by Randy Mason
“Did you eat anything before you ran out of there?” he asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
He shot a glance at the books on her lap. “You didn’t bring a lunch, either.”
“I’m kinda nauseous.”
“You’re not going to throw up, are you?”
“I’m not gonna puke.”
“Are you sure? ’Cause I’ll pull over.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m fine.”
He changed lanes. “Did you drink all that wine by yourself?”
She noticed a dead squirrel in the middle of the street. Another car ran right over it.
“Did you?” he pressed.
“What?”
“Did you drink all that wine yourself?”
“Yessir.”
“Where did you get it?”
She straightened out the books on her lap. “Joey.”
“He’s one of Rick’s pals, right?”
She looked over at him. She’d never mentioned Joey before. But then, Baker was a fucking detective; what did she expect? “Yessir.”
“Are you messing around with him, too?”
Her voice stiffened. “I gave him money to buy it for me.”
Baker shut the radio off. “Jesus, Micki, I wasn’t implying anything; it was a simple, straightforward question.”
“The answer is no.”
When they arrived at the school, they pulled into a parking spot around the corner from the main entrance. Micki unlocked the door to get out, but Baker grabbed her arm. “Not so fast.”
Heart and head both pounding, she sat back in the seat, staring out the windshield. Baker killed the engine and angled himself in her direction as best he could.
“What the hell did you think you were doing yesterday?”
She shrugged.
He lit another cigarette and stuffed the used match in the ashtray. “What do you think I should do about it?”
She shrugged again.
“Well then maybe you want to tell me what was going through your head when you broke that bottle.”
Wearing white shoes, white stockings, and a white dress underneath a short navy wool coat, a woman was walking down the street. She had a white nurse’s cap sitting on top of her head like a crown. Micki watched her unlock a red Pinto’s door and get in. “I—I was …”
“You were what?”
“I … I dunno.”
“I think you ought to talk to someone.”
She turned her head. “Y’mean like a shrink?”
“Yeah, like a shrink.”
“I’m not crazy!”
“You don’t have to be crazy to see a shrink.”
“Oh, yeah? Have you ever talked to one?”
Since he’d never actually spoken more than two sincere words to Tillim, he said, “No.”
“Well, they’ve poked around in my head enough already. I just wanna be left alone.”
“What about talking to Mr. Warner?”
“Forget it.”
Baker smoked while Micki tapped her foot on the rubber floor mat.
“Do you want to talk to me about anything?” he asked.
Looking through the window at the empty spot where the Pinto had been, she snorted. “Yeah, right.” After several more seconds had passed, she asked, “If we’re just gonna sit here, can we at least listen to the radio?”
Like a sigh, Baker exhaled the smoke from his lungs, then mashed the cigarette into the tiny ashtray. “Let’s go, Micki.” And he got out of the car.
Only Micki looked relieved.
♦ ♦ ♦
FOR THE FIRST HALF hour of her suspension, Micki helped the custodian paint over the Vipers’ graffiti. The Vipers were a white gang that periodically spray-painted their logo on school walls overnight. There was a black gang, too—the Demons—but they stayed much more underground and were rarely ever talked about. And yet, just a week ago, Micki had overheard a girl in gym class saying one of the Demons had accidentally shot himself while cleaning his gun. At least, that was the rumor.
The rest of the day was homework and class work, including tests: Warner gave her an English exam during third period; Baker administered a make-up history exam during eighth. Afterward, Baker walked her to the bus stop and waited until the Q44A arrived. As the doors were closing, he said, “Make sure you get here on time tomorrow.”
She took a seat and stared out the window. But as the bus pulled away, her hands clutched at her books: the restless, edgy craving had returned.
♦ ♦ ♦
BEFORE SHE WENT TO work, Micki spent almost every extra penny she had buying a new blanket and a set of sheets at Sunny’s. But tomorrow she’d be getting paid again, and she couldn’t exactly spend it all just to get rid of it. She looked around Bel’s kitchen, everyone so busy—just like she was. For now. The upcoming holiday, with all of its unstructured time, had become something to fear.
chapter 19
LOOKING LIKE SHE MIGHT grab it from him if she had to wait a moment longer, Micki took the pink piece of paper Baker handed her. On it she saw:
Physics—99
Calculus—99
English—99
American History—98
Economics—95
When he saw her copying the numbers down and calculating, he asked, “What’re you doing?”
“I wanna see what my average is.”
He put his finger next to the UN—unsatisfactory—she’d gotten for general conduct. “That better improve next time. It was supposed to go up.”
Staring at the desk, she said, “Yessir.”
“Otherwise, that’s—that’s an excellent report card.”
She looked up. “Thanks!”
“Yeah, well, give it back to me now so I can sign it.”
For the rest of homeroom, he avoided any eye contact with her.
♦ ♦ ♦
GAZE FOCUSED ON THE ceiling, Micki watched the play of shadows and listened to the sounds coming from the street: an occasional passing car, some kids hanging out … At one point she heard a bottle break; a little later, the rev of a motorcycle engine before it screeched away. But mostly she was concentrating on the radio. As part of a Thanksgiving Day special, the station was playing sets of songs by different bands before it commenced its official countdown of the top one hundred rock songs of all time.
She was hungry again. Though hours till dawn, she’d already been up for quite a while. When she’d opened her eyes and couldn’t fall back to sleep, she’d decided to have breakfast, take a long hot shower, then go back to bed. With no school for four days and no work till Friday, what difference did it make if she did things at crazy times? And though the water had become icy cold less than five minutes after she’d turned it on, it hadn’t dampened her spirits. Not only had Baker said something nice to her for once, but the desire to shoot up had finally burned itself out. Yesterday, midway through her shift at the restaurant, she’d realized it was gone. And Baker would be gone. When asked about his holiday plans, she’d heard him mention to several people that he was taking a trip to Vermont with Cynthia.
The radio was in the middle of a set of one-hit wonders. Marmalade’s “Reflections of My Life” came on, and Micki turned up the volume. But as the second verse started, she heard a car slow down, then stop in front of her building. She heard its door open and close. It was Baker. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Footsteps were coming up the stoop, and then the downstairs door opened.
She jumped out of bed, switched on the desk light, and frantically threw on her jeans. It wasn’t even four o’clock in the morning. Wasn’t he leaving on his trip today? The footsteps reached the landing and drew closer to her door. His key was turning in the
lock while her fly had caught on her nightshirt.
He stepped into the apartment.
They stared at each other across the room. She was still buckling her belt. He closed the door. She shut the radio off. Leaving only silence.
Eyes narrowed, Baker looked her over. When he’d gotten out of the car, her apartment had been dark. Now the light was on and she was wearing jeans. “Anybody else here?” he asked as he turned on the overhead fixture. Then he strode over to the fire escape window, stuck his head out, and looked down.
“Not that I know of.”
He closed the window and locked it, then walked over to the closet and the bathroom—both empty. “Why were you getting dressed?”
“I heard the car.”
“That could’ve been anybody; how did you know it was me?”
She shrugged.
“You looked out the window?”
She shook her head no.
A chill shot through him.
She said, “Y’know, you left your car running.”
“Cynthia’s waiting down there. I wanted to keep the heater on.” Micki’s shoulders relaxed until he added, “I need you to get dressed and throw a few things in your bag. You’ll be staying at Heyden till Sunday.”
Her entire body tensed. “Why can’t I stay here?”
“You’re not allowed to be here without my supervision.”
“I’ll stay out of trouble. I’ll—”
“Micki! I’m in no mood for arguments.”
“Is this ’cause a what happened Monday? ’Cause a the fight? ’Cause I got drunk?”
“The decision was made long before then.”
He’s leaving me there for good, she thought. Not just the weekend. She swallowed hard. “I—I’m supposeda work a lot this weekend—extra shifts an’ all. Mr. Antonelli—”
“Knew last week,” Baker interrupted. “He’s already made other arrangements.”
So everybody had known. Except her.
“Get dressed,” he repeated. “I don’t like leaving Cynthia down there alone.”
“Well, she coulda come up, y’know.”
Baker pulled out his lighter and lit a cigarette.
“Oh, I see,” Micki said. “She doesn’t belong in a dump like this.”
“Just get dressed, Micki.”
She took her shirt and bra into the bathroom to change, then came out and put her sneakers on. With a couple of rough tugs, she yanked her little duffle bag out of the closet from under her laundry. But on her way to the dresser, she stopped to glance at Baker. Leaning against the door, he had one leg casually crossed over the other at the ankle. And his right arm, lying across his waist, was propping up his left as he smoked. Underneath his leather jacket, which was still zipped—unusual for him—she could see the collar of a black turtleneck. And he was wearing a new pair of jeans. Black jeans. She resented this for some reason. Her eyes met his, traveled all the way down to his leather boots, then back up to his face.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked. “Committing me to memory?”
She went to the dresser. That was exactly what she’d been doing. No matter what, she would remember that once—just once—she’d made it with a guy that looked like him. And in her mind, it would always be tender and romantic. No one had ever been that way with her. Probably no one ever would again.
“Hey!”—he grabbed a fistful of clothes out of her hand and threw them back in the drawer—“you only need enough for three days. You certainly don’t need these T-shirts.”
“They’re mine. I bought ’em with my money that I earned. I can take ’em if I want!”
“You’re only staying there through the weekend. How many times do I have to say that? Don’t you think I’d have the balls to tell you if I were leaving you there for good?”
Her icy stare was cynical.
“Give me that!” And he snatched the bag out of her hand. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he proceeded to pack whatever he thought was appropriate. “Go get your toothbrush and all that stuff.” She did as she was told, then lifted her mattress and removed her money and bankbooks. He went over and grabbed them. “You won’t be needing these, either.” She glared at him while he stubbed out his cigarette. He was about to return her things to their hiding place when he paused: between the fire escape right outside the window and the cheap lock on the door, just about anybody with half a brain could get into her apartment. He stuffed the money, checkbook, and savings-account passbook in his jacket pocket. “I’ll hold on to these so they’ll be safe.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I don’t need any of your smart mouth right now.”
“Yer always such a dick.”
His nostrils flared. “Put your jacket on, and let’s go.”
While she was shoving her arms into the sleeves, she spied her radio.
“Leave it,” he said.
“What’s the fuckin’ difference t’you?”
His palm connected with her body just below the shoulder, jolting her. And then his finger was in her face. “It’s a long drive to Heyden. And if you don’t straighten out your act, I could make it very uncomfortable for you.”
“Like I fuckin’ care at this point.”
He dropped the bag to the floor. “That’s it; I’ve had it.” The cuffs were in his hand. “Turn around.”
She held her ground.
“Don’t test me, Micki. Because, one way or another, I’m going to get these things on you.”
Eyes blazing, she turned and put her hands behind her, letting him slap the metal around her wrists. Then he picked up the bag and opened the door.
She walked out without a final glance. I’m coming back, she told herself. But only part of her believed it.
He hadn’t taken her schoolbooks.
♦ ♦ ♦
JUST AS THEY REACHED the first floor landing, Baker yanked her to a stop. In a frenzied whisper he said, “Don’t you dare say a word to Cynthia about what happened between us.”
“I thought y’said she wouldn’t care.”
He shook her. “Did you hear what I just said?”
Voice weary, she replied, “I told ya I wouldn’t say nothin’ t’anybody.”
“Yeah, but that was then.”
“I got no reason t’hurt her.”
“But you’ve got plenty of reasons to hurt me.”
“Not at her expense.”
Baker lowered his eyes. And for the rest of the way out to the car, the grip on her arm was less severe.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER OPENED HIS door, Cynthia woke up. From the way he was helping Micki get in—one hand on her head so she wouldn’t bump it on the roof, one hand on her arm to steady her—Cynthia knew Micki was cuffed.
“You keep your mouth shut,” he ordered Micki. “I don’t want to hear a word out of you.”
Now sitting up very straight, Cynthia looked like she was about to object, but then faced front again. Baker pushed the back of the bucket seat upright, threw Micki’s bag in the trunk, and got in himself. Cynthia shot him a nervous glance.
“Everything’s fine,” he said. But when he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw Micki’s eyes glued to the front door of her building. He shifted the car into first and pulled away.
Once her apartment was out of sight, Micki unwound her body and slouched down. But after a few minutes, she started to twist and squirm: her cuffed hands were pressing into her spine while her lower limbs were mangled. The front seats—to accommodate two pairs of very long legs—were pushed back as far as they could go. She caught Baker’s eyes in the rearview mirror and immediately looked away. Three hours—that’s all she had left.
♦ ♦ ♦
NOTHING ABOUT THIS VACATIO
N augurs well, Baker thought. They’d initially planned on arriving at the White Horse Inn by late Thanksgiving Eve; that’s how he’d made the reservations last year. But two weeks ago, Cynthia had gotten a call for a television commercial to be shot on the Wednesday of their departure: yesterday. To keep the peace, she’d agreed to leave at this insane hour so they’d at least reach Vermont by early Thanksgiving Day. He, in turn, had promised to let her sleep the whole drive up if she needed to—which seemed highly likely. Apparently, the shoot hadn’t ended until after midnight. After midnight. He couldn’t fathom how a sixty-second advertisement had to take a whole fucking day to shoot. But then, what did he know? He was just a cop. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut about things like that. Their one lucky break was that Heyden wasn’t too far out of their way. But what a lousy way to start a trip.
A truck and a run-down van were the only vehicles in sight as the Camaro crossed the Triborough Bridge, Baker skimming along in the right-hand lane. But as soon as they’d reached the other side, he pulled over on a level span of shoulder. Engine still running, he left the car in neutral with the emergency brake engaged.
“What’s wrong?” Cynthia asked.
“Nothing.” And he got out and pushed the back of his seat forward.
Micki stared at him. “I haven’t said a goddamn thing since we left.”
“Give me your hands.”
It was then that she saw the tiny key he was holding. Her eyes flicked up to his before she twisted around so he could remove the handcuffs.
Without another word he got back in the car, and, once again, they were off.
♦ ♦ ♦
ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER—the sky still black but dusted with thousands of stars—they stopped at a Howard Johnson’s for breakfast. The restaurant was large and empty, the aroma of coffee, grease, maple syrup, and cigarettes mingling in the air, forever circulating through the ventilation system. The only diners, they were seated in a booth up front—Cynthia on one side and Micki on the other with Baker next to her, facing the door.