Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  “There’s always the fire escape.”

  “The gate on that window is padlocked. The key’s nearby, but she has no idea where it is. For that matter, neither do you.”

  “You don’t really think—”

  “No, no, but still …” He tossed his knife and fork into the middle of his plate. What a pain in the ass. Now he felt pressured to go home. And for a moment, he pictured Micki in his apartment. “Christ,” he said, “what the hell was I even thinking leaving her alone in there? God only knows what she’s doing.”

  “I’m sure she’s just cleaning, exactly like she’s supposed to be.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “What?” Cynthia asked. “What’s so hard to believe?”

  “How is it that you always think the best of people?”

  “Maybe because that’s the kind of world I want to live in. Why do you always think the worst?”

  “It’s one of the things that keep me safe.”

  “Well maybe you need to know when to turn it off!”

  Baker drew back.

  Cynthia’s hand reached out and covered his. “I’m just—I’m just saying …”

  “Sure,” he said, his voice flat.

  “Why don’t we get the check,” she suggested gently. “Then you can go back and put your mind at ease.” She raised her hand to the waiter and pantomimed writing. He promptly arrived with a little silver tray and placed it in front of Baker. But while Baker was busy pulling out his wallet, Cynthia reached over and grabbed the metal dish. The waiter, looking at Baker, raised an eyebrow and practically sneered before moving a few steps away.

  “Cyn—”

  “No!” After a quick glance over the bill, she placed her Master Charge on top. “It’s about my turn again.” And when the waiter had taken the tray and was out of earshot, she leaned in, saying, “Besides, you hate this place. You think I don’t know you like to call it ‘The Manhattan Crapperie’?”

  He chuckled, but started to object again.

  She cut him off. “You paid the last five times.”

  “So now you’re keeping score?”

  “I’m not keeping score; I—” She leaned back. “You still can’t deal with this, can you.”

  “So shoot me. Did you see the look that waiter gave me?”

  “So what? What do you care what he thinks?”

  Their relationship had nearly ended on the first date because of this. Cynthia, as a feminist, thought they should split all expenses down the middle. Baker, brought up with traditional values, felt it was his job to pay for everything. Never having dated a woman so much younger, he’d never faced this before. After lengthy negotiations, they’d reached an uneasy compromise where Cynthia paid every once in a while.

  “Do you think this somehow makes you less of a man?” Cynthia asked.

  But before Baker could answer, the waiter returned, presenting Cynthia with the elegant little tray—an imprinted form and her charge card on top. His entire demeanor dripping with disdain, he said, “Mademoiselle”—with tremendous emphasis on the last syllable.

  Unruffled, her tone completely businesslike, Cynthia replied, “Merci,” in a perfect French accent. But Baker noticed that her lips, pressed together tightly, were twitching a little here and there as she signed her name and ripped out the carbon copy. And Baker’s eyes began to smile, lips soon pressed together, same as hers. The moment the waiter had disappeared into the kitchen, they both burst out laughing.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT, CYNTHIA raised her hand and hailed a cab.

  “Let me take you home,” Baker said. “The car’s just around the corner.”

  “You’ll only waste a lot of time in cross-town traffic. Besides, the only reason I let you chauffer me around so often is because I know how much you love to drive. But right now”—her palm caressed his face—“you should go check on Micki.”

  He opened the door for her.

  “I love you,” she said.

  He gave her a kiss, then helped her in. And as the taxi pulled away into the stream of tailgating vehicles, he stood alone on the sidewalk. Feeling adrift.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN HE RETURNED TO the apartment, he found Micki in the kitchen with a sponge mop. He hung up his jacket and put the malachite sphere on a bookshelf in the living room, a matchbook in front to keep it from rolling away. Then he watched as she finished the last few feet. The floor looked sopping wet.

  “How long till that dries?” he asked.

  She shrugged and, avoiding his gaze, started toward the bathroom to dump the pail of dirty water into the tub. He followed and watched the grey-colored liquid splash against the old white porcelain, leaving a trail of black, sooty particles as it swirled into the drain.

  “So were you snooping around?” he asked.

  She straightened up and stared him squarely in the eye. “I looked in one drawer, your jewelry box, and your closet. Which was open anyway.”

  His mouth fell open. “You’ve got balls, kid. Not only do you do exactly what I tell you not to, but you don’t even try to deny it.”

  “Well, I did it, and y’asked me. I don’t generally lie, y’know.”

  He laughed. “You don’t generally lie?”

  “That’s right,” she replied hotly. “When have I ever lied to you?”

  And as inconceivable as it seemed, he couldn’t produce a single genuine instance. The closest he could get was Friday night when she’d attempted to deny the veracity of her story—which didn’t really count. “So did you find anything interesting?” he asked dryly.

  “Your ring from Cornell.”

  “And you thought I was just some dumb cop.”

  “I never thought you were just some dumb cop.”

  Their eyes held until Baker breathed out in a loud sigh.

  “So did I already screw up for today?” she asked.

  She looked very tired. “No. Just get back to work.” And while she turned on the water to rinse out the bucket, he went to his bedroom, closed the door, and immediately checked the small walnut box. Nestled against the plush lining, his ring, tie clip, and ID bracelet were still there. He pulled open his dresser drawers, yanking on them as though they’d done something wrong. But the contents looked like they always did—not that he was all that particular with his things anyway. He had no idea which drawer she’d gotten into. Slamming the last one shut, he stormed out of the bedroom.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  INSIDE THE STUDY, SATURDAY’S mail was waiting for him on the desk—he hadn’t picked it up till after he’d returned from the movie with Cynthia last night. There was a bill from Con Ed, his bank statement, some junk mail, and what looked to be a magazine wrapped in brown paper. The name on the return address was Ed Falrone. A sleazy plainclothes cop in anticrime, Falrone was bucking for a detective’s shield. His group of friends and Baker’s never mixed, though Falrone was forever trying to recruit them. The last time Baker had spoken to him was nearly half a year ago when the man’s longtime, live-in girlfriend had called it quits over his habitual philandering. To “celebrate” her departure, Falrone had planned a stag party at his Long Island apartment, inviting Baker to join in. And though Baker never did attend the sordid affair, Falrone wouldn’t let up about it. Afterward, he kept boasting about how great it was, detailing the events of the evening, beginning with his trip to a 7-Eleven to get more beer.

  According to Falrone, he was on his way home when he picked up a young coed who was hitchhiking—and stoned. He invited her back to the party, where he and his friends proceeded to get her very drunk. “We had the music goin’, and convinced her to take off all her clothes.” He snickered. “Man, she was so out of it, she didn’t know what the fuck was goin’ on. So then we all did her. I even took pictures.”
In the morning, he drove her to the train station, which was where she’d been headed to begin with. “She didn’t remember a thing,” he said, laughing. “Even thanked me for a great party.”

  Baker told him they were all shit—a bunch of lowlifes, guilty of rape. In response, Falrone called Baker a “fuckin’ pussy” to his face, knowing Baker, already under scrutiny from IAD, couldn’t afford to lose it right there in the station house. They hadn’t spoken since, which suited Baker just fine.

  Underneath the roughly textured wrapping—a supermarket grocery bag—Baker found a note attached to a layer of smooth brown paper. “Here’s something to keep you up when your girlfriend can’t—happy birthday.” With a muttered “it’s not till next month, asshole,” Baker tore off the rest of the packaging. When he saw the hardcore-porn magazine Falrone had sent, his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. He let it fall open to the center, ripped it in half, then ripped each part in half again. He threw the pieces in the wastepaper basket, then shoved the wrapping down on top. Just as he was charging out of the room toward the kitchen, Micki came through the front door with an empty laundry basket. She stopped short. But he went right on past, leaving her to wonder what could have riled him so.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  ONLY A SINGLE SHIRT required ironing that week. So, after cleaning the bathroom, Micki hung it from the shower-curtain rod for later. Then she got her lunch from the closet and headed for the kitchen, passing through the living room, where Baker, lounging in the recliner, was too absorbed in whatever he was reading to glance up.

  Seated at the dinette table, her back against the wall, she opened up the paper bag and pulled out her sandwich. Heavy with filling, it was a wonderful mess inside the plastic wrap—white marshmallow Fluff and golden-brown peanut butter oozing from between the slices of bread. Her mouth began to water. She pulled off the plastic and took a bite. Eyes closed, she melted into the airy bread; soft sugar; and thick, chunky nuttiness. Salty-sweet. Very dry. She got up to get some water. But as she reached for a glass, her hand froze. She went back into the living room.

  “Sergeant Baker?” Her heart was pounding—this was the first time she’d ever called him by name.

  He looked up.

  “Can I have some water?” Her heart thumped harder.

  He stared blankly.

  “Forget it,” she said, and quickly turned away.

  “Micki!”

  She looked back.

  “You don’t have to ask for water.”

  “Is it okay if I use one of your glasses?”

  He felt an uncomfortable sensation around his heart, but his tone came out brusque. “What do you think? That I’d make you drink it straight from the tap?”

  She shrugged.

  “Yeah, of course you can use a glass.”

  She hurried back to the kitchen. But only a few minutes later, Baker came in to get a beer. About to take another bite of her lunch, Micki put it down.

  He popped the cap off the bottle, leaned back against the counter, and started to drink.

  She hastily stood up, wrapping the clingy plastic around the half-eaten sandwich.

  “Sit down and finish,” he said. “You’re allowed to take a break.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.” She moved toward the garbage pail.

  “Leave it. Don’t throw it away.”

  “But I’m not gonna finish it.”

  “I said leave it.”

  “Fine.” She slapped it back down on the table, then stalked off to resume her chores.

  He put his beer on the counter and picked it up. Though it only smelled like peanut butter, the sticky filling seemed to be everywhere as he tried to safely remove the sandwich from the plastic wrap. He took a small bite from an untouched corner. Then another. When she came back to get the Lemon Pledge from under the sink, she found him holding it, his fingers full of Fluff.

  With a sheepish grin, he said, “I just wondered what these things tasted like. It’s good—a little too sweet for me, though.”

  Her expression was cold. “You’ve got marshmallow Fluff all over your lips.” Then she took the spray can from the cabinet and left.

  He went to the sink, threw the sandwich away, and washed the gooey stuff off his mouth. He must’ve looked ridiculous. But for the first time, he understood he’d lost something.

  And it wasn’t his dignity he was thinking of.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER HAD MOVED TO the couch to resume his reading, the now-empty beer bottle on the coffee table in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Micki spraying the old piece of furniture with Pledge, then wiping it down with rough, angry motions. Exactly what had ticked her off, he didn’t know, but it had started while she was eating her lunch. It was getting on his nerves. She finished dusting and started toward the kitchen.

  He said, “Get me another beer while you’re in there.” And though he couldn’t see her face, he could see the increased tension in her shoulders, could picture the glare and the clenched jaw.

  She stomped off, put the Pledge back, and grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator. When she returned, she set it down heavily next to the empty one.

  Baker looked up from his book to see the cap was still on. “Do you expect me to open this with my teeth?”

  Her eyes grew darker.

  “Go back and open it,” he said.

  She didn’t move.

  He held out the bottle. “Go back and open this for me.”

  “I’m not your fu—”

  “Shut up.”

  “You—”

  “SHUT—THE FUCK—UP.” And he slammed the bottle down as he stood up. “Y’know, the skin on your face is already pretty colorful, but if you really want me to add to it, I’m happy to oblige.”

  She stared into his shirt.

  “You’ve got a real problem, kid, and you’d better figure out a way to deal with it. You hate somebody ordering you around? Well, if you don’t change your ways, you’ll be in the system a long, long time—maybe the rest of your life—and that’s exactly what you’ll get. You may be tough, and you may be strong for your size, but you’re just too fucking small—and not in any kind of position—to play it out like this. Especially with someone like me. I’m sure most of what you got at Heyden would never have happened if you didn’t act this way.”

  Her eyes flashed up at his.

  “Now if you don’t like this little scenario, here, you should’ve thought about that before you pulled your little stunt; ’cause you earned this punishment, and you’re going to pay it. Maybe you’ll think twice before doing something like that again. Now do what I told you, and keep your mouth shut.”

  Chest heaving, her gaze dropped back to his shirt.

  Seconds passed.

  She shot a sidelong glance at the beer.

  He waited.

  She looked up, expecting to see a gloating smirk on his face. Instead he looked … concerned. She glanced back at the bottle. With a somewhat tentative start, her hand reached out, then closed firmly around the neck. Backing up a couple of steps, she kept her eyes on his before finally turning and heading for the kitchen.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THERE WAS STILL A good head of foam from when he’d slammed the beer down on the table; so she popped the cap off of a fresh one and returned to the living room. She went to place it on the table, but he intercepted it, fingers lightly brushing hers. She flinched and looked up. Somber eyes were staring back.

  “I—I have to go vacuum,” she said, backing up again till she was practically out of the room. Then she turned and hurried away.

  He gently put the bottle down on the table.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  HER ENERGY FLAGGED AS the day wore on, especially since she knew it wasn’t goin
g to count. Almost done, she started collecting the trash—the last task of the day. The plastic bag from the kitchen garbage pail was only half full, so she took it with her to empty all of the other wastebaskets into. When she went into the bathroom, the tailored shirt she’d washed was still hanging on the rod—un-ironed. She drew a heavy sigh and emptied the small garbage pail next to the sink.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IMPATIENT TO BE ALONE, Baker shut off the TV and stood looking out the window over the sofa. He heard Micki move from the bathroom to the bedroom, then on to the study. But after several minutes had gone by, he noticed she still hadn’t left to throw the garbage away. Oh, shit! He quickly strode toward the little room.

  Hands full of the torn pages from the magazine he’d discarded, she was standing over the wastepaper basket. The corners of her mouth were turned down, and her eyes appeared vacant.

  He grabbed the papers from her hands and threw them into the bag. “What’re you looking at this shit for? You shouldn’t see stuff like this.”

  Staring past him, she said, “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Worse than this?”

  Very slowly, her eyes shifted to meet his. And then the fire ignited: “Speed useta get all kindsa dirty magazines showin’ every kinda sex thing anybody could ever think of, always makin’ fun a women and puttin ’em down. One even had pictures of ’em bein’ tortured. They were disgusting, and I hated ’em, but he’d purposely leave ’em around so I’d see ’em. Tim said it pissed him off, but he never made Speed stop.”

  Baker felt a sickening pull in his stomach. “Is this what you think sex is about?”

  “I think it’s what men are about.”

  “Hey! Only warped, insecure guys are into this kind of smut.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then how come you bought this?”

  “I didn’t. Some schmuck sent it to me. I would never buy anything like this.” And he remembered the first DOA he’d been called to, a drug overdose, back when he was in uniform. It turned out not to be an accident but a suicide: a hooker had OD’d herself on a mixture of heroin and speed, her farewell note the hardcore-porn magazine her pimp had forced her to pose for. Using blood-red lipstick, she’d crayoned over the pictures she was in. When the detectives had finally identified her, she’d turned out to be all of fifteen years old. A runaway from Nebraska, she’d been wearing so much make-up that, after it was removed, her real face had been almost unrecognizable. For days afterward, Baker hadn’t slept.