by Randy Mason
She heard the usual sounds from the group fooling around in the mirror company’s parking lot, so she quickly crossed the street. But then she was afraid that Frankie might catch a glimpse of her, so she hurried past the deli, too: she couldn’t take any more of the sad smiles and awkward words.
“Hey, bitch!”
Almost home, she recognized Johnny McBain’s voice as it ricocheted down the street, directed, she was sure, at her. Not turning around, she continued on at the same pace. But once she was inside her building, she bolted up the steps and into her apartment, locking the door behind her.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHILE THURSDAY’S SHIFT HAD dragged on and on, Friday’s flew by with the restaurant’s usual end-of-the-workweek rush. Micki was under the gun from five thirty on. On her way home, she finally stopped in to see Frankie, who gave her a big smile and welcomed her back. She bought a large black-and-white cookie and left the deli feeling better—until she saw the little party gathered to greet her on her stoop. She observed herself walking confidently toward the gang of four, noting that Rick wore his usual asshole smirk, mirrored by that of little Blondie, who sat next to him. Joey looked nervous, while Johnny’s eyes were cold.
It was Johnny who spoke. “How was the nuthouse, bitch?”
“Y’gonna get outta my way ’r what?” Micki asked.
As soon as Johnny stood up, so did the rest.
Her heart was pumping faster. If they all came at her at once, she didn’t stand a chance. Plus Johnny had been fighting on the streets all his life.
Johnny said, “Ya tell ya P-O—”
“He’s not a parole officer,” Micki said. “He’s a Manhattan cop.”
Johnny’s reaction wasn’t what she’d expected: he snorted. “Well then ya tell that pig to get the local fuzz off our backs; ’cause if he don’t, we’re gonna take it outta ya ass. Ya got that?” He lit a cigarette, and Micki felt cold. All at once, they scampered past her, Johnny hissing, “Do it, bitch!” while deliberately knocking into her. When she turned, she saw the reason for their hasty retreat.
“What was that all about?” Baker asked.
Micki had no idea. But when she looked up, Baker’s head and shoulders seemed to be blocking out the night sky. For a moment, she considered repeating Johnny’s threat. But then all she said was, “Nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing to me.”
She merely shrugged and went into the building.
Inside her apartment, she put away the spaghetti she’d taken from Bel and the cookie she’d bought at the corner. She hung up her jacket and her damp T-shirt from work. “I’m real tired,” she said.
“I won’t be staying long.”
“Y’got my report card?” Baker had spared her the trip to school, saying there was no point in her traveling all the way there just for a fifteen-minute homeroom period.
“I’ve got your new schedule, too.” And he pulled them both out of his pocket.
Taking a deep breath, she unfolded the pink piece of paper and checked out her grades:
Physics—100
Calculus—99
English—99
Economics—99
American History—98
“That’s a great report card,” Baker said.
She pointed toward the bottom. “But I only got an ‘N’ in general conduct.” An N meant needs improvement.
He smiled. “That’s better than what you got last time. I’m very proud of you.”
An unsettling warmth swelled inside her.
He opened the door to leave. “You make sure you keep this double locked, y’hear me?” When he was halfway out, he heard her say, “Yessir,” and he stiffened. But he closed the door behind him anyway and continued down the hall.
♦ ♦ ♦
ONCE HE’D REACHED THE street, he stood on the sidewalk, soaking in the atmosphere and getting a bad vibe.
Micki wasn’t safe.
♦ ♦ ♦
SATURDAY, MICKI SLEPT SO much throughout the day that her head hurt. Yet every time she woke up, she felt agitated and exhausted. And though Bel was busy that night, the hours went by slowly. She left to go home and saw Johnny and one of his friends being loaded into the back of a squad car while the rest of the kids stood by to watch. As she crossed the street, Rick spotted her and yelled out, “Ya dead, Micki! Y’got that? Fuckin’ dead!”
“Shut your mouth, asshole,” Wollenski ordered.
♦ ♦ ♦
SUNDAY MORNING, BAKER CALLED Cynthia to see if she wanted to get together. She said she was trying to learn two scenes for an off-Broadway audition and planned to spend all day doing it. To her astonishment, he offered to help her run lines.
And so that afternoon, feeling adventurous, Baker tried his hand at acting. His role was that of a rebel college professor in the first scene and an overzealous prosecutor in the second. Cynthia portrayed a coed protest agitator. Though Baker considered the script flawed and the dialogue stilted, he immersed himself in the process as best he could.
As the rebel professor, he had an unrequited crush on Cynthia’s character that translated into insulting hostility during the first scene’s encounter. “You’re not a woman, you’re a man in a dress!” he had to say nastily. But after the first read-through, he asked Cynthia, “Don’t you think that’s a chauvinist thing for this guy to say? Isn’t he supposed to be Mr. Equality—this enlightened, pro-women’s-lib guy?”
Appearing impressed, she said, “By the end of the play, he’s exposed as an opportunistic hypocrite.”
Of course, on the next go around, it was that very line that Baker misread: “You’re not a man,” he said, “you’re a woman in a dress!” Aware that it had come out backward, his forehead creased.
She smiled.
Trying to stay in character and set it right, he ad-libbed. Horribly.
She giggled.
He tried again, but it was even worse.
After that, they both broke down and laughed so hard they had tears in their eyes.
♦ ♦ ♦
“BREAK A LEG TOMORROW,” Baker said at the door.
“To tell you the truth,” Cynthia said, “I’m not so sure I want the part. I think the play’s pretty bad.”
He chuckled. “So do I, but I didn’t want to say anything.”
“It’s just that there’s supposed to be some big name backing it. If that’s true, it could get a lot of attention and lead to better things for someone like me.”
He nodded.
She sighed. “Actually, I’m not so sure I even want to pursue acting anymore. I’m tired of always running around, looking for the angle, the gimmick, the big break. I wonder if it’s all worth it. Maybe I should be doing something else.”
“Like?”
“Teaching.”
“Teaching!”
“I know, I know. It’s like I choose a new career every week.”
Baker shrugged. “So what? At least at the rate you’re going, you’re practically guaranteed to find the right one.”
“Very funny.”
He smiled. “So what do you think you’d teach?”
“Maybe math. Y’know: geometry, trigonometry, algebra …”
“High school kids.”
“Yeah, high school kids—teenagers.”
“There’ll be a lot of young boys with broken hearts.”
Cynthia laughed.
He stifled the impulse to kiss her goodbye, but she surprised him with a peck on the cheek. And for the whole ride home, he tried to convince himself that it was just a friendly kiss and nothing more.
Nothing more.
♦ ♦ ♦
MONDAY WAS A SHORT school day with truncated periods, its sole purpose to have stud
ents sign into classes and collect textbooks. As Micki was getting ready to leave, Baker said, “I’ll stop by later to take you to your appointment.”
“I can get there on my own.”
“It’ll take forever by mass transit.”
“I—”
“Micki, don’t argue with me! I said I’ll take you. Starting next week, I’ll have to take you anyway. I’m not about to let you leave your last class early just to make your appointment.”
“I don’t wanna go with you!”
“Well that’s just too bad. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to suffer through my company for a little while each week.”
“I hate you.”
His voice quiet, he said, “So you keep telling me.”
She stalked out of the office, two hot blotches of color on her face.
♦ ♦ ♦
SHE WAS STARING AT the floor.
“How do you like your apartment?” Dr. Lerner asked.
Micki looked up. “You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t like having to take stuff from him.”
“Then you don’t like it.”
“Well—I dunno.” Micki fidgeted. “I decided he owes it to me.”
“I see. How interesting.” And after listening to Micki explain her reasoning, Lerner said, “So you feel your suicide attempt was Sergeant Baker’s fault.”
Micki nodded.
“Then his opinion must mean a great deal to you.”
Eyes narrowed, Micki looked away. Seconds passed in stormy silence. Until she suddenly asked, “What’s the point of living? I mean, what’s the point of doing anything? You’re just killing time one way or another until you die. When you come right down to it, it’s all meaningless.”
“There are reasons why you feel this way right now. Further down the road, you may be able to see things differently. Ultimately, we’re the ones who give life meaning, and, sometimes, even the smallest pleasures can make it worthwhile. “
“I just want it to be over.”
“It’s our connections to other people that make us want to live. I think you feel all alone.”
“I am all alone.”
“You have Sergeant Baker.”
With a roll of her eyes, Micki slouched down in her seat, then glared at the wall. Finally, she asked, “How the hell do I know what he’s really thinking?”
“You still can’t tell?”
“I’m afraid to trust him. I don’t wanna take a chance again.”
The doctor’s voice was gentle. “I think the truth is, you’re afraid you do.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER DRANK A CUP of bitter coffee in the hospital’s cafeteria before returning to his car to wait. Sitting alone in the Camaro, he felt utterly rejected. And yet, when he’d searched Micki’s apartment Thursday, he’d found the bunny he’d given her stuffed in the back of a dresser drawer—the torn ear repaired with tiny, careful stitches.
As she rounded the corner, he put the car in gear to meet her. But when she opened the door, her mood was as frosty as the blast of air that rushed in.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
She slammed the door shut. “It’s only four o’clock.”
“So what?”
“I wanna go home.”
He drew a heavy sigh and ordered her to fasten her seatbelt.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER A LATE DINNER of cold pizza in front of the TV, Baker took a walk down Broadway, then headed over to Riverside Drive, beside the park. He was more aware than usual of the shoulder holster strapped against his body. When he looked through the bare branches of the trees, he could see a single star—a planet really—shining brightly against the dusty velvet of the clear night sky.
A cat darted past, disappearing into the shadows of one of the old, prewar buildings lining the road. Proud and stately, the brick structures were full of people winding down the day, the thick, solid walls helping to keep out the cold and the crime while the warm glow of incandescent lights softened the harsh edges of the city that lay crumbling on the other side of the windows.
A couple of cars passed by, the occupants of one throwing some garbage out a window. And then a boy and a girl—teenagers—appeared from around the corner. Walking hand in hand, they looked so young. And so in love. After that, the place was empty. Quiet. And under the distant sounds of traffic and the haphazard gusts of wind blowing in from the Hudson River, he could hear the Critters’ “Don’t Let the Rain Fall Down on Me” as it poured out of an open third-story window. He lit a cigarette and walked over to stand beneath it.
When he returned home, he made some coffee, planning to watch the news for a while before going to bed. Instead, he found himself sitting at his desk with a pad of paper and the pen Cynthia had given him. For the first time in over a decade, he started to write.
♦ ♦ ♦
A FEW MILES AWAY and across the river, Micki was standing at the window, watching the empty street and listening to the radio in the dark. The stupid-ass cat was wailing away again, reminding her of Old Man Andrews on the psych ward. She almost had to laugh: no matter where she was, nothing seemed all that much different. And maybe it never would. Lately she felt like she just went round and round in her therapy sessions, never getting anywhere.
A motorcycle gunned its way down the block, and then Rick and Joey came walking along, smoking and drinking beer out of bottles in paper bags. Though she couldn’t be seen, she stepped back from the window, still hearing the taunts and obscenities they were yelling up to her apartment. To think she’d once wanted to be friends with them. Her life felt like a tangled mess of mistakes she couldn’t get out of.
The Four Tops came on the radio, singing “Reach Out I’ll Be There,” and she went over to turn up the volume. But when she caught herself staring at the phone, she looked away. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture the Four Tops, tried to picture them watching over her and following her through the darkness till she made it safely home. But she could still see Baker’s face, could still hear his voice underneath the harmonies and the driving bass. Eyes edged with tears, she sat on the bed. And hugged herself tightly against the deepening chill that had overtaken the apartment.
chapter 33
“IS MICKI EVER GOING to stop being so angry at me?” Baker asked. “Nothing’s changing.”
“Why do you expect things to be changing?” Lerner countered.
“’Cause it’s different now. I’m different now. And look at how I fixed up her apartment. I mean, c’mon, that has to tell her something.”
“So you think she should implicitly trust you now? This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve shown her kindness in one way or another and then did a one-eighty.”
“But this is different.”
“How can she know that? Have you actually told her how you feel?”
“Well—well, no, but I think it should be obvious by now, right?” But even as he said it, he recalled how Cynthia had rebuked him so harshly for never saying what he felt. He slid down a little in his seat. “I think I’m afraid to.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“She’d laugh at me, and I’d feel like an asshole.” He lit a cigarette, then flashed a weak smile. “I guess I’d still live.” But then his face grew sad. “I don’t know. I have to say, I wouldn’t buy it if she did. I know the kid wants me to care about her.”
Lerner waited. But after nearly a minute, Baker merely announced he had an appointment scheduled with Dr. Tillim that Friday.
“How do you feel about that?” Lerner asked.
“I think I can talk to him now, especially ’cause the captain thinks I’m ready to return to the squad. And things are going okay with Cynthia, too; w
e had a nice time together Sunday—just as friends.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Baker shrugged. “It hurts. A lot. But it’s better than losing her altogether.” Eyes downcast, he played with his lighter while the heat crept into his face. “I can’t help it,” he said. “She kissed me goodbye—just on the cheek—but I’m already thinking maybe I still have a chance. It’s”—he fought back the emotion welling up—“it’s hard to let go.”
Lerner’s voice was soothing. “Nothing’s set in stone. Just let things be. You might be surprised by what happens.”
“Yeah.” But he sounded doubtful. Then he sat up straighter and tapped the ashes from his cigarette. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking about what you said—about Micki reminding me of someone.”
“And what have you come up with?”
Eyebrows and shoulders raised, he showed the palms of his hands. “Nothing. The only thing I can think of is what I already told you: Daryl Cole. But the more I think about it, the less convinced I am that it’s him. Do you really think she reminds me of someone? Like I said, I had plenty of reasons to hate her sight unseen.”
“But when you met her, you reacted very strongly, and it was an instantaneous, gut reaction. I’m convinced she triggered a connection on some deep level.”
Shaking his head, Baker exhaled a long stream of smoke, then stubbed out his cigarette.
“Perhaps it’ll help,” Lerner offered, “if I give you a description—a list of traits and attributes. But if you disagree at any point, feel free to stop me.” Baker nodded, so Lerner began: “Is extremely intelligent; is extremely independent; has difficulty with authority figures; has difficulty trusting; has a hard time showing any emotion besides anger; expresses anger through violence; is muscular and aggressive; has strong survival instincts, yet can be extremely self-destructive; has a drug-addiction problem; was badly abused; had, for all intents and purposes, no parents; has a number of good friends, though isn’t able—”
“Whoa!” Baker interrupted, raising his hand. “Micki does not have any friends. There are some people who like her, but I wouldn’t exactly say she’s friends with anyone.”