Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IT WAS MICKI WHO unlocked the door when they returned; Baker’s keys were still on the table—which explained why he hadn’t just gotten in his car and gone home. Or so she thought. Much to her dismay, he took off his jacket and sat down. And though she had no desire for the hot chocolate anymore, she felt obligated to make it. She turned on the faucet and put some water in the pot. Looking over her shoulder, she asked “Y’want some?”

  “Yeah, why not.”

  Cursing silently, she added more water and turned on the stove, then took down an extra mug from the cabinet. White with pink and green polka dots, it was ugly. Really ugly. She’d seen some just like it in Sunny’s Superstore. It would be funny watching Baker drink out of that. Her own mug, a glazed cobalt blue, was very pretty—although, right near the handle, it had a small chip where the white stuff underneath showed through. Still, it looked a million times better than the thing she was giving him. She tore open two packets and poured them into the mugs. A fine, sugary dust settled over the mounds of powder.

  She leaned against the sink, listening to what little traffic there was outside and watching the pot, which was taking its own sweet time to boil. Baker, smoking a Camel, sat at the table, his chair facing the fire escape window. When the water was ready, she filled the mugs and brought them over. Baker extinguished his cigarette. And though she sat down across from him, she moved her chair slightly so she wouldn’t have to look at him directly—not unless she wanted to. But it was a small table, so they were sitting very close—close enough that the air between them felt charged.

  The rich aroma steamed up from the mugs. Baker took a sip, then jerked his head back. “Hot!” he said.

  But she was staring at her cocoa.

  He took to gazing out the window, absently rubbing his thumb along the handle of the cup. Until he took another sip and looked at her. “So—what should I do about tonight?”

  She tensed. “What about tonight?”

  “You broke curfew.”

  “Well—not really.” She said it hesitantly, carefully watching his reaction before adding, “I never actually left the apartment till you were with me.” The smile that slowly spread across his face caught her completely off guard, the crows’ feet emerging around his eyes making him look rugged and weathered, kind of like the Marlboro man.

  He chuckled softly. “I guess I’ll have to think about that. But then maybe you want to tell me”—the smile disappeared—“what you were doing looking at me the way you did before. I thought we went over that already.”

  The dark liquid in her mug—a tiny, circular pool—was still untouched. She watched the reflection of the lightbulb dancing on the surface. Talking to the cocoa, she said, “Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. I wanted to … I thought …” She pulled her feet back and wrapped them around the legs of her chair. “I was afraid you …”

  But when she couldn’t bring herself to say it, he said, “You were afraid I was going to nail you.”

  She looked up.

  “Well, now you have your answer, so keep your eyes where they belong.”

  She turned her gaze back to the hot chocolate. “Yessir.”

  “But I’ll tell you something,” he said, and she met his eyes once more, “another guy in my position probably would’ve nailed you, probably would’ve done it a long time ago.”

  “Oh, really? So what makes you such a saint?”

  He merely chuckled again, though this time it had a dark quality to it. “I’m no saint, Micki, but I try to do what’s right.”

  She glanced over at her bed, all in disarray from the few restless hours she’d spent in it that night.

  “I just don’t understand,” he continued, “why you don’t trust me when it—”

  “I don’t trust anybody,” she said.

  “Nobody?”

  “Nobody. People jus’ wanna use you—take whatever they can get, however they can get it.”

  “Didn’t you trust Tim?”

  “I …” But she never finished the sentence.

  “Let’s face it, Micki, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to take advantage of you, but I haven’t done it once.”

  She shifted her eyes to stare at the cracked wall.

  “Have I?” he prodded.

  She shrugged.

  “C’mon, I want an answer. Have I ever touched you in a—in an inappropriate way?”

  “I don’t like you touchin’ me!” Her eyes were now boring into his.

  He lowered his gaze and nodded. When he looked back, his voice was unexpectedly gentle. “You know I have to search you, right? I’m just doing my job—that’s all it is. But I—I can understand how uncomfortable it must be for you—having me put my hands on you like that. I certainly wouldn’t want anybody doing that to me.”

  She gaped at him.

  “But that’s not what I asked,” he added quietly. “I want to know if you think I’ve ever touched you in a”—he leaned back—“in a sexual way. I mean, that’s what we’re talking about here, isn’t it?”

  She took one hand off her mug, placed her palm on the Formica, and drew it toward her till it was hanging off the edge of the table by her fingers.

  A second later, he did the same. “Well did I?” he pressed. “And I want you to tell me the truth.”

  She slowly shook her head no.

  “So what’s the story then?”

  “I’ve still got no reason to trust you.”

  The ugly spotted mug in front of him was empty. He lit another cigarette and smoked awhile, looking toward the window until he eventually shifted his gaze back to hers. “Did you get raped at Heyden? Did a guard rape you?”

  “None a y’damned business what anybody did t’me!”

  “It is my business. I’m trying to understand why you don’t trust me at least a little.”

  Bullshit, she thought, why don’t you go home already and just leave me the fuck alone. But then, hoping it might be enough to satisfy him, she said, “Almost.”

  “Almost?”

  “Yeah, almost.”

  “What do you mean, ‘almost’?”

  “ ‘Almost’ means almost! It almost happened but it didn’t; that’s what ‘almost’ means.”

  Baker had to force back a smile. He said, “So why don’t you tell me what did happen.”

  His face looked different now, the lines softened, his eyes warm. This was someone she’d never talked to before. This was the person who’d gently put his arm around a little girl like Cathy Stevens and gotten rid of the bad guy who’d hurt her.

  And Baker knew he’d won. Micki had the look of someone about to confess, the desire to unburden themselves finally overriding everything else. Not another word would he have to say. All he had to do was wait.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  The amused smile reappeared. “Where’s this coming from?”

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  He knocked some ashes into the saucer. “Thirty-six,” he replied. “Actually, thirty-seven soon.” Seeing the look on her face, he chuckled. “I’m ancient, Micki.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Just wait. Someday you’ll be this old.”

  “I doubt it.”

  There was a tiny twinge in his heart. But before he could respond, she asked, “So how come you’re not workin’ the streets? How come you’re workin’ at the school?”

  “Didn’t they—”

  “Yeah, I know what they said, but I don’t buy it.”

  Baker wanted to laugh. Great cover story the department had given him; nobody believed it. He took a drag on his cigarette, then exhaled slowly. “Let’s just say I was having some personal problems, and it seemed like a good idea for me to tak
e a break.”

  “So didja ever actually shoot someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dead?”

  His eyes drifted down to the pack of cigarettes he was turning over in his hand. Behind the camel on the front there were palm trees and pyramids; on the back, mostly Turkish domes and minarets. Done in a palette of golds and browns, the scenes looked calm and quiet. Arid. Deserted. He took another long drag.

  She began to wonder if he’d even heard the question.

  “Yes,” he suddenly answered, exhaling the rest of the smoke through his nose and looking very tired. He tapped the pack on the table three times before putting it down and meeting her eyes. “So now tell me what happened at Heyden.”

  She cleared her throat, then ran her finger around the rim of the pretty blue mug still full of lukewarm cocoa. The apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. “I—I’d gotten in trouble with Warden Loren that day for cursin’ her out and takin’ a swing at her with a mop. She took me down to the basement and beat me pretty bad with the strap, left me tied and hangin’ from this pipe—still wearin’ only my jeans—so I could ‘think it over.’ But not two minutes after she left, Edmunds—a real scumbag, one of the male guards who’d helped her get me down there—came back and started puttin’ his hands on my”—Micki swallowed—“on my chest. I mean, my back was all bleedin’ and everything, but he didn’t care; he was gettin’ off on it; gettin’ a hard-on. He went, ‘Aw, look at what ya did here; ya got me all excited. Now y’gonna havta take care a this.’ So—” She shot a glance at Baker.

  Resting his cigarette on the saucer, Baker leaned back in his chair, the arm across his body propping up the elbow of the other. With the side of his index finger, he was absently tracing the line between his lips. He angled his head slightly. “So …?”

  She looked back at the cocoa and pushed it away. “So I—I didn’t say nothin’. I hurt real bad from gettin’ whipped. It was the second day in a row this time. I was hopin’ he was jus’ tryin’ t’scare me, that he’d be too afraid a gettin’ caught. But then he went around in backa me, held my hips, and rubbed himself against me, sayin’ all kindsa shit. So I tried kickin’ him back there, but my toes barely touched the ground—I couldn’t really do anything. All it did was make my wrists hurt worse and piss him off. He started hittin’ my legs with his baton. One leg hurt so bad I thought he’d cracked the bone, so I stopped.” She leaned her elbows on the table and combed her fingers through her hair till her forehead came to rest in her palms. “I was in a lotta pain. He went around in fronta me again and undid his belt. He pulled down his fly, takin’ his—his dick out. He started playin’ with himself, sayin’ how he was gonna teach me a lesson better than any whippin’ could. But just as he was unzippin’ my jeans, the warden came back. She’d usually leave me hangin’ there alone for at least half an hour, and I guess that’s what he’d been countin’ on. He started tellin’ her that I’d asked for it, that I’d begged him t’fuck me like that.” She looked up.

  Baker picked up his cigarette again. “Go on.”

  In the middle of the table was a ballpoint pen. Micki pulled it over and stopped looking at Baker. “So the warden acted like she believed him. When I tried t’say somethin’, she told me t’shut up. And then she jus’ let him go, tellin’ him it better not happen again.” Micki tapped the pen on the table several times. “The warden told me I was in big trouble ’cause I’d solicited a guard f’sex, told me things could get a lot worse f’me than they already were. Said maybe she’d forget about it. Started touchin’ me, sayin’ if I wanted to, I could make her forget about it. And then she put her fingers on my lips.” Micki drew her head back. “There was no way I was doin’ that. I told her she could go fuck herself. That’s when she lit the cigarette. At first she jus’ held it real close so I could feel the heat. But then she went, ‘Maybe y’should reconsider.’ I told her I wouldn’t, so she burned me.”

  With the pen gripped in her right hand, Micki pushed the cap up a little with her thumb and index finger, only to force it back down again from the top with just her thumb. She said, “When I wouldn’t cry, she went, ‘I betcha think y’tough; well we’ll see who’s really tough,’ and she burned me a coupla more times—right on the open cuts. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t.” Though she still wasn’t looking at Baker, she stopped playing with the pen. “After that they put me in the hole, and I thought they were jus’ gonna leave me down there, ’cause nobody’d tell me anything; nobody’d talk to me until three days later when they came and took me out.” She placed the pen on the table without letting go. “Still, I knew it was jus’ gonna get worse. So when I saw my chance, I—I escaped. Got pretty far, too. Except, after they caught me, they made my life an endless living hell. Till Sergeant Kelly came.”

  She fell silent. When she looked at Baker, she was hoping to see some trace of the older cop’s kindness in him. But his face was blank. Empty. Sitting back, he appeared completely relaxed—as if he’d been listening to someone recount the boring highlights of their summer vacation. Her heart contracted into a tight, painful lump, and she tossed the pen into the center of the table. There was a poor attempt at a smile. “I just made all that up.”

  Eyes lowered to focus on the cigarette between his fingers, he exhaled smoke. “And why would you do that?”

  She shoved her chair back and stood up, causing him to look at her again. “Because—because I wanted ya t’feel sorry f’me.”

  “Bullshit. If you ever wanted me to feel sorry for you, you would’ve shown me those scars the first time I asked to see them. Besides, why admit now that you were lying?”

  He sounded so fucking cool and … professional. Her voice started to rise. “’Cause y’don’t feel nothin’ f’me, and y’never will. I bet y’think I deserved everything that happened t’me.”

  “Nobody deserves to be treated like that.” But he was looking at the cigarette again. Voice quiet, he added, “Every word of your story was true and you know it.”

  “Well—well, I shouldn’ta told ya.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause—’cause I bet you’ll go and have a good laugh with y’friends over this.”

  His eyes met hers. “Nothing you just said was even remotely funny.”

  “Yeah, that’s what y’say t’me.” She looked him over. “You’re real good. Real good.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Y’can play good cop, bad cop all by y’self; y’don’t even need a fuckin’ partner. F’ one minute there, I thought y’were actually human.”

  He stood up, grinding out the cigarette. “You’d better watch how you talk to me.”

  “Why don’tcha go fuck y’self.”

  The back of his fist smashed across her face, which showed no reaction. She even managed not to lose her balance, having purposely braced herself against the table.

  Guts twisting inside, he put his jacket on and picked up his things. He said, “You be at my place by eight o’clock Sunday.” He waited for a response, got none, and left anyway.

  Halfway down the staircase he heard “son of a bitch!” followed by the crash of something hurled against the door. He paused for an instant, then continued down.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE SOUND OF HIS feet on the stairs had stopped briefly, so she knew she’d had an audience. But her book had paid the price. Lying on the floor, pages down, it was opened somewhere in the middle, as if it had tripped and fallen while trying to run away. She went over to pick it up, but found herself crumpled on the floor beside it; first righting it, then skimming her fingers over the hard, glossy cover. The brand new history textbook wasn’t new anymore, the spine broken, numerous sheets folded in on themselves. What would Mr. Ingram say when she returned it at the end of the term? Would she have to pay for it? She usually took such good care of things.

  She st
ared at the door and felt her throat constricting. That episode at Heyden was one of her worst memories, something she’d tried very hard to forget. By telling it to Baker she’d given it new life, was once again conjuring up images of Edmunds and Loren snickering over what they’d done—and how they’d gotten away with it. They’d both rubbed it in her face every chance they’d gotten. And now Baker was probably laughing at her, too.

  He’d played her. The man didn’t give a rat’s ass about her feelings, yet she’d completely fallen for his little act—and so easily, too. He must be pretty fucking proud of himself. She closed her eyes. To think he, of all people, now knew what had happened. The shame, tingling and hot, was coursing through her—coursing through her veins.

  When she opened her eyes, she was still looking at the door, the dark streets beyond calling out to her. By now she knew her way around well enough to reach the underpass of the bridge without getting caught. That is, unless Baker happened to still be out there—watching. Had he driven away? She hadn’t been paying attention to the sounds outside.

  Sitting very still beside the book, she hugged her knees to her chest, resting her forehead on them. Waiting.

  Waiting it out.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER LET THE CIGARETTE hang from his mouth as he pulled his collar up and hugged himself to keep warm. He should’ve put the jacket’s lining in tonight; the temperature had dipped into the forties after reaching sixty-six in the afternoon. While he was closing the overstuffed little ashtray, some stray ashes took flight. He cursed, swiping them off his thigh, then stared at Micki’s apartment. Her lights were still on.

  He felt the heat prickling up in his cheeks: he’d been unconscionably cruel. And yet, when the conversation had started, his concern had been somewhat genuine. Hadn’t it? But then why did he manipulate her into telling him something she didn’t want to? Why did it end up so badly?

  He rolled the window down an inch and flicked some ashes into the street.

  Christ, the look on her face when she’d checked out his crotch. Never before had he seen such fear of rape being directed at him. He’d felt disgusting. Guilty. Just for being a man. So was that it? Had he been retaliating? Exacting some sort of revenge for her rampant distrust? Or maybe it had just been a ruthless power play, a demonstration of his interviewing prowess: getting her to talk simply because he could. He grunted: the kid had managed to briefly turn the tables. The little he’d disclosed had been far more than he’d ever intended her to know. Recalling her final line of questioning, his jaw clenched.