling Eden's shoulders with her arm. Close up, Eden's hacked hair looked like feathers. Mia wished she could burrow her face in it, but Eden had recently become skittish
about displays of affection, so Mia reluctantly kept her distance. Mia no longer had the interest or energy to discuss Eden's hair. There would be plenty of time for that tomorrow, when she called the teacher and the psychologist.

“I hope not,” Eden said. The tears leaked rather than fell, giving her small, intelligent face a glazed and syrupy look. “I mean, I did hate them and all, but . . .”

“But you didn't want to see one of them hurt.”

“Or dead,” Eden said in the flat voice that scared Mia more than anything else about her child.

“Or dead,” Mia repeated softly. Eden stared at her for a moment and then drifted off in the direction of the television set. Mia watched her departing back, not sure whether to continue the conversation or let it go for now. She was still shaken; maybe calling the ASPCA would be the best idea. But first, shouldn't she go to see Mr. Ortiz? Maybe the dog would be all right if she could help him get it to a vet. Her mind darted back and forth between competing options as she stepped into the kitchen; only then did she realize she had left the canvas bag and all the food it contained on the sidewalk in front of Eden's school.

“Shit!” she said loudly. “Shit, shit, SHIT!”

“I'm listening to all this,” called Eden in a singsong voice.

Mia stopped cursing and walked into the other room.

“I left our food outside,” she said. “In front of the gym,” she added, as if that were somehow important.

“Uh-huh.” Eden was rapt in front of the television; despite the fact that she had read
Of Mice and Men
three times and was now onto
The Red Pony,
she still could be entranced by the most vapid of cartoons.

“I'm going to go back and see if I can find it.”

“Whatever.” Mia ran a hand, experimentally, it seemed, over the shorn part of her head.

“I'll be back as soon as I can. You know my cell number, right?”

“Right,” said Eden. “Your cell. Sure.”

“Love you.” Even though she knew Eden wouldn't like it, she swooped down for a quick kiss on the back of her daughter's neck. Eden's fingers rose to the spot and rubbed, as if to erase the imprint of Mia's lips. It hurt, that small unconscious gesture, more than she wanted to acknowledge. But she said nothing, because really, what could she say?

W
HEN
M
IA OPENED
the door, she saw no sign of Mr. Ortiz or either of the dogs, though the offending smear was still there, along with a smaller but more menacing puddle of blood. Drops of blood painted an ominous trail back to the door of Mr. Ortiz's apartment. She went back inside and returned to the hallway with a wad of paper towels and a spray bottle of Fantastic. The larger problem of Mr. Ortiz's dog would have to wait until she got back; right now, she had to see if she could find that damn food that she couldn't afford to buy in the first place and certainly couldn't afford to lose.

She trotted the few blocks to the school. Maybe it would still be there. It was possible; it hadn't been all that long. But when she reached the spot, the only thing on the sidewalk was a Popsicle stick with a sticky orange residue at one end. A shaggy brown dog leaned over for an experimental lick; his owner pulled him away. Mia thought of Mr. Ortiz again, and her heart constricted. She would call the ASPCA as soon as she got home; she would bang on Manny's door and berate him herself; she would—Mia stopped, suddenly depleted. It was all too much—her kid, her ex, her job, her life. There was nothing left over for fighting Mr. Ortiz's battles. It was a shabby, unpleasant truth, but there it was.

She began walking again, and her thoughts turned to the more immediate crisis. The food that she planned to offer to Eden for supper was gone, and in her wallet there was only thirty-six cents. It had been twenty-nine dollars and thirty-six cents this morning, when she left her apartment. The trip to the greenmarket had depleted that by twenty-five.

Then she had seen the guy—pallid, bony face, glasses held together at the bridge of his nose with a bit of masking tape—sitting on the sidewalk, coffee cup nestled between his knees.

“Please help me get something to eat,” he said in a monotone. “Please help me get something to eat.”

No one stopped to give him anything. No one even looked. One more guy begging on the street elicited no reaction, not a coin, not a word, not a glance. In the past, Mia would have been one of the crowd, just hurrying by in an effort to make it through her own day. But lately, guys like this one had begun to exert an effect on her, a sort of gravitational pull into their own particular orbits. What would it feel like to be sitting on that sidewalk, asking for money, and have no one stop? It would be as if you had been suddenly rendered invisible to everyone else, invisible in plain sight.

The thought stung her, causing her to stop and dig around in her bag for her wallet. She quickly checked what was inside. She could get a sandwich. If she skipped buying a drink, four bucks would cover it. That left thirty-six cents, mostly in pennies. Not much, she knew. Still, it was better than nothing. Better than acting as if he weren't even there. She walked over to where he sat, deposited the money in his cup—it was empty—and kept walking. She didn't watch him look in the cup, look at all those pennies and the one lone dime. But she could feel him doing it even without seeing it. The feeling was not good. Then she heard a voice behind her and she paused.

“Oh wow!” said the voice, bristling with sarcasm. “Oh wow, I can buy something really delicious to eat with all
that
money!”

Mia knew that she shouldn't have been standing there, that she should start moving, now, quickly, to get away. But something kept her rooted to the spot. He was beside her in seconds.

“Thanks for the
pennies,
” he almost shouted. “Thanks a
lot.
” He tossed them into the open lip of her bag. He was a good shot; only one coin landed on the sidewalk. Mia's cheeks felt scorched as she
knelt to retrieve it. She didn't look up, but even from her crouched position, she could see him stride back to his spot and resume his vigil with the once-again-empty coffee cup.

Then she stood, and even though she was terrified of what she was about to do next, she knew that she would feel even worse if she did not make the trek back to where he sat. He did not look up, but stared down at the cup.

“I'm sorry,” she said. Her face was still hot, and she was shaking a little. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

He didn't say anything.

“I know it wasn't very much. But I wanted to give you something. I wanted you to know—” Her voice betrayed her here, breaking a bit as she spoke.

“To know what?” he asked. He still sounded angry, but now the hostility was curbed by something else. Curiosity maybe.

“To know that I saw you. All those people were going by, and no one stopped, no one gave you a thing, no one even noticed you were there. It was like you
weren't
there. But I saw you. I saw you, and I wanted you to know that I saw you. That's why I had to give you something.”