by Randy Mason
“Y’mean like a present?”
Warner nodded.
“Y’gotta be kidding! What would I wanna give him a present for?”
“It would be a nice gesture; help smooth things out a little.”
“He’ll think I’m kissin’ his ass.”
“No, he won’t.”
“He fuckin’ hates me. I’m not givin’ him a goddamn birthday present.”
“He doesn’t hate you—”
“Really? Then he’s doin’ a helluva job pretending.”
“C’mon, Micki. Think about it …”
So later, she’d thought about it, thought about her talk with Baker the night before, thought about what it might be like if things could change. And in the morning, she’d taken extra money with her, then gotten off at the Elmhurst subway station on her way home from school. When she entered the huge, round department store, she was immediately choking on the heavy scent of perfume. And as she wandered around the first floor, she was overwhelmed by everything on display, acutely aware of the security guard who was trailing around behind her. But she had no idea what to buy. After all this time, the only things she knew about Baker were that he had a fairly large collection of rock albums—pretty hip for a guy his age—and that he liked science fiction. But since she didn’t know what records he wanted or which books he hadn’t read, she was back to square one.
Seeing a bunch of ties at a counter that stood out like a sanctuary for men amidst the mostly women’s-wear departments, she hurried over to talk to the sales clerk. The man gave her a nervous smile, but was still polite, telling her she couldn’t go wrong buying a tie. But either too dull, too loud, or too cheaply made, the selection in her price range didn’t look very appealing. She had just about given up when she found one she liked: black with crisscrossing lines of gold and white. The clerk deemed it “an excellent choice” and offered to gift wrap it for her. After she’d paid, the security guard had lost interest.
Micki looked at her watch, then guzzled down the rest of her soda. She was late for work. She shoved the box back into the Macy’s bag, then stuffed it in a dresser drawer, underneath her long-sleeved shirts.
As if it really mattered.
♦ ♦ ♦
NOT LONG AFTER SHE left, Baker stopped by. He went through everything and came across her purchase from Macy’s, the receipt still in the bag. He saw how much she’d paid and that she’d bought it that very day. But even without the receipt, he would’ve known what it was. “Let me guess,” his father would say with disgust as he’d eye the telltale shape of the box, “it’s a tie, am I right?” But his father had had no interests to draw upon—no hobbies, no athletic pursuits. So it was a tie or cuff links; what did the man expect? Especially since, the few times Baker had tried to be innovative, his father had exchanged the gift for a more expensive version—or something entirely different.
Baker lowered his eyes, then put the box back in the bag. Without a doubt, Micki had bought this for him. How she’d found out it was his birthday, he didn’t know—though he could hazard a pretty good guess.
♦ ♦ ♦
LATER THAT NIGHT, WHEN he couldn’t put it off any longer, Baker called Mr. Antonelli to tell him Micki wouldn’t be able to work during the extended holiday weekend. The restaurant owner immediately started fretting; he’d been counting on her to pick up extra shifts. Baker tried to impress upon the man the serious consequences that might ensue if anyone let it slip about the change of plans.
“Yah, yah. Is okay. I understand-a!” came the irritated response, and he hung up the phone.
Baker poured himself a drink, then dialed Warner, who took his time answering and didn’t sound pleased to hear Baker’s voice. “This better be important,” he said. “It’s late, and I’ve got a lot of work to get done tonight.”
“Did you tell Micki it was my birthday?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Did you tell her to buy me a gift?”
“I didn’t tell her to do anything.”
“But you encouraged her, didn’t you.”
“I—well I might’ve said something, I guess.”
“You guess? She’s got little enough money as it is. I certainly don’t want her feeling obligated to spend any of it on me. Besides, do you have any idea how awkward this is? She must hate my guts more than ever now.”
“I don’t think she really hates you. Y’know, she said almost the exact—”
“Just do me a favor,” Baker cut in, “and don’t interfere.”
“Fine,” Warner replied. “But watching the two of you circle around, pretending you don’t give a shit about each other—it’s pathetic; you’re both full of it. I suggested she get you something because I thought it might break down the walls a little, open your eyes a bit. Can’t you see what you are to that kid?”
“I can’t afford to let her get attached to me, and I certainly can’t afford to get attached to her. I’m nothing more than a glorified parole officer. Once the school year is up, so is my guardianship.”
“And what happens to her then?”
“I have no idea, and I don’t care.”
“Oh, I see. So come June, you’re just going to say, ‘So long, kid; have a nice life’?”
“There’s no room in my life for a kid.”
“Why not?”
“There just isn’t—and especially a kid like her, getting into trouble every fucking minute.”
“So why don’t you help her?”
“Why don’t I help her? Why don’t you help her? If you’re so fucking concerned, why don’t you at least take her for the goddamn weekend instead of making me leave her at Heyden?”
“Let’s not get into that again—”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Well, that’s my answer, too: ‘because.’ If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.”
“Fine. You win. Are you happy now?”
But that’s not how Baker felt when he hung up.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN MICKI DIDN’T BRING the gift to school the next day, Baker was somewhat surprised. But maybe she wanted to give it to him at a more private place and time. Or maybe she’d simply forgotten. She didn’t even say anything to him before she left to go home.
But Warner caught up with her when she was halfway to the main doors. “Why don’t you hang around till three? Angie baked a cake, and we’re going to throw a little party.”
“I can’t; I’ll be late for work.” She turned to go, but he touched her arm, and she spun back around. “What? Whatta y’want from me now?”
Warner retreated a step. “Nothing. Forget it.”
She gazed at him with a cool, appraising eye. “He found the present, didn’t he.”
Warner looked apologetic.
“It’s all right. I could tell he’d been through my stuff last night.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.
♦ ♦ ♦
NEEDING SOMETHING TO CUT with, Baker opened Micki’s kitchen drawer and took out a large carving knife—the very knife she’d threatened him with the day she’d been late for school. Then he tore off a piece of aluminum foil and put it on the counter next to the package he’d brought.
Angie’s devil’s food cake with vanilla icing had been huge—huge enough to feed an army. Or so he’d thought. By the time they’d finished with it, barely a quarter had remained. They insisted he take home what was left, Angie suggesting he bring some to Micki. Warner, overhearing, had looked away.
If it weren’t for the fact that Micki might think he was simply dumping leftovers on her, he would leave her the entire thing. Instead, he’d give her a very generous slice. That is, if he could cut the damn thing without destroying it. Because
of a rather tough, sponge-like crust, the moist chocolate cake was squishing under the knife, the icing between the layers oozing out the sides in response to the pressure: the blade was duller than a butter knife’s. Recalling how convincingly she’d held it on him, he gave in to a small smile.
He stabbed out a chunk and wrapped it up. Then he washed the knife and the counter, preparing to go. But the foil package looked very strange sitting all alone next to her books. He needed to leave a note. With a sigh, he went back and ripped a page out of her loose-leaf binder. Pen in hand, he leaned over to write. But he wasn’t sure how to begin. “Dear Micki” seemed absurd while just “Micki” sounded too curt. Then again, why even bother with that; it was obvious the note was to her, wasn’t it? “Angie baked me a cake,” he wrote. “Thought you might like some.” He paused. “Sincerely”? “Yours truly”? They seemed equally ridiculous. Maybe he should just write his name. He placed the pen on the paper, but, again, it didn’t move. “Sergeant Baker” would look very cold and distant. He’d known Micki for almost three months, and their relationship, though riddled with hostility, was close. And intense. Baker closed his eyes. To think he’d even slept with her. Jesus Christ, he could just imagine how she felt still having to address him as “sir” or “Sergeant Baker.” The small of his back started to hurt, and he straightened up.
He could simply sign the note “Jim,” but that sounded too casual and not a wise choice, either; oddly enough, for the very same reason “Sergeant Baker” seemed too remote. Maybe he shouldn’t sign it at all; after all, she’d know the note was from him. But that might look kind of rude.
He wrote, “Sgt. Baker,” and left the slip of paper beneath the cake.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN MICKI RETURNED HOME from work, she saw the curious hunk of foil waiting for her. She read the note and wondered if it was Angie or Baker who’d thought she’d like some cake; the wording was ambiguous. Whatever. Holding up the package, she observed it from several angles, then delicately peeled back the aluminum, exposing the dark, chocolate layers and soft white icing, some clinging lusciously to the foil. After a few seconds, she carelessly wrapped it up and hurled it into the garbage. As she stood looking down at it, still holding the lid of the pail in her hand, her heart started to ache. But she clenched her jaw and slammed the plastic top down anyway. The note, ripped into pieces, quickly followed.
She hung her damp T-shirt from work on the shower curtain rod, then yanked off her jacket. There was homework to do—lots of it. But she found herself sitting on the edge of the bed instead, hugging her knees to her chest.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER STOOD IN FRONT of the couch, gazing out the window at the lightly falling snow. Cynthia, wrapped up in his comforter, was sound asleep inside his bedroom. She’d treated him to dinner at an expensive steakhouse, then given him his present: a beautiful matte-black pen with real fourteen-karat-gold accents; her way, no doubt, of gently prodding him to write again. But that dream—barely a memory now—was long gone.
And Cynthia might be gone soon, too. He could feel her slipping through the ever-widening spaces in his life. When he’d been in bed with her tonight—the first time in weeks—it had seemed more like they were simply having sex than making love. It had never felt that way with her before. And he’d actually worried about how he was performing, how he stacked up to Mr. LA, for he was confident she was sleeping with the young actor by now.
He finished off the glass of whiskey. Maybe she’d agreed to keep seeing him out of pity.
This was not a good birthday. He never liked them anymore anyway, just a reminder that everything he’d ever wanted out of life was receding further and further from his grasp. In three more years he’d be forty. Forty. And what did he have to show for it? When he was a kid, he couldn’t wait to have a birthday; couldn’t wait to get older: one year closer to getting out of that house, one year closer to freedom. He inhaled deeply from his cigarette, letting the smoke completely fill his lungs. It might mean just the opposite for Micki.
But then, the kid didn’t even have a birthday; the state was using her arrest date. He exhaled the smoke. He could just imagine how much she’d want to celebrate that. And what would happen when the anniversary of that day arrived? His guardianship was supposed to terminate no later than the end of the school year. If all went according to plan, he’d return to his squad. But what about her? Shooting back responses to Warner’s questions, he’d been so flip. But in this quiet hour, alone in the darkness …
If the state’s Department of Corrections wasn’t satisfied with her progress, they’d remove her from the Division for Youth’s jurisdiction so she could finish her sentence at Bedford Hills—an adult facility.
He stubbed the cigarette out in the bottom of the rocks glass.
To him, she was still a kid.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI DIDN’T BRING THE gift to school on Friday, and she didn’t say a word about the birthday cake, either. At nine fifteen that night, Baker headed back to Queens.
The couple in the basement was having another loud argument while Andy Williams, singing “Can’t Get Used to Losing You,” was blaring from someone’s stereo on the first floor. And the payphone was actually working. He called his answering service to tell them where he was, then let himself into the apartment.
Bored with the routine of it all, he went about tossing the small space, the Macy’s bag and the gift-wrapped box inside it just as he’d left them on Wednesday. And though the Scotch tape along the folded edges of the wrapping paper appeared untouched, there was no way to be certain it hadn’t been tampered with. Eric, his best friend in high school, had been rather adept at opening Christmas presents in advance with no one the wiser. Baker returned the tie to its hiding place and resumed his search, which ended with him pulling the lid off the garbage pail to have a look inside. Half in, half out of the foil, the cake was still visible, scraps of his note sprinkled on top. He replaced the lid, surprised by the jabbing pain in his chest.
♦ ♦ ♦
“WHAT THE FUCK DOES he want?” Micki said out loud when she saw the light on in her window. “He might as well just fuckin’ move in already.” She trudged up the stairs and went inside, following her usual after-work ritual without so much as an acknowledging glance.
Baker, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, was sitting at the table and smoking. When she walked over to move her books from in front of him, he asked, “Tough night at work?”
Not meeting his eyes, she said, “Same as always.” But that wasn’t quite true. Though it might’ve been her imagination, she thought Mr. Antonelli, Tony, and even Juan, who’d been leaving when she arrived, had all been acting kind of strange—sort of sad, like they knew something she didn’t.
Things had seemed off at school, as well, kids in her classes sneaking glances at her, then whispering to each other. Even in the locker room, Rhonda and her best friend, Sonya, stopped talking to study her with unusually keen interest. Rhonda then turned to cup her hand over Sonya’s ear while Micki, burying her face in her notebook, pretended not to notice.
But as she was running up the stairs to get to physics—her daily race against the late bell—Micki heard the two of them again. This time they were on the second-floor landing, hanging out in the stairwell like they usually did. They liked to linger there till the last possible minute since their fifth-period class was right next door. With only seconds to go, Micki bounded up the last few steps and saw Baker on the opposite side, making his way down from the third floor. Though it was a regular coincidence of their daily schedules, she ignored him. Like she always did. But Rhonda and Sonya momentarily ceased their chattering—only to start whispering and snickering with even greater zeal.
Micki had plunged through the doors, down the corridor, and on to room 244. But the image of those two had nagged at her for the rest of the day—even
through a grueling night at Bel. And now she had Baker to contend with.
She dropped her books on the desk and pulled out the chair.
“I spoke to the doctor,” he said to her back.
She turned to look at him.
“He said it would be okay to wait awhile and see what happens.”
She turned back to the desk.
“He also said you should be using some kind of birth control.”
She faced him again. “For what?”
“If your system kicks in, you won’t know right away; you could get pregnant.” Both feet on the floor, he was now leaning across the table. “Hey!” he said sharply, “don’t you turn your back on me, Micki! We’re not through discussing this yet.”
She faced him once more, arms folded over her chest, weight shifted to one leg.
“Does Rick use a condom?” he asked.
Her eyes grew darker.
“Answer me,” he ordered, adding, “Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You can skip the ‘sir’ for now.”
“No.”
“Well then you’d better get him to start, do you hear me? It’s a good idea, no matter what. A prick like that wouldn’t think twice about giving you VD.”
Unfolding her arms, her eyes narrowed further. “Is that why you used a condom? You thought I’d give you VD?”
“Is that what you think?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I guess so! It’s not like you really give a shit about me.”
The heat rose in his face. “Really? Then what am I doing worrying about you?”
“You have to ’cause it’s your fuckin’ job. You’re just afraid if you don’t, I might somehow end up bein’ a bigger pain in your ass.”
He sat back. Every little thing was so fucking complicated now. Leaning across the table again, emphasizing his words with little jabs of the Camel pinched between his thumb and index finger, he said, “I used a condom because I didn’t want to risk getting you pregnant.” He raised the cigarette to his lips.
She looked toward the kitchen. “Are we done talking about this?”