Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  He must’ve read her case file with a fucking magnifying glass. “Yeah, from when they stitched me up.”

  Baker exhaled forcefully. “Lots of people have scars from stitches; they get their appendix taken out or something. I realize yours may be a little worse, but it’s really no big deal. I expect you to get changed with everyone else. You’re just—”

  “I’ve got other scars, too.”

  “Oh, really? A minute ago they were just from the stitches; now, suddenly, there are more?”

  “I never said they were just from the stitches.”

  “You told me—” Lips pursed, he gave her a dark look. “Okay, so then where are the others?”

  If only she had magical powers to make him disappear. “They’re on my stomach, too.” When his expression didn’t change, she added, “And my back.”

  He dropped his cigarette into the Styrofoam cup on his desk. It sizzled as it hit the thin layer of cold coffee on the bottom. “Show me.”

  Staring past him she, ever so slightly, shook her head no.

  “That wasn’t a request, Reilly.”

  Her gaze slowly shifted up to his, then she took a few steps back. When he started toward her, she retreated further. “Please. Don’t.”

  And he stopped, eyes fixed on hers until his attention was drawn to the scars on her face. He’d gotten so used to seeing them, he didn’t notice them anymore. “Would you show Mrs. Tandy?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Then I can’t help you with this; do you understand that? If I don’t know what we’re talking about, I can’t intervene.”

  She lowered her eyes and shrugged.

  “That means you have to get out of that locker room on time. That means I don’t want to get any more notes about you being late for gym. Your teacher’s going to notify me every time now.”

  But her thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. She looked small and, for the first time, vulnerable.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yessir,” she responded quietly.

  With a weary sigh, he shook his head.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  FRIDAY. ALL WEEK LONG she’d looked forward to this. Her shift at the restaurant was over, and the paper bag she carried was filled with a container of leftover baked ziti. Tomorrow’s lunch. Or breakfast. After she slept as late as she wanted to.

  It was cool out. With the promise of fall weather just around the corner, she’d have to buy a jacket soon. At least she’d had the sense to start bringing a change of shirts to work. If she’d stepped out of Bel in a sweat-soaked T-shirt tonight, she would’ve been freezing.

  Police sirens wailed in the direction of the bridge. Between the hookers and the drug dealers, something was always happening over there.

  “Hey, Micki, how’s it goin’?”

  Rick, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and lighting one, was leaning against the parking-lot gate. Since Tuesday night’s episode, it had been locked religiously after business hours because someone—and everyone said it was Mrs. McCrory—had probably complained to the manager of the mirror company. In another day or so, things would relax again, and the gate would be left open as often as not.

  “Where’s everybody else?” she asked.

  “Down at the wall.”

  Under the elevated tracks of the 7 train, where Forty-Fourth Avenue intersected Twenty-Third Street, a brick wall was entirely covered in graffiti by the kids who’d claimed it as their own. Micki had walked by once during the day. When no one was there.

  “I thought maybe I’d walk ya home since ya can’t hang out,” Rick said.

  “What about Blondie?”

  “Sherry? She’s stuck at home all weekend ’cause her granny’s visitin’ from Jersey.”

  Micki started moving again.

  “So d’ya mind if I walk wit’ ya?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  They walked a short way in silence, Rick shooting glances at her. “So ya gotta work at that restaurant every day?” he asked.

  “Not Sunday or Monday.”

  “How come?”

  “Nobody works seven days a week.”

  “No, I mean, how come ya gotta work so much? Ya dad lose his job or somethin’?”

  “I live alone.”

  Trying to sound surprised, Rick said, “Really!” But after the cops had taken Micki away the other night, he’d found out what he could from Joey’s mother, who was friends with the wife of the super for Micki’s building. According to the super, Micki lived by herself and was on parole or probation or something like that. They had reached her stoop, and Rick said, “So, like, maybe I could hang out here wit’ ya.” While she was looking him over, he flicked his cigarette down and left it smoldering on the cement.

  She gave him a careless shrug. “Sure, why not.”

  Grinning broadly, he followed her into the building and up the steps, where the payphone wore a sign saying, “oUT of OrdEr.” They went down the hall, and she unlocked the door.

  She was putting her package in the refrigerator when Rick asked, “Ya got any beer?”

  “No, just Coke if y’want.”

  “Yeah, okay. So, like, ya don’t drink at all?”

  “No.” She couldn’t think of anything to say. She handed him a glass of soda and poured one for herself.

  “So, ya don’t drink, ya don’t party—what the hell d’ya do?”

  She shrugged.

  “D’ya mess around?”

  “Yeah, I mess around.” Which was both true and not true at the same time.

  Rick grinned. “Well, maybe we can mess around together.”

  “What about Blondie? Isn’t she your girlfriend?”

  Rick laughed. “She’s okay, but she’s a good Catholic girl. Got real strict parents. She don’t do nothin’.” His eyes narrowed while he took a long drink of soda. “I betcha do everything.”

  Her voice turned cold. “Not everything.”

  “Hey, babe, lighten up. Let’s just have some fun.” He put his glass on the floor and came toward her.

  She couldn’t move. It was all happening so fast. And even though he was tugging her T-shirt out of her jeans, she was thinking about the blond boy—the football player—still looking at her as the bus was pulling away. But then she was hearing what Baker had said: he thought it was disgusting just to touch her.

  Rick reached around to unhook her bra, and she maneuvered herself so that her back was to the window. But his fingers—greedy and cold—were making her skin crawl. She wanted to get away from him, wanted him to stop. And still her hands, soft and warm, were now underneath his shirt, moving slowly over his body.

  “Oh, yeah,” Rick mumbled. He yanked her vest off her shoulders, pulled her T-shirt over her head, and tugged at the unfastened bra, which fell to the floor. He grunted. No longer camouflaged by the clothes she wore, her chest was large for such a skinny girl. But when he saw the scarred skin below, he stepped back. Face pale, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

  Her eyes seemed to be looking straight through him. “Whatsa matter?” she asked. “Can’t handle it?”

  There was a lengthy silence until he said, “Hey, I don’t care; I ain’t gonna fuck ya goddamn belly.” But he went and turned out the light so only the streetlight remained to illuminate the room. He put his glasses on the table.

  And all the while, his words were echoing in her head, reminding her of what she once heard when she woke up in the shooting gallery after nodding off. The guy on top of her was saying to his friend, “What the fuck do I care, man? It’s just a free piece of ass.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER HE LEFT, MICKI put on her nightshirt and underpants and lay down beneath the blanket. The sex had been fast and disappointing—at least for her.
Rick, on the other hand, had appeared more than satisfied. He’d dressed, lit a cigarette, and left as soon as he was done.

  Rolled up in a ball, she closed her eyes. But it was hours before she fell asleep.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  LIPS WARM AND TENDER, Baker kissed the top of her hair while she lay dreaming, gently breathing in the tranquil rhythms of the night. A strangely peaceful ending to a difficult evening. All through dinner, despite each of his strategically played deflections, Cynthia had pointedly returned to the one topic he’d refused to discuss; namely, Micki. She said she wanted him to share what was currently the all-consuming focus of his life. He said he didn’t want to ruin their time together by talking about the kid. Precious little had been left untainted by his current situation; this was where he was drawing the line.

  “Are you ashamed of what you’re doing?” Cynthia had finally asked when they were back at her apartment. “Because I don’t see that there’s anything to be ashamed of. Heading security at a large public high school has to be pretty demanding. And being the legal guardian of a troubled teenager is a big responsibility.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Cyn.”

  “I’m not patronizing you. I know it may sound corny, but it’s true. You—”

  “I’m a cop, for chrissakes. What the hell am I doing this bullshit for?”

  “It’s not bullshit. And besides, you’re not ‘James Baker, the Cop’; you’re James Baker, who just happens to be a cop. There’s a difference. I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re a cop; I fell in love with you because of you—because of who you are, not what you are.” When he was unable to respond, she’d taken his face in her hands and kissed him until his body had responded instead. Afterward, she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

  In bed with her now, stroking her hair, he knew she believed every word she’d said. And yet, it wasn’t entirely true. What it was, was rather complicated. Oddly enough, the first time he’d asked her out, she’d actually turned him down because of his profession. “Don’t get me wrong,” she’d said, cheeks mottled, pupils slightly dilated. “It’s not that I don’t like cops or anything—I just—I don’t want any part of what you see.”

  She could easily have sent him on his way by lying that she already had a boyfriend; she could’ve just turned him down flat. Instead, she ended up giving him her number anyway. And though, with every phone call, he’d repeatedly reassured her that most cops kept even their wives out of the loop as far as the gritty details of the job went, it took nearly a month—plus a sworn promise never to tell her more than she wanted to know—till she’d finally agreed to go out with him. Only now did he realize just how completely he’d kept his word. For she did, eventually, become curious. But he found himself only telling her the funny stuff, or finding something funny in something that wasn’t. He left out the blood and the gore, the filth, the general inhumanity of man toward man—and woman. He left out the danger and the gallows humor. He left out a lot.

  Not surprisingly, before it was over, her first visit to his station house had proven to be something of a shock. She’d arrived late in the afternoon, and after he’d given her a quick tour around, she went to get a can of Coke from the vending machine. She was heading back to the bench to pass the time until he was done when two hookers were brought in for questioning about a murder they might’ve witnessed. All three sat down together, and the next time he looked over, Cynthia was thoroughly absorbed in conversation with the streetwalkers. To this day, her capacity to connect with just about anyone never ceased to amaze him. But when she said something funny and the hookers laughed, the numerous missing teeth of one became exposed by her smile. Baker caught the almost imperceptible flash of horror on Cynthia’s face. Unfortunately, so did the hookers. They looked at each other and snickered, one of them saying, “I think she’s scared.” Baker went over to rescue her.

  “Would you mind looking at some photos for me while you’re waiting?” he asked, as if she, too, were there on official business. He led her away to sit at his desk and page aimlessly through mug shots till, a short while later, the hookers were taken to separate interview rooms. “They’re gone,” he said as he closed the book of photos in front of her.

  Eyes moist and red, she looked up at him. He wondered if she was going to cry.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, lifting her chin slightly.

  So they went out as planned for a casual evening away from the city: a few games of bowling at an alley in Lake Success, followed by sandwiches at the Silver Moon Diner. By all appearances, an unremarkable date. And yet one he’d never forget.

  Having said little during their drive out, Cynthia was being equally silent on the way back, eventually turning on the old AM radio to take the place of conversation. She’d caught Badfinger’s “Day after Day” somewhere in the middle, and Baker turned it up, kind of glad now that they didn’t happen to be talking. Letting himself drift into the harmonies and mournful guitar, he was soon immersed in the heartache and loss, leading him to reflect that he’d never loved anyone enough to experience that kind of pain. When the track was over, he turned the volume back down and cast a glance at Cynthia, who was staring out the window. And though another song, breezy and light, was already playing, the silence between them was uncomfortable.

  “She has a really pretty voice,” he said.

  “Huh? Oh, Carly Simon—yeah, it’s a great voice. Do you have any of her albums?”

  “Me? No.” He almost snorted.

  “I have her first one. I’ll lend it to you if you want.”

  “Oh—uh, sure; that would be nice.”

  But Cynthia would end up doing better than that, eventually buying him a copy as a gift. And Baker, almost embarrassed to admit it, would grow to like most of it. He eventually became brave enough to buy himself Joni Mitchell’s Blue. But that night, they simply sat in his car, listening to “Anticipation” as they drove down the highway.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” he finally said.

  “I can’t stop thinking about those women I met down at the station house. What kind of life is that? It’s horrible; they can’t even take care of themselves. God only knows the last time either one of them saw a dentist. I mean, did you see that woman’s teeth?”

  Baker had already known that this was what Cynthia had been brooding about all evening. He also knew the hooker’s pimp had knocked her teeth out on two different occasions: once on a slow night for refusing to take a rough john she didn’t like, and once for trying to keep a little money for herself. Baker glanced over again. Eyes full of fear, Cynthia was looking at him expectantly. Stuck in his head was the image of her at his desk, chin lifted like a challenge, telling him she was okay when it was obvious she wasn’t. “It’s a hard life,” was all he said.

  Nodding, she leaned back in the bucket seat while the Grass Roots’ “Midnight Confessions” started up. “Ooh!” she said. “I haven’t heard this in ages.” And when she reached over to turn up the volume, some of her hair fell in front of her face. With a subtle toss of her head, she flipped it away. Her eyes met his, and she flashed a smile.

  What it was about that particular moment, he’d never know, but his heart leaped then thudded in his chest, a warm glow radiating outward. It traveled up his neck and down his arms, his hands growing hot. Wheel in his grip, he felt the road open up before him, felt the power of the black Pontiac Firebird as the miles flew beneath the tires.

  “Are you seeing anyone else right now?” he asked.

  “No. Are you?”

  “No.”

  He looked over again, and their eyes held. She’d smiled shyly. He’d smiled back. And when his gaze had returned to the highway, he was still grinning, the city’s skyline beckoning, the driving beat of the music making the night feel freshly alive …

 
As the memory faded, his eyes fell on the night table and the latest book to catch her attention: The Kybalion: Hermetic Philosophy. Jeez, what the hell could that be about? Her optimistic, mystically influenced outlook—something he’d initially found charming—usually irritated him now. These days it seemed merely simple-minded: the adult version of believing in the tooth fairy.

  He caressed her cheek, and she murmured something unintelligible, a slight smile on her lips. Like an innocent child, she seemed completely untouched by evil. His gaze wandered toward the window and the small, angled squares of light in the distance: transparent panes of glass revealing little dramas to the darkness. Other people. Other lives.

  Not once since that night two years ago had his feelings for her ever faltered. But could she say the same about him? He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head.

  A moment later, he shut the light.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BY END OF DAY Tuesday, Baker had received three more notes from Mrs. Tandy. He thereupon informed Micki that for every minute she was late to gym, she’d have to spend five minutes in the security office doing nothing but sitting quietly. That meant no reading, no homework, and no sleeping.

  “Whatever,” she said. But her stomach was already churning. He was throwing away her time. Her time. She was lucky if she got even five hours of sleep on a school night. And now, after being just three minutes late to gym, she’d have to sit around the office doing nothing. For fifteen minutes. Fifteen fucking minutes. Wasted.

  Baker asked her again if she wanted to show him or Mrs. Tandy the scars, but she said “no” and sat down at the desk across from his, the one assigned to general security staff. And though she started out facing the file cabinets, sitting sideways in the plain wooden chair, it wasn’t long till she was watching Baker read reports and write notes. When he chanced to glance over his shoulder, he caught her observing him and swiveled his seat around to face her. Practically eye to eye, they were barely three feet apart, the atmosphere peculiarly calm, as though they’d temporarily called a truce.

  “What’s the big deal that you won’t let me see those scars?” he asked. “Do you really want to sit here every day after school?”