What I Loved

card. Befuddled, I tried to think when I had last used it. The Saturday before. I always replaced my card. Turning to the machine's screen with its sign that said, "May I help you?" I started thinking about the word "I" in that sentence. Did the automated teller deserve that pronoun? The thing sent messages and performed operations. Was that all that was needed to claim the privilege of the first person? And then, as if the answer had been given to me by the text on the screen, I knew. The clear wounding truth hit me suddenly, and it hit me hard. I always left my wallet and keys by the telephone in the hallway when I was at home. This habit prevented me from having to search through various jackets and coats before I left for work. I remembered Mark asking, "When's your birthday, Uncle Leo?" 21930. My pin number. Mark had never observed my birthday. How many times had he accompanied me to the bank? Many times. Didn't he always leave me to go to the bathroom or visit Matt's room, passing my billfold, which was laid out in full view? Several people had entered the bank, and a line had formed behind me. A woman gave me a questioning look as I stood ogling my open wallet. I rushed past her and half-ran, half-walked home.
    Once inside my apartment, I yanked out my bank records and removed my checks. I rarely bothered to look closely at either of them.
    When statements arrived in the mail, I filed the papers and forgot about them until tax time. My checking account was untouched, but a Day-to-Day Savings Account where I had kept $7,000 in fees from articles and the small advance I had received for my Goya book had all but disappeared. It was the money I had saved for Spain. I had told Mark about my trip, had even mentioned the account. All that remained of it was $6.31. Withdrawals had been made from all over the city since December, some from banks I had never heard of, often during the wee hours of the morning, and all of the recorded dates were Saturdays.
    I called Bill and Violet but heard only Bill's soft voice telling me to leave a message. I asked them to call me immediately when they came in. Then I called Lucille, whom I hadn't spoken to since her reading. As soon as she answered the phone, I launched into the story. When I finished talking, she was silent for at least five seconds. Then, in a small, toneless voice, she said, "How can you be sure it was Mark?"
    I raised my voice. "The pin number. He asked about my birthday! Most people use their birthdays! And the dates! The dates all correspond to his visits. He's been robbing me blind for months! I can go to the police! Mark's committed a crime. Don't you understand?"
    Lucille was silent.
    "He's stolen nearly seven thousand dollars from me!"
    "Leo," Lucille said firmly. "Calm down."
    I was not calm, I told her, and I didn't want to be calm, and if for some reason Mark arrived at her house without paying his regular visit to mine first, she was to seize the card immediately.
    "But what if he didn't take it?" she said in the same unruffled voice.
    "You know he did!" I howled, and I slammed the receiver into its cradle. I regretted my anger at Lucille almost immediately. She hadn't stolen money from me. She didn't want to condemn Mark without real proof. What seemed clear to me wasn't obvious to her, and yet when Lucille's cool, detached voice met my anger, it was like throwing gasoline on a fire. Had she expressed shock, pity, even dismay, I wouldn't have yelled.
    Less than an hour later, Mark knocked at my door. When I opened it, he smiled at me and said, "Hi. How's it going?" Then he paused and said, "What's the matter, Uncle Leo?"
    "Give me my card," I said to him. "Give me my card right now."
    Mark squinted at me with a puzzled expression. "What are you talking about? What card?"
    "Give me my ATM card right this minute," I said, "or I'll get it myself." I waved my fist in his face, and he took two steps backward.
    He looked very surprised. "You're crazy, Uncle Leo. I don't have your card. Even if I did, what would I do with it? Calm down."
    Mark's handsome face and startled eyes, his dark curls and relaxed, unresponsive body seemed to invite violence. I grabbed him by his silver Lurex sweater and pushed him against the wall. Four inches taller, forty years younger, and certainly stronger than I was, Mark let me push him up against the wall and pin him there. He said nothing. His body was as limp as a rag doll's.
    "Take out the card right now," I grunted at him