by Randy Mason
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI WORKED THE ENTIRE weekend when Juan let her take his Sunday shift. Mr. Antonelli sent her home with more soup, saying, “You make-a sure you get some-a good sleep-a.” But she turned in much too late and was half awake through most of the night. When she entered the security office on Monday morning, she looked pale.
“You want to get sick again?” Baker asked. But after a cursory pat down, he ignored her, talking instead to Warner about the upcoming holidays.
Micki stood beside his desk, watching the clock, then slamming the door behind her when she left. I’m just a fucking job to him, she thought. He doesn’t really give a shit about me; I’m just a job. JUST A FUCKING JOB. Picturing the syringe tucked away above the desk drawer, she smiled, reveling in the tiny success of its concealment: the great fucking detective hadn’t found it yet.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER MICKI HAD GONE, Warner asked, “What’s she so upset about?”
“Who the hell knows,” Baker said.
But Warner, looking into Baker’s eyes, thought that wasn’t quite true.
♦ ♦ ♦
AT THE END OF the day, Baker was equally remote, and Micki stalked out of the office. But before she’d reached the main entrance, the football player caught up with her. The hall was empty, so they tried the auditorium’s side doors, casting frequent glances over their shoulders until they found one that was open. The houselights closest to the stage were on, and they seated themselves on the floor. But less than half an hour later, Bobby announced he’d had enough.
“This was really great,” he said, then closed his loose-leaf and gathered his things. “You explain stuff really well. Will you help me out again next week?”
She shrugged. “Okay.” But her heart was beating faster. The gossip around the gym was that he’d broken up with his girlfriend.
They exited the auditorium, and he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before jogging off toward the stairs. Micki hurried down the hall and turned the corner—running smack into Baker.
“What the hell are you still doing here?” he asked.
“I was helping someone study.”
“Where?”
“In the auditorium.”
“That’s off limits and you know it.”
“So where were we supposed to go?”
“Who were you helping?”
“Bobby Reiger.”
“The senior varsity football player?” Baker looked like he was on the verge of laughing.
“What’s so funny? He needs help with his math.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Y’think I’m lyin’?”
“I think you know you don’t belong here now. When you leave that security office, you’re to go straight home. Is that clear?”
She left the building with Baker’s eyes fastened upon her—cold as the melting snow beneath her feet.
♦ ♦ ♦
MONDAY EVENINGS WERE USUALLY pretty nice: no Bel, just homework. But it wasn’t so great when she was feeling like this. She stared at the packaged syringe. Just filling it with water she’d get a rush from shooting up—a conditioned response, probably bigger than the one she’d gotten watching Dr. Orenstein insert the needle to draw blood. But afterward—and this was the catch, for there was always a catch—the cravings would be worse. She tore the top open very carefully, pulled the syringe out halfway, and took off the cap.
In the street, some guy started yelling at his kid to either get his ass home now or not bother coming home at all. She looked up at the window. Baker was such a fake, and she’d been stupid enough to fall for it. Again. The vague memory of his hand covering hers only mocked her now. What a bastard.
She snapped the cap back on and eased the syringe down into its now crinkled little sleeve so it could be returned to its hiding place in the poorly constructed desk. With unfinished edges and clunky hardware, the clumsy piece of furniture looked like it had been thrown together in someone’s garage. There was enough dead space above each drawer to have made another, much larger, one—the one on the right tending to get stuck before it was even halfway open. By slipping her forearm and elbow into its interior, then angling her hand around, she was able to tape the syringe all the way up near the top. Big and thick, Baker’s arm would have a hard time getting in there, especially with all the school supplies inside. Of course, he could merely remove the entire drawer—something she’d once done herself just to be sure it wouldn’t disturb anything. Nothing had happened, but it had taken forever to get the warped wood back on its track.
She went to the kitchen and pulled out two half-pound bags of M&M’s—one plain, one peanut—and ate till she was too nauseous to continue. Eyelids drooping, mind numb, she flopped down on the bed. And slept.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS THE DAYS FILED past, Baker retreated further into the bottle, sometimes wishing he could crawl right in. The one feeble attempt he made to move on with his life was asking out the popular Miss Manley, a tall, blond chemistry teacher he’d chatted with briefly a couple of times. With a forced smile and no explanation, she declined his invitation—making him feel like some sort of social pariah.
Slouched in his recliner, he stared at the floor. He’d never imagined he’d be so alone at this stage of the game. He downed another drink and shivered, convinced the chill of the season had seeped into his life for good.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER ARRIVED AT work on Monday, his head was pounding and his eyes were bloodshot. Micki kept her distance while Warner shot him a long, dark look. And though he’d been hoping for a quiet shift, the day presented him with a steady barrage of incidents instead: two fights erupted in the halls and one in the cafeteria; three juniors freaked out after dropping acid in art class; a senior couple was caught screwing backstage in the auditorium for the second time that term; and, in a rather strange twist of events, Jamison’s professional conduct had been called into question. The security guard stood accused of cursing at, and then striking, a student he’d removed from an auto-shop class for being excessively disruptive. Baker couldn’t even picture Jamison using bad language, let alone unnecessary force. But the student was sticking to his story. Which meant Baker had one more headache on his hands—one more than he could handle.
♦ ♦ ♦
BOBBY, WHO’D BEEN WAITING for Micki by the stairwell, ran after her while she was on her way out.
“Hey!” he said. “Got time to give my brain another tune-up?”
“Yeah, sure. But we can’t hang out here, I—”
“But I can’t leave,” Bobby said. “I’ve still gotta get to football practice, and I’m already gonna be late.”
Her heart dropped. “I can’t; I really can’t. If I get caught, I’m gonna be in big trouble. What about hanging out outside?”
“You kidding? It’s too friggin’ cold to just sit on the steps. C’mon, nothing’ll happen. I mean, we’re just studying.”
A glance over her shoulder said no one else was around. She followed Bobby down the hall, where the same auditorium door had been left unlocked.
♦ ♦ ♦
MARINO STEPPED OUT FROM the recessed section of the lobby. Should he tell Baker or not? The kid was just messing around; he could dig that. And she wasn’t hurting anyone. But if Baker found out anyway, he’d be in deep shit himself.
He’d give them fifteen minutes.
♦ ♦ ♦
BOBBY WAS FINDING IT hard to stay focused this time. With the football season nearing its end, the last few games were critical: the coach was going to be pissed.
“I think I got this down pretty good now,” he said. “I caught on pretty quick once you showed me how to pull the problems apart.” Closing his books, he continued to thank her. A lot. Until two bright spots of pink blossomed on
her cheeks. And then he asked her to go to the movies with him Friday night.
A … date? Her mind went blank. “I—uh—I work Friday nights.”
“Yeah, but maybe we could go afterward.”
“It’ll be too late. I’m not done till about ten thirty or so.”
“Saturday?”
“Same thing, maybe even later.”
He smiled. “How about a kiss, then?” And, leaning in, he pulled her face toward his.
But at the moment their lips touched, Baker exploded through the door. They both scrambled to their feet.
“What did I just tell you last week?” he asked Micki.
“It was my idea,” Bobby said.
“Shut up,” Baker snapped. “In fact, pick up your books and get the hell out of here.”
Bobby hesitated.
Baker took a step toward the football player, who looked dwarfed by comparison. “Do you want me to have a little talk with your parents? Do you want to sit out the rest of your games?”
“No, sir,” Bobby responded quietly.
“Then pick up your books and get out of here now.”
As he gathered his things together, Bobby mumbled, “I’m sorry, Micki.” And the door eased shut behind him.
On the floor near Micki’s books was a single sheet of loose-leaf paper Bobby had stepped on while leaving. Underneath his footprint was a geometry proof. In Micki’s handwriting. But Baker never even glanced at it. Too nauseous to eat anything all day, head still viciously pounding, he could feel his stomach squeezing with hunger. He needed a drink. Badly. “You just can’t control yourself, can you,” he said.
“What’s the big deal? We were just makin’ out.”
“You think I don’t know what goes on in here?”
“We were just makin’ out.”
“But if he wanted to, you would’ve gone all the way, isn’t that right?”
And Micki hesitated. A moment ago, it had all seemed so innocent. But she had been wondering what it would be like to have sex with Bobby.
Baker snorted.
“So what!” she shot back.
“You fuck like a whore, that’s what.”
“And you would know.”
The back of his fist hit her hard enough to send her tripping over the pile of books on the floor. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he said. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He looked her over. “I bet you couldn’t even count how many guys have fucked you.”
Micki felt like she wasn’t completely there anymore. A part of her was somewhere else. Watching.
“Gee,” Baker said. “No answer. Isn’t that a shock.”
“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know because—” But she stopped.
“Because what?”
“Forget it.”
“Because what,” he repeated.
“It’s none of your business!”
“Oh, but it is,” he replied, voice full of feigned concern. “I told you before: everything about you is my business.”
“Go t’ hell!”
Grabbing a fistful of her shirt, the material pulled tight around her throat, he yanked her toward him. He had a cruel—almost wild—look in his eye. She said, “Y’shoot up, y’nod off—things happen.”
Releasing her, Baker laughed. “So you think that doesn’t count?”
“It’s not like I asked for it.”
“Isn’t it? You put yourself in a situation like that, you expect shit like that to go down. They used you like a whore; you were just too stupid to get paid for it.” And though his face didn’t show it, he knew he’d gone too far—way too far. But then, he’d lost control before he’d even set foot in the auditorium.
Micki put her jacket on and picked up her books. Voice flat, she asked, “Are y’done with me?”
He simply turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the vast emptiness of the theater.
And if she could’ve, she would’ve stood there forever, safe among the vacant seats, deserted stage, and abandoned piano. Instead, having nowhere else to go, she went home.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT HURT A LOT, what Baker had said. It hurt a little when she withdrew the money from the bank. It hurt for just a moment—a tiny pinprick—when she slipped the needle into her vein.
But nothing hurt anymore.
♦ ♦ ♦
BEFORE DAWN, MICKI SHOT up some of the junk she’d saved to help make it through the day. She nodded off and barely got to school on time, reporting to Warner because Baker had overslept. When it was time to go home, Warner was also the one to let her leave because Baker had his hands full with a trespasser. Yet she hadn’t gotten by completely unscathed: Warner had noticed how agitated she was. Though he hadn’t given it much thought in the morning, he was now verily suspicious. He debated whether to say something to Baker or wait to see what Micki would be like tomorrow.
But for Micki, tomorrow would be just like today: dark and lifeless, a bleak and barren wasteland. She shot up the last bit of smack she had, then withdrew more money from the bank and went to work, which seemed an interminable misery. She even broke a plate, the first since she’d been at Bel.
“Is okay-a,” Mr. Antonelli said when he saw how distressed she was. But toward the end of her shift, when she started to sniffle, he said, “You no take-a care of you-self-a. You get-a sick again-a.”
She shrugged him off, scrubbing even harder at the casserole dish in her hand—waiting till after he’d left to swipe her nose across her shoulder.
♦ ♦ ♦
HOME ONCE MORE, SHE tried to stay in her apartment—even tried doing homework—but the craving was gnawing at her, crawling through her body. No matter how hard she tried, it was the only thing she could think about. The only thing. So under cover of darkness, clinging to the shadows, she weaved her way toward the bridge, through the dimly lit industrial streets. Three times she hunkered down behind garbage dumpsters: once to avoid being seen by a patrol car, once to hide from a group of unfamiliar boys, and once for no other reason than an overwhelming sense of being followed.
But then she was back in her own little space, where she whipped the belt out of her jeans, tore the syringe and bottle-cap from their taped repose, and cooked up some of the smack. Cotton puff for a filter, she drew the junk into the needle and shot it up inside her vein, the hot liquid pulling her, at incredible speed, through a stream of soft white light until she reached an empty space of total bliss.
The drug paraphernalia was strewn across the table. She had no groceries and her homework wasn’t done.
And she couldn’t care less.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, BAKER observed Micki closely: the anxious body language, the evasive glances. Yesterday, when he’d checked her bankbook, he’d seen two consecutive withdrawals.
The passing bell rang, but she didn’t leave.
“You’re going to be late for class,” he said.
“I—I need to talk to you.”
Warner, on his way out, caught Baker’s eye.
Once the door had closed, Baker asked, “What is it?”
“I …” She looked at the floor, then started again. “I—”
Baker’s walkie-talkie crackled to life as Angie reported a major melee in progress at the northwest entrance. One teacher was already injured from attempting to intervene.
“We’ll have to talk about this later,” Baker said, and dashed out of the office.
Micki stared after him. Later would be too late.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN IT WAS TIME to go home, Micki told Baker she couldn’t remember what it was she’d wanted to tell him. She averted her gaze as much as possible and put sunglasses on before picking up her books. As s
he was leaving, she passed Warner entering the office.
Baker moved to the window and lit a cigarette.
“What’s up with her?” Warner asked. “What did she say?”
Baker watched as she hurried down the steps to the sidewalk. Eyes still focused through the glass, he slowly exhaled smoke. “The kid’s using again.”
“Heroin?”
“Yeah.”
“She told you this?”
Baker looked at the trees, their leafless branches stark reminders of the changing cycle of the seasons: the flow of life—and death. “She didn’t have to,” he said.
♦ ♦ ♦
ONLY THE LITTLE DESK lamp was on, but Micki was sitting at the table, staring at the single fresh cigarette butt in the saucer Baker used as an ashtray. He must’ve stopped by while she was at work.
Belt wrapped around her arm, teeth gripping the free end to keep it taut, she held the syringe above the bulging, throbbing vein. But tears were running down her face. She’d ruined everything. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her savings passbook sitting beside her on the table, the meager account cleaned out. Useless. And tomorrow, with no money left, she’d have to tell Baker what she’d done. It would’ve looked a hell of a lot better if she’d told him today. Not that it would’ve meant much, but still …
The door flew open, and a large black form stood framed in the hallway light. Baker strode over and ripped the syringe out of her hand, throwing it to the floor and crushing it under his shoe. Unable to move, she let him whip the belt off her arm and throw that on the floor, as well. Then he grabbed two fistfuls of her shirt near the shoulders and yanked her to her feet.
“So this is it?” he asked.
She envisioned him breaking her apart with his bare hands.
He shook her. “I saved your fucking life so you could shove a needle in your arm?”
And as she looked into his eyes, all she could see was hate: he’d hated her from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. With tears still wet on her face, she swung her fist up in a wide, powerful hook.
And that was when it dawned on Baker that Micki had been crying. Crying. By the time he saw her fist, the best he could do was pull his head back enough to prevent getting clocked. Still she clipped his jaw with enough force to rattle him, and he let go.