Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  The trooper watched Baker stomping back through the snow. The cop was trying to give the impression that the incident was solely a police matter. But it had all the earmarks of a domestic disturbance.

  Keeping an eye on his car, Baker offered the trooper a cigarette, then lit one himself. “So is this supposed to be my cooling-off period?” he asked.

  “I think you need one.”

  Despite a rush of heat, Baker flashed an amiable grin. “Maybe you’re right. But let me tell you, that kid can push my buttons faster than anyone I’ve ever known.” He filled his lungs with smoke, then examined the cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger. “Y’know, I managed to quit smoking for two years. Two years. But that kid got me started again.”

  “Really!” the trooper said. “What happened? She put a cigarette in your mouth and a gun to your head?”

  Baker looked up sharply, then appeared to laugh it off, giving the trooper a weak smile. “Fair enough.”

  They both smoked.

  “She looks familiar,” the trooper said. “Was she the girl that escaped from Heyden over the summer?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. How did you know?”

  “Small world. My uncle’s a cop in Rensselaer. She’d made her way to one of the college’s summer dorms there, and several students spotted her. My uncle was one of the guys sent to pick her up. He said that when he caught her, she was in pretty bad shape. And with her T-shirt all torn up from running through the woods, he could see infected welts and what looked like cigarette burns on her back.”

  “And?” Baker had never heard any of this.

  “My uncle took her into custody. Once he drew his gun, she surrendered. But having to take her back to that place weighed on him something fierce. A few weeks later, he got in touch with the Department of Corrections, and it started quite the investigation.”

  “But as far as I know,” Baker said, “Micki never even gave a statement to anyone.”

  “Warden resigned to shut the whole thing down.”

  Baker grunted.

  They smoked awhile.

  “You’re taking an awful lot of time with this,” Baker said.

  “I don’t like what I saw when I pulled in here. I’m trying to decide what to do about it.”

  “She can be hard to handle.”

  “She was already cuffed.”

  “But way out of line.”

  “That was a cruel punch.”

  “I know how much she can take.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Yeah? Well you should’ve heard what came out of her mouth.”

  “Nothing she said could justify what you did.”

  “You can say that because you don’t have to deal with her.”

  “I’ve got three kids of my own, mister. All teenagers. All boys. All a handful. Do you have any kids of your own?”

  Baker looked steadily into the trooper’s icy blue eyes and said, “No. But we’re not talking about just any kid, here. We’re talking about an extremely violent juvenile offender.”

  “You said you’re her legal guardian.”

  “So what? What’s the difference?”

  “It means something to her.”

  Using his middle finger, Baker tapped some ashes off his cigarette.

  “Did you tell her you wished she was dead?”

  With another look heavenward, Baker said, “It’s not the way it sounds.”

  “Do you hate her?”

  “No, but—”

  “Why are you her guardian?”

  Baker put the Camel to his lips and inhaled.

  “Let me explain my problem,” the trooper said. “What I saw here constitutes assault and battery on a minor—child abuse. Of course, if you insist your relationship with her is strictly as a police officer, we could bring your Internal Affairs Division into this …”

  When he stared into the trooper’s eyes, Baker saw beyond the words this time. He looked down. “Sometimes I just don’t know how to control her.”

  “No matter what she does, you’ve got to control yourself. If you can’t manage that, you’ll never be able to exert any control over her.”

  Gaze still fixed on the ground, Baker nodded.

  The trooper’s voice grew soft. “She’s not lost yet. You know that, don’t you?”

  But Baker merely looked off into the distance.

  The dispatcher’s voice cut in from the cruiser’s radio, and both men threw their cigarettes in the snow. The trooper reached into his vehicle to respond. Turning back to Baker, he said, “Gotta go.” And with measured, deliberate movements, he gave the cop back his gun.

  The revolver hadn’t felt this heavy in Baker’s hand in a long, long time.

  “You’re her guardian; you’ve been entrusted with caring for her,” the trooper said. “Don’t forget what that means.”

  Baker nodded as the trooper got back in his cruiser, turned on the siren, and pulled away.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN BAKER RETURNED TO his car, Micki had already dozed off. A solid shake of her shoulder elicited only an unconscious grunt. Still he managed to get at the cuffs to remove them—even reclined her seat as an afterthought. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought she’d been drugged. But five nights without sleep could explain it just as well.

  She slept the rest of the ride back, and it was shortly after ten when he finally parked the car on her street. Snowless, the ground appeared oddly barren. He shut off the engine.

  “Micki,” he said quietly. “Micki!” And he shook her again.

  “Mmm.”

  “Wake up. You’re home.”

  Her eyes opened, then closed.

  “I am not carrying you up those stairs.” He got out of the car, took her bag from the trunk, and opened her door. When the cold air hit her, she mumbled something. He undid the seatbelt, raised her to a sitting position, then let the back of the seat spring upright. But she was still too groggy, and he had to pull her out.

  Supporting her on one side, he helped her up the steps. But no sooner were they inside her apartment than she flopped down on the bed. He dropped her bag on the floor and was halfway out the door when he remembered her bankbooks and money. He went back to put them on the table.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE GLITTERED like diamonds to her left while the pattern of bricks on her right had been transformed into the stone wall surrounding Heyden. Spirals of barbed wire looped endlessly into the blackness up ahead. Heart pounding louder than her feet, she flew down the alley, knowing there was no escape, knowing she was trapped—even though she was dreaming.

  So tired. So tired of running. If only this would all just end. She wanted, so badly, to stop.

  The brick wall blocking her path appeared more suddenly than it had before, the ground in front splitting in two. Straining to breathe, she teetered on the brink as the pavement before her splintered and shattered, irregular pieces of earth and rock falling through the infinite space of the ever-widening pit. And though there was no discernable source of light, the wall beyond was thrown into deeper shadow as if soon there might be no light at all.

  But then a hand reached out of the darkness, reached out across the divide. It was a large hand—a strong hand—but its owner remained shrouded in the surrounding shadows. Palm up in readiness, it grew larger and larger—so huge she could actually step on top and be carried to safety.

  Maybe.

  The darkness closed in further, cold fingers touching the bare skin of her shoulder. She was falling …

  Micki awoke with a start, still feeling the sensation of freefall, still sweating and overheated like she’d been in the dream. Unable to recall getting out of Baker’s car, she struggled to he
r feet and looked around the apartment, which felt much too warm. She took off her jacket and looked at the clock: almost two. She’d missed another day of school.

  Three Devil Dogs, some American cheese, and a large glass of Coke that was flat from being in a half-empty bottle too long—and she was still hungry. She returned her money and bankbooks to their hiding place, then opened her duffle bag. And though it might have been her imagination, the odor of Heyden drifted up. She stripped the bed and gathered her laundry together. There would be just enough time before going to work.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  ON HIS WAY HOME from the high school, Baker stopped off to find Micki’s apartment empty. If the bare mattress hadn’t looked so repulsive, he would’ve stretched out for a nap while waiting for her to return. As it was, she walked through the door less than five minutes later, arms full of laundry, detergent, and schoolbooks.

  Pointing to a folded piece of loose-leaf paper he’d left on her desk, he said, “I brought your homework assignments. Those are yesterday’s and today’s.”

  “Like I’m really gonna get t’any of it.”

  “Did you at least do some homework over the weekend?”

  “Over the weekend? Over the weekend? None! I got none of it done ’cause I didn’t have any books with me. It’s a little tough without the books, don’tcha think?”

  He’d never packed her books. He massaged his brow. “I’ll write notes for your teachers. Do the best you can to make it up by the end of the week.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Holding his tongue, he turned to go, then paused in the doorway. “What are you saving for?”

  “What?”

  “In your bank account—you’re saving money.”

  She could feel the heat rising in her face. “College.”

  He merely nodded, then left.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  PHONE IN ONE HAND, cigarette in the other, Baker asked, “How’s your dad doing?”

  “Much, much better. Thanks for asking.”

  Thanks for asking? Cynthia was being so formal. A misplaced drop of spaghetti sauce had hardened on the Formica tabletop. He picked at it with his fingernail, and a few ashes fell from his cigarette. He brushed them away. “So when do you think you’ll be coming back to the city?”

  “Friday maybe.”

  “How about Saturday? I could drive up and bring you back.”

  “Don’t be silly—that’s insane. That would be an outrageous amount of driving in one day.”

  “I was thinking I’d drive up late Friday night.”

  “No, that’s really not necessary.”

  “I don’t mind, I—”

  “No!” Her voice softened. “I—um—I want to thank you for how much you did for my mom and me while you were here. Especially under the circumstances. But the truth is”—she took a deep breath—“and this is hard for me to say, Jim, but”—she paused again—“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  Eyes closed, he rested his forehead against the knuckles of his left hand. Cigarette smoke swirled around his face. “You don’t have to sleep with me, Cyn.”

  “For godssakes, I need some space! Can’t you understand that?”

  “Yeah, I understand that!”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Can I at least call you?” he asked.

  He sounded so plaintive—so hurt. She sighed. “Just give me a little time first, okay?”

  He hung up the phone and finished his cigarette in the emptiness of his apartment. Leisurely and relaxed. As if he had all the time in the world.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE PICTURES ON THE screen flashed and changed in the darkness, the TV’s volume so low it was little more than a murmur. Exhaling smoke, Baker poured another drink. The weatherman was predicting a blizzard tomorrow—like they ever got the goddamn weather right. Probably two whole fucking snowflakes would fall.

  He thought of all the driving he’d done in the snow and ice in Vermont, numerous trips taking Cynthia and her mom back and forth to the hospital, out to dinner, once even buying groceries while they’d kept watch over her father. Didn’t that mean anything—anything at all? Cynthia had chosen Mr. LA over him, though the wimpy-assed actor hadn’t done a goddamn thing through all this. He was the one; he was the one that was always there for her. But now she was acting like she was doing him a favor by letting him call her. Ungrateful bitch.

  He caught his breath and looked about as if someone might’ve heard his thoughts. Then he hung his head. What a self-centered bastard he was. After all, he’d noticed the slight tremor in her voice, knew she’d probably cried her eyes out after hanging up the phone. And still, all he could think about was how she’d wasted his time, how she’d strung him along for more than two years. Two whole years of his life. Wasted.

  Glass after glass, the whiskey vanished until all of the words that were shouting in his brain were beaten down and left to bleed behind a thick and heavy wall. And yet his soul was not at peace. For no amount of liquor would ever still what his heart was saying, or silence what he already knew: that he was losing something precious, something he might never have again.

  He shut off the TV and stood in the darkness, thinking about the shape of things to come. For now that Cynthia was gone, the moments of his life would be nothing more than pages ripped from a book and cast upon the ocean to be tossed about by the waves, soaking in the very water that would cause them to disintegrate and sink below to the dark, murky bottom, where no light would ever reach, the meaning lost, the words forgotten, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Not that anyone would care.

  chapter 21

  MICKI DRAGGED HERSELF INTO the office and dropped her books on Baker’s desk. Standing by the sofa, he was having some kind of argument with Warner.

  “I haven’t had anything to drink this morning,” she heard him say heatedly.

  Hot and uncomfortable in her jacket, she felt like she was half asleep. Why was Baker so pissed? Especially since she could clearly see the mug in his hand.

  He walked over. “Nice of you to drop by. You’re fifteen minutes late.”

  Words mumbled, she said, “I need those notes you promised.”

  While putting his coffee down next to her books, he observed her glassy eyes and flushed face. “Are you high?”

  “I think I’m sick.”

  “You think you’re sick?”

  “I hurt all over, and my throat’s sore.”

  When he reached toward her, she jerked her head back. “Jesus Christ, stand still!” And he pressed his hand to her brow.

  His palm felt solid and warm against her forehead.

  “You’ve got a fever,” he announced. “You’re not supposed to come to school when you’re this sick. Don’t you have any common sense at all?”

  It had never occurred to her that she’d be allowed to stay home.

  “Go back, take some aspirin, and stay in bed. And you’re not to go to work, either.”

  “But I need the money.”

  “You’ve got some saved; use that if you have to.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll call Mr. Antonelli a little later and let him know you won’t be there tonight.”

  She grabbed her books and stormed out of the office.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  DARK AND THREATENING, THE sky was thick with clouds, the temperature hovering around freezing. For close to fifteen minutes, Micki stood on Union Turnpike, waiting for the Q44A, which finally bumbled its way to the bus stop. She grappled with the steep steps, flashed her pass at the driver and deposited a nickel before heading down the aisle. Though still rush hour, there were a couple of empty seats, and she took one near the back, resting her head against the window’s cool glass. Her breat
h created a patch of fog. But when the vehicle started moving again, the ride was too bumpy, and she straightened up—head soon lolling forward.

  She nearly missed her stops: first on the bus, then again on the subway. By the time she got back to her apartment, her throat was so sore it hurt just taking the aspirin. And yet despite how awful she felt, it was still unbelievably delicious to change into her nightshirt, crawl back into bed, and snuggle under the blanket.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  HUDDLED BENEATH THE COVERS, wearing her jeans and jacket, Micki was shivering to the point that her teeth were chattering. After the first round of chills, she’d broken out into such a heavy sweat that she’d had to change into a regular T-shirt because her nightshirt had completely soaked through. But the reprieve had been brief.

  Someone was knocking at the door—very persistent, as if they knew she was there.

  Voice so weak and hoarse it didn’t sound like hers, she heard herself ask, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Juan.”

  “From the restaurant?”

  “Yeah. Open up.”

  Blanket clutched around her, she shuffled over and cracked the door a few inches.

  “Mr. A wanted me to bring you this.” He held up a large brown grocery bag. She opened the door further, and he said, “It’s soup. Tony said he make it special for you. Everybody hope you feel better. Except Sal.” And he grinned. When he realized she was using both hands to hold the blanket, he offered to bring the package inside and put it on the table. Eyeing her more closely, he said, “You lookin’ real sick, kid. Maybe you should go to a doctor, y’know?”

  She was trying hard not to shiver when she said, “I’ll be okay.”

  His eyebrows pulled together even more. “I dunno … Anyway, I gotta get back.” He headed for the door. “You see how much it’s snowin’?” He was grinning again.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Well you should take a look. They say maybe eighteen inches gonna fall. Maybe more. Maybe a record!”

  “Uh-huh.” The only thing she was interested in was getting warmer.

  “Well, I see you, Little Micki. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”