by Randy Mason
“I don’t need a shrink. I’m not crazy.”
“You need to talk to someone.”
“I need to be dead.”
“Don’t talk like that!”
“Or what?”
There was silence till Baker said, “Mr. Antonelli hopes you feel better soon.”
She grunted.
“And Cynthia sends her love.”
Micki’s eyes blazed. “Does the whole fuckin’ universe know I’m here?”
“Just the people who care about you.”
She jumped to her feet. “Nobody fuckin’ cares about me!”
“That’s not true!” And he thrust the bag from the gift shop toward her.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“It’s—a present.” But all at once, his idea seemed incredibly stupid, and he wished he could take it back. He awkwardly lowered his arm. “I just thought it was cute, and you might, y’know, like it.” He tried to smile, but succeeded only halfway. Then, eyebrows raised, he pulled the bunny out and held it up.
“That’s a fuckin’ toy!” she said. “That’s for little kids!”
“Not just for little kids—Cynthia has a stuffed animal, a little teddy bear.”
“Fine. Give it t’me.”
He handed it over. Very slowly.
With a vicious twist, she ripped off one of the big, floppy ears.
Baker cringed.
“Thanks,” she said. “I feel so much better now.”
But he’d seen the flicker of hurt in her eyes. Heart aching yet again, he could only stand there and blink.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER HAD BARELY SEATED himself in Dr. Lerner’s office when he launched into a recap of what had just happened.
Looking somewhat perplexed, she asked, “What made you buy her something like that?”
“I thought maybe she needs to know it’s all right to be a kid.” And then he told her not only what Mr. Antonelli had said, but what Cynthia’s gynecologist had mentioned back in November.
Lerner asked Baker how he knew Micki didn’t get her period. When he told her he’d actually discussed the issue with Micki himself, the creases in Lerner’s brow deepened. “I’m getting the impression,” she said, “that yesterday you presented only one side of the story. I would’ve thought there was nothing positive at all in your relationship with her.”
“I figured you just needed to know the bad stuff.”
“Everything is important. I need to understand all the different aspects of how the two of you interact—the good as well as the bad.” Eyes softer, she said, “For today, why don’t you tell me about some of the good things.”
So Baker described moments when he’d bonded with Micki in one way or another, amazed by how many there were. But then he paused. Massaging his forehead, he said, “I’m starting to see a pattern.”
Lerner nodded. “What kind of a pattern?”
He wondered if he was going to get a headache. He said, “Every time I get close to Micki, I come back with something abusive.”
“What do you make of that?”
The first thing that popped into his head was that he resented Micki getting something he’d never had. He puffed away on his cigarette, trying to think of something else to say, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The doctor was silent.
“I don’t. I really don’t.”
Lerner’s expression turned shrewd.
Shifting his weight in the seat, Baker said, “But, y’know, even those times when Micki and I are getting close, we’re often very—I don’t know how to put it—harsh? Confrontational? It’s, y’know, not exactly sweetness and light.”
“There are at least two reasons for that, but one of them is quite simple: you’re not Robert Young, and she’s not Shirley Temple.”
There was a beat before Baker threw his head back and laughed.
Dr. Lerner smiled, then announced they were going to have to end for the day.
Baker hurriedly extinguished his cigarette and stood up. Then remembered Miss Gutierrez. After he described his predicament, he said, “What am I going to tell her? She hasn’t seen me—or Micki—since Micki’s first day. By then I’d already made a terrible impression on her. I’m afraid that, because of what’s happened, she’ll—well, she’ll take Micki away from me.”
Standing between her chair and Baker, Lerner felt incredibly small. “Why don’t we sit down again for a moment,” she suggested. And when both were once more seated, she said, “I’m not going to lie and say that’s not a possibility—because it is.” Watching his face closely, she added, “In fact, someone looking at the bare facts of this case would probably be inclined to do just that. However”—and she put a lot of emphasis on that word—“there’s much more going on here than what’s apparent from a superficial review. And whenever possible, I work as hard as I can to keep a family together.”
When he heard her refer to him and Micki as a family, his heart leaped.
“I’d be happy,” she continued, “to talk to the social worker—”
“Miss Gutierrez,” he said.
“Miss Gutierrez,” Lerner repeated, “and discuss my current assessment and expectations given what I’ve observed. I know how understaffed and overwhelmed these caseworkers are. I doubt she’ll object to letting me formulate a recommendation based on how I see things progressing over the next few weeks.”
His shoulders relaxed. “That’d be great.”
“Let me ask you something, though,” the doctor said. “What would you do if I later told you I’d determined Micki would be better off with someone else?”
It felt like all of the air had disappeared from the room. Voice strangled by the painful lump in his throat, he replied, “I guess I’d have to accept your decision. The last thing I’d want to do is cause the kid more pain. But I’ll do anything—anything—to become a better”—he paused and glanced down, his neck getting hot—“parent-type person for her. I mean, that’s the only reason I’m here. For almost a year, now, the department’s been trying to get me to talk to their shrink, but I haven’t said more than two words to that asshole.” Baker’s face reddened. “But I don’t think you’re—y’know—I mean, he really is.” Lerner nodded, and he caught the amusement in her eyes.
She got up from her chair. “Let’s see how things progress, okay? Why don’t you give me Miss Gutierrez’s phone number, and I’ll let you know what I arrange with her.”
Baker rose and shook her hand. “Thanks, Doc.”
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN HE FOUND THE door to Micki’s apartment unlocked, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He was sure he’d locked it behind him when he’d left—he always did. He went inside and flipped on the light to find the place in shambles, the smell of stale urine and spoiled food assaulting his nose. But worst of all were the two black swastikas spray-painted on the wall above her bed—or rather, what was left of it. Baker’s eyes grew dark. He turned around and marched outside to call it in to the one-o-eight.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS SOON AS THE apartment had been processed and the investigators were gone, Baker contacted an emergency locksmith service and began the cleanup process, which, from the looks of it, was going to take a lot of time. The floor was littered with bits of glass and broken china along with spilled soda and leftovers taken from the refrigerator. The chairs, table, and desk were essentially dismembered; the bureau and desk drawers, smashed into firewood. Reeking of urine, the bedding and mattress sported huge gashes while the pillows had been ripped into shreds. Her money was gone; the bankbooks, destroyed. And, scattered all over the room, as if they’d exploded out of her loose-leaf binder, were pages of notes and homework. Amazingly, the majority weren’t too badly damaged, just rumpled or stained.
He picked up a pair of her underpants, now torn and covered in ketchup. Her only other bra had been cut in two.
It was nearly an hour before the locksmith arrived. By then, Baker had managed to get the mattress, box spring, and smaller pieces of broken furniture down to the curb. Maybe tomorrow, Gould or Warner would help him remove the bureau and desk.
“Whoa,” the man from AAA LICNY Locksmiths said as he walked through the door.
While he continued to pick several loose-leaf sheets out of the mess, Baker said, “Yeah, well, I need this place secured so this doesn’t happen again. I want a high-quality deadbolt, and I want to replace the cylinder that’s already on the door. I also want the fire escape window to be measured for a gate. How long will that take to get in?”
“Two to three weeks.”
“I need it in two.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You realize I’m gonna need cash for the locks, but I can take a check as a deposit for the gate.”
Baker looked inside his wallet. He’d gone to the bank during his lunch break, but this would pretty much wipe him out. “That’s fine,” he said. “In the meantime, I want that window nailed shut. I’ll come back tomorrow with some two-by-fours to board it up until the gate is ready.”
“I can’t—”
“Just let me borrow your hammer, and I’ll do it myself.”
The locksmith shrugged. “Sure.”
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN HE GOT HOME, Baker took the clothes he’d managed to salvage from Micki’s place and headed down to the laundry room. Then he dozed off in the recliner, setting his travel clock to wake him when the washer, and then the dryer, were done. Afterward, he stripped down to his Jockey shorts and fell into bed without even brushing his teeth.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT, and Micki could hear the staff preparing to change shifts. After refusing to eat anything all day, she was sitting up in bed, listening to her stomach and thinking about what might happen if she fell asleep. She feared the psycho patients as much as she feared the staff. Maybe more. Heyden was hellish, but this place was totally creepy. Not knowing which was worse, she had no reason to cooperate. They were probably going to ship her back to juvi just as soon as they decided she was okay.
She gritted her teeth. Old Man Andrews was starting to shriek again. The bastard probably did this every goddamn night. Well, one thing was for sure: she couldn’t stay in this place too long, or she really would go crazy.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN MICKI AGREED TO see Dr. Lerner the following morning, the orderly looked mildly surprised. But as soon as he left, she lay down on the doctor’s couch and promptly fell asleep for a fifty-minute nap.
♦ ♦ ♦
“I’M NOT LEAVING UNTIL I see her,” Baker said. He was standing on the edge of the common area with one of the nurses, who was reminding him that hospital staff couldn’t force a patient to see a visitor—and visitors were only allowed in the dayroom.
“Tell Micki,” he said, “that if she wants this stuff, she’s going to have to see me to get it.” In addition to bringing her some of her own clothes, he’d stopped by Macy’s on his way over so he could buy her new underwear. Feeling completely ridiculous, he’d lumbered around among the racks of frilly undergarments until he’d eventually given in and asked a salesgirl for help. At least he’d had the presence of mind to note sizes before throwing away the vandalized items. When he told the clerk to show him something black, she promptly produced some lacy lingerie, and his face grew hot.
“It’s for a kid—a teenager,” he said. “She’s too young to be wearing something like that.”
“Oh, this is for your daughter,” the salesgirl had said.
To which he’d simply answered, “Yes.”
But now that Micki was refusing to see him, he’d use what little leverage he had. “Tell her,” he said to the nurse, “that I’m sure she’d like to wear something other than green hospital scrubs.”
Micki—looking thinner, dark circles under her eyes—finally emerged.
“Aren’t you eating?” he asked.
“They said you brought some stuff for me.”
Indicating an empty table in the middle of the room, he said, “Why don’t we sit down over there and talk awhile.”
“I’ve got nothin’ t’say t’you.”
“Please, Micki—”
“I fuckin’ hate you,” she shouted. “Why is that so fuckin’ hard f’y’t’understand?”
He thrust the bag toward her.
She snatched it from his hand and shuffled away.
He turned and headed toward Dr. Lerner’s office, where he could stand alone in the hallway, licking his wounds till it was time for his appointment.
♦ ♦ ♦
DEBBIE WAS A NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD who’d been admitted because she’d taken a bunch of aspirin in a token suicide attempt. When Micki returned to her room, she found Debbie inside, holding the damaged bunny.
“Gimme that!” Micki said, swiping it away. Then she dropped the bag from Baker and grabbed the girl’s arm, swinging her out into the hall.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!” Debbie cried.
“Stay the fuck outta my room an’ keep y’fuckin’ hands offa my stuff.” And while Micki put the bunny back in its bag, Debbie went to rat Micki out to the nurses.
♦ ♦ ♦
SUDDENLY MUCH TOO WARM in his black turtleneck, Baker decided not to mention Micki’s outburst to Dr. Lerner. But since that was all he could think about, he had nothing left to say. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, asking, “So—so do I have to talk about my childhood and all that kind of stuff?”
“We should talk about that at some point, but it doesn’t have to be now.”
“Yeah. Well, might as well be now, right?” He tugged at the knit collar of his shirt as if to stretch it out. “Um—I don’t know where to start.”
“Just tell me what it was like for you growing up. What was your family like? Were you happy?”
“Not exactly—no. No, I wasn’t happy.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then began to paint a picture of a sad little boy who grew up in a cold, unloving home. His father, while dreaming of being an inventor, had traveled constantly, selling some sort of health tonic he claimed had been blessed by the pope—a complete lie. Marginally successful as the latter, an utter failure as the former, he had to listen to his wife—Baker’s mother—forever harp on his inadequacies and his inability to maintain her in the kind of lifestyle she felt entitled to.
Neither parent had any genuine capacity for empathy or compassion, leaving Baker bereft of even a shred of emotional comfort or support. His mother, in particular, trivialized everything, from his disappointments to his illnesses and injuries—unless, in one way or another, it brought her some attention. If he was depressed or upset, she’d say, “You have to pick yourself up by your bootstraps!” or “That’s the way life is; don’t make such a big deal out of it!” If he was sick, she’d tell him some other little boy was much sicker than he was. And if he complained, she’d say her life had been much worse when she’d been a little girl, eyes readily filling with tears for herself. In fact, every little problem in her life was a full-blown crisis, full of melodrama and self-pity. He, on the other hand, was harshly reprimanded or punished for any show of emotion, his mother always succeeding in spoiling what few moments of happiness he could have had.
Though they were, by income, on the upper edge of the lower class, the family somehow managed to live in a modest house in a middleclass neighborhood. As a child, he didn’t know enough to question how that was possible. And though his parents drilled it into his head that money was tight, he noticed that his mother got things like a new mink stole or a new diamond ring, got her hair done every week, and had a cleaning lady to take care of t
he home—and him. Naomi was a large black woman with the patience to deal with Baker’s mother and a genuine affection and tenderness to care for the little boy. Dr. Lerner came to see that Naomi was responsible for partially ameliorating the negative psychological impact of Baker’s parents. She was, in many ways, Baker’s mother. But before he’d reached his teens, Naomi had returned to her family and her deeply religious roots in the South, and had purposely, it seemed, lost contact with Mrs. Baker. When he was older, Baker came to comprehend just how much he owed Naomi, and how much he loved her. He tracked her down, only to find she’d passed away years before from a heart condition.
“Did Mrs. Cole,” Dr. Lerner inquired, interrupting him, “remind you of Naomi? Is that why you became so enraged by Daryl’s comments?”
A look of astonishment swept over Baker’s face. “Probably. I never realized that before.”
“And perhaps you felt guilty that you couldn’t protect her from her son.”
Baker’s voice grew tight. “I feel like I can’t protect anyone. Even when I know someone’s no good, I’ve got to wait until they hurt someone—even kill someone—before I can go after them and get them off the streets. And then, before you know it, they’re right back out.”
“So you feel like your work is pointless.”
“A lot of the time, yeah. And what makes it worse is that people hate cops—they hate cops. They hate you. All they have to do is see the uniform or the badge. They don’t even know you, but they hate your guts. You go to answer a call and people are throwing things at you from windows or roofs: bottles, garbage, even empty refrigerators. Sometimes all it is, is a setup—they ambush you. And still you’re trying to protect them. You’d think they’d at least have some respect for the job. You put your life on the line, and for what?” He inhaled from the cigarette, then slowly exhaled and lowered his voice. “It’s all a fucking waste; it’s all for nothing. The whole justice system is like one goddamn revolving door.”
“You do your best,” Lerner offered.
“So what the fuck is that worth?”