Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  She blanched. “I forgot about ironing it ’cause it was the only one. But I’ll do it right now.” And she reached for it.

  He stopped her hand. “Forget it.”

  “But it won’t take more than a few minutes. I—”

  “No!” His face was set.

  Swearing at him in her head, she left to wait in the kitchen while he finished. When he joined her, he was already searching through her jacket, which he’d taken from the closet. Without being asked, she emptied her pockets on the table, and he went through the routine of patting her down.

  “You did an excellent job again,” he said.

  “Big deal.”

  Grabbing her shoulder, he turned her around. “If you do this well again next week, we’ll call it even.”

  Her jaw dropped. “But—”

  Eyebrows raised like two question marks, he said, “You’re going to argue with me?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BY THE TIME MICKI left, the daylight was all but gone. It was getting dark early now. Through stifled yawns, she thought about the history homework that was waiting for her.

  She hurried down into the subway and dropped a token into the turnstile—school passes weren’t valid on weekends. These little outings—seventy cents round trip—were yet another waste of money. When she checked her pocket, all she had left was a dollar, a quarter, two dimes, and four pennies—and she wasn’t getting paid again until Wednesday. But she didn’t want to touch her savings anymore. The whole thirty-three dollars of it. Like it really mattered.

  The rumble of an approaching train grew louder, and she stared at the subway tracks below. Then she turned her head to look down into the tunnel. Mesmerized by the oncoming headlights.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER WENT TO THE study, pulled his cigarettes out of the desk drawer, and lit up. God, what a relief. During breakfast he’d made a silent pact with himself not to smoke until Micki had left. By early afternoon, he’d known it would be a small miracle if he actually managed to hold out until now. He closed his eyes. Considering he’d spent most of the day sitting on his butt, he was surprisingly exhausted.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the Playboy still lying on his desk. Micki would be back next week, and, just like this week, he might end up leaving her here by herself for a while. As it was, he had to remember to hide away the lockbox with his guns, secure the liquor cabinet, take his pills out of the medicine chest … This would be yet another thing to add to the list. While the chances of her finding that one little mention in the magazine were practically nil, he’d feel pretty shitty if she did. Besides, he’d already read everything.

  He went to pay another visit to the garbage chute.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  ALREADY ON HIS THIRD double whiskey, Baker put Neil Young’s Harvest album on the turntable and lit a fresh cigarette—his seventh since Micki had left—then settled into the recliner and picked up her file.

  Given what had become of Tim Reilly’s little sister, it wasn’t much of a leap to think that Tim had kept Micki on the straight and narrow, at least as far as sex and drugs were concerned. And from the looks of it, even the heavy criminal activity hadn’t started until after Tim’s death. That meant Micki had developed a sixty-dollar-a-day habit in only one month, not the two he’d initially thought. It was amazing she hadn’t OD’d. But she also hadn’t been exposed to the toxic mix of full-blown street life all that long, either.

  As for her record, first impressions might’ve been deceiving there, too: not once had a mugging victim actually been stabbed or slashed, though she’d hit a few when things had gone sour. And yet she could still be extremely violent; Heyden records alone attested to that. But the shrink’s assessment seemed more meaningful now: the emotional and psychological scars were increasingly evident, as was the depression, which was reflected in the sleep disturbances and weight loss. Despite a steady diet of candy, pizza, pasta, and peanut butter, Micki now appeared thinner than when she’d first arrived from juvi—even though she’d initially gained a few pounds. She simply wasn’t eating enough again. And the self-destructiveness? How many times had she baited him, knowing full well what the consequences would be?

  But if the shrink’s prescription was as on target as her perceptions, then what the hell was he doing as Micki’s guardian? At best he could give some guidance—though not exactly what the good doctor had in mind. And the “love-and-stable-family-environment” shit was definitely out of the question. Of course, the people best able to provide that might never be able to control her; it was naïve to think good intentions and love would solve all of her behavioral problems. He sighed. Sometimes it seemed she just didn’t know any better, didn’t understand any other way of dealing with things than by using fists and foul language.

  About to pour himself another drink, he paused: maybe Warner would be the perfect guardian for her. He was into the psych stuff and strong enough, physically, to keep her in line if he had to. He’d also taken a genuine liking to the kid, though god only knew why. But one thing was certain: no one else gave a shit about Micki. No one from social services had come around to check on her, and neither Malone nor Tillim had talked to her in all this time. Tillim, however, had called Baker twice, each occasion ending up a one-way conversation.

  Baker filled the tumbler halfway. Recalling Tillim’s awkward attempts to draw him out, he drained the glass with a crooked smile.

  The turntable’s tone arm, having reached the end of the record, began its convoluted routine of lifting and retracting. Baker closed the folder and stubbed out his cigarette. Shit, how did he let himself get sucked into this? He’d sworn he wouldn’t get involved, yet he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid. He poured another drink and tossed it back. Everything had been a hell of a lot easier when he simply hated her guts. What if she was just conning him?

  It was late. He got up and turned off the stereo. He needed to go to bed before the walls closed in, before he thought too much about his life and drank too much of the whiskey. But when he put his head down and shut his eyes, he couldn’t fall asleep. The bed was too big and too cold without the warmth of Cynthia’s body pressed up against his own. And his mind was still filled with images of Micki. He wondered if she realized he knew—maybe more than she did—just what it was she wanted from him. He felt a tug at his heart. He breathed in and rolled over.

  Outside, the street noise continued to change as the shadow side of the city slipped into its midnight skin. Inside, the seconds and minutes crawled by, dark and heavy, skirting the edge of his pillow and the ideas spinning round in his head. Like the brooding, hypnotic beats of a worn-out metronome, his thoughts were keeping time with the song that refused to stop playing—refused to stop repeating—though he tried with all his might to let it go: Neil Young’s “Old Man.”

  chapter 11

  TUESDAY NIGHT’S SENIOR VARSITY basketball game, and Baker was heading security. It was a typical high school event—the squeak of sneakers on highly polished wood; thumps of a dribbled ball; cheers, jeers, and angry shouts; and pulsing pom-poms like giant sea anemones—until an especially tall, well-muscled black forward from Queens Central High engaged in heavy contact with one of the home team’s white guards. Surrounded by a haphazard circle of other players and the umpire, the white boy was rolling around on the floor, clutching his ribs, face contorted in a melodramatic display. Queens Central High was predominantly black; Newbridge High, predominantly white. The conflict escalated from a personal, sports-related one to a race-related one in a matter of seconds. The game was called and, with the help of Marino and Jamison, the spectators cleared from the bleachers—though not without the threat of a full-fledged riot. Afterward, rather than sit at a bar alone, Baker called Warner to take him up on a standing invitation to stop by.

  Warner lived in a basement apartment near the university wh
ere he was attending classes. Baker walked through the door and into an invasion of textbooks, library books, and papers to which the entire studio space had apparently surrendered.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Warner said as he cleared a spot at the kitchen table. Then he grabbed two beers from the refrigerator.

  Looking at the piles all around him, Baker said, “It’s fine. What’re you working on?”

  “A small case presentation, a term paper, and my dissertation.

  “You’re sure I’m not interrupting you?”

  Warner laughed. “Life is interrupting me. I feel like all I do in my free time is work on this stuff. So tell me, what happened at the game tonight?”

  Baker told him about the incident, they talked a little about work, and then the conversation turned to Micki. After listening to Baker seesaw back and forth, Warner finally asked, “Have you ever considered what it’s like to actually be her?”

  “Huh?”

  “How would you feel if you were seventeen years old and entirely on your own without a shred of personal history and no family or friends to turn to? It’s a pretty rough deal.”

  Baker took a drink of his beer and sat back. “Well, it’s really not my problem.”

  “But it is.”

  “Do you want kids?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want kids,” Baker repeated.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing, I’m just curious.”

  “Well, yeah, I do want kids, but I think it would help if I found myself a girlfriend first to kind of get the ball rolling, don’t y’think?”

  They both laughed, then drifted onto other topics. And after another couple of beers, Baker left, feeling extremely tired. Still, he found himself detouring to Micki’s, driving through Queens neighborhoods where clusters of stores, all closed for the night, looked abandoned and uninviting, most shuttered with graffitied security gates under unlit signs. Here and there—like a misplaced, gaudy island—a fast-food restaurant glared through the boredom, so bright it almost hurt his eyes.

  Momentarily stopped at a red light, he looked over at the car to his right. The driver, about twenty years old, was talking to his female passenger. Baker, an invisible stranger in his own glass-and-metal bubble, felt utterly alone. Except for the moon. Glancing upward from time to time as he continued on his way, he watched the earth’s satellite—his traveling companion—sliding in and out of clouds as it arced its way across the late-October sky.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER PARKED HIS CAR down the street from Micki’s apartment. Though it was only half past eleven, her windows were already dark. He entered her building and trudged up the stairs, noting the telephone’s new “OUt oF oRder” sign, which looked, as usual, like a first-grader had written it. The hallway—windowless and narrow, with peeling yellowed wallpaper and uneven linoleum tiles—smelled strongly of bleach, though nothing looked the cleaner for it.

  Before he’d even reached her door, he could hear noises—moans—from inside. His fatigue disappeared. Like hell she didn’t stay up fucking that bastard! Eleven thirty on a school night! He quietly inserted his key in the lock, then stopped. He’d wait. How long could Galligan last anyway? But as he was pulling his cigarettes from his pocket, he became cognizant of how odd the sounds were. The moans were more distressed than sensual; there were whimpers, thuds, and little cries of “no.” He strained to hear what was happening. What if the son of a bitch was hurting her? Forcing her? He turned the key and slipped inside.

  Light spilled in through the doorway to dimly illuminate the room. But he saw only one figure: Micki was alone in bed. And though she was unconscious, she was far from inactive, first thrashing around and then curling up tight—yelling, moaning, or whimpering in some nightmarish dream state. He gently eased the door shut, waited for his eyes to adjust, then sat down quietly at the table.

  Her bed was an impressive mess, the top sheet and blanket pulled half off the mattress in different directions. He was thinking about waking her, if only to relieve his own discomfort, when she abruptly stopped and opened her eyes. She picked up the alarm clock and tilted it toward the faint light coming in through the curtains. With a groan, she lay back down on her stomach, tucking her arms beneath her and closing her eyes.

  Baker slowly exhaled. Motionless at the table, he watched as she shifted, turned, and moved the pillow around on the mattress until she eventually fell back to sleep. But the same violently restless activity soon ensued, sending chills up his spine. This episode, however, was very brief. And when she looked at the clock again, she muttered, “Fuck it,” before getting out of bed and switching on the desk lamp. She turned toward the kitchen. And gasped.

  “What’re you doin’ here?” she demanded.

  “Just take it easy. I’m not doing anything. Except watching you sleep—if you could call it that.”

  “Meanin’ what?”

  “You must’ve been having a really bad nightmare.”

  She glanced away, the shadows in her eyes getting deeper. For at Heyden, during the brief time she’d spent in the lower-security cottages, her roommates had made her painfully aware of her nocturnal activities. She could only imagine it had gotten worse. She waited for Baker to ask the inevitable next question, but he never did. Instead, he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. She walked past him, heading for the kitchen. But rather than make cocoa, she got a glass of water. She took a few sips and stared at the back of his head.

  “Are you gonna go now?” she asked.

  Turned sideways in the chair so he could see her, he replied, “Not just yet.”

  “Why not? What’re you hangin’ around for?”

  “I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

  “Well, I won’t be able to go to bed if you’re here.”

  “If I were going to do something, Micki, I would’ve made my move while you were still asleep.”

  She held his gaze, then averted her eyes.

  From across the street, there came a loud, metallic rattle as the auto-body shop’s garage door opened. A car that had been idling could be heard moving, and then its engine was cut. The garage door clattered closed.

  Micki sipped her water while Baker smoked his cigarette. She realized he wasn’t going to leave this time. She put the glass in the sink and got back into bed.

  Baker went to the desk and shut the light.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  LYING ON HER LEFT side, blanket clutched tightly around her, Micki could see the tip of his cigarette brighten each time he inhaled. She tried to focus on the little orange glow and the assortment of sounds coming in from the street. She tried very hard to stay awake. But her eyelids were growing heavy. A short while later, there was a calm steadiness to her breathing.

  Voice hushed, Baker asked, “Are you still awake?” When there was no response, he got up and went over to the bed. All of the tension was gone from her face, the scarred skin smoothed out in the soft, diffuse light. She looked younger, peaceful, and—like anyone asleep—innocent. Almost in a whisper, he added, “’Cause if you’re still awake, I’ll leave. I really don’t want to keep you up.” But all he heard was the auto-body shop’s garage door again, and another car being driven in. Maybe the joint was a chop shop.

  He hung around a while longer, even though he’d already seen enough to know that what she’d told him was true: she didn’t sleep well. Except for now. For the past twenty minutes she’d barely moved.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THURSDAY MORNING, TWO DETECTIVES and three uniformed cops showed up at the school to arrest three white seniors on murder charges. The boys had allegedly stalked a young black man as he’d left a house only a block away from the campus. Using an old, beat-up Rambler that belonged to one of the boys’ mothers, they’d followed him in hi
s Volkswagen to Queens College, where he was a student. He’d parked and gotten out of his car, only to be met with the blows of a baseball bat that fatally crushed his skull. Witnesses claimed the man had been beaten for no other reason than being black.

  When word of the killing got around the security staff, there was fear that the incident, if publicized, would fan the fires of racial tension already smoldering in the school. So much for all the peace and love of the sixties, Baker thought. What bullshit that turned out to be.

  As he signed the last report for the school’s records, he recalled how condescending the local detectives had been until, incensed at the role he was being forced to play, he’d reintroduced himself—rank and all—and flashed his shield. Immediately, their attitudes had changed. And though they’d eyed him with curiosity, they’d kept their questions to themselves.

  Baker filed the papers and slammed the cabinet drawer shut. Fucking assholes.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MICKI WAS JUST ABOUT to go home when Marino came rushing into the office.

  “Hey,” he said as he shrugged off his jacket, “I tried to get back here as quick as I could, but the friggin’ doctor made me wait nearly three-quarters of an hour. Man, I could use some coffee.” He picked up a Styrofoam cup and pulled out the carafe. Turning toward Baker, he said, “Doc tells me, after taking a ton of blood for tests, that it’s probably just some allergic thing—”

  The office door flew open as Jamison hurried in to retrieve the walkie-talkie he’d left on the desk a few minutes earlier. The door hit Marino’s elbow, causing the coffee he was pouring to spill onto his hand. “Shit!” He let go of the cup, its contents splashing across his jeans and sneakers. As the hot liquid seeped into the denim and burned his skin, he instinctively grabbed at the wet material—letting go of the carafe in the process. The glass pot shattered when it hit the floor. “Shit!” he said again, still pulling at the cloth.

  “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Jamison asked. “I didn’t know you were standing there.”