by Randy Mason
♦ ♦ ♦
ARM DRAPED OVER THE side of the chair, lips slightly parted, Baker was asleep when Micki entered the living room. When she noticed the black velvet box on the stereo, she went over and opened it, catching her breath at the sight of the ring. But the record had just ended, and the turntable was shutting down, the mechanical noises nudging Baker awake. He opened his eyes and had to stop himself from jumping up to grab the box. Yet all Micki was doing was moving it around under the lamp so she could watch the diamond’s fiery sparks shoot out.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” he said.
She wheeled around.
Baker returned the recliner to the upright position. “I don’t mind you looking at it. But just looking at it, understand?”
She closed the box and handed it to him. “Are you gonna ask Cynthia to marry you?”
“Yes.”
“Wow!”
Her face was so full of awe that he couldn’t keep from smiling. “Someday,” he said, “someone’ll probably ask you.” But his words felt hollow.
“Yeah, right.”
“Why not?”
“Just look at me.”
“So?”
“The scars on my face—”
“Are fading,” he said.
“So what! I’ll still never be pretty. And what about all the scars on my body?”
He stood up and put the box back on top of the stereo. “First of all,” he said, “you are kind of pretty.”
Her mouth fell open, but then her eyes narrowed.
“Second of all,” he said, “physical beauty isn’t the most important thing anyway. It’s what’s in your heart and your head that really count.”
“Yeah? So then how come you have a girlfriend like Cynthia?”
“You don’t think Cynthia has a good heart?”
“Well, yeah, but …”
“But what?”
“Well …”
“You think just because Cynthia’s beautiful, she can’t be smart, too—is that it?” Baker chuckled. “I don’t know which one of us is the bigger male-chauvinist pig: you or me.”
Micki lowered her eyes.
“Cynthia may be a model,” he said, “but she’s also extremely intelligent. She was accepted to every Ivy League university she applied to. She ended up at NYU because she was determined to pay her own way, and they were the only school to give her a scholarship. But when the scholarship wasn’t enough, she started to model. And after she graduated, she kept doing it because she wasn’t getting offered the kinds of jobs she thought she deserved. Now she’s giving acting a shot. I don’t really get it, but those artsy, creative things always appeal to her. Personally, I think she’d be happier if she was helping people in some way.” His face colored. “Jeez, listen to me going on like this.”
Micki shrugged. “I don’t mind; I like Cynthia.”
“So do I,” he said quietly.
“Do you love her?”
“What?”
“Do you love her.”
Baker felt a tremor in his chest. But before he’d even opened his mouth, Micki added, “If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?”
“If I answer, I’ll answer honestly. What is it you want to know?”
“Do men love?”
“Do men love?” he repeated.
“Yeah. I mean, do they really feel love, or do they just say that to get into women’s pants?”
His face went blank. But then his eyes flashed. “What the hell are you saying? You think men don’t have feelings?”
“No!”
He gaped at her. “Oh, so—so we’re not human, then?”
She shrugged and looked away.
He shook her shoulder. “Hey—now you listen to me, Micki; I’m not going to lie and say there aren’t guys who would do or say just about anything to get laid. At some time or another, most guys’ll pull some kind of bullshit. It’s not the same for guys; they don’t have to attach feelings to sex the way women usually do. But that doesn’t mean men don’t love. We have hearts just like women.”
“Were you satisfied when you had sex with me?”
An icy chill shot through him. “Y’know, you had sex with me, too. It was a two-way street, wasn’t it?”
“Were you satisfied?”
He felt lightheaded, the room suddenly unfamiliar. Not wanting to answer, he remained in the safety of silence. Then reconsidered. Not answering would be taken as a “no.” Given what she’d just disclosed about how unattractive she felt … He finally said, “Yes, Micki, very much.” But there was a strange look in her eyes. Afraid she’d misinterpreted the context of his remark, he added, “You were very sweet.”
A childlike sadness came over her, but then she pointed toward the coffee table. “Can I borrow your book when I go home? I don’t think I’m gonna be able to finish it here.”
Jarred, his heart squeezed painfully. “Sure,” he said. “Keep it as long as you want; just give it back when you’re done. You like to read?”
“Uh-huh.” Her gaze was still fixed on the book.
“Well, when you’re finished with that, I have some other books you can borrow.” He checked his watch; it was nearly six o’clock. “I guess I ought to start dinner.”
“I’ll go set the table,” she mumbled.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITH THE PLATES AND silverware all washed and in the drainer, Micki spread her books and notes out in the kitchen so she could work on her paper again. But when Baker walked in about an hour later, she was staring off into space, the page before her a mass of scribbles. He ripped the pop-top off a can of Coke and tossed it into the garbage, a plethora of candy wrappers lying there in a little heap. Sitting down in a chair catty-cornered to hers, he asked, “Did you ever teach your physics class that stuff about special relativity?”
Her eyes slowly focused on his. “What?”
He lit a cigarette. “Did you ever teach your physics class that special relativity stuff?”
“Yessir.”
“How did it go?”
“Okay.”
“Do you think you could teach it to me?” He chugged down some soda.
“Yeah, sure.”
He made a grand, sweeping gesture. “Then take it away.”
♦ ♦ ♦
SHE EXPLAINED HOW MOVING clocks slow down and moving meter sticks shrink. She drew diagrams, wrote formulas, and grew more animated as the lecture wore on. When she was done, he was impressed—and told her so.
A warm feeling welled up inside her.
“So,” he said, sitting back, “are you really going to be all right if you go home tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Really? Because if you need to, you can stay here longer. I know I said you could go home tomorrow, but that was only if you felt ready.”
“I’ll be okay. Really.”
He angled his head.
“I will,” she said.
He nodded, stood up, and threw the empty soda can away. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
While he was gone, she thought about what a liar she was. She was scared to death to be alone in her apartment.
He returned and placed a small white box on top of the papers in front of her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
He’d already stepped back and was leaning against the doorjamb, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Open it.”
Eyeing it, but not touching it, she asked, “What’s it for?”
He laughed “Jesus, I’m getting the third degree, here.” But then he took a deep drag, and his expression turned serious. Exhaling smoke, he said, “It’s for getting clean—and promising me to stay that way.”
A
shiver ran up her spine.
“Go on,” he prodded. “Open it.”
She looked at the box again, looked back at him, then gingerly lifted the lid. Underneath a layer of cotton was a pretty silver pendant on a delicate chain. Her brow knitted. “It’s a mezuzah.”
When the diamond seller’s friend had shown Baker some of these as an alternative to the typical Star of David, Baker hadn’t even known what they were. The jeweler had explained they were tiny versions of the things Baker had seen on the doorframes of Jewish homes—objects of protection. The real ones had little prayer scrolls inside while the jewelry had only paper—“in case they’re worn in places not fit for Holy Scripture.” Though the one that had caught Baker’s eye was supposedly for a man, it was really quite pretty, with some filigree work on the upper half.
“It’s beautiful,” Micki said. And yet she wished he would have given her something neutral—like an angel.
“Well, put it on. Let’s see how it looks.”
She searched his face.
He took another hit off the cigarette, then raised his chin. Looking out from under half-lowered eyelids, he exhaled smoke. “What,” he asked softly, “would be my secret, ulterior motive for doing this? Huh, Micki?”
Voice practically a whisper, she said, “I dunno.”
He shook his head. “There is none.”
She got up and fastened the chain around her neck.
“It looks nice,” he said.
But her expression was sad.
With a little push of his back against the doorjamb, he stood up straight. “You’re very tired. Why don’t you go to bed now—try to get back to a normal sleeping schedule.”
Eyes downcast, she walked past him.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER HAD THE TV turned to the news, but the volume was so low she could hardly hear it in her room. She tossed from side to side until, touching the new silver pendant, she simply stared off into the darkness.
This was her last night here.
She didn’t want to go to sleep anymore.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER STOOD UP AND shut the TV. In the silence, he could hear her disquieted motion behind the closed door. Compared to how she usually slept at home, she slept much better at his place, though there were times he’d peek in to find her babbling or moving around, the top sheet and blanket half off the bed. Tonight she sounded more restless than usual.
Maybe he should force her to stay a few more days. Without school, she’d have little structure and no supervision except when she was working—far from ideal at such an early stage. But she was so determined to leave. At some point, he had to let her go; he couldn’t keep her here forever. But was this too soon? What was he going to do if she relapsed again? Running his fingers through his hair, he stared out the window. There was something so wrong with that kid. Damaged. That was the word that kept popping into his head.
As quietly as possible, he unlocked the liquor cabinet and poured himself a good, stiff drink. He finished it and poured another. Then he locked the bottle away and went to bed.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITH MAJESTIC GRACE, THE sun rose into the sky, catching edges of elongated clouds and gilding them. Baker, already showered and dressed, was eating bacon, eggs, and buttered toast. Micki, still in nightshirt and jeans, was having coffee, coffee, and more coffee. She got up to pour another cup.
“Y’wanna save a little of that for me?” he joked.
“There’s plenty left,” she said and, without taking any, put the pot down with a heavy bang. Then she washed her mug and stalked out of the kitchen.
Baker sighed and shook his head.
♦ ♦ ♦
EITHER STUDYING OR SLEEPING, Micki kept to herself until Baker said it was time to leave. She was putting on her jacket when he asked, “Do you have everything?”
“Yessir.”
“You sure?” He walked back into the living room. Looking around, he spotted The Foundation Trilogy on the coffee table and retrieved it. “Didn’t you want to take this?”
“Whatever.”
His voice turned brusque. “You want it or not?”
“Forget it, okay?”
“Fine!” He took a few steps and tossed the paperback onto the club chair in front of the bookcase. “Let’s go,” he said, and unlocked the door.
♦ ♦ ♦
RADIO CHATTER AND CIGARETTE smoke filled the void the entire drive to Queens, where Baker double-parked in front of Micki’s building. She got out, pushed the seat forward, and reached in to grab her things from the back seat.
“You’ve only got ten minutes to get to work,” he said.
“I’ve got my watch on,” she retorted. “I know what time it is.”
Baker’s shoulders relaxed. “Y’know, you can still change your mind and stay at my place tonight.”
She straightened up. “I’ll be fine.”
But before she could close the door, he leaned across the front seat. “You call me if you’re having a hard time, y’hear me? If I’m not home, the answering service will pick up and know where to reach me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Even tonight,” he said. “Don’t not call because you feel ashamed or something. I don’t mind. I really don’t.”
“Yessir,” she mumbled.
He straightened up behind the wheel.
She leaned in and blurted out, “Thanks for everything,” then slammed the door and ran into the building.
“You’re welcome,” he responded to the dashboard.
chapter 23
BAKER COULDN’T BELIEVE HE was actually up. Not by much, merely three or four dollars, but it was better than being down a few bucks—or more. Gould’s phone rang, and Baker jumped.
“Hey, what’s with you tonight?” Martini asked. “Every time that phone rings you nearly pop outta your skin.”
Eyes darting between Martini and Malone, Baker said, “I, um—I keep worrying it’s my answering service calling about the kid getting sick again. She had such a high fever.”
“Oh. Well—sure,” Martini said.
“What was wrong with her?” Malone asked.
“Strep throat. Just a real bad case of strep.” But when Baker flashed a quick smile, the captain’s suspicions were only further aroused.
“Who’s in?” Gould called abruptly, anteing up. Then to his wife, who was freshening up the pretzels, “Who was that on the phone?”
“Just Aunt Sylvia asking if we’d be home Sunday. She wants to stop by and see the kids.”
“Julie’s Aunt Sylvia,” Gould said, “is one of the nicest ladies yous guys would ever wanna meet. Just loves to spend time with the kids—babysits whenever we ask.”
But Malone’s attention wasn’t so easily deflected. He would observe Baker keenly for the remainder of the night.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITH A FLICK OF his thumb, Baker got rid of the ashes hanging off the end of his cigarette; then he rolled the car window down another inch, allowing more of the bitterly cold air to rush in. At two-fifteen in the morning, he was more than ready to go to bed, eyes so dry they felt scratchy and raw. But a light was still shining in Micki’s apartment.
He’d worried about her the entire evening, nursing a paranoia that Malone knew what was going on—or had somehow managed to find out what he’d told Gould before anyone else had arrived. For Baker had shown up an hour early, just so he could spill his guts. About everything. “So you made a mistake. Shit happens,” Gould had said. But now, looking at the shimmering Manhattan skyline, Baker wondered why it always seemed to happen to Micki.
He got out of the car and locked it, grinding his cigarette into the frozen asphalt, gaze wandering in the direction of Bel, but down Micki’s side of the roa
d—the defining border of the adjoining industrial section. Tonight the street appeared darker than usual, though the lighting in the area was poor at best. And while his own neighborhood was far from safe—what with the SROs, the drug pushers, and the clientele they attracted—this one had an air of desolation and danger all its own. Not far away, young male voices were shouting. A police siren blared in the distance, followed by that of an approaching ambulance. A squeal of tires, yelling and cursing, the sound of breaking glass … It was virtually the same scene every night. All night.
He hated this place.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER LET HIMSELF into Micki’s apartment, she barely blinked. Dressed in nightshirt and jeans, she was at the kitchen table, a vacant expression on her face.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
Staring at the sink across the room, she shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“Can’t sleep?”
She shrugged again.
“Have you tried?”
She looked at him. “Jesus! Whatta y’want already?”
Nostrils flaring, he reared back, but then said, “I could really use some coffee. You mind if I make some?”
She gave him another shrug—“Whatever”—and returned to staring at the sink.
While he took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair, Baker decided that “whatever” had also found its way onto Micki’s hit parade of helpful phrases. He filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. Then he put a heaping teaspoon of instant coffee into the polka-dot mug.
“Do you want some hot chocolate?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
His voice turned sharp. “You haven’t taken anything, have you?”
“No, sir.”
Arms folded across his chest, he leaned back against the counter. “You want to drive back with me to my apartment tonight?”
Finally looking at him again, she said, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
The water boiled. He poured it into the mug, added a splash of milk, and sat down. They gazed at each other through the rising steam.
“You’re having a rough time, aren’t you,” he said.
She averted her eyes.