Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  He was starting to shiver. He turned over the engine to let it warm up, then snorted with self-contempt. After all, he’d forced her to dredge up terrible memories just to appease his curiosity. In return, he’d given her nothing. He’d shown more empathy when Cynthia had stubbed her toe on the bathroom door the other night.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He knew how devastating sexual assaults were. Because of it, the women’s libbers were actually lobbying to change police procedures. They wanted only female officers to take rape victims’ statements, and they wanted to ensure no officers at all would be observing the exams. Legally, the examining doctor sufficed to preserve the chain of custody for any evidence collected; yet some officers were still following victims into the examination room, needlessly retraumatizing them. And Baker had been one of them.

  He recalled a case from a few years back when a serial rapist had been on the loose in Hell’s Kitchen. The fifth in a string of incidents, a forty-three-year-old woman had been assaulted beneath the staircase leading to the basement of her building. The attack had occurred just after midnight when she’d been on her way to retrieve her last load of laundry. Frightened for her life, she’d offered no resistance, though the perp had done nothing more than threaten her. And while many cops labeled rape cases suspect when there were no weapons or bruises involved, Baker had believed her story. Completely. Her emotional reaction, however, had been an entirely different matter.

  In the emergency room, he had stood behind her when she was about to be examined. She was wearing a hospital gown with a sheet draped over the lower half of her body to provide “privacy.” But for ten minutes, she’d been refusing to lie down, crying and screaming that she wouldn’t let them continue while a man—namely Baker—was in the room. She said she didn’t care if he was a cop or the goddamned pope. Even now, thinking back, it made him cringe to remember how callous he’d been, saying, “Listen, honey, I can’t see a goddamn thing, so why don’t you just lie back and relax so we can get this over with already.” The doctor—a woman—had given him a deadly look. After that, he’d kept his mouth shut, although he hadn’t taken it all that seriously. Because he hadn’t taken the doctor seriously. Because she was a woman. He’d mistaken her for a nurse when she’d first entered the room.

  As soon as the doctor was finished, he walked out behind her with his bag of evidence, leaving the victim to get dressed in fresh clothes her daughter had brought. The doctor turned to him, saying, “I’d like you to come with me for a minute if you don’t mind, Detective,” her tone implying he shouldn’t even think of saying no. He didn’t bother to correct her regarding his rank.

  He followed her to an empty examination bay, wondering what she wanted and wishing she weren’t so short. Though quite attractive—light brown hair and deep-set hazel eyes—she was over a foot shorter than he was. He liked his women tall.

  “Do me a favor,” she said, “and remove your shoes so you can hop up on the table for me.”

  He’d flashed an anxious smile. “What?”

  “Are you afraid?”

  He tried to stare her down.

  She was not impressed.

  He did as she asked.

  Once he was on the table, she had him lie down. Then she made him put his feet in the stirrups and slide his butt all the way to the edge, the clean white paper crackling loudly beneath him until he was positioned exactly the same as the victim had been in order to be examined. Baker knew from the heat in his face that it had turned beet red. And he was still fully clothed.

  The doctor said nothing while he quietly got up and put his shoes back on. When he could finally look her in the eye, he apologized.

  “I think you should be apologizing to Ms. Navarro,” she replied.

  Baker nodded, then extended his hand, which the doctor had graciously shaken. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten. Until now.

  How could he have been so cold? The more Micki had disclosed about her abuse, the angrier he had become, and yet he never let it show, never showed any compassion, either. And even ignoring his response—or lack thereof—what had it cost her to tell her story to him, not only a man but someone who, for the most part, had never been anything but an enemy to her?

  Her light went off, and he looked at his watch: 3:07. At 3:30 he’d go. Until then, he’d keep an eye on her building, praying she wouldn’t walk out that door. For he knew what he’d done: he’d exposed more scars, cut open some deep wounds on a junkie and left them to bleed. And to think he’d even hit her afterward.

  Not too bright.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER MUCH TOSSING AND turning, Micki finally dozed off at seven thirty in the morning, only to get up at noon, tired of jolting awake every hour and trying to force herself back to sleep. She had cupcakes for breakfast and a quick jump in the shower.

  Underneath the mattress was the money she’d set aside for the vest she wanted—the entire amount. Except she really hadn’t planned on buying it just yet, hadn’t quite made the final decision. Still, she took the bills from their hiding place and fanned them out on top of the bed. It made her heart ache. She stuffed the money in her pocket and left.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MUCH TO HER RELIEF, there was a different biker salesman at the store. He didn’t comment on her bruised face, simply helped her find the right size vest, then moved on. Saturdays were busy.

  She went home, went grocery shopping, then tried to settle down to homework. But it was impossible to sit still or concentrate. Clawing at her every waking minute, the craving was an empty, yawning pit demanding to be filled. She pulled the new vest out of the closet and laid it out on the bed. Rich with the smell of leather, it was soft and smooth under her fingers. She lifted it up. And put it on. But felt exactly the same as she had before. It was just a piece of clothing.

  She tried listening to the radio. Eating chocolate till she was nauseous. Sleeping. But the edgy, restless feeling wasn’t willing to release her this time. She left the apartment.

  Outside, the overcast sky, which was usually soothing, was having little effect. She went to work early, hanging out in the tiny area behind the restaurant—three dented, old garbage pails and a dumpster for company. While she leaned against the brick wall, a slight breeze passed through, eddying the dry, dead leaves at her feet. And then the urge for a cigarette welled up. Though she’d never smoked, she could picture herself doing it. If Baker were standing there instead of her, that’s exactly what he would be doing.

  The metal door opened and Juan, apron wet and full of stains, stepped out. “Hey, Little Micki.”

  This made her smile. It was a long-standing joke that he called her “Little Micki” when he was but a whole inch taller than she was. “Hey, Juan.”

  He lit a cigarette and looked up at the thick layer of clouds. “Gonna rain; what a drag. Me and my girl was gonna take a ride on my new bike later on. But at night in the rain … I ain’t good enough yet. My bike’s a beauty, though. You see her out front?”

  Micki shook her head no.

  “No? The red Kawasaki?”

  “I really wasn’t lookin’, Juan.”

  “Shit!” He dashed down the alley. When he returned, he said, “Man, you scare me, y’know? Get me thinkin’ maybe somebody rip her off. She cost me alotta bread. I’d freak if someone did that. I oughtta park her back here, but Mr. A won’t let me, said there’s not enough room.” He raised the cigarette to his lips. “How come you hangin’ out here now?”

  She shrugged.

  “You look beat, y’know? Maybe you partyin’ too much.”

  “I’m not partyin’ at all, but I’m not sleepin’, either.”

  He gave a quick glance around, then moved closer. His voice much lower, he said, “I got somethin’ that’d help you sleep, y’know? I mean, you can party with ’em, but they’ll put you out
if y’wannem to. You ever do ludes?”

  She shook her head no.

  “I give you three for five bucks. That’s real cheap ’cause I like you.”

  She had no idea if that was cheap or not, and she couldn’t afford the five bucks. But she couldn’t afford more nights like the last one, either. “Y’got ’em with you?”

  “You got the bread?”

  She reached into her pocket, then paused. But the chances of Baker returning so soon were very slim. She took out her money and counted five singles. But when Juan reached for the bills, she pulled her hand away. “Where’s the stuff?”

  He gave her a sly smile. “You don’ trust me, Little Micki?”

  “Just get the stuff an’ I’ll trust ya t’take my money.”

  He laughed. “I be right back. Don’t go in yet.” He threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his work boot. A few minutes later, he came back out with three white tablets inside a tiny plastic bag.

  She stuffed the packet inside her jacket pocket. “How many d’ya take?”

  “You? You small. Just take one unless you wanna be really wasted.” Seeing the strange look in her eyes, he added, “Just be careful; don’t take too much.”

  “Sure, Juan.” And she watched him walk away, the kitchen clamor a messy burst of noise when he opened the door to go inside.

  She looked up and noticed the darkening clouds. Large and low, they were barely moving, even as another breeze happened by. The air, like her heart, felt heavier now, the leaves chasing each other blindly on the cold, hard ground.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN SHE LEFT BEL, it was drizzling. Jacket drawn up over her head, she jogged home, changed into her nightshirt, and took one of the pills. But half an hour later, she was still awake. Maybe Juan had gypped her. She threw back the covers and got up. Then couldn’t remember why. The walls—washed out, all of the color gone—looked far away and unwelcoming, everything bleached behind a milky-white screen. Centered in its own special space, her mind was floating—and she couldn’t feel the floor, her rubbery legs collapsing beneath her. She fell back onto the bed.

  This probably hadn’t been such a hot idea.

  chapter 10

  MICKI WOKE UP THE next morning feeling tired. What a waste of five dollars. She pushed the remaining two Quaaludes through the hole in her jacket pocket. Some people collected stamps.

  She arrived at Baker’s building and buzzed his apartment, though she could’ve walked through the main entrance with another tenant again. By the time she reached his floor, he was already standing in the doorway, showered and shaved. He stepped back to let her in and noted the brown paper bag that probably contained her lunch. She took off her jacket and hung it in the closet, then threw the bag in there, as well.

  “New vest,” he observed.

  As if she hadn’t heard him, she turned to go to the kitchen, Friday night’s bruise—a brushstroke of maroon and red across her cheek—becoming clearly visible. It caused his chest to tighten, but he said only, “Forget about breakfast. Cynthia and I are going out, then I’m taking her home.”

  Micki glanced at his bedroom door.

  “She’s still getting dressed,” he said. Staring down at her, he added, “I don’t want you going through my things while I’m gone, is that clear?”

  Before Micki could answer, Cynthia came out, wearing hip-hugger bell bottoms. Hair in loose curls, eyes still puffy with sleep, she looked different without make-up. She smiled—“Hi, Micki”—then put her shoulder bag on the floor and slipped into the brown suede jacket Baker held out for her.

  Baker gave Micki a long, hard look.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m not gonna trash the place while you’re gone.”

  Seeing Baker’s expression, Cynthia flashed Micki an apologetic smile. But he continued to look at her darkly. Then he pointed his finger and said, “You watch yourself.” And held her gaze a little too long.

  Her breath caught in her throat: he knew.

  The couple left, Baker locking up behind them, their footsteps and chatter growing more distant as they wended their way down the stairs. Micki stared at the door. She hated being treated like some feral creature raised by wolves. And how could he tell she’d taken something last night? The fuzziness seemed barely noticeable to her. About to start for the kitchen, her eyes were drawn to the upper lock, a double-cylinder deadbolt. She opened the lower latch, turned the knob, and pulled. But nothing happened. The son of a bitch had locked her in. She slammed her palm against the door—“Fucking bastard!”—and marched directly into his bedroom.

  She opened the top drawer of his dresser to find socks and underwear plus a small red box that read: “Latex condoms non-lubricated.” Tucked in the back, underneath his briefs, was some girlie magazine. She was pulling it out when she heard the jingle of keys. She stuffed the magazine back in the drawer, then hurried out to the hallway—only to realize it had been one of his neighbors. She returned to his room.

  This time she went for the wooden box on top of the bureau. Made of walnut, corners worn smooth, it was adorned with the carving of an old galleon. Inside she found his tie clip and a thick silver ID bracelet engraved with his initials—maybe Cynthia had given this to him. The only other item resting on the brown velveteen lining was a gold class ring with a garnet in the middle. Heavy in the palm of her hand, it was too big for even her thumb. She read the letters encircling the dark-red stone: “CORNELL UNIVERSITY.” Ivy League. Pretty impressive for a cop. She put it back, closed the lid, and looked around for something else—maybe his uniforms. The closet door had been left open, and she could see them hanging in a neat, orderly row, the sergeant’s stripes on the jackets’ sleeves creating a pretty design against the sea of dark navy blue. The one at the front—dressier than the others, with all kinds of pins on it—still smelled of his aftershave. She ran her fingers over the bars of patterned colors, wondering what he’d done to earn so many. Acts of heroism and bravery, no doubt.

  Acts of heroism and bravery.

  She went to the kitchen and started cleaning.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THEY WERE SITTING IN one of Cynthia’s favorite midtown restaurants, a Parisian-style café called the Manhattan Crêperie that served the ultra-thin French pancakes in every conceivable form. It wasn’t Baker’s kind of thing, but the eggs Benedict—made with a crêpe, of course—weren’t all that bad. Cynthia had chosen some sort of fruit concoction, a rather meager dish, the raspberry and blueberry sauces now swirling around aimlessly in the melted whipped cream surrounding the uneaten portion.

  “Is that going to be enough?” Baker asked.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “You want some? It’s delicious, but I think I’m finished.”

  While he continued working on his eggs, a canny look came over him. “Are you on a diet?”

  “I just want to lose a few pounds. The agent in LA said it would be a good idea.”

  “Oh, jeez, Cyn.”

  “The camera adds ten pounds,” she said. “It’s not such a big deal for commercial print, but for film—well, it’s like when I was doing fashion work.”

  He shook his head and went back to his meal. After another couple of bites, he asked, “So did you ever find that book you were looking for?”

  “Mmm.” Having just taken a sip of coffee, she was nodding. “I went down to Weiser’s in the Village on Friday and found a ton of different books on meditation. I bought a couple, but haven’t had a chance to start reading them yet.”

  Their waiter—an elderly gentleman with the prerequisite French accent, well-groomed mustache, and imperious air—came by with the coffee pot. “More café, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He looked at Baker. “Monsieur?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”
And once the waiter was gone, Baker, with a bit of a smile, asked, “So did you buy anything for me at that store?”

  “Actually,” she replied, “I did.” When his lips parted, she grinned and reached into her shoulder bag. “Hold out your hand.”

  He put out his palm, and she placed a round object in the middle. About an inch in diameter, the stone had bands, stripes, and oddly shaped bull’s-eye patterns in varying shades of green. As he looked at the polished, irregular sphere, the creases in his forehead deepened. “You bought me a weird, giant marble?”

  “It’s malachite.”

  “Malachite?”

  “It’s a semiprecious gemstone. Spiritually, it can heal, help open up the heart chakra, and bring protection and safety.”

  “Can it also wash my car?”

  “Very funny.”

  He smiled. “So this thing’s supposed to protect me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His grin broadened.

  Her mouth twisted. Then, with a very straight face, she said, “I tried to get one shaped like a gun, but they were all out.”

  He chuckled. “As long as you tried, Cyn.” And he rolled the sphere around in his hand. Closed in his fist, it felt cool and solid. “Thanks,” he said, “I like it. I’ll find a spot for it at home—it’s a little too big to keep with me all the time.” While he was putting it in his jacket pocket, a couple walked by, following the maitre d’ to their seats. His expression changed. “Oh, hell.”

  “What is it?”

  “I just realized I locked the kid inside the apartment. It didn’t even dawn on me when we left. God forbid there’s an emergency.”