by Randy Mason
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER RETURNED, HE looked a little green around the gills. Micki took a break from her mopping to watch him from the kitchen doorway. He dropped his gym bag on the floor, took off his jacket, and threw it on the club chair in the living room. Inside the bathroom, he gulped down three aspirin.
Back in the hallway, he paused, his voice low. “I have a splitting headache; I’m going to lie down for a while. I do not want to be disturbed by anything. Do you understand me?”
“I need the shopping list and some money.”
He massaged his temples, then pulled out his wallet and dropped two twenty-dollar bills on top of his jacket. “Just get whatever you remember from last time.” And he disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Leaving the mop to rest against the wall, she hurried over to pocket the money. She’d finish the floor, then go to the supermarket. She’d already changed the linens on his bed and gotten the laundry started using his stash of coins. But the extra work in the kitchen had thrown her entire cleaning routine off.
Like anyone fucking cared.
She went back to mopping.
♦ ♦ ♦
ONCE INSIDE THE BEDROOM, Baker stripped down to his underpants and crawled between the cool, fresh sheets. And though he tried several different positions and played desperately with the pillows, nothing eased the pounding in his head. At the gym, he’d punched the heavy bag until his arms had felt like lead, every strike accelerating the onset and severity of his headache. At one point, he was so overcome with nausea that he’d wished he could simply heave his insides out.
He turned over and heard the whoosh and gurgle of a bucketful of water being emptied into the bathtub. It sounded muffled and far away …
♦ ♦ ♦
AT ONE O’CLOCK, MICKI had her lunch in peace, then continued cleaning. It was nearly four thirty when she finished ironing the last of Baker’s button-down shirts. But she hadn’t gotten any of her vacuuming done, and she hadn’t dusted his bedroom yet, either. Tired of staring out the window, she picked up the book he’d left on the coffee table—a thick, oversized paperback: The Foundation Trilogy by Isaac Asimov. Science fiction. Who would’ve thought? Actually, she was surprised he liked to read anything at all. She sat on the couch and opened it.
But the apartment was growing dark as the afternoon sun, already low in the sky, became hidden behind some clouds. She switched on the nearest lamp, but her eyelids were soon drooping. And after only a few more pages, she set the paperback aside and lay down. The sofa cushions felt comfortable and firm beneath her; the velvety throw pillow, puffy and soft. She closed her eyes and drifted—until she imagined Baker finding her asleep on his couch. She sat up. Elbows on knees, she rested her head in her hands. The extra keys were on the kitchen table; she could still lock the place up and go home.
With a final glance toward his room, she pushed herself up and went to get her jacket.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER AWOKE WITH AN urgent need to relieve himself. He rolled out of bed and stuck his head out the door. Except for a table lamp in the living room, the apartment was dark. And utterly silent. He left the bedroom in just his Jockey shorts, turning on lights as he fumbled his way to the bathroom. After he emptied his bladder, he washed his hands and face, the cold water bracing. But then his vision went white. Leaning against the sink, he could feel his sunken eyes and unshaved skin. He took a deep breath, then glanced at his watch: a quarter past seven; he’d essentially slept through the entire day.
He shuffled back down the hall and into the living room—where he pulled up short. Lying on her side, using her folded-up jacket as a pillow, Micki was asleep on the area rug between the coffee table and the TV. A sharp pang shot through him. He went back to the bedroom to throw on some jeans and a sweatshirt.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE AROMA OF FRESHLY perked coffee wound its way into her consciousness. Painfully stiff, she got up slowly in the dark; Baker must’ve shut off the lamp. She dropped her jacket on a chair and walked into the kitchen. Blinking and squinting from the bright fluorescent lights, she saw him sitting at the table, a heavy earthenware mug between his large hands, a cigarette balanced on the edge of an ashtray.
“Is your headache gone?” she asked.
“Pretty much.”
“So you don’t mind if I vacuum?”
He hung his head. “Forget the vacuuming, Micki. The punishment’s over. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee, and then I’ll take you home.”
“So you’re saying I don’t have to clean anymore? That I’m done? For good?”
He looked up at her. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
“’Cause I’m not comin’ back here next week; there’s no way I’m comin’ back.”
“You won’t have to come back.”
“Well, then I’ll just take the subway—”
“I said I’ll drive you home.”
She chewed her lower lip. The coffee smelled good. She took a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup. “Can I have some milk?”
Another sharp twinge: the kid felt like she had to ask for every fucking little thing now. “Help yourself. There’s sugar in the pantry by the door.”
“Seriously? You really think you need to tell me where anything is? Besides, I don’t even take sugar.” She added some milk and started drinking—standing up.
“Sit down,” he said.
She took the chair furthest from his.
Baker looked at his watch. “Did you eat anything today?”
“Just what I brought, okay? Nothing else.”
“You must be starving. There’s some bologna in the refrigerator. Why don’t you make yourself a sandwich?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“How can you not be hungry when you hardly ate anything all day?”
She shrugged and stared at the coffee.
“If you don’t start eating more, Micki, you’re going to disappear.”
“Well, wouldn’t that save a lot of people a lot of grief.” She got up, tossed the rest of her coffee down the sink, then stalked out of the kitchen.
After a quick final puff, Baker crushed his cigarette and followed her into the living room.
Her back to him, she was looking out the window.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
Turning to face him, she said, “Like you wouldn’t be happy if I was gone.”
Hands on hips, he opened his mouth, then shut it again—he still hadn’t given Malone his decision.
Her smile was bitter. “That’s what I figured.”
“It worries me that you’re getting so thin.”
“Spare me the bullshit concern. You don’t really care; I’m just a job to you. By the way”—her voice was full of sarcasm—“can I say ‘bullshit,’ or are y’gonna hit me for that?”
He rubbed his temples. His headache was coming back. “I’m going to have another cup of coffee,” he said quietly, “and then we’re going to leave. Just relax for a little while.” But halfway to the kitchen, he paused and said over his shoulder, “And don’t ever sleep on the floor again. The couch is a hell of a lot better.”
She went back to looking out the window. He hadn’t even tried to deny anything.
Across the street, she could see into another living room, brightly lit with all the blinds pulled up. A pudgy man, wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt, sat reading the newspaper in a large, overstuffed chair. When an equally rotund woman entered the room, holding the hand of a little boy, the man looked up. Smiling with delight, he dropped his newspaper and spread his arms wide. The little boy, giggling and squealing, ran to be swallowed up in a warm embrace.
If only she were someone else.
♦ �
�� ♦
TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY AS they traveled cross-town on Ninety-Sixth Street toward the FDR Drive. Baker had the radio on low, but was changing stations constantly to avoid hearing the songs he hated most. Switching to AM, he tuned in 1010 WINS to catch an updated traffic report. Micki gave up trying to keep her eyes open and let her head fall back against the headrest.
“Push the seat down,” Baker said.
“Huh?”
“On the floor, near the door, there’s a lever. Pull it up and lean back.”
Not sure what she was looking for, she groped around.
The light turned red, and he reached across, putting her hand on the lever. “Here,” he said.
The warmth of his face so close, the feel of his hand over hers—her heart was racing. When he turned his head to look at her, she shyly averted her eyes. He bit the inside of his lip and straightened up. The light turned green. She successfully reclined the seat and fell asleep.
It wasn’t until they were crossing the bridge that ugly snippets of their morning encounter began to present themselves to him. He shot a glance at her sleeping figure. Clearly she knew he hadn’t been threatening to actually rape her. But when his eyes returned to the road, his jaw was working. And for the remainder of the trip, he didn’t look at her again.
♦ ♦ ♦
DOUBLE-PARKED IN FRONT OF her building, he left the engine running. Micki stirred and opened her eyes. “You’re home,” he said.
She got the seat upright, unlocked the door, but then paused. For the longest time, she’d planned to say she was sorry once the punishment was over. But after what had happened this morning, what was the point?
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong; everything’s just great.” She started getting out.
He grabbed her arm. “I don’t need your snide remarks.”
“You don’t need anything from me. But you are using me for something.”
Baker paled slightly under the dome light, and Micki’s expression turned smug. He released her arm, and she left, slamming the car door behind her.
chapter 12
BY THE TIME MICKI got to English class, Mr. Newsome had already written homework questions on the blackboard. But when she went to copy them, she couldn’t find her assignment pad; she must’ve left it behind in Miss Giannetti’s room. She raised her hand and asked if she could go back to look for it.
A shrewd smile spread across Mr. Newsome’s face. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until next period passing. I cannot have students wandering around, missing class, because they say they’ve misplaced something.”
Fuck you, you asshole, Micki thought, and slouched down to glower at him for the rest of the period. Then the moment the bell rang, she tore back upstairs to the third floor, but room 323 was empty when she got there; even Miss Giannetti was gone. Spying the little book on the teacher’s desk, she hurried over to get it.
A teacher she didn’t know came dashing into the room. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Using both hands, the woman adjusted her black cat’s-eyes glasses, her piercing, pale-grey eyes looking small behind them. She looked down at Micki. “How dare you take something from my desk.” Then she pulled at her peach cardigan sweater, causing a smidgeon of lace from her shirt’s collar to peek out from underneath.
“But it’s mine; it’s my assignment pad. I left it here after my calculus class.”
“Hand it over, please.” Yet when the teacher couldn’t find Micki’s name in the book, she demanded to see Micki’s loose-leaf, as well—to compare the handwriting.
Who the fuck would steal a goddamn assignment pad? Micki thought. The end-of-passing bell rang. “Can I go already?”
The teacher peered down over her glasses. “You need to learn some manners, young lady.”
Micki lowered her eyes. “Sorry.”
The teacher wrote a late pass, and Micki hurried down to the basement, handing the piece of paper to Mrs. Tandy on her way into the locker room. The crowded rows were already thinning out, metal doors slamming and locks clicking closed. Micki entered her combination, took out her gym clothes, and put her books away until the room sounded empty. But just as she stood up, about to unbuckle her belt, she saw Suzy Parish standing at the end of the aisle in nothing but pink cotton underpants and a matching undershirt. Barely over five feet tall, Suzy was skinny and noticeably flat-chested, her dark brown hair heavily streaked with blonde. A quiet, shy girl, she was something of a loner.
Micki pretended to be rearranging her books while Suzy moved closer. And though it was Suzy who was half undressed, Micki felt the urge to back away and cover up. “What is it?” she asked.
Voice shaking, frosted-pink lip gloss shining, Suzy said, “I like you, Micki.”
“Well—uh—I guess I like you, too, but I need to change.”
The late bell rang. From out in the hallway, Mrs. Tandy called, “Let’s go, girls. Whoever’s still in there with Micki, you’re late.”
“C’mon, Suzy. I really need to change. Just get out of here, okay?”
Suzy twirled some hair around her finger.
“Don’t do this, Suzy. Please.”
And then, in a voice that was mostly breath, Suzy said, “I want you to kiss me.” She pulled off her undershirt. “I want you to—to touch me.”
Shaking her head, Micki took a step back. “Y’got it all wrong; I’m only interested in boys.”
The smaller girl’s jaw dropped, and she clutched the undershirt to her chest.
“I’m sorry,” Micki said.
Suzy’s pretty face turned ugly. “You better not tell anyone.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, god! I’m dead if anyone finds out.”
“No one’ll find out; I promise. It’s nobody’s business.”
Eyes pleading, Suzy gave Micki a final look, then ran back to her locker and up to the gym.
When she was finally alone, Micki changed and followed.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEY HAD A SUBSTITUTE teacher for physics; Mr. Taubenfeld was sick. The period was being spent as a review session. And as if that weren’t bad enough, the substitute’s voice was a monotonous drone, eventually lulling Micki unconscious. But she was jolted awake by the grip on her upper arm, a grip she knew all too well. Head groggy, eyes half closed, she scanned the faces around her, trying to piece together where she was and what was happening. Absolute silence filled the classroom.
“Get up and take your books,” Baker ordered.
Gathering her things together, she wondered if this was all because she fell asleep in class again, though she couldn’t imagine the gawky, insecure substitute as being capable of such treachery. Once they were out in the hall, she asked Baker what was going on.
“Shut up.” And he roughly steered her all the way to the security office, where he ordered her to put her books down. Feet planted wide, arms folded across his chest, he asked, “You were late getting to the locker room for gym?”
“But I had a pass. I left something in Miss Giannetti’s room.” All this for being late?
“And what happened after you got there?”
“Nothing. I changed and—” Micki stopped.
“You changed and what?”
“I went up to the gym.” But her voice had come out sounding uncertain, and she knew she had that guilty look on her face, the one she always got—as if everything that went wrong in the world was her fault.
“Was Suzy Parish in the locker room with you?”
“Yessir.”
“Alone?”
“Yessir.”
“And what happened?”
“Nothing.”
Baker took a step closer. “I’m going to ask you nicely only one m
ore time, so I suggest you get your answer straight. What exactly happened down there?”
“Nothing,” Micki repeated.
Baker struck her across the face, cutting the skin below her eye. Then he grabbed her away from the desk and slammed her against the wall. “That’s not what I heard.”
“I dunno what you heard, but I didn’t touch her!”
“Really? Because I never mentioned anything about you touching her.”
“I—I just—”
“Cut the shit. You look so fucking guilty it isn’t even funny.”
“But I didn’t—” She grunted as pain ripped through her, directly under her ribs. Baker had barely moved.
“Y’know, up to now,” he said, “all of your fuck-ups have been borderline issues, things that could be written off. But not this. This is something else.” And he thought about how close he’d come to putting himself on the line for her. Thank god he hadn’t called Malone yet. “I’ve got news for you, Reilly, this is your ticket back to Heyden. The only thing you have to decide right now is how bad off you want to be when you get there. So tell me what you did, or I’ll beat it out of you. I really don’t have any problem with that.”
“Did Suzy say I did somethin’ t’her?” Micki was almost positive they’d been alone. And Mrs. Tandy, all the way out in the hall, couldn’t possibly have heard them—at least, not clearly.
Baker was silent.
“I wanna know what she said,” Micki demanded.
“You want to know what she said? She told Mrs. Tandy that you came on to her while she was changing—backed her into a corner and felt her up.”
“And y’believe that? Y’know I’m straight!”
“How the hell should I know what you really are? Maybe you swing a little both ways. Maybe you got so hard up at Heyden that you checked out what it was like with girls. Or maybe”—he lowered his voice—“you just wanted to be the one pushing someone else around for a while.”
“Or maybe y’just so fuckin’ stupid, y’can’t see the truth.”
When he crashed his palm against her cheekbone, she jabbed her knuckles into his ribs. And after that, it all became a blur, ending with her hands cuffed behind her, the side of her face and the front of her body smashed into the wall. She hurt all over.