by Randy Mason
STANDING IN THE DARKNESS, Micki felt like she’d been hit. Ear pressed to the door, she’d heard everything Captain Malone and Baker had said.
Very clearly.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE WAIL OF AN ambulance siren woke him. The clock said 3:17, barely an hour since he’d gone to bed. Though the apartment was totally quiet, there was a strip of light under the door: Micki was up. For a while he lay in bed, trying to fall back to sleep. But the longer the apartment was silent, the more restless he became. He slipped into his Levi’s and padded over to the kitchen. Eyes half closed, bare-chested and barefoot, he stood in the doorway, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
Seated at the table, Micki was looking at the back of her hand. Near the base of her thumb were three small cuts, the blood that had bubbled up making them look like parallel strings of garnet beads. Interesting, she thought, how the cutting itself never really hurt all that much, but just a split second later, it always stung and burned like hell.
Eyes now open wide, Baker asked, “What the fuck are you doing?”
She looked up. “I wanted to cut myself.”
Pointing to the sharp steak knife she was holding, he said, “Put that down now.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not gonna cut you.”
Baker lunged for her wrist, but she jumped up and out of reach, the chair falling over.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” she said, “or I’ll slash my goddamn wrists—the long way—’n bleed all over y’nice, clean kitchen.”
Her eyes were so cold. So empty. The image of them arguing on the side of the snowy highway flashed through his mind. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said.
Blood was dripping onto the floor. She snickered. “But that’s what I’m best at. That’s how I got where I am today.”
“There are better ways to deal with your drug habit than this.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just one big fuckin’ mistake that nobody wants. My life’s a fuckin’ waste.”
“You’re still very young,” he heard himself say. “Things’ll get better.”
With a cunning look, she said, “Oh, yeah?”
His heart thudded.
“What’s gonna happen t’me,” she asked, “when y’go back t’work as a cop?”
He felt like the air had been sucked right out of his lungs.
“I didn’t hear nothin’,” she said, “when you and Captain Malone were talkin’ the first time. But when y’buddies were leavin’, they made a lotta noise and woke me up. Then the two of ya were just standin’ right outside my door, talkin’ plain as day.”
Baker tried to recall exactly what he and Malone had said.
“None a this was t’help me, was it,” she continued. “This was all about you. That doctor Captain Malone was talkin’ about is a shrink, and I’m just part a some fucked up therapy f’you.”
Baker’s mind went blank.
Face full of contempt, she looked him up and down. “Y’lied that time y’said y’didn’t need me anymore. I still don’t get this whole thing, but at least I know where I stand. After y’go back t’work, I’ll be locked up in Heyden again—or worse.”
“I wasn’t really lying; it’s kind of hard to explain.” He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded. “But I don’t see any reason why you wouldn’t be allowed to stay on the outside—”
“Oh, please. Captain Malone knows I was usin’ again.”
“He wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“Because it would make me look bad. I should’ve notified someone, and I didn’t. I should’ve brought you in.”
“But y’felt too guilty, didn’t ya.”
“I don’t want to see you locked up again.”
She turned her head away.
“Things aren’t going to happen all that fast. Let me see what I can find out.”
“Yeah, right.” And she tossed the knife onto the table, where it clattered and skidded across the surface.
“Let me look at your hand.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothin’. The cuts aren’t deep.”
“You ought to at least clean and bandage them.”
“I really don’t give a fuck.”
He breathed in. “I’ll be back in a minute.” When he returned, he had several items that he placed on the counter by the sink. “Come here and let me wash those out.”
There was a long pause before she went over and offered her hand. He braced her arm in between his own and his body, anticipating the involuntary jerk as the rubbing alcohol infiltrated the wounds with sharp, stinging pain.
Micki was silent.
“Before you go to work tonight,” he said, “you’d better tape something waterproof over these.”
“I wear gloves.”
“Oh.” He felt stupid. He folded a piece of paper towel up and pressed it against the cuts. “Hold this down tight.” And once the bleeding had almost stopped, he applied some First Aid Cream—the cool, white paste quickly turning pink where it touched her skin. He put some Band-Aids on, then looked at the clock. “No point going back to sleep now. Why don’t you take a shower. I’ll put fresh Band-Aids on when you finish.”
“I don’t wanna go t’school.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s too bad, ’cause you’re going anyway. And in case you were wondering, you’ll be staying here tonight.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me, Micki.”
She turned and marched off.
Baker lit a cigarette and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he washed the blood off the linoleum, though some had permanently seeped into the seams. As soon as he heard the shower running, he unlocked the liquor cabinet and took a large swig of whiskey. This was going to be a very long day.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI COULD BARELY SIT still in class. At times she felt like she’d simply explode if she didn’t find a way to get the hell out of the building and get high. But when the passing bell rang, Baker was always waiting in the hall. And after school, he drove her home and hung around till it was time to take her to Bel Canto, giving Mr. Antonelli the now familiar instructions. When she finished work, he drove her back to his apartment.
Sullen, irritable, and belligerent, she was a charming houseguest for the entire weekend, Baker’s only reprieve being the time she worked on Saturday. By late Sunday night, when he called Cynthia, his patience with her had worn thin. And yet, when Cynthia said the only night she had free that week was Monday, Baker hesitated: Micki wouldn’t have work; it would be risky leaving her alone after school. But Micki said she’d be okay.
So the rendezvous was set for eight o’clock at Sevilla’s, a small continental restaurant on East Fifty-Fourth Street. Though Baker would have preferred something with a more elegant decor, most of the finer restaurants were closed on Mondays. Plus Cynthia insisted the setting be casual. “This is not a date, remember?” she said.
He hung up the phone, more convinced than ever that his plan was a mistake. But if he did nothing, Cynthia would be lost to him forever. He took out the ring and watched it sparkle. Yet it was a cold, cold fire that danced and dazzled within the precious stone.
chapter 25
SCHOOL ON MONDAY WENT well. Micki went home, did laundry, some homework, and a little cleaning before she lay down to take a nap. But when she awoke, the darkness around her seemed to be breathing. Watching. She switched on the light, but could still feel it. Underneath. Waiting. Waiting for her to give in.
She should never have told Baker she’d be all right.
For th
e second time that day, she forced herself to exercise—even jumped around to some music. But all she could think about was getting high. Lying on the bed, she listened to the radio, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking. Until she finally got up. And left the apartment. With nothing but her jacket, she hurried down the hall, past the payphone with its new “out of order” sign in the usual, childish scrawl. Outside, the temperature had dipped precipitously, and she zipped her jacket up as high as it would go.
When she reached the corner, she dropped a dime in the telephone in front of the deli, and, after about the tenth ring, Baker’s answering service picked up. She explained she needed to get in touch with him, but the operator told her he’d left no forwarding information.
“If you like,” the woman said, “you may leave your name, number, and a brief message.”
“I’m at a payphone, and it’s urgent.”
“If you’d like to leave your name—”
Micki hung up, then leaned her forehead against the cold metal box. A gust of wind blew down the street, and she shivered. She thought about the short walk down to the bridge.
“Hey, Micki.” Holding open the heavy glass door, Frankie was talking to her from the deli’s entrance. “Why’re you standin’ outside like this when it’s freezin’? Somethin’ wrong? The phone don’t work?”
“No, it works fine.”
“’Cause you can come inside and use the phone in here.”
“It’s okay, Frankie. I’m—I’m gonna head over to the Seven train.”
“You’re sure now …?”
“Yeah. Thanks anyway.” She gave him a weak smile and started for the subway.
Angels came in strange forms these days.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WASN’T MUCH FURTHER to the IRT station. Hands in her pockets, Micki walked quickly, trying to ward off the cold and make it to Baker’s before curfew. A couple of cars passed by, but she was the only person on the street—except for a man who was half a block ahead. Short and wiry, he was wearing a beat-up, heavily studded leather jacket with a wallet chain hanging between his back pocket and his belt. His motorcycle boots looked too big for his feet, and he was moving very slowly. Too slowly. As the gap between them continued to close, she got the feeling she should backtrack to the corner, take a turn, and disappear. But going all the way around the block would waste too much time.
Though breathing faster, she walked more leisurely, studying the pavement and tracking her shadow, which was rotating around her as she went from one streetlamp to the next. When it was clearly visible in front of her once more, she strode purposefully forward, keeping to the furthest part of the broad, cracked cement—giving the man as wide a berth as possible. But after she passed him, she noticed his shadow wasn’t falling behind. And when she crossed the street, she watched his distorted, two-dimensional projection follow hers.
She spun around, and he immediately stopped, his upper lip curling into a confident sneer. But something was already happening inside her: she could see every detail on his face and hear the tiniest of sounds. Muscles relaxed, breathing even and slow, her entire being was suspended in a deep, impenetrable calm. Muted and far away, a white-hot anger burned softly, but otherwise her mind was amazingly clear—razor sharp in a realm of profound stillness. Time had stretched, and she felt at one with every atom in the universe, even as her senses remained fully trained on the man in front of her. She was acutely aware of the most subtle shifts in his energy, completely immersed in the moment—no fears and no thoughts. Except one: if he came at her—if he attacked her—she was going to take him out. She was going to kill him. Just like she’d killed Speed.
The man’s smug bravado faltered, the sneer fading on his pockmarked face. And though his eyes betrayed him, he pulled out his cigarettes and, very casually, lit one. Then he took a few steps backward—eyes still locked with hers—before turning to walk away. As fast as he could. He even looked behind him a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t following. When he went around the corner and was out of sight, time contracted back to normal and her heart started to pound. She turned and jogged the rest of the way to the station. Shivering.
♦ ♦ ♦
JUST AS SHE REACHED the elevated platform, the 7 train was pulling in. She jumped into the nearest subway car, joining only a handful of other riders. At Times Square she got off to transfer and, while waiting for the uptown IRT, gave Baker’s number another try. But as she stood there with the receiver pressed against her ear, she became aware of a transit cop studying her. Distracted by the voice on the other end of the line, she inadvertently made eye contact. They stared at each other while she left a message with Baker’s answering service. But by the time she hung up, the officer was already heading toward her.
She bolted and could hear him chasing after her in his heavy black shoes—keys, cuffs, and miscellaneous hardware clinking and clanging, voice bouncing with his stride as he kept yelling at her to stop. And though she raced up the steps, she had to pause on the next level, not sure which way was best, heart sinking as a precious moment ticked by. Running again, she dodged several startled civilians, then saw another cop coming at her from the direction of the token booth. She turned hard and immediately swerved to avoid careening into a couple with a baby stroller. The cop behind her grabbed her jacket and slammed her against the wall.
♦ ♦ ♦
HAIR DONE UP IN an old western–type style with several loose tresses softly touching her face, Cynthia looked stunning though wearing only a simple pair of slacks and a pastel turtleneck. Overdressed by comparison, Baker wore a black suit, white dress shirt, and the tie Micki had given him.
The meal had been fine, the conversation awkward, the sweat beneath his collar getting worse with every pause. And when the waiter brought their coffee, his heart thumped as he felt the little velvet box, so soft and innocent, in his pocket. He took it out, even as the voice inside his head tried to reason with him, telling him to put it back, telling him to leave it be. But there it now was on the table.
“What’s this?” Cynthia asked.
“Open it.”
But when she lifted the lid, her eyes turned stormy. “How could you do this?”
“I thought it would make you happy. I thought that’s what you wanted: to get married. I thought we broke up because you thought I’d never ask.”
“You’re unbelievable! How is it that everything I tell you goes in one ear and out the other? Didn’t you hear me say we had problems to work out? Don’t you remember saying you didn’t want to discuss it?”
“I thought this was the problem—that I hadn’t proposed.” They were arguing in angry whispers that threatened to become overheard by other diners. “I love you, Cynthia, don’t you understand that?”
“Do you know how long it’s been since you actually said that to me? You can go for weeks—months—without saying it once.”
“I assumed you knew how I felt. I thought it was obvious from the way I acted.”
“Oh, really? Like leaving me standing on some horrible street corner, waiting for you after you promised—promised—you’d be there to pick me up?”
“Jesus! Are we back to that again?”
“I said I’d take a cab or catch a ride with someone else, but you insisted—insisted—you’d pick me up instead.”
“I told you: I lost track of time because I had to—”
“That’s just it: you didn’t have to do anything. You were simply obsessed with taking your anger out on a seventeen-year-old child. Someone else could’ve handled the situation; it didn’t have to be you.”
“It did have to be me—”
“Oh, god, it’s not just that! There are lots of things. You think I don’t know you have a drinking problem?”
“You talk like I walk around drunk all day.”
“You may not walk around drunk all day, but you drink too much. Way too much. It’s a crutch.”
“It’s not a crutch.”
“It is a crutch.”
“I just need it to relax sometimes.”
“Sometimes? Try all the time. Every day now. It’s so much worse than when we first met. I used to assume you drank because you couldn’t handle the pain you felt from your job. Until recently, I took it for granted that you had deep feelings you couldn’t express. Now I realize you’re just afraid to be vulnerable by showing any kind of emotion at all—even to me. And there’s something very cold and cruel in you, something I never let myself notice before.”
“And what brought you to these startling revelations?”
“When I saw the way you treated Micki. You’ve been so callous when it’s obvious how much she needs—and wants—some love from you.”
Baker snorted. “When we took her upstate, you were scared to death of her.”
“So what? So maybe I’m not as worldly-wise as I like to think I am. Big deal. The things I said are still true; you have no compassion for her.”
“You have no idea how I’ve taken care of that kid. When she was sick, I even saved her goddamn life. I—”
“But you’re unwilling to face anything on an emotional level. There’s nothing there. Nothing.” She paused. “Y’know, I have never seen you cry.”
“That’s what this is about? That I won’t cry like some—some …”
And while he searched for a word that wouldn’t be too vulgar, Cynthia stood up and threw her napkin on the table. “It’s no use talking to you; no use at all. You’d better take a good, hard look at yourself, Jim, or you’ll be alone the rest of your life.” She grabbed her coat and purse from the adjacent chair and stormed out of the restaurant.
And out of his life.
Face hot, feeling like everyone was staring at him, Baker paid the check and drove home. The only thing that kept repeating in his head was Cynthia’s references to Micki; everything always came back to the kid. In fact, his first real fight with Cynthia had been about her.