Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  “I need some time to think about this.”

  “Well, you’ve only got till Monday. After that, the boy’ll get hooked up with one of the eligible families. There’s a lot of paperwork involved. I can’t hold them off any longer than that.”

  “Then why did you wait till now to tell me?”

  “Because this time around you’re the problem. That boy could easily get placed with one of several families eager to take him. As far as social services is concerned you’re, by far, the least appealing candidate. But I’ve been busy pulling strings again.”

  “Look, I’m not ungrateful, but I—this just isn’t so easy. I need some time.”

  Malone picked up a crumpled paper napkin from his desk and threw it in the garbage. “It’s your life.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AUTUMN WAS STAKING ITS claim with wind-driven showers of golden and fiery leaves. They were floating and spinning as the gusts picked up in expectation of the impending storm. But while Baker’s feet crunched along the path, pounding out his usual course, the scenery around him was fading. Next week he could still be exercising through this seasonal beauty while Micki might be locked up behind brick walls and barbed-wire fences—back in solitary, no doubt. If she went back there for good, it would probably take her all of one day to manage that.

  As he passed another jogger, a man he frequently saw running in the mornings, Baker raised his hand in greeting. Back around June, the same man, going by at a remarkable clip, had shouted to him in a very thick accent, “My son, he just graduated medical school!” The word just had sounded like hhhyust; the word medical, like medeecal. And the man’s face, glistening from a layer of sweat over a shadow of stubble, had been beaming. Because of his son. Watching the man disappear around the bend in the green glow of late spring, Baker had suddenly wondered whether his own decision to never have kids was a mistake. And now there was this boy Malone was offering …

  Stung by a nasty stitch in his left side—his punishment for lifting weights more often than jogging, the cigarettes not helping much, either—Baker slowed his pace. Veering off, he headed back to his apartment, dragging himself up the stairs and cursing the pain in his knees. His sweatshirt was soaked through, and he needed a shower. But more than anything, he needed someone to tell him what to do. The smart thing, thinking strictly of himself, was to get rid of Micki and take the other kid. Micki had been nothing but a combative, streetwise pain in the ass from day one. But every time he thought about trading her in, his mind would throw back proof that he was totally off, completely missing the mark—as if he’d never seen a hint of what was on the other side.

  So which Micki was the real one? If she was scamming him, she was doing a hell of a job, was a far better actress than Cynthia would ever be. Plus, that boy had a mother to go home to in the future and lots of people vying to take him in the interim. Micki had no one and never would. No one, that was, except him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MICKI SPENT THE HOUR before work in a flat and heavy sleep. As soon as her shift was over, she went back to her apartment, changed into her nightshirt, and lay down again, not even bothering to brush her teeth. When the storm started after midnight, it woke her up. She listened to the hard rain strike the glass, the wind blasting by, rattling the old windows and shrieking.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  SHE WAS RUNNING DOWN the alley again, chain-link fence glittering on one side, smooth brick wall on the other. Ragged and harsh in the warm summer night, her breathing had the same steady rhythm as her feet.

  Further and further she flew down the tapering trail, her pursuer anywhere and everywhere in the shadows behind her. And then the air rippled with a long, sorrowful sigh, producing the other brick wall to block her path. Eyes stinging from the gritty dust kicking up from the ground, she could feel herself slowing while the pavement, rumbling and shaking, cracked itself open into a vast, craggy fissure just before the barrier.

  She reached the crust at the edge of the pit and stared down at her feet and the chasm below. Chunks of the surface were falling away, the gaping black hole growing wider and wider. But she needed to wait; she needed to stay where she was. Until the last possible moment. Until that razor-sharp point when she alone could make it across. But perhaps she’d already waited too long. Endlessly deep, the gap appeared too large; the crumbling ledge on the opposite side, too narrow. If she jumped now, she could lose her footing.

  Alive with flashes and crackles, the atmosphere bristled with a massive static charge. Then the floodlight dimmed, throwing the area beyond into deeper shadow. Hot, foul breath touched the nape of her neck …

  Micki woke to the howling of the wind outside, the rain beating harshly against the glass. Wide eyed, she stared into the darkness of her room.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER TWELVE HOURS, THE storm abated, but major roads and highways had been flooded. Strewn with debris and downed trees, they were still closed, precluding the scenic drive to Bear Mountain that Baker and Cynthia had planned. Instead, they went out for a late Chinese dinner and returned to Baker’s apartment, debating whether or not to catch the ten-o’clock showing of a movie.

  Cynthia thought it would be fun to see Earthquake, simply to experience Sensurround, which was supposed to simulate the feel of the real thing. Baker said it sounded dumb and that the movie was probably dumber. So they ended up having sex, then lying around in bed afterward. Eyes closed, stretched out on his back, Baker had his arm around Cynthia. She ran her hand over his chest.

  “Mmm,” he murmured.

  She suddenly pulled the sheet around her and sat up.

  Baker opened his eyes. “What is it?”

  “Let’s bake cookies,” she said. “Big, giant chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “What?” He was grinning.

  “I’m starving again.”

  “You’re serious!”

  “C’mon, I bet Red Apple is still open; I want to bake them from scratch.”

  He sat up and kissed her nose.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER DID A MINIMAL amount of cooking, but never baked; so they had to buy almost everything they needed. Following the recipe on the back of the Nestlé’s bag, Cynthia sifted, measured, and mixed the ingredients while Baker greased two cookie sheets. Each received one huge glob of cookie dough that was flattened out before heading into the oven.

  When Cynthia checked her watch to keep track of the time, it was already 11:13. “Let’s see if there’s an old movie on TV.” They moved into the living room, and Baker turned on the set while Cynthia took off her shoes and got comfortable on the couch. As he started changing channels, she asked, “So do you want to tell me what’s been bothering you all night?”

  He shrugged and flipped through the stations again. So far, all he’d seen was commercials.

  “Talk to me, Jim. Please.”

  Sighing, he shut the TV and straightened up to face her. “I have to decide if I want to keep Micki or take a different kid instead. Malone told me about a boy he wants me to consider.”

  “But, I don’t understand …”

  So Baker sketched it out while Cynthia’s expression clouded over. “Well, you’re not going to do that, are you? Abandon her like that?”

  “At this point, I don’t know what I should do. It’s not like I don’t feel bad about the idea of sending her back to juvi, but I have my career to think about. It’d be a hell of a lot easier on me to take the boy.”

  Unfolding her long legs from where they’d been tucked beneath her, Cynthia sat up very straight while the aroma of warm, baking cookies filled the apartment. “So you’ve made up your mind already?”

  “No, that’s just it: I haven’t yet.”

  “Well—do the right thing.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It is that simpl
e. There’s no other choice. It’s not fair to her.”

  “And what about me?” Baker’s voice was rising. “Is it fair to me to jeopardize my career when I don’t have to? Jesus, I should never have told you about this.”

  “You’re supposed to do what’s right, not what’s easiest.”

  “You’re so naïve, Cynthia. When are you going to start living in the real world?”

  Her eyes flashed. There was a small, defiant toss of her hair. But she got up from the couch with great composure. And when she spoke again, her voice was low. “You go to hell.”

  Baker’s mouth fell open. Not once, in all the time he’d known her, had he ever heard her talk like that.

  “I am not naïve,” she said, “I simply live by my principles.” With a cool eye, she looked him over. “I really don’t know you anymore; maybe I never knew you to begin with. I always thought you believed in justice and fairness—always ready to help people, protecting those who can’t protect themselves.”

  “What makes you think Micki needs protecting? You have absolutely no idea the things that kid has done.”

  “Because you won’t tell me. But I don’t need to know. Whatever she did in the past has nothing to do with where she is now. From the first time I saw her, I knew in my heart that she was basically good, that she had a good soul.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Now you’re going to start in with that mysticism crap?”

  Her blue eyes turned darker, and her words began from between clenched teeth: “She just needs someone to help her. She’s crying out for some attention, and you’re going to turn your back on her.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know exactly what I’m talking about.” The patronizing look he gave her made her want to smack it right off his face. Instead, she said, “I want to see other people, Jim.” When his jaw dropped again, she added, “This has been coming on for quite some time now.”

  “Yeah, ever since you met that asshole actor out in LA.”

  There was a spark of pity in her eyes. “It’s much more than that. We have a lot of issues that need to be addressed.”

  Voice full of sarcasm, he said, “Oh, really.”

  “That’s right. You want to hear some?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Well, that’s the biggest one of all.” When Baker looked away, Cynthia slipped into her shoes and went to the closet to get her coat. “I think I’d better go.”

  “I think so.”

  She was turning his keys in the lock when he asked the back of her head, “Do you want me to call you a cab or wait with you downstairs until you get one?”

  Not glancing back, she could picture the annoyed look on his face. “No,” she said acidly, and opened the door. “I’ll be just fine by myself.”

  After the door had slammed shut behind her, Baker said softly, “I bet you will.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  LEANING OUT THE WINDOW, he could see her exiting the building. As pissed off as he was, he should never have let her go downstairs alone. He had an “understanding” with the local crew that hung out on his street, but she wasn’t, by any means, safe; the area was rife with crime. Yet he was worrying over nothing; the woman clearly led a charmed life: a taxi—an extremely rare sight in his neighborhood at this hour—pulled up out of nowhere. He ducked his head back in and slammed the window down.

  The cookies were burning. He went into the kitchen and turned off the oven before looking inside and then slamming that shut, too. After a brief pause, he swept his arm across the counter and the table, sending the still-open bags of sugars and flour, the little can of baking soda, the tiny bottle of vanilla extract, the measuring cups and spoons, mixing bowl, and utensils all flying to the floor. In the late-night silence, the noise from the falling metal and heavy glass was deafening. Baker half expected an irate, disapproving bang on the ceiling from his downstairs neighbor—but none was forthcoming.

  He stomped back into the living room, pulled out his whiskey, and quickly polished off what little was left. He reached for the J&B Gould had brought, but then closed the cabinet instead. He should go to sleep. After all, the kid would be coming in the morning, the goddamn pain in the ass. Because of her, he couldn’t even tie one on when he needed to.

  But his sleep was fitful. And at 4:00 a.m., he got up and went back to the living room. After some hesitation, he opened the new bottle. No doubt, this was not how Gould had envisioned his gift being used, but then, Gould didn’t know Baker had a drinking problem. Baker never drank on the job and had never gotten truly drunk socially. It was only when he was alone—alone and depressed. Bottle to his lips, he told himself it wasn’t such a big deal—nothing he couldn’t handle on his own. Yet this was the very first time he’d ever admitted—even to himself—that his drinking was, in fact, a problem.

  The whiskey burned going down, the spreading warmth inducing an unusual and uncomfortable tremor. Hand wrapped around the neck, he let the bottle hang by his side.

  The hour felt much darker.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IT TOOK FIVE RINGS of the buzzer to cut through Baker’s leaden sleep—he’d dozed off only half an hour before. Groaning as he rolled over, he got up and put on his jeans, fumbling with the button before zipping up the fly. He threw on his shirt, not bothering to button it at all.

  When he opened the door, Micki drew back. But more than the bloodshot gaze, the uncombed hair, and the state of his clothes, it was his breath that really made her want to bolt.

  At first he said nothing, simply stood in the entryway, glaring at her through hooded eyes that were masking the slightly disjointed thoughts and almost imperceptible hint of the headache to come. Strangely sickening, a shimmering aura was flickering back and forth at the edge of his brain.

  “Go make me some coffee,” he ordered.

  Warm and brown, the scent of burnt sugar colored the air as she walked past him into the living room. He followed a few steps behind, then sat down in the club chair by the bookcase.

  But at the foot of the kitchen, she froze, gaping at the disaster before her. She pivoted around and started back. “I don’t know what the hell is goin’ on, but I’m outta here.”

  He stood up. “Is that right,” he said.

  She halted a few feet away, still holding her lunch.

  “Well, go on, then,” he said. “Who’s stopping you?”

  She remained where she was.

  Voice low, speech a little slurred, he asked, “Whatsa matter, Reilly, you scared of me?”

  And she wished that—even if it were only for a moment—she could be bigger than he was. “Yeah, I’m scared of you.”

  A grin spread across his face. “Gee, I didn’t think you’d admit that. But, then again, you don’t generally lie, do you.”

  She tried to think of some way to get out.

  He snorted. “You’re just a fuckin’ little pussy.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He lunged forward and grabbed two fistfuls of her open jacket, running her backward till he’d slammed her up against the wall. It knocked the breath out of her in a grunt, and there was pain where his fists dug in to keep her pinned.

  “Fuck me?” he hissed. “You’re gonna fuck me? I could fuck you real easy whether you wanted me to or not. But you’d have a hard time tryin’ to do that to me, now, wouldn’t you. WOULDN’T YOU.”

  Her jaded eyes seemed to be daring him.

  “ANSWER ME, YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER.” But when she merely lowered her gaze, he said, “You better watch what you say, ’cause I’m tired of hearin’ the shit that comes outta your mouth. Do you understand me?”

  Looking straight up at him, she said, “You’re drunk.”

  He pulled her away from the wall, and she grabbed his upper arms, thoug
h her fingers encircled very little of the large, solid muscle underneath. But when she felt her feet leave the ground, she gasped, eyes wide, fingers digging in to hold on. And Baker froze, body vibrating with rage.

  A truck rumbled down Ninety-Third Street below.

  He released her. “I’m going to the gym.” And he turned and went into his bedroom.

  She listened to him gathering some things together. She watched him go to the hall closet and stuff the items in a gym bag. She watched him put his jacket on and unlock the door. And then, voice small, she said, “I’ll—I’ll need to leave the apartment to—to do the laundry and stuff.”

  He paused, then went back into his bedroom. She could hear him rummaging through several drawers followed by the sound of keys. When he came out again, he tossed them at her, nearly hitting her in the face. “Just make sure you lock up tight when you go out. Both locks. Understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’ll be at West Side Workouts if you need me.” And with that, he picked up his bag and let himself out, locking the door behind him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AS IF NOTHING HAD happened, the apartment was quiet. Calm. She looked at the extra set of keys in her hand, then went to retrieve her lunch from where it had landed on the floor. But instead of picking it up, she sat down beside it, slumped in a shapeless heap and hanging her head. When Baker had slammed her against the wall, she’d seen the hate in his eyes—so pure, so intense. And to think she’d recently told herself that he didn’t hate her as much anymore, maybe even liked her a little.

  She poked at a piece of lint from the rug, then rolled it up between her fingers. There was no way she was going to clean this entire fucking apartment again. Especially with that mess in the kitchen. She looked around. Maybe she should just go home. After all, she could lock the place up. What was he going to do? Tell her she had to clean more days? Send her back to juvi if she didn’t? Did it really matter?

  She closed her eyes. She knew what would happen if she left. And it had nothing to do with Baker.