Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  Throwing punches every which way, she was all over him. In a matter of seconds, more than three months’ worth of pent-up fury was being released, her fists coming at him hard and fast. And yet something was inducing him to do nothing more than cover up, his forearms taking a heavy beating as they alternately guarded his ribs, gut, and face—some strikes still slipping in. Painfully.

  But there was only so long she could keep it up. And as she tired, Baker looked for an opening. With a sharp forward motion, he trapped her in a boxer’s clinch, the momentum of his body forcing her backward. Her heels caught the edge of the mattress, and she fell over, taking him with her. He lifted himself up so he was sitting on top of her, her arms pinned above her head.

  Chest heaving, she gasped for breath. There was an awkward moment of silence. And then she said, “Why don’tcha just fuck me again, y’son of a bitch! I shoulda kept the goddamn money last time. Y’think I’m a fuckin’ whore, I might as well be smart, like y’said, an’ get paid for it.”

  A sickening chill shot through him, and he could see her slamming his twenty-dollar bill down on his desk. “That money,” he said evenly, “was to make up for the pay you lost by not working that night. It had nothing to do with us having sex.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  “You got paid for going to the dance and missing work. I said I’d make it up to you, and I did.”

  And though it seemed very dim, the recollection of his uttering those words came back to her. “Well—well y’still think I’m a whore. Y’said it, didn’tcha?”

  Not knowing what to say, he said nothing.

  Fresh tears welled up, and she turned her head away, closing her eyes as if that could prevent him from seeing her.

  “When did you start shooting up again?” he asked.

  Tears rolled across her face.

  “Answer me!”

  She only sobbed.

  Putting painful pressure on her wrists, he repeated, “ANSWER ME!”

  She looked back at him. “Two days ago, okay? Two—fuckin’—days ago.”

  “And where did you get the works?”

  “You and that asshole doctor—y’were nice enough t’go outside and leave me with a whole fuckin’ bagful a needles.”

  “So then where’ve you been hiding it all this time?” He watched her face, waiting for the answer—for this was the only real mystery; he’d guessed the rest.

  “In the desk.”

  “No way, Micki, I checked that goddamn thing this very afternoon.”

  “I taped it inside, above a drawer, right up at the front.”

  “Oh, yeah? I got news for you, I put my hand up there a couple of times, and I didn’t find a fucking thing.”

  “Well y’obviously missed it!”

  The satisfaction she was getting out of this made him want to pick her up and throw her across the room. Instead, he glanced to the side and saw that the right-hand desk drawer was, indeed, open. So he pushed himself up and went over, shoving his hand in to maneuver his fingers into the spot she’d disclosed. At first he felt nothing. But then he thrust his arm in further, over the loose-leaf paper and other school supplies, wood scraping the skin of his forearm till he got his elbow through. Contorting his large hand even more, sweat beading on his face, he reached up a little higher. And the tips of his fingers brushed against the remnants of some old pieces of Scotch tape.

  “Shit!” He withdrew his arm and slammed the drawer shut with such force that the pens on the desk—in all their multicolored splendor—went rolling, some of them falling to the ground. “Shit!” he repeated. He’d gotten careless. Careless and lazy. Too lazy to remove the fucking drawers completely because they were such a pain in the ass to put back. How could he possibly have been so stupid? This was such an obvious spot—so incredibly obvious. He should’ve caught this. But he should’ve done a lot of things. It was as if he’d wanted this to happen.

  Her solitary moment of victory fading, Micki curled up in a fetal position and closed her eyes. She was beginning to feel really sick. And though she wasn’t watching him anymore, she knew exactly what he was doing. She could tell that he’d turned on the overhead light. She heard the closet door being opened and her duffle bag being unzipped. She heard the jangle of the buckle as he picked her belt up from the floor and threw it inside. Dresser drawers opened and closed, followed by sounds near the kitchen as toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and comb were tossed into the bag. Then came that ominous, final zip: the duffle itself being shut.

  “Okay, Micki,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  But raising herself to a sitting position suddenly seemed like an unbelievably difficult project, taking tremendous effort. At any moment, she expected him to yell at her to hurry up. Instead, he merely waited—oddly patient—till she was finally standing.

  “Y’know, I tried t’tell y’about it this morning,” she said.

  “Well you should’ve tried harder.”

  “Would it’ve mattered?”

  “What do you think?”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “Turn around,” he ordered, and promptly patted her down. Then he checked the pockets of her jacket before handing it to her.

  She put her arms through the sleeves, all the while looking about. Now that she was sure she’d never return, her crummy little apartment took on a whole different meaning. Eyes filled with tears again, her vision became a blurry, distorted collage of colors and shapes. She fumbled, unsuccessfully, with the jacket zipper.

  Baker bent over and gently moved her hands away. As he closed the zipper, two large drops of warm, salty water fell on his skin. He raised his eyes to hers, but she quickly turned her head. And when he straightened up, he felt ten feet taller than her instead of one. He recalled that first night when he’d sworn he’d find a way to break her down. Well, she’d come undone, all right. And he’d never felt so low.

  With the bag dangling from his arm, he guided her out of the apartment, down the steps, and to his car. He unlocked the passenger door and held it open.

  “Get in.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THERE WAS SILENCE AS they rolled over the Queensboro Bridge, Micki staring out the windshield of the Camaro, a vacant expression on her face. Baker—sweating in his jacket, thoughts spinning around in his head—was waiting, just waiting, for her to make excuses for what she’d done; to say it wasn’t her fault.

  She said nothing.

  Once they reached Manhattan, they crept along the pot-holed road clogged with cars, trucks, and the occasional jay-walking pedestrian. At Third Avenue they turned right. When they stopped at Sixty-Fifth Street for a red light, Micki snapped to attention.

  “Where are y’takin’ me?” The Manhattan precinct she remembered was downtown on the West Side. They were traveling uptown on the East Side.

  Baker glanced over. Her body was so taut she looked like she was ready to spring out of the car at any second. He said, “You’ll stay at my place till all that shit’s out of your system.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then you’re never going to use that crap again.” The light turned green, and he put the car in gear, jockeying for position among the other vehicles.

  “Yeah, right. Just like that. So what am I gonna owe ya f’this?”

  He felt himself bristle, but simply gripped the wheel tighter. When they hit another light, he turned his head to look at her. “You’ll owe me to stay clean. That’s all you’ll owe me. That’s all.”

  “But you live on the West Side.”

  “We’ll go over through the park in a little while. There was too much crosstown traffic after we got off the bridge. I should’ve just taken the FDR.”

  Hot and stinging, more tears welled up. And as they pulled away from the light, she turned her face to th
e passenger window. When he finally parked the car on Ninety-Fifth near West End Avenue, she was still crying.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER LOCKED THE APARTMENT door from the inside and pocketed the keys. He pocketed the key to the fire escape window’s gate, as well. He pointed out which sheets and towels to take from the linen closet, told Micki to get settled in the study, then finished the rest of the “safety procedures” he’d used when she’d been there to clean. But when he checked his food supply, it was pitifully low. He sighed. He put a few ice cubes in a plastic bag, popped the cap off a beer, and went into the living room.

  A short while later, Micki found him sitting on the sofa with his shirt off and the bag of ice pressed against his ribs. Her eyes flicked over his torso before settling on his bruised face, which was looking back with reproach. She bit her lip, her own face growing hot.

  “You need something?” he asked.

  “A nightshirt. You forgot my nightshirt.” Picking at her collar and fidgeting with her sleeves, she sniffled, though it was no longer from crying.

  “You can use something of mine.” He switched the ice to the other side of his body, adding, “But let’s get something straight: while you’re here, you’re to respect my privacy. Don’t be going through my things—and I really mean it this time, Micki. In fact, stay out of my room altogether.” He moved the ice to his jaw. “But you can help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen—except the beer. Is that going to be a problem? ’Cause I’ll get rid of it if it is.”

  “I dunno.”

  Baker stared at the dark TV screen; Micki stared at the bookcase and scratched at her arm.

  “I’m gonna pay you back for the stuff I use, okay?” she said.

  “No, just forget it.”

  Not knowing where to put herself, she perched on the opposite end of the couch and gazed off into space while he continued to stare at the blank TV—jaw clenching and unclenching.

  “Look,” he finally said, “I should be shot for saying the things I said to you the other day. I only did it because I knew how much it would get to you, not because it’s true.” He turned to her and added, “And as far as what happened when you were wasted in the Bronx—well—let’s just say you did something really stupid. But that doesn’t make it your fault or any less of a crime. You were raped. Period. The guys who did it were fucking animals.” His face too cold and starting to itch, he removed the ice and noticed the bag was now half filled with water.

  So were Micki’s eyes.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IN JUST THREE DAYS, she’d shot up a lot of junk. Sweating, then shivering with chills, she was running to the bathroom and throwing up. When Baker entered the study, he found her in a ball, fully dressed, on top of the blanket. She jumped up and faced him.

  “Something wrong with the shirt I gave you? It’s the longest black shirt I own,” he said.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Then why haven’t you changed? Don’t you want to sleep in the bed, under the covers?”

  “I’m fine,” she repeated.

  He put his hands on his hips. “Look, this is no different than my being at your place when you’re asleep.”

  She shrugged.

  “Is it?” he pressed.

  “I dunno.”

  “You don’t know?” He dropped his arms. “What the hell do you think this is? Enemy territory?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You think the rules are different here?”

  She responded with a cynical twist of her mouth.

  “Fine!” he snapped. “For all I care, you can stay dressed like that till you leave. But y’know what?” He paused as if she might actually reply. “Whether you like it or not, you’re just going to have to trust me ’cause the truth is”—he paused again, lowering his voice several notches—“you don’t have any other choice.” He marched out, slamming the door behind him.

  She stood where she was till she began to shiver. Then she changed into his shirt and crawled under the covers.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WIRED AND RESTLESS, BODY aching, Micki was unable to do much of anything except lie in bed until she had to go throw up again. All she wanted was a fix. Just one last shot. And then she’d get clean.

  What bull.

  She started back to bed, passing Baker’s bedroom, then paused. Somewhere, in one of his dresser drawers, was an extra set of keys. And if he’d taken his wallet out of his pocket, there would be money, too.

  Her eyes grew bright.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  EXHAUSTED, BAKER HAD FALLEN asleep on the sofa at two thirty in the morning, the TV a barely discernable buzz in the darkness. In his dream, he was calling Warner to tell him he’d be out for the rest of the week. Then Warner became Captain Malone, and he was trying to make excuses for missing the poker game.

  But just as it had numerous times before, the sound of Micki retching roused him. The toilet flushed, and he heard her heading back to her room. But he didn’t hear her door click shut when it should have. Eyes still closed, he was now fully alert, ears straining to catch the slightest sound above the low hum of the television set. Something was up; he could feel it. But he’d wait and let her tip her hand.

  He could be a patient man.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MICKI CREPT INTO HIS room, the light from the hallway more than enough to see by. Opening drawers and rummaging through clothes, she prayed the small amount of noise she was making wouldn’t wake him. She came upon the extra set of keys, and her hand closed triumphantly around them. But when his wallet wasn’t on the dresser, she felt a spark of panic before she spied it on the night table closest to the door. Yet as she made her way over, a heavy, oppressive feeling engulfed her, as if a pair of huge, unseen gates were slamming shut. Still, she picked up the wallet—unexpectedly dense, the leather scarred from years of use—and opened it to see his gold shield glinting in the darkness. Her fingers ran across the textured metal, letters and numbers melting into a shiny swirl behind tears.

  Three twenties, a five, and four singles. She took them all, then put the five and the singles back. After that, she tiptoed to her room and hastily got dressed, every ambient sound, like the pipes knocking, making her jump. But then her belt was buckled and her laces were tied, and all that was left was to get her jacket.

  Out in the hall, she glanced over at Baker, who was flat on his back with his eyes closed, the TV playing for no one. So she continued on to the closet and gently opened the door until, at the halfway point, it creaked. She froze. But all she heard—very, very low—was the background music from whatever show he had on. She poked her head around the wall and could see him still sleeping, breathing evenly in the television’s flickering light. And then her jacket was on, and she was slowly turning the lower lock’s latch, the small sound ripping through the stillness. Her heart raced even faster. She had a splitting headache. But it was only after she’d slipped the key into the upper deadbolt cylinder that she paused.

  “Going somewhere?” Baker asked.

  Gasping, she whirled around and, much to her dismay, started crying again. “You don’t know what this feels like!”

  “So you’re going to do—what—go shoot up again? Be a junkie for the rest of your life?”

  Tears were streaming down her face.

  “It’s your choice, Micki. If you want to leave, go ahead. But as soon as you walk out that door, I’ll have an APB put out for your arrest. And when you’re picked up—which you will be—you’ll go through withdrawal in a jail cell instead of here. And no one’s going to have any sympathy for you, y’hear me? No one’s going to give a shit about you.”

  Her eyes, the pupils widely dilated, searched Baker’s, then closed, tears spilling out. She faced the door and rotated the key, mumbling a choked, “I’m sorry.�
��

  But before she’d even turned the knob, Baker had thrown his arms around her, pulling her away and holding her tight. And though she could barely move, she wouldn’t stop struggling. He put his mouth close to her ear. “You’re not walking out that door until you’re straight, do you understand me? And if I have to, I’ll break every fucking bone in that little body of yours to keep you here.” He paused. “Please don’t make me do that, Micki.”

  Racked with sobs, she hung her head while his arms—two massive bands of muscle—stayed strapped across her torso, keeping her captive against the solid weight of his body. Keeping her safe. From everything. Including herself. So when he started to release her, she blurted out, “Don’t”—before catching herself and pulling away.

  “Don’t what?” he asked.

  A hot blush rose in her face.

  “Don’t let go?”

  She backed up, out of reach.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, Micki—with wanting to be held; it’s not always a sexual thing.”

  But the rise and fall of her chest became even more pronounced.

  “Friends hug, relatives hug; it’s perfectly normal,” he said.

  Turning green, she said, “I havta puke”—and dashed toward the bathroom.

  He almost laughed, until he heard her throwing up. He relocked the door and pocketed the extra keys.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  ALREADY ON HIS SECOND cup of morning coffee, Baker pulled out the high school staff calendar. Christmas vacation would start after a three-period session on Friday, which meant Micki would miss only a day and a half of school. He’d miss only a little more of work. He looked at his watch and called Warner to say he wouldn’t be in. When he confided why, he was greeted with a long, judgmental silence. After a curt: “The kid’s safe with me,” he hung up and went back to sleep.

  A few hours later, a fresh pot of coffee brewing, he called Mr. Antonelli. “Micki’s sick again,” he said.

  The restaurant owner tsk-tsked. “I tell her she come-a back-a to work too soon-a.”