by Randy Mason
“Bullshit.”
Jaw muscles flexing, Baker glared at Warner. With tiny, vicious jabs, he stubbed out his cigarette, then stood up and strode across the office. “I’ll be back in a little while. I have to go talk to her gym teacher.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THE LIVING ROOM WAS dark except for the elongated rectangle of light that fell through the kitchen doorway. Baker stood at the window, thinking about having a good, stiff drink. But he didn’t get one. Too much drinking lately. He looked at the cigarette pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Too much smoking lately, too. Just yesterday he’d switched back to the unfiltered Camels, the slightly smaller pack so much more familiar. He was probably smoking more now than before he’d quit.
Out in the street, four teenaged boys had begun playing saluggi with a little kid’s bag of groceries. Pretty mean. Some apples had already fallen out and were rolling away. The boy was starting to cry. But what kind of mother would send her young child out alone to buy fruit in this neighborhood at this hour of the night? About to open the window, Baker saw the older boys were already jogging down the road, laughing and hooting while the little kid tried desperately to find all of the produce that had scattered across the asphalt. Damaged apples and oranges clasped tightly to his chest, he finally ran off.
But it was images of Micki’s scars that were flashing through Baker’s mind: the discolored, irregular lines; the small, round circles of disfigured flesh … Exhaling smoke through his nose, he tried to imagine taking the burning tip of his cigarette and repeatedly pressing it into someone’s skin. Or taking his belt and whipping it, over and over again, across someone’s back. He shuddered: the kid had been through some hell. But hey, why should that now be his problem? After all, what could he possibly do about it? And what was the point anyway? How could any vestige of childhood innocence have survived all that?
At least some of her odd behavior now made sense—though Warner had cautioned him, saying that dealing with Micki was like walking through a mental minefield: memories, both conscious and repressed, could trigger unforeseen, over-reactive responses. Warner had also had a few choice words about Baker’s ongoing attacks on her self-esteem. “What you see as ‘attitude,’ ” he’d said, “is just a defense. Keep breaking her down and, one of these days, it’ll backfire. You might as well put your gun to her head and pull the goddamn trigger.”
Putting the cigarette to his lips, Baker breathed the smoke deep into his lungs. At the very least, he had to admit he couldn’t figure her out. He would never have believed she’d let herself get cut up just to protect someone. Even when it came to something as mundane as cleaning his apartment, she’d done exactly the opposite of what he’d predicted: the place had never been so clean—even after Cynthia had had her maid clean the place as a gift.
But having Micki underfoot all day Sunday had been a royal pain in the ass. And yet once she was gone, the place had felt empty—just like it now did when Cynthia left after spending the night. He flicked off some ashes and sighed: he was probably getting tired of living alone. Maybe it was time to move in with Cynthia. Get married, even—that is, if they were still together by the time he got up the courage to propose. She seemed distant lately, as if she were trying to pull away. They weren’t seeing each other as much, and she was less interested in sex. More often than not, they ended up arguing over little things that had never mattered before. And if he had to pinpoint the moment when all the problems had started, it would be when Micki had entered the picture.
After one last hit, he carefully ground his cigarette into an ashtray. Warner was wrong, dead wrong. He had absolutely no desire to connect with the kid. The sooner he was rid of her, the sooner his life would get back to normal. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting them come to rest at the nape of his neck.
Maybe he’d have a drink after all.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WAS A QUIET night at Bel, and she left relatively early, just a little after ten. The street felt dead; the parking lot, abandoned—Rick and the crowd hanging out more often at the wall now. Midway down the block, she crossed Forty-Fourth Drive, then heard the crunch of tires as a car slowly pulled alongside her—a police cruiser. Officers Roberts and Wollenski. She had a powerful urge to run. Passenger window rolled down, Roberts offered a friendly “hello” and asked how things were going. She wanted to tell him that everything sucked, and it was really none of his fucking business. Instead, she said, “Okay,” and watched him smile. Then he told her to take care, and the car pulled away.
She crossed Twenty-First Street and stopped at the deli, the little bell jingling above the door as she went in. Frankie looked up from his magazine.
“Hey there, Micki!”
Frankie owned the small store and almost always worked the night hours so he could close up himself. By now she’d been in the place enough times that he knew her by name—and she knew his. She managed an unenthusiastic reply, made her purchase—a box of instant cocoa since she’d used her last packet the night before—and dragged herself the rest of the way home. Then she settled down to homework, plodding through it so listlessly it took her twice as long as it should have.
Yet when she was finally in bed, all wrapped up inside the sheets, sleep was far away. What she saw behind closed eyes was that nasty smile on Baker’s face when he’d seen her scarred body. Her teeth gnashed together as she pictured him examining her stomach, then exposing her back. Who the fuck did he think he was? Telling Warner he had to know what happened to her—what bullshit. He didn’t need to know a goddamn thing. Her eyes flew open. She should never have given in so easily, should never have told him so much. How long would they really have stayed there like that? And what could he have done if she’d refused to talk? After all, Warner was there to protect her. But then, Warner was the one who’d been holding her—even turned her around for him …
She got out of bed, switched on the light, and filled the pot with water. It probably didn’t matter one way or the other. If she hadn’t told Baker anything then, he would’ve just come after her some other time. The man never gave up, always found some way to get what he wanted—she could tell.
The water came to a boil, and she made the hot chocolate—now a kind of ritual for when she couldn’t fall asleep. But after two half-hearted sips, she dumped it into the sink, shuffled back across the floor, switched off the light, and crawled her way into bed. Curled up again, eyes shut tight, she felt sheltered in the darkness.
Until a couple started to argue loudly, curses flying back and forth. She got up and looked outside, but the street was empty. When she opened the window wider and stuck her head out, she realized the noise was coming from the basement apartment of her own building. And though she closed the window completely, she could still hear the argument. So she got back under the covers and turned on the radio, catching the deejay carrying on about his girlfriend and some concert they were going to see. “But now,” he said, “here’s the latest from Steely Dan.” And the cool hipster music, unabashedly laid back and self-assured, immediately sashayed out of the little plastic box. She liked to think it was “Micki Don’t Lose that Number” instead of “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number,” though she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out whose number that might be. She didn’t even have a phone …
♦ ♦ ♦
HER BREATHING, LOUD AND labored, filled her ears, the footfalls of her running feet like a counterpoint rhythm as she raced down the wet blacktop that glistened in the rays of a single floodlight in the alley. To her left was a chain link fence reaching up to the midnight sky in an infinite pattern of metal diamonds; to her right, a brick wall, cold and smooth.
It was a warm summer night, and darkness surrounded her. But the darkest thing of all was chasing her, chasing her relentlessly. Though she couldn’t see or hear it, she could feel it all around, could feel it closing in, greedy for its pr
ey.
Further and further she ran down the alley, a never-ending stretch of unfamiliar road. Until, out of the murky shadows, another wall appeared, spanning the width of her path. Gone was the whispered promise of refuge at the end. She could hear the wind’s cruel laughter whipping past her …
She awoke with a start, sweating as if she really had been running for her life, the dream so vivid it was etched in her mind. It was the first one she could ever remember having, though she knew her sleep was fraught with nightmares. Two cups of cocoa and an hour later, she was still awake. She switched to coffee and got ready for school.
chapter 8
SECOND-PERIOD PASSING, AND BAKER was at his scheduled post in the north wing of the third floor. He watched the pretty brunette—hair falling all the way down to her waist—leave room 372 and walk toward the staircase next to him. Maybe five feet two inches tall, she wore Thom McCann work boots and heavily patched bell-bottom jeans—all very much the trend. But while the two girls accompanying her were chattering and giggling, she seemed unusually preoccupied, clutching her books a little too tightly to her pink embroidered sweater.
Every day Baker watched the three girls change classes together. But for the last several days his attention had been drawn to the absence of the petite one’s cheerleader smile. In its place were traces of shame, anguish, and fear—the books once casually cradled now used like a shield. When the three classmates were nearly at the stairway doors, Baker approached her.
“Could you come with me for a minute, please?”
Her two companions, looking envious, exchanged mischievous grins. But her own face scrunched up, lips starting to tremble.
“Everything’s fine,” he said. “You’re not in any kind of trouble. I’d just like to talk to you for a couple of minutes.”
Hanging her head, she started to cry. Baker put his arm around her shoulders and gently guided her away, her friends looking on with anxious curiosity.
Micki, on her way to room 323 for calculus with Miss Giannetti, had seen the way Baker had talked to the girl: the concern in his eyes; the protective way he’d put his arm around her. When the late bell rang, she retreated into her math class—feeling a little more dead inside.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER STEERED THE GIRL into an empty room and had her sit in one of the chair-desks while he pulled out the teacher’s chair for himself. Forearms resting on his knees, hands hanging down between, he leaned forward. But the girl, arms still tightly wrapped around her books, sat at an angle as if about to get up again. Lips quivering, she was staring at the floor.
“What’s your name?” he asked gently.
“Cathy. Cathy Stevens.” The constriction of her throat made her high, childlike voice even higher.
“Hi, Cathy.”
More like a squeak between sniffles, she said, “Hi.”
“What grade are you in?”
“Eleventh.”
And that was as far as he got. Though his tone was kind and sympathetic—gently coaxing at most—she burst into tears again and wouldn’t reveal what was upsetting her. Eyes squeezed shut, she sobbed uncontrollably. After several minutes, he sighed and asked, “Would you prefer to talk to a woman?”
She nodded.
He stood up and stepped into the hallway to summon Angela over the walkie-talkie.
♦ ♦ ♦
NOT TEN MINUTES AFTER she’d gone in to talk to the girl, Angie came out to report that Mr. Englars, Cathy’s chemistry teacher, had shown her a little more than just how to use the lab equipment when he’d asked her to stay after class on Friday. He’d also threatened to fail her if she told anyone.
Baker stared down the hall. “Did the bastard touch her?”
“No.”
“Do her parents know?”
“She was afraid to tell them.”
“I want them notified right away. And while I’m calling this in”—Baker looked back at Angela—“I want you to write down whatever she said to you.”
“But she doesn’t want to press charges; she says she’ll deny everything.”
“Why?”
“She says she doesn’t want word of this to get around. You know how cruel kids can be.”
“But—”
Tilting her head, Angie raised an eyebrow.
“We’ll see what her parents have to say. At the very least, I want that sick son of a bitch out of this school.”
But without requiring any persuasion, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens filed a complaint on their daughter’s behalf. And when the story came out, two other girls stepped forward with similar tales. For the rest of the week, this was the talk of the security office till Micki was fed up with hearing about “that poor little girl.” After all, she’d been through a lot worse herself—a hell of a lot worse. Yet nobody could care less.
But, then again, that was her, wasn’t it.
♦ ♦ ♦
SWEAT-SOAKED T-SHIRT IN ONE hand, a bag of unclaimed garlic bread in the other, Micki headed home. Saturday nights at Bel were almost always the hardest. But tonight there’d been so much shouting. Tony—the head cook and Micki’s favorite person at Bel—had gotten into a fight with Sal, a waiter who Micki and just about everyone else despised. It had started when Sal accused Tony of purposely being slow to fill his tables’ orders. Tony then threatened not to fill them at all, asking Sal if he wanted to take the issue outside. Mr. Antonelli, rushing in, yelled at both of them because diners could hear the vulgar exchange taking place in the kitchen. Disappointed that Tony wasn’t going to deck Sal after all, Micki “accidentally” spilled a little hot, sudsy water near the out door as Sal was turning to leave. He’d promptly slipped and fallen on his ass. Tony had given Micki a wink.
Eyes now burning with fatigue, she crossed Twenty-First Street and trudged past the deli, accompanied by the pitiful cries of a homeless cat. It sounded like a baby’s wails. She hoped the goddamned thing would either shut up or be shot. This was the third night in a row she’d had to listen to this shit. She looked up and saw the light on in her apartment. Jesus Christ, it was nearly midnight. What the fuck did he want with her now?
♦ ♦ ♦
SEATED AT HER KITCHEN table and smoking, Baker was playing with the empty cup of take-out coffee in front of him. Dressed in a black suit with slightly flared pants, he’d loosened his black silk tie and unbuttoned his collar. When he didn’t say anything, Micki proceeded to place her bread in the refrigerator. But warm butter had worked its way through the foil wrap, then leaked through the bag, leaving a large, dark stain on the paper. She wiped her greasy hands on her jeans before hanging her damp T-shirt on the shower-curtain rod. Just as she was about to take off her jacket, he spoke.
“I have a favor to ask.”
She tensed. “What kind of favor?”
“First of all, I want to make it very clear that you don’t have to do this. But I think it would be a nice gesture since my girlfriend was the one who got stuck waiting on the street when you had your little fun.”
Her eyes turned dark. It was bad enough that he was laying this little guilt trip on her, but he didn’t even have the decency to be looking at her while he was doing it. “So what’s the favor already? I’m not agreeing to anything till I know what it is.”
He flicked cigarette ashes into the empty Styrofoam cup, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Cynthia’s having a fancy party tonight, and she hired some people to help. But the woman who was supposed to wash dishes and clean up never came. She called to say she’d been delayed, then never showed up at all. By the time Cynthia realized she wasn’t coming, it was too late for the agency to replace her. Now the kitchen’s a mess, and Cynthia’s running out of dishes and glasses.”
“You”—she pressed her fingertips to her forehead—“you want me to wash more dishes?”
/>
“Uh-huh.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, tonight.”
“Jesus, I don’t believe this!” She ripped her jacket off, then threw it on the floor. “I’m fu—I’m exhausted! I just worked almost seven hours with no break! It’s midnight already!”
Baker didn’t even glance at her. He took another drag on his cigarette, then watched as he rolled it back and forth between his fingers.
In her head, Micki was saying, “Get some paper plates at the fucking deli and clean the fucking place up yourself tomorrow.” But out loud she heard herself say, “Just let me put on a different shirt.”
“Sure,” he replied.
She gritted her teeth—don’t say thank you or anything, you fucking prick—and went inside the bathroom to change. As soon as she came out, Baker stood up and ground out his cigarette.
“Tell me,” he said as he watched her put her jacket back on, “do you always change in there, or”—he tilted his head toward the bare windows—“do you sometimes give the neighbors a free show?”
Voice tight, she replied, “I either change in there or I turn out the lights.”
“Why don’t you hang up the curtains you bought?”
“The screws won’t go into the molding. I think there’s metal in there or something.” She watched as he walked over to the fire escape window and tapped on the framing. Unbelievable, she thought. What the fuck is his problem?
He turned abruptly and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”
♦ ♦ ♦
AS THEY DROVE TOWARD the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, Micki asked, “Am I still gonna have to be at your apartment by eight tomorrow?”
Baker was searching through radio stations and found Stealers Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle with You.” After a quick check of the mirrors, he switched into the left lane. “You can pick that up next week.”
“So y’mean I can stay home tomorrow?”
He glanced over at her. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.” Actually, he’d totally forgotten about it. And with the way these kinds of parties usually ran, he might not even get to bed until four o’clock in the morning—and that would be in Cynthia’s bed, not his.