Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  Inside the little refrigerator, he found several packages of leftovers from Bel Canto, a carton of milk, a large bottle of Coke, a package of American cheese, a bag of oranges, and a bag of apples. To make sure nothing was hidden, he moved everything around, then opened all of the containers. But not a single thing was the least bit remarkable. And the miniscule freezer compartment, except for an inch-thick coating of frost, was empty. One thing was certain: the kid didn’t cook.

  Moving on to the bathroom, the absence of a sink was somewhat startling, but explained the contents of the kitchen drawers. And what was present in the tiny room proved disappointing: the toilet, an old flushometer type, had no tank in which to conceal anything; the mirror above, equally useless with no medicine cabinet behind it. When he pushed aside the shower curtain—bright white, the smell of fresh vinyl still strong—there was only a bottle of bargain-brand shampoo and a bar of soap. One above the other, they were sitting in a plastic caddy hanging from the neck of a blackened showerhead dripping at a slow rate, a large rust stain directly below. And the tiles needed grouting. About to walk out, he gingerly picked up the Black Flag Roach Motel sitting on the floor in the corner nearest the door. It was one of several he’d seen scattered around the apartment. Adhered to the sticky interior, an entire family was frozen in tableau. Lovely.

  Over at her desk, he rifled through the papers on top: school stuff and a bill for her rent. The drawers were full of more paper plus stationery supplies—and an article she’d clipped from a newspaper: “Warden Resigns in Face of Investigation.” It was about Shirley Loren, the now former warden of Heyden—the warden when Micki had been there. According to reliable sources, there had been rumors that charges of abuse were about to be leveled against the woman, and, rather than get dragged through the mud, she’d chosen to step down. The reporter hinted that Loren had political connections who had used their influence to squelch the investigation in return for her immediate resignation and continued silence regarding others’ indiscretions. But some of the article was missing while there were pieces of neighboring ones on the top and sides. He flipped it over to see a story—in its entirety—about the impact of New York City’s economy on the financial well-being of New York State. Micki had likely cut this out for an economics assignment. What were the odds?

  Continuing on to the closet, he found a broom and dustpan, an umbrella, laundry in a black plastic garbage bag, and several packages of cheap curtains and curtain rods, one of which had been opened. Why she’d gone to the trouble of buying curtains when she couldn’t be bothered to put them up was beyond him.

  Only two drawers of the dresser actually contained anything, her entire wardrobe consisting of black T-shirts and an extra pair of blue jeans. There wasn’t much in the way of underwear, either, just a bra with several pairs of underpants and socks. All black. What little there was he moved around, unfolding items and checking pockets. Her clothes were small, making him feel big and clumsy.

  He lifted the mattress and then the box spring, finding bankbooks and a tiny sum of cash. Nothing unusual in the checkbook, but the passbook documented two deposits. For a total of six dollars.

  He lit a fresh cigarette and stood in the center of the room. With no TV and only a small, simple radio, she led a rather spartan existence for a teenager. And though he’d done a pretty thorough job of searching through everything—even going so far as to completely remove all of the drawers—he’d come up empty. Yet something nagged at him, a sense that some basic item was missing. He tapped some ashes into the saucer he’d taken down from the cabinet. Well, his real concern was anything that shouldn’t be there but was, not the other way around.

  He went over and picked up one of the dumbbells lying on the floor. The number “10” was embossed in the metal. Not bad for a little girl.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN MICKI OPENED THE door, the scent of cigarettes greeted her. Her whole body tensed: someone had broken in. But as she scanned the room and saw her few possessions still there—plus a saucer with cigarette butts lying smack in the middle of the table—she understood Baker had paid her a visit. When she looked around more carefully, she could tell he’d gone through everything. She found herself glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see him.

  It took even longer than usual to fall asleep that night. And what little sleep she had was more fitful than ever.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MONDAY MORNING COULDN’T COME fast enough. Except for when she’d been working, cleaning, or doing homework, she’d spent most of the weekend’s daylight hours sleeping—just like she had the weekend before. With time to spare and far less structure, weekends left her mind turning in on itself, endlessly falling through a black and cavernous void. Further and further down she’d spiral, the white-powder craving coursing through her veins till she wanted to rip them all out. It was a relief to finally get up in the dark on Monday and start her routine. The one drawback, of course, was Baker. He was waiting for her in the security office, leaning back against his desk.

  She stopped in the middle of the room.

  With a glance over his shoulder, he picked up a new pack of cigarettes, then tapped it leisurely against his palm before unwrapping it. He lit one, tossed the pack back, and smiled. “Have a nice weekend, Reilly?” When she didn’t respond, he chuckled darkly. “It took a while to figure out how you’d pay for what you did Friday, but eventually it came to me.” Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke completely fill his lungs before slowly—very slowly—exhaling. “I’ve decided you’ll clean my apartment for two Sundays in a row. You have to clean it to my satisfaction or the day won’t count, and you’ll have to do it again.”

  “Whatever.”

  “In addition, you’ll do my laundry, go to the supermarket, take out the garbage, wash the dishes, and”—he took another drag—“you’ll start the whole day by making me breakfast.”

  “I don’t cook.”

  “You will Sunday.”

  “I’m telling you: I don’t know how to cook.”

  “Be at my apartment by eight.”

  “Eight o’clock in the morning?”

  “Yeah, eight o’clock. And I suggest you be on time.” He straightened up, turned around, and began leafing through the files on his desk. His back to her, he said, “You can go.”

  You can go to hell, she thought.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AT FIRST THE PUNISHMENT didn’t look so bad. Although she hated cleaning, it would at least keep her occupied on a Sunday. But between homework, her own housework, and working at Bel, she’d have no downtime on Saturday—no catching up on sleep. It wasn’t until third-period gym that the other aspect of the punishment sunk in, the part that had so amused Baker—she was to be his personal servant: doing his laundry, cooking his breakfast … Her face grew hot.

  At the other end of the court, the opposing team had just stolen the ball in a game of speedball: a combination of football, basketball, and soccer. So far, it was the best activity they’d had in gym, though it depended a lot on who was in the game. Micki, who was playing goalie, shifted her weight toward her toes and put her hands in a ready position: a charge of girls was coming toward her. Out in front was Rhonda—five foot ten, large hands and lots of freckles—who seemed to have some sort of problem with Micki. Just as Rhonda received the ball not six feet from the goal, the whistle blew—a long, piercing blast—announcing the ball was no longer in play: the girl who’d thrown the pass had committed a foul. Yet Rhonda still hurled it, as hard as she could, straight at Micki’s head. Micki blocked it, captured it, and was about to pound it into Rhonda when Mrs. Tandy stepped between them.

  “I’m gonna kick your fuckin’ ass,” Micki said to Rhonda.

  “Enough!” Mrs. Tandy said. “Micki, I want you in my office now.”

  Rhonda smirked.

  Micki spiked the ball into the gro
und before following the gym teacher off the playing field.

  “Close the door,” Mrs. Tandy said and stepped behind her desk.

  Micki did as she was told, then stood before the teacher, feeling exposed and ridiculous in the ugly little gym suit.

  “I do not want street fights breaking out in my gym class.”

  “But—”

  Mrs. Tandy raised her hand. “I saw what Rhonda did, but that didn’t mean you had to respond.”

  “But I didn’t even—”

  “Only because I stepped in.”

  “So what am I supposed to do, just—”

  “You’re supposed to let me deal with her.”

  “If you saw that she started the whole thing, how come I’m the one getting the lecture?”

  “Because, from what I understand, you’re the one who’s been in trouble before. My guess is you did something to provoke her. You’re to sit on the side for the rest of the class.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AS SOON AS MICKI entered the security office, she could tell from Baker’s expression that he’d been informed about the incident.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Just shut your mouth.”

  “But I—”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  After a pause, she replied evenly, “Yessir.”

  “Do you think you could manage to go more than five minutes without being a fucking pain in someone’s ass?”

  “Do you think you could manage to hear my side of the story before blaming me for everything—or is that too much trouble?”

  There was a second of silence.

  “That’s one hell of an attitude you’ve got there, y’know that, Reilly? Why don’t we just tack on another fifteen minutes to the ten you’ve already got coming for being late to gym. How does that sound?”

  She tilted her head up slightly and glared at him.

  “No objections?” he asked.

  Mouth clamped shut, she shifted her gaze.

  “Good,” he said. “Now that that’s settled, let’s hear it; let’s hear what you have to say.”

  She adjusted the books in her arms.

  “C’mon, let’s hear it; what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Nothing, okay? Whatever Mrs. Tandy said is how it went down.”

  He shrugged. “Fine with me.” And he seated himself at his desk.

  Her eyes threw daggers at the back of his head. When they failed to have any effect, she pulled a sheet of paper from her history text and put it in front of him. “I need you to sign this.”

  He glanced up. “I need you to” was a strange phrase for a kid to use; adults said things like that. Kids said things like “you have to.” He looked at the paper. It was her history exam with a big red F on top and a note saying, “Please see me after class.”

  “Very nice,” Baker said. “What did he want to see you about?”

  “He said he’d ignore the F if I did well on the rest of the exams.”

  “Well now”—Baker skimmed through the mostly empty pages—“wasn’t that nice of him.” He signed above the F and handed it back, asking, “You’ve had other tests already besides this one?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Don’t ask ‘yeah, why.’ Just answer ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir.’ ”

  “Yessir.”

  “You have any with you? I want to see them.”

  She dropped her books on his desk and started going through her loose-leaf, pulling out sheets of paper. They all had 100s, 99s, or 98s on them.

  “Well, I guess you must think you’re pretty fucking smart, don’t you,” he said.

  “No, sir.”

  “Go sit over there until it’s time to go.” As she turned away, he added, “When I tell you to do something, I expect you to acknowledge me.”

  “I figure if I do what you say, it’s pretty clear I heard you.”

  He put his pen down and took a very long, drawn-out breath. “I’ve got to hand it to you, it’s like you just don’t give a fuck.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Just sit down and shut up.”

  She went to the general staff’s desk—now her official detention desk—and sat down.

  A moment later, he shook his head. “You can sit there till two thirty now.”

  Not wanting to spend the rest of her life there, she said, “Yes, SIR!”

  “Keep it up, Reilly, and see where it gets you.”

  Straight to hell, she thought. The same place I’m going anyway.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  DESPITE WHAT BAKER HAD said, Micki managed not to be a pain in someone’s ass for the rest of the week. Baker, though, was doing what he could to get under her skin, mainly by giving her apartment a toss almost every day while she was at work. If he left the school at three forty-five instead of three, he arrived about fifteen minutes after she’d gone to the restaurant. With calculated care, he altered things just enough so she’d know he’d been by. It was subtle. It made her feel as if someone else were secretly living in her apartment.

  The only place left where she felt somewhat safe was at Bel.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  FROM HIS BEDROOM WINDOW, Baker looked down over Broadway, on all the people carrying on with their lives—having someplace to go. He, however, didn’t know where he was going, or if he was going anywhere at all.

  He took a drink straight from the bottle and used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Malone’s call that morning had hit him hard. “Better you should hear it from me, Jim,” he’d said. “I know how you feel about Coburn.”

  It was outrageous: Coburn promoted to lieutenant. He and Baker had gone through the academy together, and Baker had never seen anyone so inept. Yet Coburn had moved up the ranks with ease because he knew how to play the game. And he played it well. Baker, on the other hand, had made enemies as well as friends among the top brass. And all because he did what he thought was right. So now, instead of signing police reports, he was signing fucking history exams. Earlier, when he’d spoken to Cynthia, she’d tried to console him. “After all,” she’d said, “I should know how you feel. I’m no player, either, and it’s cost me plenty.” But it was different for her; she was still in charge of her life, making her own choices. Where were his choices? Gone. All gone.

  He polished off the bottle, lay down on the bed, and closed his eyes. If they never opened again, it was all the same to him.

  chapter 6

  BRIGHT AND EARLY SUNDAY morning, Micki stood in front of Baker’s apartment. She needed more coffee. And as soon as possible. After staying up very late to do homework—the homework she should’ve started before going to work—she’d been so overtired and overanxious that she hadn’t actually fallen asleep till nearly 4:00 a.m. When the alarm rang only two and a half hours later, she’d cursed Baker with just about every profanity she knew.

  Out the door by seven o’clock, she’d followed Twenty-Third Street down toward Jackson Avenue to catch the 7 train. It came after only a one-minute wait, and she connected with the 2 at Times Square in less than five. The rather seamless commute had left her half an hour early. And since someone had been leaving Baker’s building just as she’d arrived, she’d gotten in without buzzing from downstairs. He had no idea she was there. Ear pressed to his door, she heard nothing. He might still be sleeping.

  She looked down the hallway, where the walls were a dark shade of beige, the floor an intricate mosaic of old hexagonal tiles. Tacky by comparison, circular fluorescent lights cast an unpleasant glow over it all. And though the four-story walkup was clean, it had that old-building smell, kind of funky but in a nondescript sort of way. Trudging up to the third floor, she’d pondered what it was going to be like hauling groceries and laundry
up and down.

  She pushed the yellowed ivory-colored button and heard the shrill brrring inside. She waited awhile, then rang again. The light behind the peephole disappeared, and then the door opened. Hair tousled, face unshaven, he didn’t have a shirt on and his feet were bare. Half-closed eyes confirmed that she had, in fact, woken him up. She took in the well-muscled chest tapering down to slim hips, where blue jeans hung low. Then she noticed the top button of his fly was undone. But when her gaze reached the bulge of his crotch, she became conscious of what she was doing, and her eyes shot up to his.

  “Like what you see?” he asked.

  Every cell of her body on alert, she held his gaze while several smart answers came to mind. But the words stuck in her throat. Baker seized her arm and jerked her inside the apartment, shoving her back against the door as he slammed it shut. His keys, which were in the interior cylinder of the lock, jangled. Palms flat against the framing on either side, he leaned over and stared down at her. She could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint scent of old sweat and sleep. And alcohol.

  “I wanna go home!” she said.

  “Well that’s just too fucking bad ’cause you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay right here and do everything I said you’d have to and not a bit less.”

  The steely, hardened look she gave him was her only defense. How could she have been so stupid? It was so obvious now what this was all about.

  He waited a little longer, then added quietly, “And not a bit more.” He straightened up and took a step back while her face filled with confusion. “Now, I want you to go into the kitchen over there and wait for me,” he said. “I’ll be in, in a minute.” But as she started to move, he grabbed her by the arm. “And don’t you ever look at me that way again.”

  “What about when you—”

  “I didn’t do anything that even comes close to what you just did.” Her face reddened, and he let go, waiting till she was inside the kitchen before double locking the door and pocketing the keys.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MOMENTS LATER, WEARING A grey sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves, he entered the kitchen to find her standing in the middle of the room. His tone mocking, he said, “Why don’t you take your jacket off and stay awhile.” Adding, “Where did you get that?”