Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  He thought of all the trips to Micki’s apartment, worrying if she was using again, worrying if she was all right. The kid was a fucking pain in the ass. And for what? For what? In trying to save her, he’d lost the only woman he’d ever really loved. If it hadn’t been for Micki, none of this would be happening—none of it! He could’ve gone to LA, and Cynthia would never have taken up with that asshole actor. Nothing would’ve changed. Nothing.

  He circled around his block several times. Twice, while waiting at a red light, someone stole a space he’d spotted. When he was finally unlocking his apartment door, the telephone rang and he rushed to answer it. But as he listened to the caller, his face grew darker.

  “I’m not picking that fucking kid up now,” he said.

  The cop on the other end of the line tried appealing to Baker’s sense of justice: the kid hadn’t really done anything wrong; it was just a slight curfew violation. And they weren’t supposed to keep someone—let alone a juvenile—in a holding pen for more than a few hours.

  “I really don’t give a shit. Let her stay in lockup overnight. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into that thick skull of hers.” The more the officer tried to reason with him, the more stubborn Baker became. And he’d just emphasized to Micki the importance of calling first. She was a goddamn pain in the ass. A FUCKING—PAIN—IN—THE—ASS! She couldn’t get one fucking thing right. “I’ll get her in the morning,” Baker said, and slammed the phone down. Then he ripped off his tie, kicked off his shoes, and pulled out his whiskey. Settled in the recliner, he muttered, “Let the fucking kid rot there.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE LARGER HOLDING PENS were in the basement of the station house. Adding to the dungeon-like atmosphere were small, secured windows set up high on the far stone wall outside the cells. Headlights from passing cars flashed by, causing the shadows cast by the bars to stretch to twice their length and move across the dimly lit space over and over again. Traffic noise and indistinct voices came from the street, mixing with the sounds made by prisoners and cops.

  Being both a juvenile and female, Micki was in a cell that was separated from the others. It had a hard, narrow ledge—and nothing else. She was cold, uncomfortable, and alone. “I don’t want to see you locked up again”—isn’t that what Baker had said? She stared at the dirty bars. He was such a fucking liar. Always had been. And every time she’d let herself believe him—even a little—she’d been a fucking idiot.

  When a mouse scampered across the floor, she pulled her feet up. After that, she simply stared into space.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “YOU ALL RIGHT IN there?” the cop asked. This was the third time he’d checked on her, and she’d barely moved. She never looked at him, either, just kept staring at the wall. “Hey”—he moved closer to the cell—“why don’t you sleep a little. It’ll make the time go faster. Hey—kid—look at me.”

  “Fuck off.”

  The cop bristled. “Have it your way. You’re—” But he stopped and softened his tone. “Look, it’s really not so bad; you’re getting picked up in the morning.”

  She turned away.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER DRANK THE REST of one bottle and nearly half of another before deciding it was time to go to sleep. Leaving the whiskey on the floor beside the recliner, he stumbled into the bedroom and, still in his clothes, flopped down on the bed. When the alarm rang at five forty-five, he groaned and reset it for over an hour later, but was no better off when it rang again. After a great deal of effort, he sat up on the edge of the mattress and fumbled around, searching for his cigarettes. He went and found them in the living room, where he lit one and ran his fingers through his hair. It was already a quarter after seven.

  He called Warner at the school to say he wasn’t sure when he’d be in. “And the kid’ll be late, too,” he said. “I’ve gotta go pick her up.”

  Sounding more annoyed than concerned, Warner asked, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll call you later.” And he hung up before Warner had a chance to ask anything else. Then he called the precinct where Micki was being held, and asked if someone could drop her off at his apartment when their shift was over; there was no way he could come get her in his present condition. The desk sergeant told him not to sweat it; he’d arrange something.

  Nauseous, head throbbing, Baker dropped into the recliner and picked up the bottle. The liquid inside was a rich, warm gold. He’d always liked the color. After a moment’s hesitation, he drank a little more. Just to take the edge off.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BY MORNING, WHEN THEY took her out of her cell, Micki had convinced herself that everything that had happened was her own fault. While she was putting on her belt and relacing her sneakers, she kept looking around for Baker.

  “I’m going to take you home,” said the young detective who handed her the rest of her things.

  Her whole body relaxed, and she put on her watch and cross. But when she picked up Baker’s necklace, the pendant twisting back and forth as it dangled from its thin silver chain, she felt a flash of anger. She fastened it around her neck anyway.

  They rode in silence in the detective’s car until Micki realized they were going to the Upper West Side. Bolting upright in the seat, she said, “This isn’t the way to my apartment. I live in Queens.”

  “I have to hand you over to your father.”

  “He’s not my father.”

  The detective shot her a curious glance. “I still have to turn you over to him. Sorry.”

  You’re sorry, she thought.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER THREE CUPS OF coffee, Baker showered, shaved, and dressed, but still felt like shit. When the downstairs buzzer rang, he struggled to his feet to respond. A few minutes later there was a knock on his door, and he opened it, extending his hand. “James Baker.”

  “Roger Daton,” the younger man replied. And they shook.

  “I really appreciate this.”

  “No problem.”

  “Want some coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’m beat. Just want to get some shuteye.”

  “Was any paperwork started on her?” It was Baker’s only acknowledgement of Micki’s presence.

  Shaking his head no, Daton motioned with his hand in a friendly, dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks.”

  But Micki had caught the spark of irritation in Baker’s face. “Can I go?” she asked. “I’m already real late for school.”

  “You’re not going anywhere just yet.”

  “Well, I’d better get going,” Daton said.

  Baker shook Daton’s hand again. “I owe you.”

  “It was nothing—not even out of my way.” Then to Micki, “Bye, kid.”

  The door closed behind the other detective, but neither Baker nor Micki spoke. Baker was waiting till Daton was well out of earshot; Micki simply knew better than to provoke Baker when he was in this kind of state—Cynthia’s answer must’ve been no.

  “Your mouth stop working, Reilly?” Baker finally asked. “No smartass comments for once?”

  She retreated into that small, distant place within herself.

  “You have totally fucked up my life,” he said. “Do you understand that? You’ve ruined my life. There isn’t one goddamn moment when you’re not fucking something up.”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “You’re sorry?” he said. “You think that makes up for everything? You’re useless; you’re a worthless piece of shit. Why do you think no one’s ever come looking for you, huh? It’s because no one wants you.” Seeing the look on her face, he snickered. “Awwww, what’s the matter, little junkie? Did I hurt your feelings? You want to go shove a needle in your arm?” She swallowed hard, and he snickered again. “Or maybe you want to
go cry? Huh? Do you want to cry? You’re real good at crying, sitting there about to shoot up, crying your eyes out. Oh, yeah, poor little junkie, my heart bleeds for you. Well I’m finished with you, y’hear me? I don’t give a fuck about you anymore. You get your ass out of here and go to school. But just you watch your step because, first chance I get, I’ll send you right back where you belong. You’re street scum and always will be.” He marched into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

  Micki stood very still, feeling like a thin sliver of broken glass was slowly edging its way through her heart. It would’ve hurt less if he’d simply hit her. But maybe it was better this way. At least everything was very clear.

  Taking soft, careful steps, she went into the living room, gaze lighting upon the bottle beside the recliner. She snatched it and hurried back to the hall closet, where she opened the door as far as she could without causing the hinges to creak. Body half inside, arm extended all the way, she successfully extracted Baker’s gym bag, then stuffed the bottle underneath his boxing gloves and zipped the duffle closed.

  Eyes empty, face blank, she left.

  chapter 26

  RUSH HOUR. MICKI FELL in among the throng of subway commuters, the platform full of passengers heading downtown just like she was. As the train left Ninety-Sixth Street behind, it stayed at a crawl, passing through an abandoned station, work lights casting a sinister glow on the multicolored art unknown kids had left behind. Unlike the graffiti in the subway car itself, which was mostly a chaotic mass of tangled-looking lines in black spray paint or Magic Marker, these designs were pretty, nearly all of them huge. She used to wonder why kids did it—why they had to write all over any empty space they could find. But now she wished she’d left her own name scrawled somewhere. Anywhere.

  The train lurched and picked up speed, but she felt no sense of urgency. And when she changed at Times Square, she walked right past several cops—completely relaxed. She was just a kid with a gym bag among a motley crowd of people.

  And no one bothered her.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IT FELT ODD TO be in her apartment when she’d normally be in school. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t go anyplace looking like this. A quick shower, a pass of the comb through her hair, and then she put on her black jeans and her favorite black T-shirt.

  On the floor beside the bed, already waiting, was the tall bottle of whiskey next to a short glass of water, both looking like they thought they should be somewhere else. But when she sat on the mattress with her jacket in her lap, she knew everything was exactly where she wanted it to be.

  The jacket’s winter lining zipped out easily and was carelessly tossed aside. Then she grabbed a handful of the silky material underneath and ripped it apart, all the while apologizing in her head. Two Librium and one Quaalude immediately dropped onto the blanket. But she had to search around—even into the arms of the jacket—for the rest. Except for one Valium, she recovered them all.

  She flipped on the radio and began turning the dial, but settled on WNEW when the initial scan proved fruitless. She could wait till something good came on; Baker would be sleeping off his hangover. But then she got up and wedged the desk chair underneath the doorknob. Just in case.

  With the radio stuck in a commercial break, she took a look about the room: the crappy kitchen that needed cleaning, the wine-splattered wall, the textbooks on her desk with her unfinished homework … She was nothing but a failure. Though she’d tried so hard to be something else, it had all come back to this. Sergeant Kelly would be so disappointed. But then, he probably didn’t even think about her anymore. And no one was going to miss her much, either. Mr. Antonelli and Frankie liked her, and most of her teachers liked her, but their lives wouldn’t change without her. Not the way hers had changed when Tim had died. The corners of her mouth turned down, and her hand reached up to the little silver cross around her neck. She felt Baker’s pendant, too. With one vicious tug, she broke its delicate chain, then got up and hurled it into the street. After slamming the window back down, she returned to sitting on the bed.

  And then she finally heard what she was waiting for, a song—a message—sent out over the airwaves: the Youngbloods’ “Get Together.” As if it were radiating light, it was filling the room with a mystical essence, with a magic so real she could almost touch it, could almost feel it glowing as it flowed all around her, taking her someplace far away. Someplace where the world wasn’t ugly.

  She could see herself at the top of a hill, looking out across a lush, green meadow that was shimmering in the heat, her skin warm and browning. Skirting the trees, a soft, gentle breeze swept across the land, over the grass and the colorful flowers, which swayed gracefully, their open blossoms alive with the buzz of bees and the sweet scent of summer. And for a moment, she was a part of it all, as eternal as the sun shining down from above, as pure as the drops of liquid that glistened like jewels as they clung to the grass at her feet.

  But when she looked off toward the mountains in the distance—their snowy caps a bright, cool blanket—she saw herself for what she really was: just a whisper of breath in the vastness of space; a dull, flickering light against the brilliant blue of the sky …

  She looked at the drab, stained walls of her apartment. It was time for her to go.

  Using as little water as possible, she swallowed the pills before uncapping the whiskey, first taking little sips, but soon gulping it down.

  Her heart hurt and the tears fell silently.

  The song had ended.

  She shut the radio and continued drinking until she needed to lie down, curling up and clutching the pillow in her arms. The usual noise drifted up from the street, and, somewhere, a bird was chirping. But mostly what she heard was her own breathing.

  It wouldn’t be long now. She could finally rest.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  TRY AS HE MIGHT, Baker couldn’t get back to sleep. He tossed and turned until he eventually got up and reheated the remaining coffee. Strong and bitter, the mud-colored sludge refused to improve despite any addition of milk. It should’ve been dumped in the sink. But he sat in the kitchen, chain-smoking, till all of it was gone. He called Warner again.

  “I really feel like shit. Do you think you’re going to need me at all today?”

  “No,” Warner replied, his voice tight. “Just stay home.”

  “What time did the kid get in?”

  “Micki?”

  “Yeah, Micki!” Baker snapped. “Who the hell else would I be talking about?”

  “She didn’t get here yet.”

  “What?” Baker pushed his chair back and stood up. “Why didn’t you call to let me know?”

  “I figured she was coming in with you. You said you had to go pick her up.”

  “Christ! I’m going to kill that fucking kid.”

  But instead, Baker froze. For in that moment, he knew what she had done.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  SIMON & GARFUNKEL’S “HAZY Shade of Winter” kept playing over and over in his head like a movie soundtrack as he raced through the streets, portable red light flashing on the roof of his car while he leaned on the horn since he had no siren. He’d purchased the used Camaro just before the incident with Daryl Cole. Afterward, bitter and disheartened, he’d never bothered to have a siren or two-way radio installed. But now he regretted it. Very much. And he should’ve at least dialed nine-one-one before leaving his apartment; should’ve had the police and paramedics go to Micki’s immediately. Now, without the radio, it was impossible to notify anyone unless he pulled over and stopped—which he couldn’t bring himself to do.

  Vision blurry, head still throbbing, he was making his eyes scan back and forth twice as much as they normally would. He practically held his breath while negotiating the intersections. But most cars were clearing a path for him as he tore ahead, horn blari
ng, light flashing …

  Screeching to a halt in front of her building, he left his car double-parked, then flew up the stoop and the stairs, two steps at a time. He jammed his key into the lock, turned it, and was startled when he slammed into the door. Perhaps the key hadn’t turned all the way. He tried again—with the same result. But he’d felt the panel give.

  “Micki!” He pounded with the side of his fist. “Micki! You open this door!” When he got no response, he stepped back and kicked it in, crashing into her apartment. Surrounded by broken pieces of the old wooden chair, he was momentarily confused by the sight of his own gym bag on the floor—boxing gloves half out, her jacket all ripped up beside it. Lying on the bed, she looked lifeless. He hurried over and pushed away the pillow, which had fallen partway out of her arms. Freed from underneath, the overturned whiskey bottle went rolling noisily across the hardwood planks.

  Her pulse was weak and irregular, her breathing very shallow. He slapped her face several times and called her name, then got up and ran down the hall. There was no sign on the payphone, so he lifted the receiver and dialed nine-one-one. With the handset to his ear, he shut his eyes, and bowed his head. And heard … nothing. He smashed his palm against the heavy metal box. “Fuck!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN THE PAIN IN his knees got too much, he stood up and began pacing back and forth between the bed and the window. Where the hell was the damn ambulance? He’d called from the corner phone over ten minutes ago. He stopped and picked up Micki’s jacket to examine the ripped material more closely, then heard a little ping as something fell to the floor. Catching sight of the tiny blue object rolling away, he captured it under his boot. But before he’d even picked it up, he knew it was a Valium—his Valium. Just as it had been his whiskey.

  He understood the torn lining.

  He closed his eyes and recalled the horrible things he’d said that morning, then knelt down and leaned over the bed again. Soft and faint, her breath was a vanishing trace of warm air against his cheek, her pulse weaker and more uneven, a ghostly beat beneath the pallor of her skin.