Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  He wiped away the small beads of sweat that had formed over his lip, then turned Baker’s chair around and put it back where it belonged. Thoughts of replacing the cop as Micki’s guardian were gone. Recalling her stare, a shiver ran through him: were those the eyes of a killer?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AT THE END OF the day, Micki checked in as usual, then headed home. Warner entered the office shortly afterward to cover for Baker so he could leave early to follow.

  “I’m worried about her,” Baker said as he put his jacket on and pocketed his cigarettes.

  Warner’s reply was a stony look.

  “Hey, I know I fucked up, okay? The best I can do now is try to keep her from fucking up, too.”

  “How could you do that?” Warner asked. “I still can’t believe it. I would never have pictured you as the type.”

  “I’m not the type. I was flying—took some hits off a joint I confiscated, then got wrecked by whatever else was in it. By the time I got Micki back to her apartment, I was too messed up to drive home. When I saw I was in trouble, I tried to get out of there, but things just happened; I couldn’t stop myself.”

  “Things just happened? You think you’re not responsible?”

  “Shit. Don’t tell me what the line is: my decision to smoke that joint, my responsibility whatever took place afterward. I’m not trying to defend myself; I’m just trying to explain how it went down.”

  “All day long, I’m asking myself if I should report this to someone. The one thing stopping me is my fear of what’ll happen to Micki if you’re taken out of the picture.”

  “You want to know what’ll happen? She’s only got two options: me or juvenile detention. That’s it. I think we can at least agree that she shouldn’t go back to juvi.”

  Warner rubbed his brow.

  “I’m telling you,” Baker said, “it’ll never happen again. It was just the drugs. Jesus, what do you want me to say?”

  “What worries me is that you smoked that joint in the first place when you knew you still had to drive her home.”

  Head down, hands raised, Baker said, “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately; I let it cloud my judgment.”

  “ ‘Cloud your judgement’? ‘Cloud your judgement’? That’s an understatement. And what about your drinking?”

  “What about my drinking?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve ever seen you tanked, but there’ve been plenty of mornings when I’ve smelled liquor on you. In fact, today it’s so bad I can still smell it on you now. You’ve got to be hitting the bottle pretty hard at night.”

  “Even dead drunk, I wouldn’t do what I did Saturday night. The kid would never be in danger; I know my limits.”

  Warner took a toothpick from a container on his desk. “I need some time on this.”

  Baker nodded and lowered his eyes.

  “But what about Denny?” Warner asked. “Aren’t you worried? Do you really think he’ll keep his mouth shut?”

  “He’s the kind of asshole that doesn’t see anything wrong with what I did. He’ll keep silent for the sake of ‘us boys’ sticking together—not to mention he’s scared shitless of me.” Baker shifted his gaze to the window, then looked back. “I wonder if I could ask a favor.”

  The toothpick moved from one side of Warner’s mouth to the other.

  “I really am worried about Micki,” Baker said. “I think she needs to talk to someone. I was wondering if you’d give it a try.”

  “I already did.”

  “What? When was this?”

  “Third period, I’m in the office then anyway.”

  “You pulled her out of class?”

  “What about it?”

  “Let’s get something straight: no matter what you think of me right now, you can’t just pull her out of class.”

  “I think you’ve got bigger things than that to be worrying about.”

  “Really? Because I—” But Baker stopped. “So how did it go?”

  “It didn’t go at all. She wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “I guess I always thought she liked you.”

  “But she doesn’t trust me.”

  Shutting his eyes, Baker exhaled. Having her talk to anyone else was too risky.

  “If you want to help her,” Warner said, “you’re going to have to straighten this out yourself.”

  “Oh, right. Like she’s ever going to trust me now.”

  “She just might.”

  Baker looked up. “What makes you say that?”

  Warner shrugged. “I don’t know; it’s just a feeling.”

  A glance at his watch, and Baker bolted for the door. “I’d better go, or she’ll get home before I get there. Call me later.”

  The door slammed shut, and Warner threw the toothpick away.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER A QUICK SEARCH through Micki’s apartment, Baker returned to his car, which was parked around the corner. Though the location provided an ample view of the subway entrance, it was still far enough away that Micki wouldn’t spot the Camaro unless she was specifically looking for it. Or turning down Twenty-First Street to go to the bank. He hadn’t thought of that.

  But Micki appeared with only a glance to check for oncoming traffic before walking across. He started the car, waited briefly, then drove to the light.

  Shit! Instead of going into her building, she’d paused on the stoop. She was staring right at him. It looked like she was about to give him the finger, but then thought better of it. Turning away, she shoved the door open with so much force he could picture it banging against the interior wall and rebounding as she went inside.

  But maybe it was better this way. He couldn’t exactly spend the rest of the day staking out her apartment. If she believed he was lurking somewhere, waiting, it would probably deter her just as much as if he actually were. Confident she was watching, he turned the corner and drove slowly down the block until he found another parking spot. Sure enough, not five minutes later, she stuck her head all the way out the fire escape window. When she caught sight of him, she ducked back in and slammed the window down.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  FUCKING BASTARD! AND YET, if he weren’t there, she might’ve ended up doing exactly what he was thinking.

  She paced around the room, then pounded the side of her fist against the heavy, clumsy wood of the dresser. But all it did was make her heart hurt. Cradling her hand, now red and swollen, she lay down on the bed to sleep. And while she would never have admitted it, she was grateful Baker was outside.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BACK IN HIS APARTMENT again, Baker was standing over the telephone. Maybe he’d wait till after dinner. No matter how many times he tried to rehearse what to say, it never sounded right. He started to walk away, then went back and dialed, as nervous as he’d been when he’d called her after their first date. It rang seven times. Just when he was about to hang up, he heard, “Hello?”

  “Cynthia?”

  “Hi, Jim.” Her voice sounded far away. “I guess I should’ve called.”

  “No, it’s okay. I think I’m the one who should’ve called. But I just—well, I have something to say.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “I guess I really don’t know how to deal with what’s happening; I’m still kind of shocked. And—and I’m confused about us. But I meant it when I said I’d help no matter what you decide—”

  “Jim—”

  “Even if you don’t want to see me anymore—”

  “Jim—”

  “No, let me finish. I don’t want you to think—”

  “JIM!”

  He fell silent.

  “I los
t the baby.”

  “You lost it?”

  “I miscarried; it started this morning. The doctor called it a spontaneous abortion. It’s very common for first pregnancies.”

  “Jesus! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. It’s like having my period. Only … weird.”

  “Well, you don’t sound okay.”

  “I’m just very tired.”

  “You sound depressed.” His tone softened. “Did you want to keep it?”

  “No, I’d pretty much decided not to, but”—her voice cracked—“but still …”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “I really need to be alone right now.”

  “Well, can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine. Really. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  He hung up the phone. And felt strangely numb.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  HE POURED A DRINK, lit a cigarette, and sat down in the living room to watch the evening roll in outside the window. What did that mean, exactly: “It’s like having my period, only weird.” He’d never been able to imagine what it was like to get a period in the first place—to bleed every month. What a hassle that had to be. When his last girlfriend had had an accident overnight, he’d been shocked by the amount of blood all over the sheets.

  His eyes widened. Man, he’d been really dense. That was what was missing from Micki’s apartment. For over two months he’d been checking every inch of the place, and not once—not once—had he ever seen any of those “feminine hygiene” products: no sanitary napkins, no tampons.

  He’d bet anything she wasn’t pregnant, but, at seventeen, how could she not get her period? There was no mention of it in his copy of her file. Then again, he didn’t have her medical records. He sighed. No sooner did one problem go away than another came along to replace it. Just what was he supposed to do now—ignore it? That was, of course, his first choice. But what if something were seriously wrong? What if she needed some sort of medical attention? Unfortunately, with Cynthia going through this pregnancy thing, he couldn’t exactly ask her for help. Which left the school nurse and Angie; they were the only other females he could think of at the moment. But he could hear Cynthia saying there was no reason he couldn’t talk to Micki himself. He was a grown man, wasn’t he? Micki was his responsibility.

  And, as usual, Cynthia would be right.

  Besides, it wasn’t like Micki would have to go into graphic detail. He’d simply find out what, if anything, she knew. If he felt it was necessary, he’d take her to a doctor. He poured another drink. Well, it had waited this long till he even realized what was going on; it could wait another week before he questioned her about it. Things needed to settle down a little first.

  The phone rang, and he started, the whiskey sloshing around inside the glass. He rushed over to pick up the receiver, body tensing at the sound of Warner’s voice. But when he hung up, he felt that maybe—just maybe—everything would straighten itself out.

  He smoked another cigarette before stretching out for a nap.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  OPEN BOOKS, INDEX CARDS, and papers full of notes covered the little red kitchen table. Warner massaged his forehead in a futile attempt to ward off the headache he’d felt coming on since lunchtime. But trying to work on his dissertation was pointless anyway: all he could think about was Micki.

  Although his knee-jerk reaction had been to get her out from under Baker’s authority, it wasn’t nearly so clear-cut. Baker could’ve been lying when he said it was either him or Heyden, but Warner was inclined to believe him. And as much as he deplored Baker’s brutality, Heyden sounded even more unacceptable. Either way, it was unlikely another guardian could easily be found. Just thinking about his encounter with Micki that morning made him shudder.

  The throbbing in his head was getting worse. Sharply focused behind his left eye, it felt like a dulled stake was being driven through the socket. This was the kind of headache he’d have to sleep off. He stood up and looked at the table littered with academic artifacts. To think he actually felt that, right now, it was best to do nothing.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN BAKER RETURNED TO Micki’s at ten to ten, the lights were out. Since she didn’t work Mondays, she had all of ten minutes till she violated curfew. He sat in his car, smoking, knowing she could be anywhere, doing anything. He should’ve kept a tighter watch on her.

  Another twenty minutes went by before he shut the radio and opened the Camaro’s door. Immediately, he heard two angry voices: one male and one female—though the latter wasn’t Micki’s. As he crossed the street and drew closer, he could tell the altercation was coming from Micki’s building, from the basement apartment that had its own entrance below the stoop. Up till now, he’d never heard anyone else inside the place, though several times he’d caught music—Andy Williams or Perry Como—coming from somewhere on the first floor.

  Loud and vulgar, the argument seemed to be escalating. However, once he was inside the entryway, it was significantly hushed; by the time he reached Micki’s apartment, completely inaudible. But he could hear Micki inside: the unnerving moans and mumbles, the restless thrashing. He hadn’t expected her to be home, let alone sleeping. When he unlocked the door and cracked it open, the ugly row from the basement was once again distinct, carried up on the outside air and through the poorly sealed windows. Micki, however, appeared to be fighting her own private battle in some terrifying dream world.

  Heart heavy, he eased the door shut and locked it. At least she wasn’t doing drugs.

  Or so he hoped.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MICKI DRAGGED HERSELF THROUGH school on Tuesday, talking to no one and never raising her hand. In what little time she had before work, she took refuge in sleep. Baker, having followed her home again, hung around till she left for Bel, then went home himself to take a nap. But after a dinner of sardines and frozen peas, he cleaned his guns and then his ashtrays. As soon as Mr. Antonelli gave him the call, he shut the TV and returned to his car.

  Back in Queens, he parked on Forty-Fourth Drive, east of Bel but on the opposite side, facing west. Perfectly positioned. All so he could sit in his car and smoke, eyes glazing over as he watched the restaurant from his bucket seat instead of the Nets game from the comfort of his recliner. Not that things weren’t happening: further down the street, a series of kids—mostly boys—were going in and out of an alley. It had to be the one that led to the parking lot where Officer Roberts had picked up Micki. At one point, a large group came out together, including Rick, who had his arm around a trashily dressed blonde—the girlfriend, no doubt. Baker puffed away, free fingers tapping against his thigh while he watched the two laugh their way toward Twenty-Third Street.

  Micki finally left the restaurant, and Baker waited till she’d crossed the road before he turned the engine over and followed. While she went into her building, he looked for a space, but was forced to double-park. Slumped down, he lit a fresh cigarette, only to see her apartment go dark less than ten minutes later. Eyes trained on her front door, he shook off the fog and straightened up. When she failed to reappear, he was once more standing in the hallway. Listening.

  Wednesday was a carbon copy. Until he dropped his keys on the way out. Swearing silently, he bore a hasty retreat. But the noise had cut through the mangled images of her unconscious. She awoke to the sound of heavy footsteps hurrying down the stairs while her heart was racing so fast it was hard to breathe. Tangled blanket and sheet were thrown off, and she rushed to the window to peek through the curtains. Paused on the concrete, Baker was lighting a cigarette. He waved out the match, then looked back over his shoulder. It seemed their eyes met, though she was sure he couldn’t see her in the darkened window. Or could he? He turned to fully face the building, staring up a
t her, the streetlamp casting a long, black shadow before him. And though he turned and walked away, his shadow seemed to stay.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BY THE TIME BAKER stopped by Cynthia’s, it was pushing midnight. Seated at her dining room table, drinking coffee, he felt like he was at a casual business meeting instead of the short date they’d agreed to earlier. And, in time, Cynthia revealed her agenda: she’d continue to see him only if he remained civil about her seeing Mark, as well.

  Baker caught himself gazing at one of the paintings hanging on the wall. A Picasso-style canvas in bold colors and striking lines, it presented parts of a face like scrambled pieces of a puzzle. He’d always hated the work. Tonight he couldn’t stop looking at it. He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he asked if their plans for Thanksgiving were still on. When she said yes, his heart leaped, then stuck in his throat: according to the terms of Micki’s release, he was required to leave her at Heyden while he was away.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE EARLY MORNING SUN was blinding, and Baker pulled down the shades. Alone in the security office, he was pacing back and forth, waiting for Warner to arrive. Just as he was about to pour another cup of coffee, the other man walked through the door.

  “I was wondering if you could help me out with something,” Baker said.

  Taking off his coat, Warner replied, “Depends.”

  “Would you consider supervising Micki over Thanksgiving?”

  Warner grabbed a mug and pulled out the carafe. “No.”

  “Really? But why not? If you don’t, I’ll have to leave her at Heyden while I’m gone.”

  “Can’t do it. I’m sorry.” He put the coffee pot back and opened the refrigerator.

  “But it won’t be much of a hassle; you’d only have to check on her once a day and leave your phone number with my answering service. I don’t expect her to get into any real trouble; she’ll be working most of the time.”

  Warner added milk and began to stir the steaming liquid in front of him. “Sorry, but I can’t, okay? I just can’t.”