by Randy Mason
“I’m Jewish.”
He chuckled. But when her expression didn’t change, he stopped. “You’re serious!” He folded his arms over his chest. “And just how would you know this?”
“The bus on Union Turnpike. When I go t’school, it passes a couple a synagogues.” Her speech, though not slurred, had become a bit slow and lazy. “I can read ’em. Y’know—the signs that’re in Hebrew.”
“But you’ve been wearing a cross since the first day I met you.”
“Tim gave it t’me.” And her hand went to touch it, the memory still sharp in her mind: he’d taken it from around his neck and put it around hers, saying, “You remember what you promised me.”
Baker studied her: there was an olive tinge to her skin. He’d come to assume she was Italian. Or even Greek.
“Y’know, I have a rabbi,” he said.
Her jaw dropped. “You’re—you’re Jewish?”
“Captain Malone.”
“Captain Malone’s Jewish?”
Baker laughed. “It’s a cop thing, Micki: a higher-ranking officer who helps you with your career is called your rabbi, and Captain Malone is mine.” His voice softened. “I can understand why you want to wear that cross, but I just don’t know if it’s appropriate for a little Jewish girl.”
Micki didn’t say anything—because she wasn’t sure she liked being a little Jewish girl. Every time she passed one of those temples she’d mentioned, she’d feel a rush of rage—though she had no idea why. Still, as early as the next morning, she was wearing the cross permanently tucked inside her shirt.
♦ ♦ ♦
MONDAY, BAKER DROVE TO Queens, thinking he’d be in and out of Micki’s apartment in a matter of minutes. But once inside he came face to face with a snapshot of what had happened the week before. In the cool light of day, everything looking strangely peaceful and benign. He searched the place thoroughly, then put the needle inside a wad of aluminum foil so he could deposit it—along with the smashed syringe, bottle-cap cooker, and bag of cotton puffs—into one of the trashcans in front of the stoop. Her loose-leaf, textbooks, and nightshirt were thrown into the trunk of his car.
Back in Manhattan, he stopped at the bank before heading to West Forty-Seventh Street—the diamond district. The street was packed with buyers and sellers, shady hawkers standing outside shop fronts, trying to lure people in. Walking slowly down the block, he looked at all the glitter in the windows. And started to sweat.
He went into Building Fifty-Five and was swallowed up by little swarms of people transacting business with the vendors on the main floor. Aware of the plainclothes security guards posted at several points, Baker snaked his way through the multitude of bodies to the booth of Lenny Grossfeld, who greeted him with a wide smile that parted his mustache from the beard he was stroking.
“Ah! So you’re Barry’s partner,” he said. “Another of New York’s finest! Come, let’s look and see what we can find for you.” Underneath bushy eyebrows, his eyes reassured Baker through glasses pushed up high on a nose that wasn’t large so much as bulbous. And as he looked down at the rings in the glass case before him, the entire top of his head came into view, allowing Baker to see that the man’s curly salt-and-pepper hair surrounded a bald spot that was partly covered by a skullcap.
With both patience and enthusiasm, the diamond seller showed Baker everything in his price range, which, anywhere else, would’ve been more than he could afford. And once Baker had narrowed his selections down to two, he started going back and forth as though the rest of his life hinged on the decision. After much deliberation, he chose a blend of the traditional and the modern: a brilliant, emerald-shaped diamond in an antique-style white-gold setting. He counted out the money and watched it disappear.
“If she doesn’t like it,” Lenny said, “you can always bring her here to pick out another.”
“And—and what if she says no?”
The jeweler patted his hand. “Then you return it. But take your time. Even a month from now, I’ll take it back.”
While his purchase was being placed in a black velvet box, Baker asked another question.
“Not me, no,” came the answer. “But I could give you the name of someone just down the street. You tell him I sent you, and he’ll take good care of you.” The diamond seller winked and smiled.
Baker smiled back. Everyone was taking care of him today.
♦ ♦ ♦
“ARE YOU GOING TO be okay here alone?” Baker had asked. Then he’d given her a phone number and explained he was leaving a set of keys next door with Mrs. Hernandez. If there was an emergency, Micki was to call her for help. “But don’t do anything stupid,” he’d said, looking at her meaningfully.
After he’d left, she’d picked up The Foundation Trilogy, but couldn’t sit still long enough to read. The skittish, junkie energy was making even watching TV impossible. She’d spent most of the day thinking up schemes to get Mrs. Hernandez to let her out of the apartment. Baker’s ID bracelet had to be worth something. Or his college ring …
She was considering breaking into the liquor cabinet when it finally hit her: until now—except for Baker’s quick, late-night trip to the corner store—she hadn’t been by herself since she’d arrived. And as soon as the door had closed behind him this morning, the fragile confidence she’d built up over the last few days had evaporated in a matter of minutes.
She actually needed him.
What a cosmic, fucking joke.
She searched the kitchen for the millionth time, but the only sweet thing left was the Log Cabin syrup. Disgusting as it was to eat plain, she finished it off, but felt no better than before. About to start in on the Wonder Bread, she flashed on her stash of pills. If she could get at just one of the Valiums or Libriums, she’d probably be all right till he got back. But she didn’t get her jacket. She didn’t move at all. She simply stood beside the counter. Alone in his apartment. Waves of fear washing over her. Maybe this was it. Maybe this fucking torture would never end, and she was going to feel like this for the rest of her fucking life. She picked up a glass and hurled it to the floor. The shattered fragments scattered across the tiles. Then she closed her eyes and felt the tears squeezing out from under the lids. Shameful drops of salty water sliding slowly down her face.
♦ ♦ ♦
BY THE TIME SHE’D finished cleaning everything up, she could barely keep her eyes open. She wandered into Baker’s room and stood in the middle, looking around. And though it was ridiculously big, his uniform jacket—the one still full of colored pins, still bearing the scent of his aftershave—was the item she chose. She liked the heft of it on her shoulders. Back in the living room, with an album on the turntable, she lay down on the sofa, fully shrouded in the heavy navy cloth.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER RETURNED, HIS apartment was dark and silent. His heart skipped several beats until, deep in the living room’s shadows, he caught sight of Micki asleep. By the light from the hallway, he carried the groceries into the kitchen before going back to turn off the stereo’s power amp, the glow of its little yellow pilot light reluctantly dying. He glanced over at the cover of the album she’d put on, and was just barely able to make out the Moody Blues’ Days of Future Passed.
Inside the kitchen, he began putting everything away. Refrigerator and cabinet doors opened and closed; brown paper bags rustled …
Micki woke up. Rubbing sleep from her eyes and blinking, she went to join him. Baker had just picked up a jar of peanut butter when he paused and stared.
The color drained from her face. “Are you mad at me?”
He put the Chunky Jif next to some grape jelly, then pulled a jar of spaghetti sauce out of the bag. “Were you going through my things again?”
“No, sir. I just—needed this.”
With his back to her, he put the thi
ck glass jar behind another one in the cabinet and said, “It’s okay.” But before he went to put a box of rigatoni on the shelf, he looked at her and asked, “But of all things, why that jacket?”
“What do you mean?”
“I always figured you hated that I’m a cop.”
She shook her head no.
“Huh! Well, how about helping me put the rest of this stuff away and then setting the table while I cook dinner.”
She pulled out a box of Uncle Ben’s rice and a jar of marshmallow Fluff. She asked, “Do you like any of that?”—he was holding packages of Three Musketeers and Nestlé Crunch bars.
“In moderation,” he replied. “When the checkout girl saw all this junk, she looked at me like I’d gone insane.” He put the candy in the cabinet, then turned back. “Especially that.” He was pointing to the Fluff.
Micki almost smiled.
♦ ♦ ♦
HAMBURGERS, TINY TATERS, AND green beans. They sat down together for dinner, both slathering their burgers with so much ketchup that the buns were soaked and falling apart long before the last bite had been consumed.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHILE MICKI FINISHED WASHING the dishes, Baker retrieved her books from the trunk of his car and dropped them on top of the desk in the study. En route to the kitchen, he found her in the living room, fiddling with the pack of Camels he’d left on the coffee table. She’d already pulled one out and was examining it. He strode over and swiped everything from her hands.
“I wasn’t gonna light it or anything; I was just looking!” she said.
“If I ever catch you smoking—and I don’t care whose cigarettes they are—I will beat the living daylights out of you.”
“What’s the big deal? They’re legal.”
“I don’t give a shit if they’re legal or not; they’re bad for you.”
Speechless, she watched him proceed into the kitchen. A minute later, she followed. “So how come you smoke?”
Already seated, pen in hand, Baker had his checkbook and a stack of papers in front of him. “When I started, I was younger than you are,” he said. “Back then, nobody knew the damage it did.”
Opening her mouth to ask why he didn’t stop now, she changed her mind and said, “Can I sit here with you?”
“I’m just paying bills.”
She didn’t budge.
“But I don’t mind,” he hastened to add.
♦ ♦ ♦
TUESDAY MORNING, MR. ANTONELLI called to see if Micki could work that night. Since Bel would be closing early for the holiday, it would be a short shift anyway. Without even asking her, Baker told him yes.
“You’ll be fine,” he said to her as he hung up the phone.
Micki didn’t look so sure.
♦ ♦ ♦
ALTHOUGH BAKER HAD WASHED Micki’s clothes, her work shirts were still in her own apartment. On the way to the restaurant, he made a quick stop, checking the payphone to see if it was working while she went inside to grab some things from the dresser drawer. But overhead, the bare bulb glared harshly as if there was something very important she needed to see. And as much as she wanted to leave, she couldn’t stop herself from looking. One wall—still stained with wine, lines streaming down like trails of bloody tears—was crying. And over in the corner, snickering, was a piece of smashed syringe Baker had missed while cleaning up. She threw it away, then hurried out to meet him.
She hated this place.
♦ ♦ ♦
FOR THE FIRST TIME in four months, Micki walked through the front door of Bel Canto instead of the back—Baker, not Miss Gutierrez, by her side. The cop and the restaurant owner finally met, each looking a little surprised by the other’s size. Mr. Antonelli insisted Baker have dinner, and Baker insisted Mr. Antonelli let him pay. After a good-natured argument, they reached a compromise.
Micki, meanwhile, had changed her shirt in the basement, then gone into the kitchen, hoping no one would notice her.
“Hey!” Tony said. He had a huge smile on his face. “Welcome back! You look great!”
“Thanks.” Except she knew he was full of it. Even after gaining back the weight she’d lost, she looked like hell. Meanwhile, her sweet tooth had become so insatiable that, much as she detested it, she’d actually tried to induce vomiting. She’d overheard some girls in gym class talking about dieting that way. Only marginally successful, she’d given it up after the second try. It was repulsive anyway.
“I’m gonna get fat,” she’d once blurted out, and Baker had chuckled.
“Even if you gained twenty pounds,” he said, “you’d probably still be too thin. But I’d rather have you fat and straight than skinny and strung out on drugs. Trust me, it’ll all balance out. Take one thing at a time.” He’d pushed her to start exercising again, saying it would help take her mind off getting high. And sometimes, it did.
Over by the pass bar, Tony was yelling at Sal about an order he hadn’t picked up.
Micki put on the thick yellow gloves and opened the faucets, all of the kitchen clamor and familiar smells mixing together with the hot, sudsy water.
She took a deep breath.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER HAD A SMALL antipasto, minestrone soup, veal piccata, and Italian cheesecake, all easily as good as the Manhattan restaurants he frequented. He complimented Mr. Antonelli, and the little man beamed. Before he left, Baker made sure Mr. Antonelli had the payphone’s number so he could contact him if Micki stepped out for any reason—no matter how brief. “She’s been so sick, you understand,” Baker said.
One hand raised like Peter Falk as Lieutenant Columbo on TV, Mr. Antonelli replied, “Don’t-a you worry. I make-a sure Tony keep an eye on-a her.” But he gave the cop a savvy look.
Armed with some magazines and more cigarettes from the deli, Baker returned to Micki’s apartment. But he was sleepy from the heavy meal. He set the alarm for eight and lay down, trying to keep an ear out for the phone. But it was the clock’s bell that woke him with a start, leaving him a bit dazed. Lower back knotted and aching, he stood and stretched, wondering how anyone could sleep on such a horrible mattress every night. He threw the magazines in the trunk of his car, took the short walk down Forty-Fourth Drive, and was soon back at the restaurant, sipping cappuccino while Micki finished up.
“Merry Christmas!” Mr. Antonelli said when they were ready to leave. And after he shook Baker’s hand, he went to give Micki a traditional European kiss on each cheek. But as soon as he grasped her arms, she stiffened and pulled back. With a flustered sputter, he let go, but then held out his hand to her, as well, his smile a bit softer. “Merry Christmas-a, Micki! I see you Thurs-a-day.” And he locked the door behind them.
♦ ♦ ♦
“FEEL LIKE TAKING A ride?” Baker asked while the car warmed up.
“Where’re we gonna go?”
“To see the Christmas decorations.”
“Yeah, sure,” she replied absently.
Pulling away from the curb, Baker smiled to himself. “Yeah, sure” was currently one of Micki’s favorite expressions. He turned on the heater and said, “Yesterday I noticed some broken glass in the garbage. What happened?”
“I was gonna tell you about it. I just … forgot. I’ll pay for it, okay? It was just a glass.”
He glanced over, but she was staring ahead. Under the light of a passing streetlamp, her face looked pinched and pale. “Was it an accident?” he asked.
“I broke it on purpose.”
They drove a couple of blocks further.
“I guess it was pretty hard being alone,” he said. Their eyes met, and he added, “You don’t have to pay for it.”
With a mumbled “thank you,” she turned her head away to look out the passenger window. But when they rounded the next corner, she
gasped: house after house was lit with an outrageous display of lights. She couldn’t decide which she liked better: the ones done only in white—so pure and magical—or the ones dripping with colors.
Baker grinned. He’d loved it when his father had driven around at Christmas so he could gawk at all the decorations. But that had been when he was little. Before his father had left.
♦ ♦ ♦
SUN RISING, COFFEE PERKING, Baker searched through the cabinets for the open bottle of pancake syrup. He could’ve sworn there’d been a little left before he’d gone to the supermarket Monday. Four waffles sprang up in the toaster, and he put them on a plate in front of Micki—along with a new bottle of Log Cabin.
“Y’gonna see your family today for Christmas?” she asked.
“No.” And he went back to put some Downyflakes in the toaster for himself.
“I’m sorry I ruined your holiday,” she said quietly.
He placed two steaming mugs of coffee on the table, added some milk to his, and sighed. “I’ll admit this isn’t exactly how I pictured spending the time, but the truth is—and I honestly can’t say why—I really don’t mind.”
Her face colored, and she became very focused on pouring the syrup into all the little waffle windows.
♦ ♦ ♦
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, AFTER having spent almost an hour and a half working on her paper for economics—“The Changing Role of Women in the Work Force”—Micki was napping. Alone in the living room, Baker took out the engagement ring for the first time since buying it, its regal elegance engendering neither hope nor excitement. He felt nothing. He closed the box and left it on top of the stereo’s power amp.
Stretched out in the recliner, he shut his eyes and listened to Carly Simon’s voice floating out of the speakers. But then his heart dropped: he’d chosen an album that opened with a song that was completely unflattering in its assessment of marriage—the album Cynthia had given him.