by Randy Mason
Their waitress, who wasn’t more than a few years older than Micki, looked like she’d been crying and was about to start again any minute. She asked if they wanted coffee, and Baker said yes for all of them. She filled their cups and said she’d return.
Cynthia, studying the menu intently, said she was starving—which meant she might actually eat an entire English muffin. Already knowing what he wanted, Baker simply glanced over the choices. Micki’s menu, however, lay unopened in front of her. And with nothing else to look at—the dark windows more like mirrors—her attention settled on Cynthia. The woman wore no make-up, and there were dark bags under her eyes. Her hair, tied in a low ponytail, hung in front of her left shoulder while oversized hoop earrings glowed rich and warm. She looked like a gypsy. Micki shifted her head and took to staring blankly over the tops of the booths.
Wriggling out of her coat, Cynthia said, “Oh, it’s so warm in here!”
Baker merely unzipped his jacket.
Micki was silent.
Cynthia asked, “So, tell me, Micki: what’s your favorite subject at school?”
Micki’s gaze refocused, eyes filled with such darkness that the woman’s smile faltered. Baker, barely breathing, waited: god only knew what kind of profanity was going to come out of Micki’s mouth.
“Physics,” Micki finally replied.
“Physics! Really!” Cynthia said. “Boy, when I was in high school, you never heard a girl say that. People gave me a hard time just for loving math so much.” Cynthia grinned. “The guys better watch out; we women are taking over.” And she winked.
Micki’s expression didn’t change.
“So—um—what do you especially like about physics?”
Micki’s jaw tightened. But then she said, “Quantum mechanics. And special relativity. Mr. Taubenfeld, my physics teacher—he’s my favorite teacher—gave me a book so I could teach it to the rest of the class.”
“Wow, you must be extraordinarily bright,” Cynthia said.
But Micki, now looking at the far wall, was contemplating how unlikely it was that she’d ever get to make that presentation.
And Baker recalled the book Micki was referring to, a white paperback with a red circle on it: Space and Time in Special Relativity by N. David Mermin. He’d first seen it about a week and a half ago. Even for the accelerated program she was in, he’d thought the topic a bit advanced. Yet he’d never asked her about it—never even asked her, in all this time, what her favorite subject was.
Eyes and nose redder than before, their waitress, dabbing at her face with a tissue, came back to take their order.
“I can’t decide,” Cynthia said, “between the English muffins and the corn toasties. Hmm …” She played with her ponytail. “I guess I’ll have the English muffins.”
Handing the waitress his menu, Baker said, “Scrambled eggs with French fries. That comes with toast?”
“And juice.”
“I don’t want the juice.”
“I’ll take your juice,” Cynthia said. Then she looked at the waitress. “Orange juice?”
“Or tomato or grapefruit.”
“Ooh, I’ll have the grapefruit.”
The waitress nodded, then looked at Micki.
“Nothing.”
“I’m paying, Micki, so order whatever you want,” Baker said.
“I don’t want anything.”
The waitress collected the rest of the menus. But as she turned to leave, Baker stopped her. “Bring her the same thing I’m having.”
The waitress nodded and hurried away.
Doing a slow burn, Micki looked down at the paper placemat. It had a bunch of stupid games printed on it. And then she had an idea. How fortunate that, like Baker, she’d kept her jacket on. “I need to use the john,” she said.
He got up to let her out, his jacket shifting to reveal the handle of a large gun in a shoulder holster. Micki’s throat constricted: the son of a bitch was such a liar. He had no intention of bringing her back from Heyden. She started for the restrooms, only to find that he was following. Almost sick, she still reached for the door, but he yanked her back behind him and knocked.
“What’re you doing?” she asked.
When there was no response from inside, he opened the door and went in. Micki followed. To the left was a row of sinks with the stalls just beyond. Straight ahead was a window of frosted glass.
“Well, this works out fine,” he said. “Go on.”
“But—but y’can’t stay in here.”
“Why not? There are doors on the toilets.”
“But this is the ladies’ room.”
As if on cue, the door swung open. It was their waitress, most definitely on the verge of a fresh crying jag stopped dead by the shock of seeing a man in the women’s bathroom.
Baker, blocking her entry, flashed his badge in front of her saucer-shaped eyes. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”
And though it hadn’t seemed possible, her eyes widened further.
“Nothing to be concerned about,” he said. “We’ll be out of here shortly.”
Since the girl made no effort to move, Baker essentially closed the door in her face and, arms folded over his chest, leaned back against it. “Well, let’s hurry it up here, Micki; somebody’s waiting now.”
Cursing silently, she went to the furthest stall—ignoring the damn window—and pushed in the door. She looked at the toilet, pictured Baker standing by the sinks, then marched back to where he was waiting. “I changed my mind,” she said.
“Gee, what a surprise.”
They returned to the booth to find the waitress had just served their food, the table now full of plates and condiments. Micki, mouth in a thin line, stared past Cynthia, who was studying her with a concerned expression: Cynthia’s seat afforded a partial view of the restroom area.
When Cynthia turned her gaze to Baker, he said, “I had to go in with her, Cyn.” He looked at Micki with an odd mixture of emotions, adding, “And she knows why.”
Fuck you, Micki thought.
No one said anything.
Cynthia glanced from Baker to Micki.
No one moved.
Then Cynthia picked up half of an English muffin to smudge the tiniest dab of butter across the top. The knife scraped against the browned irregular edges of the craters. It was the only sound.
Micki was staring across the room.
Baker was staring at Micki.
Until Cynthia, still buttering the muffin, said in hushed tones, “So—um—our waitress just got dumped by her boyfriend; that’s why she’s so upset. High school sweethearts, they were. He went away to college while she stayed home. He’s in his senior year now. Last night he returned for the holiday and told her he’d fallen in love with someone else.”
Baker picked up the ketchup and used it to douse his eggs and French fries. Leave it to Cynthia, he thought, to get a total stranger to pour her heart out.
And then the couple began to talk about the weekend: scenic drives, long walks, and evenings in front of a fire. Sunday, before heading back to the city, they’d drop in on Cynthia’s parents to have lunch.
“My mom,” Cynthia said, “told me it already snowed quite a bit by them. I’d like to rent some skis and do some cross-country at the inn. Would you try it, Jim?”
“I’ll give it a shot—have to see if my knees can handle it.”
Tuning in and out of the conversation, Micki was catching bits and pieces of the idyllic scenes the couple was painting, her own mind conjuring up images of Heyden. She wanted to tell them both to shut the fuck up. Instead, she drank her coffee. But left the food untouched.
Baker quickly cleaned his plate, the bright-red ketchup left behind like a finger-painted design. Cynthia, e
ating much more slowly, was still working on her first English muffin, to which she’d added preserves.
The waitress, stopping by to pour fresh coffee, asked, “How’re we doing here?”
“I’m done,” Baker said.
“Me, too,” Cynthia said, and pushed back her plate.
“Are you going to eat any of that, Micki?” Baker asked.
Eyes fixed on her cup, she said, “No, sir.”
“It’s a shame for that to go to waste.”
She looked at him. “So put it on my tab.”
He snorted and flashed a wan smile. But Cynthia had caught the sadness in his eyes.
“You can take her plate,” Baker told the waitress. “And I’ll take the check.”
♦ ♦ ♦
DAWN WAS BREAKING. BUT before they got back on the highway, they stopped for gas. While the tank filled up, the attendant cleaned the windshield and then the back window, the squeegee squeaking across the now-crystal-clear glass. Micki thought of Mr. Paladino, her economics teacher. His special quirk was to sponge down the blackboards and squeegee them dry.
Her heart hurt.
They drove on into the morning, the light playing differently across the scenery as the sun rose higher, patches of mountains left in shadow from clouds that had moved in. Cynthia was sleeping, her hair—having come loose from the ponytail—draped over the side of the reclined seat.
But the signs for Albany were growing more prominent. And by the time the car left the highway, Micki’s stomach had worked itself up into such a state that she thought she was getting an ulcer. They braked for the stop sign at the end of the ramp, and Cynthia woke up.
“Hey, Sleepyhead,” Baker teased, “could you read me the directions?” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She yawned.
Micki imagined grabbing the sheet of instructions and ripping it into tiny little pieces.
Not that that would do any good.
♦ ♦ ♦
A SPARSE COATING OF white covered most of the landscape now, and the sky had clouded over. The guard opened the gate, and they drove along the road leading to the main building. From time to time, Baker glanced at Micki in the rearview mirror. When the full expanse of the facility came into view, he saw the stricken look on her face.
“You okay back there?” he asked.
“I’m just fuckin’ great.”
“You watch your mouth—”
“Jim!” Cynthia said, lightly touching his arm.
Micki stared at the buildings and grounds she thought she’d never see again. Actually, she had to hand it to Baker: not once had he thrown it in her face that, in a moment of despair, she’d said she wanted to come back to this place.
He stopped the car in front of the largest building, a standard, institutional-looking structure that contained the administrative offices, the cafeteria, and the high-security cells. Surrounding it, in a semi-circular pattern, were several pleasant-looking cottages that housed the general population. It wasn’t until he stepped out of the Camaro and looked past the extensive network of well-manicured lawns and recreational fields that he saw the high stone wall topped with barbed wire that enclosed the entire compound. He pushed the back of the seat forward. “Let’s go,” he said to Micki. She got out while he removed her bag from the trunk. But before he closed the door, he bent down into the car. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Cyn. This shouldn’t take long.”
Eyes pale, she replied, “Sure.” Then, leaning across the seat so she’d be seen, she said, “Bye, Micki.”
Micki turned away.
Baker shut the door and took another look around. Under the cold, grey sky, the deserted grounds looked faintly blue. Yet very real. Until this moment, Heyden had been an abstraction, a step removed—like watching some disaster playing out on the nightly news. But here he now was, about to deliver Micki back into the hands of people he didn’t know and couldn’t trust. She’d been tormented here. He stared down at her, but could only see the top of her head—she was looking back down the road.
“I had no choice,” he said quietly.
She shrugged.
No tears, he thought. The kid never cries. For all she knows, I am leaving her here for good—and still nothing. He breathed in to ease the tightness in his chest. But the harsh morning air only stung his lungs. “Look at me,” he said.
“Jesus, leave me alone already.”
“Look at me,” he demanded, reaching beneath her chin.
She knocked his hand away and stepped back. “Don’t you touch me!”
“Then look at me when I’m talking to you!” His words came out in little clouds of vapor that instantly dispersed into the atmosphere. “Don’t make this any worse than it has to be. Behave yourself and things’ll go a lot easier.”
She couldn’t tell if he was talking about her living at Heyden again or simply telling her not to cause a scene right then. Her gaze fell to his chest. After a couple of seconds she said, “I’m very cold.”
And indeed, Baker noticed, she was shivering. But it reminded him of his talk with her in the empty conference room: “Say whatever you want to me,” he’d offered, and her only reply had been, “I need a late pass.”
When he heard the door open behind him, a rush of warmth swelled in his heart, followed by a deep, aching pain.
“Sergeant Baker?” a woman asked.
He turned toward the voice. “Yes.” And then to Micki, “C’mon.” He followed behind her as they went up the steps and inside.
With the exception of a female prison guard waiting toward the back, the front office—full of grey metal desks, grey metal counters, grey metal filing cabinets, and flickering fluorescent lights—was empty.
Her manner officious, the woman who let them in said, “I’m Deputy Warden Leslie Stanton. I’m in charge while Warden Morrow is away for the holiday.” Her demeanor turned even colder when she added, “We spoke on the phone.” She didn’t offer her hand, and Baker didn’t offer his. Big-boned and wide-hipped, the woman had to angle herself a little in order to step behind the long counter that separated the nominal reception area from the clerical section of the room. Out of a file with Micki’s name on it, she produced a triplicate-typed form. She told Baker he could give Micki’s bag to the guard.
As he handed over the duffle—which was immediately and methodically searched—he said, “I appreciate your taking care of this at such an early hour—and on a holiday, no less.”
With a cool eye that said she was having none of it, Stanton pushed the papers across the metal counter. “If you’ll just sign these, Sergeant.”
He glanced them over and placed his pen on the signature line. After a moment’s hesitation, he wrote his name and straightened up.
Addressing the guard, Stanton said, “Search her thoroughly before you take her to C Cottage.”
“I already searched her,” Baker lied. “She’s clean.”
Micki’s jaw dropped while the guard, still holding her by the arm, paused.
Not trying very hard to suppress her smirk, Stanton inquired, “But you didn’t strip-search her, now, did you, Sergeant?”
“No, but there’s really no need for that.”
“I see. Well, let me remind you, then, that you just signed her over into my custody. I’m the acting warden here now. I am responsible for the safety and well-being of both staff and inmates at this facility, and I will determine what is and isn’t necessary at this time.”
There was something ironic about his receiving this little speech, so much like his own words to Micki when she balked the first time he patted her down. But he hated this arrogant bitch of a woman and the indignity she relished subjecting Micki to. So while everyone waited—the guard now looking annoyed—he reconsidered his options: he could
take Micki on his trip with Cynthia—but that was out of the question—or he could cancel the trip and forfeit his money and vacation.
Knowing she was twisting his balls, Stanton’s eyes gleamed. And as soon as it was clear he would offer no further objections, she, once again, ordered the guard to go.
Micki took a last look at Baker. Maybe he was going to come back for her after all. But as she was led away, her heart plummeted like a rock into a maelstrom of churning, muddy waters when, behind her, she heard him say softly, “Bye, Micki.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BY THE TIME MICKI was shown to her cot, Stanton was already waiting. Looking smug, she said, “It certainly didn’t take you very long to return to us.”
“I’m only here till Sunday,” Micki retorted, an angry blush creeping into her cheeks.
“Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we.” And Stanton, head thrown back, cackled as she made her way out.
chapter 20
“JESUS CHRIST!” THE CAR skidded over another patch of black ice. After a four-inch snowfall the day before, a thin layer of liquid had frozen on top of the highway’s surface overnight, leaving sections of the blacktop treacherous. Baker downshifted and shut off the radio. There was no real reason to rush; Warner knew he’d be late today if he showed up at all. He’d already missed work yesterday.
Barely five thirty in the morning, there were hardly any vehicles on the road, and a fine mist hung in the air, scattering the beams of his headlights. He put out his cigarette and peered ahead into the darkness, the solid white line flying by on his left; nothing but a long and, most likely, unpleasant trip home to look forward to.
He wished the whole weekend had never happened.
Thursday, between all the driving he’d done and leaving Micki at Heyden, he’d been wiped out by the time he and Cynthia had reached the White Horse Inn. Still recovering from lack of sleep, Cynthia hadn’t been much better off. They’d napped until it was time for the large Thanksgiving dinner, after which they took a ride in a horse-drawn sleigh around the snow-covered grounds. But despite the charm of the setting, the natural familiarity they’d once shared was gone. And, in bed, their bodies no longer meshed the way they used to: Cynthia seemed self-conscious; Baker felt out of sync.