Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

“I thought you cared about her.”

  “I do.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Putting the spoon down, Warner looked at him. “Just forget it, okay?”

  “You’re so fucking quick to criticize, but you won’t actually do a goddamn thing yourself.”

  “The kid scares me.”

  “She scares you? What the hell happened the other day?”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened, but there’s no way I’m taking responsibility for her.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER A BRIEF VISIT to the weekly poker game, Baker parked his car across from Micki’s building. Window open, arm resting on top of the door, he was waiting for her to leave Bel Canto. A figure finally emerged from the alley beside the restaurant, then marched into the road. And it didn’t matter the distance or that the lighting was poor, he would have recognized that little tough-guy walk anywhere as she made her way down the block, looking ahead at the row of cars on either side—looking for him. She went straight up to the Camaro and leaned over to talk through the window.

  “Y’gotta watch me the whole friggin’ day ’cause y’got nothin’ better to do with y’time?”

  He opened the door and got out, but Micki was already halfway across the street. He let her go inside alone while he finished what was left of his cigarette, eventually mashing the discarded butt into the asphalt with the toe of his shoe.

  When he entered her apartment, she was hanging up her damp T-shirt from work, pointedly ignoring him.

  “I saw your teachers today for Open School Day,” he said.

  Her back to him, she poured herself a glass of Coke. “So?”

  “So they had some interesting things to tell me.”

  Bubbles were fizzing up in a rush through the dark brown liquid. She’d poured the soda too fast. In a minor eruption, the mocha-colored foam was spilling over, running down the sides of the glass and onto the Formica into a little puddle. She turned to face him. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like your art teacher telling me students take their work home every few weeks. She was surprised I’d never seen any of yours. What happened to it?”

  “I threw it away.”

  “You threw it away?” When Mrs. Holtzberg had pulled out Micki’s folder, Baker had been astounded. There’d been pencil sketches of hands, other students’ faces, and a glass—all looking incredibly real. “She’s very talented,” the teacher had said, smiling. “If she wants to, she could become a professional artist. She’d have to take classes at an art school or college, but she’s got the raw ability.”

  “They’re mine,” Micki said. “I can throw ’em out if I want to.”

  “But why? You should be proud of them; you should hang them up. I’d hang them up if they were mine.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Her mouth twisted. “Y’wanna hang one up on your refrigerator?”

  Nice shot, he said to himself. But then a curious expression came over him. “I don’t know, Micki. Would you like me to hang one up on my refrigerator?”

  “They’re … they’re mine,” she repeated.

  “I see. Well then, there’s another issue we need to address: every one of your teachers—every single one of them—informed me that you haven’t handed in any homework since last Friday.”

  “I’ve been … tired.”

  “You’ve been tired? Well, guess what? You’re not tired anymore. Now you’re going to sit your butt down at that desk and start your homework—and not just tonight’s homework; you’ll do last Friday’s, as well. Then tomorrow you can make up Monday’s, and, over the weekend, you can catch up on the rest.”

  “Y’can’t force me to do my homework.”

  Slamming his palms just under her shoulders, he shoved her back against the counter. “Get over there.”

  Something flashed across her face. It looked like … betrayal. Inwardly, Baker cringed.

  She snorted. “Y’gonna beat me up f’not doin’ my homework?”

  He shoved her again though there was no place left for her to go. “Is it worth it to you to find out?”

  She stood her ground.

  “Answer me.”

  Trapped beneath his gaze, the counter pressing into the base of her spine, she felt very small. “No, sir,” she said quietly.

  He took a step back, and she moved past him, picking her books up from the table and taking them to the desk. She sat down with a thud and opened her loose-leaf.

  “Are you still reading Two Gentlemen of Verona?” he asked, for he thought he spied its back cover on top of the pile of texts.

  Without turning around, she took a long, labored breath—he was such a pain in the ass!—and answered, “Yessir.”

  “Jeez, I hate Shakespeare.”

  She rolled her eyes for the benefit of the window.

  “I’m going to the corner to get something to read,” he said, and started for the door. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  Who the fuck cares, she thought.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  COFFEE IN ONE HAND, a copy of Newsweek tucked under his arm, Baker returned. He threw his cigarettes, matches, and keys on the table, then took off his jacket and sat down.

  Just make yourself right at home, Micki thought, and continued writing at a furious pace.

  “That better be legible,” he said. He’d seen some of her classroom notes. Apparently, the faster she wrote, the larger and sloppier her penmanship became. One of her classmates had even nicknamed her the Phantom Scrawler.

  Mid-scribble, she ripped out the page, crumpled it up, and threw it to the floor.

  He removed the lid from his coffee, lit a cigarette, and opened the magazine.

  She started writing again.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MICKI STOOD UP. “I’M done.”

  Nearly two in the morning, Baker had been on the verge of making a final coffee run. He walked over. “Let me see.”

  Gritting her teeth, she watched him page through her work while he was standing so close she was breathing in his scent. It brought back the warmth of his skin against hers, the sensation of his body moving underneath her hands—

  “What happened to tonight’s history homework?” he asked.

  “We didn’t get any.”

  “Let me see your assignment book.”

  She yanked it out from under the physics text and slammed it down on the desk.

  He calmly picked it up and flipped through. “You’ve got two tests tomorrow: physics and math. Did you study for those?”

  “Y’don’t need to study for that stuff: either y’know it or y’don’t.”

  “But you have to memorize formulas for physics, don’t you?”

  “I’ve got it all down cold. Besides, he’s been letting us use a reference sheet.”

  Tossing the pad onto the desk, Baker looked at her fixedly.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll pass both of ’em.”

  He grabbed the front of her shirt, twisting it into his fist and pulling her toward him. “I don’t want you to just pass, Micki. Till now, you’ve been getting grades of a hundred or in the high nineties; I expect you to keep that up.”

  Her heart was pounding, the question in her eyes left hanging in the air.

  “So I’m going to ask you again,” he said. “Are you really ready for those exams tomorrow?”

  She was so tired. And he was taking this school stuff so fucking seriously. “Yessir.” she said.

  He let go. “I hope so, because I want to see them once they’re graded.” He went to the table, put on his jacket, pocketed his things, and picked up the magazine. Looking around at the clutter that had overtaken the room, he said, “And straighten this place up.”

  Fuck you, she though
t.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER HE’D GONE, SHE poured her glass of Coke—now warm and flat—down the drain. She cleaned the sticky counter, picked the crumpled paper up from the floor, and put away the clothes that were lying around. But she didn’t touch the empty Styrofoam cup from his coffee. Or the saucer he always used as an ashtray. They both stayed on the table. Exactly where he’d left them.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A LIGHT SNOW WAS beginning to fall. Outside the windshield, tiny flakes were swirling in the breezy air.

  “What do you care?” That was Micki’s unvoiced question. “What do you care if I don’t do my homework or study for my tests?” But the real question was, why didn’t she care anymore?—not that he wanted to hear the answer.

  The snow hit the ground, then disappeared. It was too warm for anything to stick. Baker sat a moment longer, recalling the look on her face when he’d shoved her. Even now, it made his stomach turn. He started the engine and switched on the headlights.

  Thank god she couldn’t tell when he was bluffing.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  CONFIDENT THE PHASE OF greatest danger had passed, Baker didn’t park in front of Micki’s until one o’clock in the morning the following night. He’d already told Mr. Antonelli not to call anymore—not that he could’ve kept up his little surveillance routine much longer anyway. It had taken a much heavier toll than he’d anticipated.

  When he saw Micki’s lights still on, he made a pit stop at the deli, then took his time walking back along Forty-Fourth Drive. Coat half-unbuttoned despite the near-freezing temperature, he was mulling over the evening’s date, which, from the very beginning, couldn’t have gone much worse. He’d been so pleased Cynthia wasn’t spending a Friday night with Mr. LA that, spotting a program for the actor’s weekend showcase—an experimental theater piece—lying on her kitchen counter, he’d asked her why she wasn’t at the performance. When she’d explained she was going to the final show and then the cast party afterward, he’d been crushed.

  The misery continued with a short stroll to see a movie that was disappointing, then a drive all the way down to the East Village to an Indian restaurant that was uncharacteristically noisy and crowded. Afterward, they returned to her apartment for coffee and dessert, at which point the conversation had turned inexplicably stiff—as though they hardly knew each other. At half-past midnight, they exchanged a modest kiss at the door, and Baker, feeling patronized and tolerated like an unwanted puppy, left. He was heading up First Avenue, looking forward to the solitude of a drive on the New York State Thruway, when he remembered Micki. Cursing loudly, he’d then crossed over to Second and gone downtown toward the bridge. At least traffic had been light.

  He went up the stoop and into Micki’s building, the coffee—in a thick paper cup instead of the usual Styrofoam—burning hot in his hand. When he let himself into the apartment, she was at the table in her nightshirt, drinking cocoa. Their eyes locked, and her body tensed.

  “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  “Whatta y’want?”

  “Are we going to go through this every time I come here?”

  “Why don’tcha just stop comin’ here?”

  “Y’know, I’m trying to be patient with you, Micki, but you’re really pushing it. Did you at least get your homework done?”

  “It’s Friday. I don’t havta do it till Sunday.”

  “But I told you yesterday that I wanted Monday’s homework done tonight.”

  Her gaze shifted past him. “It’s all there.”

  “Then what the fuck are you arguing with me for?”

  She shrugged.

  Slamming the unopened container of coffee on the table, he said, “You can be such a goddamn pain in the ass.” Then he went to the desk and started leafing through her binder.

  Forcing back a smile, she threw the remainder of her hot chocolate down the sink and began to wash the mug. He glanced over and noticed the jeans she was wearing.

  “Were you just outside?” he asked.

  Still with her back to him, she placed the mug in the drainer. “No, sir.”

  “Then what’s with the jeans?”

  She turned around and folded her arms over her chest.

  “There’s no need for that, Micki.”

  She shrugged.

  Baker’s expression softened. “You’ve been very tired lately.”

  “Yeah, y’think so? Well, last night y’kept me up till two in the morning doin’ homework.”

  “I think you’ve been sleeping worse than usual anyway the last few days.”

  As if you really fucking care, she thought. She walked to the side of the bed that was furthest from him and announced, “Well I wanna go to sleep now, okay?”

  “Okay.” And he turned and closed her loose-leaf. Then he ran his fingers over its blue fabric cover and, much to her annoyance, straightened up some items on her desk. “When I saw your light on”—he faced her again—“I bought myself a cup of coffee. I figured you’d be up for a while.”

  So what, she thought. Who the fuck cares about your fucking coffee.

  He added, “I’d rather drink it here than in my car.”

  He wasn’t really asking about the coffee. She shrugged again. “Whatever.” With her back to him, she began to unbuckle her belt.

  Baker went over to the kitchen, took out his cigarettes, and lit one. When he looked back, she was already under the covers. Lying on her side, she was facing the door. He shut the light, sat down at the table, and pulled the lid off the paper cup.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER A FEW MINUTES had passed, Micki opened her eyes and glanced at him. A dark figure, large and silent, he was looking toward the windows, the tip of his cigarette a changing orange glow. Only one week had passed since the senior dance, but it seemed more like years, the memory so strange and out of place she could almost believe she’d imagined it. But she shouldn’t have let him stay; should’ve told him to take his goddamn coffee and go. So what if he knew she didn’t trust him anymore? She’d never really trusted him to begin with.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  NOT ALLOWING HIMSELF TO look, Baker could feel her watching. He nursed the coffee till it was cold, all the while thinking about how nervous he’d been lately: first sitting at the poker game with Captain Malone yesterday, then tonight when he’d been out with Cynthia. But no one, apparently, sensed any difference in him. And if Cynthia were to notice some sort of change, their relationship was so strained she’d probably attribute it to that. He wondered if she was sleeping with that asshole actor yet. He refused to even acknowledge the man’s name, forgot it time and again as soon as it was mentioned. He’d just seen it on that damn theater program, and still he couldn’t bring it to mind.

  The last bitter drop of coffee gone, he looked over at Micki. Lying on her stomach, arms tucked in tight, she was asleep. It was an easy, peaceful slumber, same as the other time he’d done this. He got up and let himself out, hoping she’d sleep just as soundly the rest of the night.

  That was, after all, the real reason he’d stayed.

  chapter 16

  “I GOT MY TESTS BACK already,” Micki said. It was Monday afternoon, and she was pulling papers out of her loose-leaf, creating a pile on Baker’s desk.

  But he was in the middle of reading a memo requesting his presence at Thursday night’s PTA meeting. In spite of a handwritten note that had been added as a personal invitation, he had no intention of going: Thursday was his birthday. Putting the memo aside, he took a look at the exams. Marked in red on the physics test was “100 Excellent!!!”—but the math had only a 94. He tapped his finger on the lower number. “What happened here?”

  “I didn’t realize there were questions on the back of the last page till the period was almost over. I couldn’t finish the last o
ne before the bell rang.” When the tests had been returned and her classmate Greg had seen her grade, he’d looked triumphant. In the ongoing competition between them, Micki had always won—until today. Explaining what had happened would’ve made her out to be a sore loser, so she’d said nothing and let him bask in his victory. But it had rankled. And now she’d have to hear Baker stick it to her after he’d explicitly warned her of his expectations.

  Baker lit a cigarette and studied the back of the final sheet—a chaotic mass of equations, calculations, and diagrams. He leaned back and handed her the papers. “Well,” he said, “these things happen.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  Eyes focused on Cynthia’s picture, he said, “Why don’t you get going.”

  “Sure! I mean, yessir.” And she ran out, closing the door behind her.

  Baker exhaled a long stream of smoke and played with the ashtray on his desk. Then he pulled out his wallet and removed a card with a phone number on it. He’d already implored Warner once more to reconsider, but to no avail. Gould had too many holiday obligations, though he probably would’ve refused anyway. And there was no point in asking Malone. He did, however, inquire about getting in touch with Sergeant Kelly, only to be warned not to: Kelly’s wife of nine years—his second—had lain down the law when her husband had gotten too involved with the first boy he’d helped. After all, they had four children of their own who deserved more of their father’s attention. So once a kid was placed, there was no further contact. No exceptions. None.

  Baker ran his fingers through his hair, then dialed the number with rough, forceful strokes. He made the arrangements for Micki to stay at Heyden, his manner growing increasingly curt despite the fact that he was talking to the deputy warden. As they were finishing up, he said, “I want to make something very clear: I’m only leaving her with you because I have to. If that kid gets abused in any way—”

  “None of the children in our care are ever abused,” the woman interrupted. “I don’t know what—”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” he cut in, and stood up. “I know all about what went on there under Warden Loren. That kid better not get touched, understand? I don’t want to find any new marks on her; I don’t want to hear that she was sexually assaulted.”