by Randy Mason
“One of the motorcycle stores on Northern Boulevard.”
He put his hand out. “Let me see it.” Despite the black leather and the brass zippers, it wasn’t like the standard biker style that was so popular. And though heavy and well made, there was a ragged, three-inch cut under the collar. He noted the half zipper going around the perimeter of the interior. “This has a removable lining?”
“It’s at home.”
“This must’ve been expensive.”
“Jeez! I didn’t steal it; I bought it yesterday. The guy gave it to me at cost ’cause it’s damaged. They were gonna send it back to the manufacturer.” What she didn’t tell him was that the salesman, a lean biker with tattoos and very long hair, had taken a liking to her, had said he wanted to show her how to ride—leaving to her imagination all the other things he wanted to show her. But she was never going to get on a motorcycle—not after seeing Tim’s friend lose his leg in an accident. She could wear the jacket, though.
Baker handed it back. “I’m going to take a shower. I want you to have my breakfast ready by the time I’m done.” Seeing her expression, he added, “Nothing fancy, just coffee, juice, toast, bacon, and a couple of eggs—over easy. You can manage that, can’t you?”
Eyes on the floor, she said, “I dunno about the bacon. And I can only scramble eggs.”
“You’re supposed to be so fucking smart, but you don’t even know how to fry bacon?”
She looked up. “I told ya I didn’t know how t’cook! I said it t’ya twice! So if y’want me t’make all that stuff, why don’tcha jus’ show me!”
He struggled to push down his anger. Last night, after Cynthia had canceled at the last minute, he’d really tied one on. Now his brain felt like a rock rattling around inside his skull; his fingers, puffy and uncooperative, had had trouble just trying to close all the buttons on his jeans. “You’d better straighten out that attitude of yours before I get back.”
“Yessir,” she mumbled, and watched him go off to the bathroom.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN HE RETURNED, CLEAN-SHAVEN, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, he was still towel-drying his hair. Halfway into the room, he froze. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Though it was hardly chewed, she swallowed the bread in her mouth, nearly choking in the process. “Making your breakfast,” she said.
“I’m talking about what’s in your hand and on the counter.”
She looked at the two plain slices of Wonder Bread she held—the outline of her teeth neatly carved in them. Then she looked back at Baker. The aroma of toasting wheat was floating through the air, mingling with that of the perked coffee.
He said, “You don’t eat anything here unless you bring it from home or buy it outside, understand? In fact, you’re not to use anything here without permission unless it directly relates to cleaning.”
Holding up the bread, she asked, “So you want me to throw this away?”
“Yeah, I want you to throw it away.”
She tossed it into the garbage and dumped the half-filled cup of coffee into the sink. “Y’want me t’puke up what I already had? Would that make y’happy?”
The toast popped up, all golden brown.
Baker sighed and threw his towel over the back of a chair. Seeing his cigarettes on the table, he took one and lit up. “Y’know, Reilly, you got off to a really bad start, and you just keep making it worse. What gets me is that you’re only hurting yourself. We could make this three days instead of two—or four or five; I really don’t care. You’re the one that’s going to get stuck with the work; not me. You didn’t even set the table or pour the juice yet, did you.”
“No, sir.”
“And now the toast will get cold while I show you how to cook the eggs and bacon.”
Eyes focused on the old grey-speckled linoleum, she said, “I guess so.”
“I guess so,” he repeated. With a shake of his head, he went to get the frying pans.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER BREAKFAST, HE WENT into the living room to watch TV. She washed the dishes, then started cleaning the kitchen: scrubbing and scouring, sink to table, cabinets to drawers, up and down, inside and out. From time to time, he appeared in the doorway, hands on hips, to watch.
She moved on to his bedroom, wading into a sea of discarded items carelessly strewn about the floor, shirt sleeves and pant legs intertwined in an awkwardly sad embrace. She began tossing everything into an already overflowing laundry basket while Baker, now reading a magazine, could hear her moving around, sometimes mumbling under her breath.
And then there was an extended period of silence.
He went to the bedroom and found her standing on the far side of the bed. Face flushed, she was staring at the floor.
“What’s the problem here?” he asked.
Her eyes flashed. “I am not picking that up.”
“You’re not picking what up?”
“That!” And she pointed to something blocked from his view.
He strode around to where she was standing.
“I bet you’re gettin’ a big kick outta this,” she said.
On the floor, near the small grey garbage pail, was a used condom. He fought to keep the color from rising in his face. “I’ll take care of that,” he said. “Strip the bed and change the sheets.”
Shifting her weight, she folded her arms over her chest.
“Go on!” he said.
She began taking the pillowcases off the pillows while he bent down to retrieve the offending item. When Cynthia had been on the West Coast, she’d forgotten to take the pill for a couple of days, so they’d fallen back on condoms to play it safe. After it missed the garbage pail, the used one must’ve gotten buried under all the clothes. Of course, it would have to be that way: one of the few times in over a year that they’d had to bother with one of those, the only time he’d ever thrown so many clothes all over the floor.
Because he’d purposely been a slob.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITH THINGS NOW WELL under way, Baker unlocked the front door so Micki could come and go as she needed. Down in the basement, she found herself alone in the laundry room, though two washers were spinning down. She couldn’t resist checking out Baker’s underwear. The white briefs were a given; she would never have pictured him as the boxer-shorts type. But three pair were bikini-cut: two black, one royal blue.
A middle-aged woman in a housedress, wearing a kerchief and pink fuzzy slippers, marched through the door. Micki quickly threw the underwear in the nearest washer and emptied half of the laundry basket on top.
“Oh no, love,” the woman said in a thick cockney accent, “y’don’t want ’a be puttin’ all that together in there like that.”
Micki watched as the short, fleshy woman, with the bleached shadow of a mustache, bustled over and started sorting Baker’s things into two machines, saying colored items were one wash and whites another. “Else ya colors be bleedin’ all over the rest of it, an’ ’e ain’t gonna take kindly ta that, I promise ya!”
“Thanks,” Micki said. She could just imagine what Baker would’ve done if she’d ruined all of his stuff. She used his change to start the washers, then closed the lid of an empty one and hopped on top.
But the woman, after putting her wet laundry in one of the huge dryers, said, “Is all right ta leave it ’ere, dearie. Nobody’s ever pinched me clothes. And there ain’t no sense in wastin’ good time jus’ watchin’ the bloody things.” She toddled out, and Micki soon followed.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER’S SHOPPING LIST WAS full of items Micki wasn’t used to buying: chopped meat, chicken, fresh and frozen vegetables … And because he hadn’t specified much in the way of brands or even types, she had to guess exactly what it was he wanted, making the ta
sk take much longer than she’d anticipated. Back at his building, she struggled up the stairs with the heavy bags.
Baker immediately scrutinized the receipt and counted the leftover money. “Did you check your change?” he asked.
“It’s all there.”
“There’s a quarter extra.”
“I put that in to pay for the bread and coffee I had this morning.”
“Is this supposed to make me feel guilty?”
She wanted to say she didn’t think he was capable of feeling guilty about anything where she was concerned, but all she said was, “No, sir,” and started putting the groceries away.
With a sigh, he went back to the living room to watch football, drink beer, and eat his chicken-salad sandwich. When she saw the used bowls, utensils, and chopping board in the sink, her shoulders sagged. But she left them to soak, and went to make up the bed, trying to ignore her stomach, which was growling. On her way to the supermarket, she’d stopped at the corner store—after almost getting mugged—to get something to eat. But she’d only had enough money for a Milky Way bar and a can of Coke.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE CRISP WHITE SHEETS fit snuggly over the firm, king-sized mattress. She placed the charcoal-grey comforter on top and stuffed the fluffy, oversized pillows into the pillowcases. At Heyden the beds had been nothing more than army cots with mean little mattresses, scratchy cotton, and rough, thin blankets—the one in her apartment just a lumpy mess on the floor. So when she’d been dusting Baker’s study, she’d been tempted to lie down on top of the twin bed there, if only to close her eyes for a few minutes. But to slip between these cool, clean layers of linen and fall asleep …
She went to get the vacuum.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER DEMONSTRATED HOW to iron his shirts, Micki kept her distance. Earlier, when he’d shown her how to cook, she’d appeared equally wary, as if he were going to take the frying pan and hit her over the head with it. But now that his laundry was done, he put his clean clothes away himself—so she wouldn’t be snooping around in his drawers.
Finally finished, she put her jacket on, then followed him around as he conducted his review. He inspected every nook and cranny, every knickknack, and every pane of glass. He even ran his fingers over the top of the shower-curtain rod to check for dust. Back in the kitchen, he said, “I have to admit, you did a great job. If it weren’t for breakfast, it would’ve been perfect.”
There was a beat before she asked, “Are you saying today doesn’t count?”
Feeling like a real dick, he said, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Because of the stupid breakfast.”
“Yeah, because of breakfast.”
“But I told you I didn’t know how to cook.”
“It was more your attitude than anything else.”
“So you let me work this whole fu—”
He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Just for once, Reilly, do yourself a favor and keep your mouth shut.” He let go. “Empty your pockets on the table.”
“You think I’d rip you off?”
“I think you’d rip off your own mother if you had one.” But he felt a twinge in his chest.
All expression drained from her face, and she emptied the contents of her pockets onto the white Formica.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
And while he was patting her down, she looked out the kitchen doorway into the living room—the now very clean living room—everything dusted and in its place, floor and rug vacuumed … She wanted to tear the fucking place apart. And then she had an idea. As soon as he was finished, she refilled her pockets and said, “I need to use the john.”
He shrugged. “Go ahead.”
She headed to the bathroom, locked the door, and put the toilet seat down, letting it drop with a definitive bang. Then she used her apartment key to pierce the upper corner of the lining in the left-hand pocket of her jacket, pushing her pinky through to make the hole a little larger. After waiting a bit, she flushed the toilet to mask any sound caused by opening the medicine cabinet. And there, in between his deodorant and an extra tube of toothpaste, were three prescription bottles, two of which were at least half full. She turned on the water.
She took two pills from the bottle marked “Valium” and three from the one labeled “Librium.” The third had only two left, but since it said “Ampicillin,” she wasn’t interested anyway. She stuffed the pills through the hole in her pocket, replaced the bottles, closed the cabinet, and shut the faucet. When she came out, Baker was standing in the hallway.
“You wait here,” he ordered, and went into the bathroom himself. It hadn’t occurred to him to remove his medications before she came. And though he examined all the bottles, he couldn’t remember how many pills had been left in each to begin with. Except for the Ampicillen. But when he came back out and saw the look on her face, he knew he’d been had: she was daring him to search her again. Wanting him to look foolish. “That’s real good, Reilly.”
Trying hard to appear confused, she asked, “What is?”
He brushed past her and opened the front door. “Just get the fuck out.”
The door slammed shut behind her, and she broke into a wide grin. The day hadn’t been a total waste.
♦ ♦ ♦
SHE STEPPED INTO HER apartment and turned on the light.
What a drag.
Baker’s place had been full of nice things: comfortable chairs, a sofa, rugs, curtains and blinds … It was a home. A real home. By contrast, this single, shabby space—full of old, decrepit furniture—felt more like a cell.
Too tired to even be hungry anymore, she flopped down on the lumpy mattress and sat there with her legs straight out in front of her. She didn’t even have the energy to take off her jacket—the jacket with Baker’s pills floating around in the lining. She wondered what would happen if she took them all at once.
It was too early to go to bed, but she fell asleep anyway. At 2:00 a.m. she woke up, had breakfast, and tried to do some studying until it was time to get ready for school.
chapter 7
ON HER WAY HOME from Bel Tuesday night, Micki walked past the empty alley while the wind, kicking up in little bursts, left the leaves shuddering on their branches. Someone was running up behind her, and she turned sharply, only to see Rick.
“Hey,” he said. He seemed a little out of breath. He’d barely run half a block.
“I gotta get home,” Micki said.
“Why don’tcha come over to my place ’n hang out for the night? Y’can getcha stuff f’school in the mornin’.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re in Staten Island, protectin’ my aunt.”
“Protectin’ her? From what?”
“It ain’t nothin’, really. Just my uncle. The guy’s a real ass, always gettin’ drunk and sayin’ stupid shit, like my aunt’s cheatin’ on him. He’s fuckin’ crazy. They got three little kids, the littlest wit’ the chicken pox—she don’t even have the time. But tonight he smashed some crystal thing her granny gave her, then walked outta the house, sayin’ he was gonna come back and kill her.”
“Jesus!”
Rick snorted. “Aw, he ain’t really gonna do that. But my aunt’s scared shitless.”
Micki kept walking.
“My bed’s a lot better than that piece a crap mattress you have,” Rick said.
Her homework was already finished—she’d hardly gotten any today. And Baker was always gone before she got back from Bel anyway. She thought about sleeping in a real bed. And maybe the sex would be better this time …
♦ ♦ ♦
ALMOST ONE THIRTY IN the morning, and Micki wasn’t home. Baker sat at the little table, smoking a cigarette and tapping his fingers on the Formica. Just how
often did she stay out like this? She probably figured he’d never be the wiser. This was, in fact, the first time he’d ever stopped by so late—a last-minute decision. He’d hung around at the school, had dinner at a McDonald’s, then run security for a girls’ volleyball game. Afterward, he’d dropped in at a local bar for a couple of beers. It wasn’t until he was heading home that he’d considered making this little detour.
He’d gotten to her place at ten thirty-five. By eleven fifteen, he’d used the payphone in the hall to call the restaurant: no answer. All of her clothes were still in her dresser, her stash of cash still under the mattress. She hadn’t skipped town. But having run out of patience and cigarettes, he was going home.
The entire drive back, he imagined himself confronting her—planning what he’d say and how he’d say it. But the more he thought about it, the better it seemed to wait until the end of the day, which meant keeping things under wraps in the morning …
Driving around his neighborhood for fourteen frustrating minutes in ever-widening circles, he finally found a parking space at Ninety-Eighth and Riverside Drive.
Just wait till he got his hands on her.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI SAT IN THE dark of Rick’s tiny room. She should’ve known something would go wrong. From what she could hear coming from the living room, Rick’s uncle had returned, just as he’d promised—only apologizing profusely. When Rick’s dad had given him a hard time anyway, a big argument had ensued with everyone yelling at everyone else until Rick’s aunt had demanded his parents leave. Now back in their own apartment, they were still fighting with each other. Very loudly. One of the neighbors had even banged on the wall.
But Rick was fast asleep. As soon as he’d heard his parents coming in, he’d shut the door to his room and gotten under the covers, leaving Micki on the floor beside the bed, hidden from view in case anyone peeked in. She looked at him still lying there, blissfully unconscious, totally oblivious to the racket going on.