Breaking the Bank (14 page)

There were a couple of pictures, too, though none of the ten-thousand-dollar note. But she was encouraged to learn that the Treasury had printed big bills at one time; while the bill she had might not be genuine, at least the possibility of its authenticity was there. She checked the series—A—and the year—1934. So it was not one of the rarest notes. But if—and this was a big if—it were real, it had to be worth something above and beyond the face value. The question was, how much? She would have to proceed very carefully here, try to figure out what to do with the damn thing. She certainly didn't want to send it to the Treasury. But she couldn't exactly spend it at the supermarket either. There must be someone who would want it, not as currency, but as the collector's item that it obviously was.

Forcing herself to stop thinking about the bill for a few minutes, she called Caitlin's apartment to say good night to Eden.

“Mom, is it okay if we watch a movie that's rated PG-13?”

“What movie?”

“I don't know yet. But Caitlin and I want to find one with that rating.”

“That's no way to pick a movie.”

“Why not?”

“Let me talk to Caitlin's mom.”

“We asked her already. She said it's okay with her if it's okay with you.”

“All right then. But nothing too bloody or scary.”

“We're not interested in bloody or scary, Mom,” said Eden. She had that jaded, patronizing tone that Mia found so exasperating.

“No? So what are you interested in?”

“You know—kissing. Also cursing.”

“Kissing is okay,” said Mia, surprising herself by thinking of Fred, not Lloyd. “But just kissing. Nothing else.”

After she said good-bye to Eden, she went into her bedroom, climbed onto the chair, and put the bill in the box with her wedding shoes. It was only when she was actually in bed with the lights out that she allowed herself to think about the other part of what had happened tonight: the mysterious light, the music, and, most unbelievable of all, the message:
A gift. For you, Mia. Use it well.
Three lines. Eight words. What possible explanation could there be for such a thing? A bank error, if this
were
a bank error, was a random occurrence. But this was not random, not at all. The machine had known her
name.
It was communicating with her. This was beyond weird, beyond strange. But it was also, in some entirely credible way, wonderful. Mia had not felt so special or chosen in years. She shifted under the new sheets, as alert and animated as if a pint of coffee had been injected directly into her veins.

Once upon a time, she had felt chosen. By Lloyd, as a lover and wife. By her brother, as his best friend. By her parents, whose occasional benign neglect and respective self-absorption in no way obscured their obvious, encompassing love. There had been a gym teacher in tenth grade—a hectoring, desiccated woman who decided to punish Mia for some infraction by making her stand on her head in a far corner of the perpetually dim and foul-smelling gym. Betty had swooped (literally— she had favored a long, flowing cape and ankle-length skirts in those years) into school, magnificent as a swan defending the nest. “I didn't raise my daughter for you to abuse!” she told the teacher, cowing her into an apologetic submission that lasted at least until Mia's graduation. And, years earlier, there had been the Halloween when Mia was the Queen of Hearts. Betty had painted a copy of the playing card onto two large pieces of cardboard. Mia, in a red pleated skirt, red sweater, and red shoes, had proudly displayed the likenesses of the
gaudy queen looped over her shoulders. Her crown was cardboard covered in aluminum foil. Best of all was the white bakery bag, on which Betty painted a simple red heart. How Mia had loved that bag! It had lifted her out of the ordinary ranks of children, with their dreary, dun-colored bags, and made her feel uniquely prized. Somewhere along the way, though, she had lost the sense of being special, and she had not expected to find it again. Until now. She got up and went in search of the bank receipt. As usual, it showed a withdrawal of one hundred dollars.

There was something printed on the back of the receipt, an offer extended by the bank for opening a CD or money market account.
A gift for you
. . . it began. There were those words again. Astonishing. Just astonishing. She thought of the numinous screen at the bank. If the bill really was a gift, it exonerated her from any wrongdoing. How could it be wrong to take what was given—specifically, unequivocally—to her? She put the receipt with all the others before getting back into bed. Her last waking thought was of her mother—she had forgotten to call her. Mia felt the familiar spark of guilt and tried to stub it out. Too late to phone now; Betty would have to wait until tomorrow.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Mia was out before nine, striding along Union Street in the brittle October air to the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library at Grand Army Plaza. She was there when the doors opened, and so was able to nab a seat at one of the library's computers. She had only a thirty-minute window before her turn was up, so she had to work fast. But Google didn't let her down, and, in minutes, she had retrieved the names of a dozen dealers in rare coins and currencies; she also found out that Salmon Chase was the Treasury secretary under Lincoln.
Go, Salmon,
she thought as she logged off.
Sally, you sly dog.

Back at home, she climbed onto the chair in search of the shoe box; when she found it, she half expected that the bill would be gone, or turned into a smaller denomination. But no, it was right there where
she left it. She took it out of the box and tenderly carried it into the kitchen, where she set it on one of her new bathroom towels. Then she turned to the list. Four of the currency dealers were located in New York City. It was a long shot that any of them would be working on a Saturday, but why not try? Eden didn't need to be picked up until noon, so Mia had a little time. Some of the names danced across the page; others marched. One of them, Oscar Kornblatt, actually seemed to ooze. Kornblatt was not a felicitous name, she decided. She wouldn't call him. What about Tony Latazza? Or Mike Scopes? She liked those zz's in Latazza; they had a certain flair. Scopes was strong, unapologetic, honest-sounding. She tried Tony first, but the number was no longer in service, no further information available. The number for Mike Scopes rang and rang; clearly he didn't believe in answering machines. The last name on the list was Solly Phelps. She tapped in the numbers, not expecting much. But someone answered on the first ring.

“Phelps here.” The voice was deep, rich, and smooth. Mia could imagine it being poured through the phone line, like molten chocolate. It was even better than Lloyd's voice, which was saying a lot.

“Solly Phelps?”

“Solly Phelps. Can I help you?”

“I found your name online,” said Mia, suddenly flummoxed. Now that she was actually about to tell someone about the bill, she was frightened. Her voice emerged from her throat in an unnaturally high pitch, almost a squeak. This would not do. Solly Phelps was not going to take her seriously if she sounded like one of the characters in the Mommy Mousie series.

“Are you buying or selling?” Solly Phelps cut right to the chase. “Well, I'm not sure . . .” Mia said. “That is, I'm thinking of selling. But I wanted to get some more information first.” The bill glowed, silvery-green, against the garnet color of the towel.

“What have you got? Silver? Gold? If it's silver, I'm not really interested. Gold is good though; gold is always good.”

“Actually, it's paper.”

“Could be interesting. The denom?”

“Denom?”

“Denomination.”

Mia stalled. She was not ready to disclose the amount yet. “It's a large . . . denom,” she said, carefully trying out the word.

“Could be interesting to me. But condition is important. I'm really only looking for VF and EF.”

“Sorry, I'm not following you,” Mia said. “VF is very fine; EF is extremely fine,” Solly explained in that expensive-liquor-smooth voice of his. “EF shows signs of light handling only. No more than three light folds or one strong crease. VF is still attractive, but shows more wear. You know—vertical and horizontal folds. Some dirt on the paper.”

“Actually, the paper is very clean. It has a kind of sheen. And it doesn't show any signs of handling at all.” Mia stared at the bill. “It looks new.”

“You've got an uncirculated bill? Really? What is it? A five-hundred note?”

“No. It's bigger than that.”

“Hey, what is this? I don't have time for twenty questions.”

Mia waited a beat. She had better just say it. Otherwise, she was going to lose him. “It's a ten,” she began.

“A ten?” He cut her off. “Listen, don't waste my time.”

“Ten thousand.”

“A ten-thousand-dollar note? You're kidding.” He was not asking, he was telling.

“No,” she said. “I'm not.”

“But there are almost none of those in existence anymore. And certainly none in private hands.”

“Well, I've got one in mine,” she said. Salmon Chase glared up at her. “I'm looking at it right now.”

“How do you know it's real?” he countered. “How do you know it isn't?”

Solly Phelps was silent. “I'd like to see it,” he said finally. “All right.” She had done it, she realized. She had taken the first step. Toward what, she didn't know.

“Can you come in later today?”

“Not today. Not tomorrow either. Monday.”

“Monday,” confirmed Solly. “Nine o'clock all right?”

Mia thought for a second. No job to hustle to; Eden's drop-off was at eight fifteen. Enough time to hop on the train and get to Manhattan by nine.

“Nine's fine.”

He gave her an address: 540 West 30th Street. Must be over by the Hudson River. Or maybe in the river.

“What did you say your name was?” Solly asked. “I didn't say. But I will on Monday. Bye.” She clicked the button and terminated the conversation. Her hands were tingling again, and her heart was starting to pound. Was this smart? Could she trust him? She considered the idea of a sidekick, an accomplice. Julie? Yes? No. It should be a guy. Stuart was a natural for the job, but though she wished she could have told her wild story to Stuart, he no longer seemed like a willing ear. He had retreated to some inaccessible, Mia-free zone that she had to fight to penetrate. And Lloyd, even had he been around, was out of the question.

Then it hit her. She knew just whom to ask. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was almost time to get Eden from Caitlin's. But first, she dug into her wallet, where Fred's card was still tucked in one of its creased leather folds. It took a minute to retrieve it from deep in the wallet's innermost recesses; she sat looking at it briefly before she reached for the phone. Fred was a good guy, that much she could acknowledge. And if she were in the market for a good guy, he might even be the one.

But if she asked Fred to accompany her, she would have to explain the nature of her errand, and how she came to be in possession of this bill. Which was something she did
not
want to do. As long as no one knew about the machine and its mysterious gift, a gift for her, it had said, the gift was hers alone, to ponder over, marvel at, use as she saw fit. Once she told someone else, everything would change, and her private little miracle would be exposed to the scrutiny—and the judgment—of everyone around her.

Mia tucked the card back in her wallet, taking the time to smooth out its upper left corner, which had gotten a little bent. Like it or not, she was on her own.

S
UNDAY IT POURED
. Mia didn't mind; it gave her an excuse to stay home with Eden and putter. Glorious, sunny weather brought with it a particular kind of reproach: shouldn't she be out biking/skating/flying a kite in the park with her child? The rain absolved her of all that relentless good cheer; they could stay at home, content to watch the fat raindrops hit the windows and then trickle down, to pool on the cracked, chipped sills.

After breakfast, Mia and Eden played a series of board games: Monopoly, Life, Stratego, Scrabble. Not one of these games was intact; there were pieces missing from all of them, but Eden didn't mind.

“We don't have to do what the rules say anyway.” She confidently rattled two mismatched dice in her hand. “We can make our own rules, right?”

“Right,” said Mia, feeling irrationally proud of her. “We sure can.” It had been hard for Eden since Lloyd left. There were two more incidents of cursing in school—this time just at other kids though, and Eden claimed they cursed at her first—and a couple of extended crying jags. One morning she just wouldn't get out of bed, and Mia, recognizing depression when she saw it, let her spend the day at home, drawing, watching TV, and leafing through her old comic books and

Mad
magazines.

Mia had documented every bump in her daughter's rocky road with the teacher, the school psychologist, the learning specialist, and the principal. Everyone had a different opinion, and everyone seemed to suggest a different course of action. She needed to be given
more respon-

sibility
yet
less pressure;
she had to be held to
a greater level of accountability
but
left to her own devices
and not
pushed too hard;
she should spend
more time on schoolwork, less time on schoolwork, avoid excessive stimulation, seek out more new learning opportunities.
What Eden really needed, in Mia's humble and admittedly not expert opinion, was to be assured of Lloyd's continued love and devotion, which, given his highly erratic life at the moment, was something Mia could not do. Lloyd's attention was like a tropical storm: heavy and drenching when it came, only to dry up and vanish with scarcely a trace.