I go straight to the kitchen, find Charlie Brown's cookie jar, and tug at his ceramic head.
-Oh! Charlie exclaims, using his favorite joke since the fourth grade.
His head comes off and I pull out a stack of papers from inside the jar.
"Oliver, please don't do this…" Mom says.
"Very good," I say, ignoring her and carrying the papers to the dining room table.
"I'm serious, it's not okay. You don't have to pay my bills.
-Why? You helped me pay for college.
"You already had a job and...
"…thanks to the guy you were dating then. Four years of easy money... that's the only way I could afford tuition.
"It doesn't matter, Oliver. It was bad enough that you had to pay for the apartment.
—I didn't pay for the apartment, I just asked the bank to give you better financing.
—And you helped me with the entrance...
"Mom, that was just so you could get started." You had been renting this apartment for twenty-five years. Do you know how much money you threw away in that time?
"That was because..." she cuts herself off. He doesn't like to blame my father.
"Mom, you don't have to worry. It's a pleasure for me.
But you are my son...
"And you are my mother."
It is difficult to refute that argument.
Besides, if he didn't need my help, the bills wouldn't be where I could find them, and we'd be eating chicken or steak instead of macaroni. His mouth twists slightly and he chews nervously on the strips that cover the tips of his fingers. The life of a seamstress: too many pins and too many hems. We have always lived paying off our debts, but the wrinkles on her face are beginning to reveal her age. Saying nothing, she opens the kitchen window and leans into the cool air.
At first I suppose she must have seen Mrs. Finkelstein—Mum's best friend and our old babysitter—whose window is directly across the alley. But when I hear the familiar squeak of the clothesline, I realize my mom is packing in the rest of today's work. That was how I learned that one can take refuge in her work.
When she's finished, she goes back to the sink and washes Charlie's spoon.
As soon as she's clean, Charlie takes it from her hands and presses it against her tongue. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa," she exclaims. My mother fights with all her might, but she won't stop laughing. End of discussion.
One by one I review all the bills for the month; I add them up and decide which ones to pay. Sometimes I just pay for the credit cards and the hospital... at other times, when the cost of heating is high, I decide on the utility bills. Charlie always pays the insurance. As I said, for him it is a personal matter.
-How's been the work? Mom asks Charlie.
He ignores the question and she decides not to insist. Mom had the same no-mess attitude a couple of years ago when Charlie became a Buddhist for a month. And then a year and a half ago when he switched to Hinduism. I swear sometimes he knows us better than we know ourselves.
Examining the credit card bill, my banker's instincts kick into high gear. Check expenses; protect the client; make sure nothing is out of place. Groceries... sewing supplies... music store... Vic Winick Dance Studio?
"What is this Vic Winick place?" I ask, tilting my chair toward the kitchen.
"Dance lessons," my mother says.
-Dance lessons? Who do you take dance lessons with?
-With me! Charlie exclaims in the best French accent of his. He picks up the wooden spoon again, places it like a flower between his teeth, picks up my mother and pulls her close to him.
—And one... and two... now right foot first...
Starting a quick waltz, they both turn and move through the small kitchen. My mother literally flies, her head held from her higher than… well, even higher than when I graduated college.
With a slight twist of her neck, Charlie drops the wooden spoon into the sink.
"Not bad, huh?" -He says.
"How do we do it?" my mom asks as they crash into the kitchen and are about to knock the pot of sauce onto the floor.
"Okay…great," I say, turning my attention back to the bills. I don't know why I'm surprised. I may have always had his head and his wallet, but Charlie...Charlie has always had his heart.
"We're great, mom...great!" Charlie yells as he waves a hand in the air. You'll sleep like a log tonight!
I have walked this path a thousand and forty-eight times. Out of the subway sauna, up the always dirty stairs, slaloming through the freshly showered crowd and heading down Park Avenue to the bank. One thousand forty-eight times. That means four years, not including weekends, although I've worked for a few of those, too. But today... I will no longer count the days that I have spent during all these years. Today begins a countdown until we leave the bank.
By my calculations, Charlie should be the first to leave; maybe in a month or two. Then, when everything is under control, it will be a matter of flipping the coin between me and Shep. For all we know, he may want to stay. Personally, I don't have that problem.
As I head down Park Avenue toward 36th Street, I can practically taste the conversation. I just wanted to let you know that I think the time has come to go my way, I'll tell Lapidus. No need to burn the bridges or bring up the letters to the School of Business Administration, just mention other opportunities elsewhere and thank you for being the best mentor anyone could ask for. All those bullshit lies will seep through my teeth. Just like he does with me. Still, thinking about that moment makes me smile…that is, until I notice two navy sedans parked in front of the bank. Actually, forget about parked. Arrested. As if they had arrived in a hurry because of an emergency. I've seen enough black limousines and chauffeured cars to know they're not customers. And I don't need the mermaids to imagine the rest. Everywhere there are patrol cars with no identifying marks.
I take a couple of steps back with a lump in my throat. No, keep walking. Don't panic.