by Randy Mason
“Now wait just—”
“You still have a guard there named Edmunds?” Baker was holding the receiver so tightly the tendons in his wrist stood out like thick cords.
After a slight hesitation, the woman said, “Yes.”
“You keep that scumbag away from her. Do you hear me?”
“Really! I—”
“Do you hear me?” he repeated.
“How dare you take that tone of voice with me! I don’t know what kind of lies she’s been feeding you, but I can assure you the children here get quality—”
“Cut the bull.”
“Are you quite finished?”
Baker paused. This woman would soon have custody of Micki—for nearly four days. He took his voice down. Several notches. “We’ll be arriving sometime around seven or seven thirty in the morning. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Well, seeing how you’ve been so pleasant, I don’t know why we wouldn’t go out of our way to accommodate you.”
“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”
“We’ll be ready.”
“Thanks so much.” And he hung up without waiting for a reply. Squeezed between his fingers, his cigarette was down to a tiny stub. He viciously ground it out in the overflowing ashtray.
♦ ♦ ♦
ON HER WAY TO the main entrance, Micki ran into the blond football player—who was smiling at her.
“Hi!” he said.
Still walking, she said, “Hi.”
He stepped in front and started walking backward. “My name’s Bobby. Bobby Reiger. You’re Micki, right?”
And she stopped.
“So, like, I heard you’re really smart,” he said.
“Well, um … yeah, I guess so.”
“Cool, ’cause I was kinda hoping you could help me. See, my geometry class is kinda messing me up.”
He was large, especially compared to most of the boys in her science class. But the expression on his face—she’d never seen anyone look at her that way before.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “Maybe we could get together sometime after school.”
Her face fell. “I work every day. Except Mondays. Y’know, like today.” Her eyes brightened. “Do you wanna—”
“I can’t be late for football practice. The coach is counting on me to run some drills with the team. But maybe next Monday.” And he smiled again.
She thought about that the whole way home.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE LAUNDROMAT WAS VERY crowded, a din of high-pitched chatter rising above the roar of the machines. Saturated with the scent of laundry products, bleach, and cigarettes, the air smelled more cloying and suffocating than usual. Two washers and one dryer weren’t working, causing a backup among the regular customers, mostly women with shabby clothes under frumpy coats; a couple of college kids; and a solitary man who never washed more than a pair of jeans, a few shirts, and a handful of socks—no sheets, towels, or underwear. Gross. When it was finally her turn, Micki hurried to the first available washer, but it ate her change without starting. After she’d thoroughly cursed it out while repeatedly shoving the coin tray in with no success, she called over the manager, a worn-out-looking woman with pockmarked skin, frizzy mousey-brown hair, and a considerable gap between her two large front teeth. She reminded Micki of a squirrel. Fixing Micki with a shrewd eye, the woman reached into the small black apron she wore, which sagged under the weight of the coins it contained. She slipped some change into the slots, pushed the tray in, and watched the washer jolt to life.
“Thanks,” Micki said.
Palm extended, the manager said, “Y’owe me for a wash.”
“But I already put my money in. I told ya: it didn’t work.”
“Then how come it worked for me?” The Squirrel’s hoarse smoker’s voice sounded like it was hard—even painful—for her to talk. “Y’think I don’t know what you’re up to? But that’s okay. Just remember that that was your first—and last—free wash.”
Everyone was staring at them.
“I’m tellin’ ya,” Micki said, “I already put my money in. I’m not tryin’ t’cheat ya.”
Lungs full of phlegm, the woman turned her head to cough, then looked Micki over. “Y’think I was born yesterday, y’little JD?” And she sauntered away.
Micki could feel the heat working its way through her veins. She imagined running after the woman, taking a handful of that stupid, mousey-brown hair, and slamming it down to the ground. Instead, she thrust her hands into her jacket pockets. But with her clothes now stuck in the washer, she couldn’t even leave. Besides, the next Laundromat was much further away. She stared after the manager, who was already talking to someone else—the two of them looking at Micki with disgust. And yet, in the dozen or so times Micki had done her laundry in this place, not once had she ever given the Squirrel—or anyone else for that matter—a problem. Still she’d been called a juvenile delinquent in front of everyone. Not that the whole fucking neighborhood didn’t know by now that she’d been in juvi.
While her clothes washed and dried, she did some homework, then headed back to her apartment. Arms full of books, laundry, and detergent, she fumbled with her key and unlocked the door, only to be greeted by the scent of Baker’s cigarettes, soon followed by the sight of the man himself. So much for the nap she’d been looking forward to; so much for spilling the laundry out on the blanket to savor whatever was left of that warm, just-out-of-the-dryer smell. She kicked the door shut, placed the detergent on the table, and dropped everything else on the bed.
Baker extinguished his Camel before taking the box of detergent and moving it to the kitchen counter.
Micki shot him a dark look: she didn’t like people touching her things. And why did he have to move the stupid box anyway? Without being asked, she pulled out her loose-leaf and put it on the table, turning several pages and pointing. “Here, I did almost all my homework already, see? See?” But as she turned more sheets of paper, he stopped her by moving the binder toward him and shutting it.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m here because we need to talk about something.”
“But I haven’t—”
“You’re not in any trouble. Just sit down.” And he did so himself, pushing her notebook off to the side.
Eye to eye they faced each other across the little table. She was waiting for him to begin. Instead, pinching his forehead, he was gazing down at the lime-green Formica. It was the first time she’d ever seen him appear in any way unsure of himself. When he finally looked up, he leaned forward, left elbow on the table, thumb resting under his jaw with his index finger lying along the crease between his lips. But then he straightened up and lit a new cigarette.
“When was the last time you got your period?” he asked.
“What?”
“When was the last time you got your period?” he repeated.
“Don’t worry. You didn’t get me pregnant.”
“That’s not what I’m concerned about, Micki. I used a condom with you.” But even as he said it, the recent turn of events with Cynthia gave him pause.
“Then why’re you asking me that?”
“Because I need to know the answer.”
She clamped her mouth shut.
“You don’t get one, do you.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not normal for—”
“I’m normal! I’m normal!” She shoved her chair away from the table and stood up. “I’m just as much a woman as—as—as anybody!”
Great going, Jim, he thought. Left elbow on the table again, right forearm there, as well, he leaned in. He took another hit off his cigarette. “I’m not questionin
g your femininity. You’re very much a woman—”
“Oh, yeah? Last week you told me I was a little girl.”
Jesus Christ! The kid didn’t miss a goddamn thing! “Look, you’re a teenager. An adolescent. You’re somewhere in between being a kid and being an adult.”
“So I’m a kid when it suits you, and I’m an adult when it suits you.”
He sat up in his chair and took hold of the nape of his neck. “Let’s not get off track, okay?”
“So then what kind of a question is that?”
“It’s a perfectly good question, and I want an answer.”
“I’m not gonna talk to you about this.”
“Why not? Because I’m a man?”
“Yeah, I—I guess that’s part of it. But it’s more because you hate that I’m a girl.”
“Where the hell did you get that idea?”
“I heard what you said to Captain Malone.”
Baker experienced a flash of panic—as if she could somehow have overheard his last meeting with the captain. But she was talking about the day when she’d first arrived from Heyden. He already knew she’d caught part of his tirade then. Breaking eye contact, he tapped the ashes from his cigarette.
Her expression bitter, she waited.
Baker chewed his lower lip, then looked up again. “That was just me being a male-chauvinist asshole, okay? I’ve gotten past that. I don’t have any problem with you being female. For that matter, I don’t have any problem talking to you about your period.” And what surprised him most was that even the last thing he’d said was true. But she turned away. And when she made no move to discuss it further, he said, “I guess I’ll just take you to the doctor’s.”
“NO!” She wheeled around so sharply he looked startled.
“We’re talking about your health. It’s important to find out why—”
“I know why, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay—not unless you tell me.”
She looked at him sitting there. He was so big with those broad shoulders, large hands … He was so … male. “Look, they checked me out at Heyden, and they didn’t seem concerned.”
Ah, yes, Baker thought, Heyden—the epitome of health care. “So what did they say?”
Rolling her eyes, she looked away.
“What did they say, Micki?”
“They said it was probably from shooting up and being so underweight.”
“So then you did used to get it.”
“I remember getting it once—about a week after I, y’know, woke up.”
Baker leaned back. It could be nothing more than what she’d said, but he wanted to be sure.
Micki watched the smoke that was rising in delicate spirals from the end of his cigarette, forever starting toward the ceiling, only to vanish into the air.
He leaned forward on the table again. “I still want you to see a doctor.”
“No!”
That was the second time she hadn’t said “sir,” and it was the second time he was going to let it go. “If I say you’re going to the doctor, then you’re going to the doctor.”
“No! I’m not goin’. I don’t wanna be examined like that again.”
“Did something happen when they examined you at Heyden?”
“No, but I heard plenty of stories.”
“I’ll take you to Cynthia’s doctor. He’s very reputable; she wouldn’t go to anyone who wasn’t. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”
“Yeah, but that’s her. Nobody’d hurt her.” Micki’s whole body was rigid.
Baker felt that little tug at his heart. He dropped his gaze. When he looked up again, he said, “I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll call the doctor and explain what’s going on. If he says it’s okay to wait, then we’ll wait. But if he says you need to be seen right away, then you’re going for an exam. Does that sound fair?”
Her voice small, she said, “I don’t wanna go to one of those doctors.”
“I understand that, Micki. But you may have to.”
The corners of her mouth turned down.
“I tell you what,” he said, “if it ends up that you have to go—and if it would make you feel safer—I’ll go into the examining room with you.”
“What?”
“I’ve done it as a cop. I’ll be standing in back of you; I won’t be able to see anything.”
“Y’can’t be serious!”
“And one more thing”—he stood up and ground his cigarette into the saucer—“don’t just buy a box of tampons and get rid of a few each day. I’ll know if you really have your period or not.”
“Yeah? How y’gonna tell?”
An amused look crossed his face.
She quickly averted her eyes. “Forget it. I don’t wanna know.” Cops could get into some pretty disgusting things.
“So do we have a deal?” he asked.
“I—I dunno. I guess so.”
He extended his hand.
There was a beat before her own palm went out to meet his, very tentatively, as if he might pull his back at the last second—as a joke. But the large hand engulfed hers, the grip warm and firm. She didn’t want him to let go. Yet it was she who pulled away first.
Putting on his jacket, he said, “I guess I’ll leave you to your laundry.”
But as she watched him walk out the door, a part of her wished he would’ve stayed.
♦ ♦ ♦
HIS APARTMENT WAS TOO warm, and several windows were cracked open to allow cold air to enter. Baker could never understand why the super forced so much heat through the radiators. Dressed in jeans but no shirt, he was drinking his whiskey and listening to the soft patter of the rain hitting the window. Harsh and dissonant, the blast of a horn or the wail of a siren occasionally shattered the ocean-like sound of cars passing on the street below.
He’d gotten the name and number of Cynthia’s gynecologist, Dr. Silverman, who’d been nice enough to return his call after hours. The doctor had been very cordial, but Baker had wondered how much the man knew about his relationship with Cynthia. And though the temptation had been strong, he’d forced himself not to pry regarding the details of her pregnancy—not that the doctor was likely to divulge much of anything anyway. In fact, when Baker explained who he was, the doctor made no comment at all.
An old-fashioned practitioner with an unhurried, easygoing manner, Dr. Silverman listened carefully to everything Baker told him about Micki, then prefaced his own remarks with a disclaimer of sorts since he’d never examined Micki himself. “My analysis,” he said, “is more conjecture than fact. But it’s very likely the doctor at the juvenile facility was correct in his diagnosis: habitual use of opiates can interrupt the menstrual cycle, as can being underweight. Since the drug use has stopped, her menses might resume if she achieves a more acceptable body weight. You say she appears to be healthy otherwise, so I don’t believe there’s any cause for alarm. And I don’t think it would hurt to wait a few months to see if things might not right themselves of their own accord. However, if her periods don’t start again within a reasonable amount of time—or you notice a change in her general health—then she should be seen right away. And since she’s sexually active, she should get a regular check-up once a year anyway. It would also be prudent for her to be using some form of birth control. Her cycle could start again at any time, and she’d have no way of knowing until it was too late.”
After a pause, the doctor said, “I do have one final thought: there’s a possibility that psychological factors are at play here, as well. Since I almost became a psychiatrist, I can’t help but throw in my two psychoanalytical cents: given what you’ve told me about her life and lack of memory, it wouldn’t surprise me if, unconsciously, she’s clinging to the last remnant of childhood that she has.”
&nb
sp; “But that doesn’t make sense. She’s already having sex,” Baker said.
“Psychologically and emotionally, there’s a big difference between having sex and being able to have a baby.”
Silverman’s words had struck a chord.
Baker stepped away from the window and dropped into the recliner, staring dully at the dark glass of the TV screen. But inside his head, he was seeing Micki’s face, her lips slightly parted, her hair splayed out on the pillow. He saw the flash of the cross between her breasts; felt the touch of her fingers. He was thrusting inside her …
He gulped down more whiskey. What a bastard he’d been. And now to be leaving her at Heyden. But only for a few days, right? Only for a few days. Plus he’d issued a warning loud and clear: “Don’t touch the kid; don’t touch!” But one hour would be too long a time for her in that place, never mind four days. Still, he had no choice—no choice!—no one would take her.
Cancel the trip. Only solution. But he needed this vacation. Jesus, didn’t he deserve a little time off? Time to patch things up with Cynthia? Time to catch his breath and straighten out his fucked-up life? Planned the trip almost a year ago—long before Micki. Long before. How was he to know …?
With the bottle nearly empty and his eyelids drooping, his mind and body were drifting away from the grip of the light and the sounds from the street. He could feel Micki’s small hand in his. But as he entered the state between waking and dreaming, it was her eyes that he saw—large, dark, and questioning.
But he had no answers.
chapter 17
MICKI PULLED THE OBLONG box, covered in Macy’s complimentary gift wrap, out of the paper bag. Turning it this way and that, she examined it like some strange, foreign object. Wasted money. She tossed it on the table and went to pour herself a glass of Coke.
Yesterday, as she was about to check in before going home, Warner had run up to her in the hallway. “Did you know that Thursday is Sergeant Baker’s birthday?” he’d asked.
“No. So what?”
“Well, it might be nice to get him something.”