“What about my suit?” Charlie calls out, pointing to his blue button-down and creased khakis.

“Handsome boys like you don’t have to wear suits,” she says in her best Mary Poppins tone.

“So that means I’m not handsome?” I ask.

“Or does that mean I look bad in a suit?” Charlie adds.

Even she knows when the joke’s gone too far. “Okay, Frick and Frack – everybody inside.”

Following my mom through the living room and past the framed painting Charlie did of the Brooklyn Bridge, I breathe deep and take a full whiff of my youth. Rubber erasers… crayons… homemade tomato sauce. Charlie has Play-Doh – I have Monday night dinners. Sure, some of the knickknacks shift, but the big things – grandma’s dining room set, the glass coffee table I cut my head on when I was six – the big things are always the same. Including my mom.

Weighing in at over a hundred and eighty pounds, my mom’s never been a petite woman… or an insecure one. When her hair went gray, she never dyed it. When it started thinning, she cut it short. After my dad left, the physical nonsense didn’t matter anymore – all she cared about were me and Charlie. So even with the hospital bills, and the credit cards, and the bankruptcy dad left us with… even after losing her job at the secondhand store, and all the seamstress jobs she’s had to do since… she’s always had more than enough love to go around. The least we can do is pay her back.

Heading straight for the kitchen, I reach for the Charlie Brown cookie jar and tug on its ceramic head.

“Ow,” Charlie says, using his favorite joke since fourth grade.

The head pops off, and I pull a small stack of papers from inside.

“Oliver, please don’t do this…” mom says.

“Okay,” I say, ignoring her and carrying the stack to the dining room table.

“I’m serious – it’s not right. You don’t have to pay my bills.”

“Why? You helped me pay for college.”

“You still had a job…”

“… thanks to the guy you were dating. Four years of easy money – that’s the only reason I could afford tuition.”

“I don’t care, Oliver. It’s bad enough you paid for the apartment.”

“I didn’t pay for the apartment – all I did was ask the bank to work out better financing.”

“And you helped with the down payment…”

“Mom, that was just to get you on your feet. You’d been renting this place for twenty-five years. You know how much money you threw away?”

“That’s because your-” She cuts herself off. She doesn’t like blaming my father.

“Ma, you don’t have to worry. This is a pleasure.”

“But you’re my son…”

“And you’re my mom.”

It’s hard to argue with that one. Besides, if she didn’t need the help, the bills wouldn’t be where I could find them, and we’d be eating chicken or steak instead of ziti. Her lips slightly quiver and she bites nervously at the Band-Aids that cover her fingertips. The life of a seamstress – too many pins and too many hems. We’ve always lived paycheck to paycheck, but the lines on her face are starting to show her age. Without a word, she opens the window in the kitchen and leans outside into the cold air.

At first, I assume she must’ve spotted Mrs. Finkelstein – mom’s best friend and our old babysitter – whose window is directly across the alley between our buildings. But when I hear the familiar squeaky churn of the clothesline we share with The Fink, I realize mom’s bringing in the rest of today’s work. That’s where I learned it – how to lose yourself in your job. When she’s done, she turns back to the sink and washes off Charlie’s spoon.

The second it’s clean, Charlie grabs it from her and presses it against his tongue. “Aaaaaaaaaaa,” he hums. My mom fights as hard as she can, but she still laughs. End of argument.

One by one, I flip through the monthly bills, totaling them up and figuring out which ones to pay. Sometimes I just do the credit cards and the hospital… other times, when the heating gets high, I do utilities. Charlie always does insurance. As I said, for him, it’s personal.

“So how was work?” mom asks Charlie.

He ignores the question, and she decides to let it go. She had the same hands-off approach two years ago when Charlie became Buddhist for a month. And then again a year and a half ago when he switched to Hinduism. I swear, sometimes she knows us better than we know ourselves.

Scanning through the credit card bill, my bank instincts kick in. Check the charges; protect the client; make sure nothing’s out of place. Groceries… sewing materials… music store… Vic Winick Dance Studio?

“What’s this Vic Winick place?” I ask, leaning my chair back toward the kitchen.

“Dance lessons,” my mother says.

“Dance lessons? Who do you take dance lessons with?”

“Wif me!” Charlie shouts in his best French accent. He takes the wooden spoon, grips it like a flower between his teeth, grabs my mother, and pulls her close. “And a-one… and a-two… right-foot-first-now…” Breaking into a quick lindy, they bob and weave around the narrow kitchen. My mother is positively flying, her head held higher than… well, even higher than when I graduated college.

Twisting his neck, Charlie wings the spoon in the sink. “Not bad, huh?” he says.

“So how do we look?” she asks as they bang into the oven and nearly knock the pot of sauce to the floor.

“G-Great… just great,” I say, my eyes falling back to the bills. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I may’ve always had her head and her pocketbook, but Charlie… Charlie’s always had her heart.

“Lookin’ good, sweet momma – lookin’ good!” Charlie yells, his hand waving in the air. “You’re gonna be sleepin’ easy tonight!”

I’ve made this walk 1,048 times. Out from the subway sauna, up the never-clean stairs, slalom-skiing through the freshly showered crowd, and straight up Park Avenue until I hit the bank. 1,048 times. That’s four years, not including weekends – some of which I also worked. But today… I’m done counting the days I’ve put in. From now on, it’s a countdown until we leave.

By my estimate, Charlie should be the first out – maybe a month or two from now. After that, when everything’s long settled, it’s a coin toss between me and Shep. For all we know, he may want to stay. Personally, I don’t have that problem.

Continuing up Park Avenue toward 36th Street, I can practically taste the conversation. “I just wanted to let you know I think it’s time I moved on,” I’ll tell Lapidus. No need to burn bridges or bring up the B-school letters – just a mention of “other opportunities elsewhere” and a thank-you for being the best mentor anyone could ever ask for. The fake bullshit will be oozing through my teeth. Just like he does to me. Still, the whole thing brings a smile to my face… that is, until I see the two navy blue sedans parked in front of the bank. Actually, forget parked. Stopped. Like they raced in for an emergency. I’ve seen enough black limos and privately driven town-cars to know they’re not clients. And I don’t need sirens to tell me the rest. Unmarked cop cars stand out everywhere.

My chest constricts and I take a few steps back. No, keep walking. Don’t panic. As I edge toward the car, my eyes skate from the city-soot eyebrows at the top of the windshield, down to the blue-and-white “U.S. Government” placard sitting on the dashboard. These aren’t cops. They’re feds.

I’m tempted to turn and run, but… not yet. Don’t get mental – keep it calm and get answers. There’s no way anyone knows about the money.

Praying I’m right, I shove my way through the revolving door and search frantically for the early-arriving co-workers who sit at the wide-open web of desks that fill the first floor. To my relief, everyone’s in place, first cup of coffee already in hand.

“Excuse me, sir, can I speak with you for a second?” a deep voice asks.

On my left, in front of the mahogany reception desk, a tall man with stiff shoulders and light blond hair approaches with a clipboard. “I just need your name,” he explains.