by Randy Mason
But later, alone in his living room, Baker wondered why he’d argued with Cynthia in the first place, why he’d been unable to admit—even to himself—that from the moment Malone had mentioned the boy as an alternative, he’d known he’d stick it out with Micki. If Cynthia had said “black,” he would’ve said “white.” If she’d said it was night, he would’ve argued it was day—even if the moon was shining right outside the window.
He threw back his drink, the captain’s parting comment ringing in his ears: “Mark my words, Jim, you’re going to regret this.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THE NEXT MORNING, BAKER found Micki in so much pain that he told her to stay home. But when he returned to her apartment that afternoon, he paused outside in the hallway: she was talking to someone:
“Forget it, okay? I hurt too much, and I gotta get ready for work.”
“So? I don’t havta pork ya; y’could still get me off—”
Baker opened the door and got his first look at Rick: baggy jeans that were way too long, an old green T-shirt that was much too short, and a denim jacket that looked like it would never close over the bulge of his belly. Nothing like what he would’ve pictured as Micki’s type.
Glasses slightly askew, Rick announced, “It’s the fuzz.”
“Get your ass out of here,” Baker said.
Rick’s smirk broadened. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll kick it out of here.”
“Yeah, right. Like—”
But as soon as Baker advanced, the boy edged his way along the wall, eyes darting between Baker and Micki.
Baker slammed the door after him. “What the fuck do you want with a putz like that? He’s a selfish prick, a real asshole.”
“It’s better than nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Oh yeah?” Eyes glittering with a bitter heat, she said, “How would you know. Look at you—like you’ve ever gone without a girlfriend if you wanted one.”
And in an instant, Baker saw it all very clearly: Rick was playing off of this deep insecurity of hers. She was nothing more than a trophy to him—a conquest. The more he could take advantage of her, the bigger his ego would become.
“You’re going to tell me you like this guy?” he asked.
Half rolling her eyes, she looked away.
“Are you at least attracted to him?” When all he got in return was a smoldering glare, he shook his head and pulled out some papers. “Here are your new homework assignments. Did you finish yesterday’s?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, sir,” she said.
“Did you at least start them?”
“No, sir.”
“But you’re going to work.”
“I need the money.”
“If you can go to work, you should’ve been able to get some homework done instead of talking to that shithead.”
“He just got here a few minutes ago.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What doesn’t matter anymore?”
“Anything.”
When Baker spoke again, his voice was much more relaxed. “Listen to me, Micki, you can’t afford to give up, do you understand that? If you give up, no one’s going to save you again; there won’t be another Sergeant Kelly to come along and rescue you again.”
She looked away. “I gotta go. I’m late.”
He felt a dull pain around his heart.
She put on her sneakers and continued getting ready. But judging from the difficulty she was having, she was hurting worse than the day before.
“You sure you’ll be able to work?” he asked.
“It’s too late now to tell Mr. Antonelli I can’t.”
“Well, you’re not to go to school tomorrow.” And he stepped behind her to help her on with her jacket.
She avoided looking at him as she left.
♦ ♦ ♦
THERE WAS A SMALL brown paper bag on the table. Inside, Baker discovered a tube of cover-up make-up that promised to hide unsightly blemishes and provide a healthy, overall glow. Either Micki had forgotten to apply it before leaving or had felt too uncomfortable to put it on in front of him. He placed the tube back in the bag, then started a half-hearted search of her apartment.
♦ ♦ ♦
TONY HAD BEEN SO wrapped up in his argument with Sal that he’d let an order of manicotti burn. Plumes of steam rising all around her, Micki was now vigorously scrubbing off the charred remains that were welded to the metal casserole dish. As she swiped the side of her upper arm across her sweaty face, she thought about the make-up she’d left sitting on the table. Like wet paint, it would’ve been dripping down with the sweat—a nasty beige mess getting all over everything.
Mr. Antonelli came in to find out what was taking so long with the customer’s order. He happened to glance over at Micki, and eyed her face with alarm.
“Got in a fight,” she said. It was what she always said when he gave her that look.
“Is-a no good-a,” he replied hotly. “Too many fights-a.”
She shrugged, then looked back at her work. And though she could feel him watching her, she wouldn’t look up again.
She heard the kitchen door swinging back and forth after he left.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI WENT BACK TO school on Thursday, which was also Halloween. She wore the make-up she’d bought, though it was only partially successful at camouflaging the bruising.
Baker was working the main entrance and said, “Go into the office, Micki. I’ll be in before the bell rings.”
He came in much sooner than that, however, towing a boy whose long brown hair reached the breast pockets of his khaki army jacket. Faded fatigues and black military-style boots completed his outfit, but he was not a happy soldier. Baker was gripping his arm with one hand, the gun he’d tried to smuggle into school in the other.
“Go to class now,” Baker said to Micki. “And stay out of trouble.”
But it was just the beginning of what was to be a long and difficult day, kids spraying mace in the halls and vandalizing school property. And to top it off, there was a rumor that a large group of black students from Queens Central High was going to descend upon the late session, targeting the white kids as they left—the latest in a series of retaliatory events that had taken place since the infamous, curtailed basketball game. Just last week, three white members of the Newbridge High team had been suspended for beating up a black Central High player as he waited at a bus stop. The most recent game had been closed to spectators.
Before they left the school, students were warned over the loudspeaker to cover up hair with hats or hoods and vacate the premises as quickly as possible; no lingering outside would be tolerated. Police cars surrounded the building, and Baker stayed through the second security shift. But after all the precautions, nothing actually happened.
And though he really just wanted to kick back with a few beers and watch TV, Baker returned to Queens that night after Mr. Antonelli had called—as requested—to let him know when Micki had about an hour’s worth of work left. Unaware of the arrangement, Micki walked out of Bel Canto’s alley only to stop dead in her tracks: Baker, smoking a cigarette, was leaning against his car, which he’d parked right out front. He had the window open and the radio on, two sports commentators talking about the Ali-Foreman fight—the “Rumble in the Jungle”—that had taken place earlier. Baker straightened up and opened the door.
“Get in,” he said.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell am I supposed t’have done now?”
“Nothing. Just get in.”
A car full of teenagers drove by and threw an egg, which broke and splattered on the hood of the Camaro.<
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“Great,” he said and threw his cigarette down, grinding it out on the pavement. “Will you just get in, Micki, so I can drive you home?”
“Drive me home? I only live a block away.”
“But there’s all kinds of bullshit going on tonight. I just saw some kid being chased and hit with a sock full of chalk. Stupid as it sounds, it hurts to get whacked with one of those.”
“So?” But as she looked around, she noticed the shaving cream and eggs all over the sidewalk, the walls, the cars …
“So—you’re not healed much yet.”
She stared at him. Was he serious? Only three days ago, he was ready to beat her within an inch of her life. Now he was worried she’d be hit with a bagful of chalk? She got into the car, a painful maneuver in and of itself, then placed the container of leftover ravioli she’d taken—still hot—on her lap.
“Put your seatbelt on,” he said.
“For one block?”
The aroma of marinara sauce filled the air, and Baker’s stomach growled. He turned the radio off. “Put the damn seatbelt on,” he repeated. Then he made a U-turn, drove down the street, and double-parked in front of her building. He watched her go in, and waited until her light went on before pulling away—thinking about having to wash the damn egg off his car so it wouldn’t damage the finish.
♦ ♦ ♦
BY THE WEEKEND, MICKI’S pain had substantially subsided. She took full advantage of the free Sunday: sleeping late, lounging around in her nightshirt, and doing homework in spurts while daydreaming in between—mostly about the football player. She wondered if he was going to the dance. Every once in a while, she’d see him in the hall during passing. And he’d smile.
She looked through her clothes, then took the 7 train to Main Street, Flushing, in search of some cheap long-sleeved black shirts and a new pair of jeans—black jeans. Just yesterday she’d seen a boy on a bicycle wearing some, and she wanted a pair. But as she made the rounds of the numerous army-navy stores, she found that virtually all of the jeans they sold were blue. She spent almost two hours searching until she came across what she wanted, trying them on as quickly as possible so she wouldn’t have to look at the half-naked woman staring down at her from a poster on the tiny dressing room’s wall.
On her way home, she stopped at Sunny’s to buy more shampoo—then changed her mind and went to the drugstore to splurge on the good stuff.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE PHONE RANG. SHIT! He’d just sat down with a beer and some pretzels to watch the basketball game. His voice purposely gruff, he said, “Hello?”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Cynthia! “Hold on a sec.” Baker hurried to turn off the TV, then got back on the line. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” There was a split-second pause, then: “Cyn, I’ve missed you—really missed you. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.”
“Actually, once I tell you why I’m calling, I’m not so sure you’ll feel that way.”
His mind raced: what was she going to say? That she was moving to Los Angeles? Marrying that asshole actor?
“I’m pregnant.”
Mouth hanging open, he stood there with the phone pressed against his ear.
“Hello? Jim? Are you there?”
♦ ♦ ♦
HE RESTED HIS FOREHEAD on his fingertips. “Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. I’m just—shocked.” When Cynthia didn’t offer anything more, he asked, “Are you saying this is mine?”
“It has to be.”
“But that’s impossible; you’re on the pill.”
“But I’d forgotten to take it for a few days when I was away, so we were using the condoms.”
“All right, so we were still safe then—”
“Nothing’s perfect!” she shot back. “Even the pill isn’t a hundred percent! Nothing’s a hundred percent except not doing it!”
“But we’ve hardly been having any sex. We haven’t even slept together in over a week.”
“Seriously? Figure it out! It happened about a month ago!”
This can’t be real, he thought, this just can’t be real. With a nasty edge, he asked, “Are you sure it isn’t Mr. LA’s?”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”
Baker hung his head and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. So—so you’re going to get an abortion, right? I mean, you always said if this happened, you’d get one.”
“I know what I said, but now I’m not so sure. This isn’t easy, y’know. It’s strange, but there’s a part of me that wants to keep it.”
His palms were sweating, and he was getting stabbing pains in his chest. A baby. She wanted to have the fucking baby. Maybe. Jesus Christ! A million times they’d talked about how neither one of them wanted kids. He’d really meant it while she, apparently, had not.
“Jim?”
“Uh-huh. Well”—he stood up very straight—“listen, Cyn, I don’t want you to worry about anything. Whatever you decide, I’m here for you. If you want an abortion, I’ll help pay for it. I’ll even go with you; I don’t want you going through that alone. And, um”—he took another long, deep breath—“if you want to keep the baby, I’ll—I’ll help support it and, y’know, do the best I can.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
“You call me if you need anything, okay?”
She smiled a sad smile he couldn’t see. “Sure.”
They said goodbye, and Baker, very gently, returned the receiver to its cradle. Then he went over to the couch, sat down, and stared at the blank screen of the TV.
♦ ♦ ♦
NO SOONER HAD CYNTHIA hung up than the tears started again. Her eyes were red and swollen. And she had a photo shoot in the morning. The doctor had given her the news back on Friday, but, not wanting to fall apart over the phone, she’d waited before sharing it. And yet, she was no more together now than she had been then.
She pushed away some hair that had become matted to her face, then placed her palm against her belly. Totally flat, it betrayed nothing of the process going on inside, a process that could change the course of her life and was bombarding her with feelings she’d never anticipated. Always careful, she’d never worried that much; the chance of getting pregnant had seemed so infinitesimally small. And once abortion had become legal, there’d been a lot less to fear. But while she still firmly believed a soul didn’t permanently attach itself to a body until that body breathed its first breath outside the womb, the magic of a possible life could no longer be so casually brushed aside. Maybe it was hormonally induced, this desire to protect the tiny cells growing inside her. Thoughts of a little baby—especially a little baby girl—seemed so precious and bittersweet.
Her fingers, wet with tears, extinguished the candles she’d lit. Then she curled up in a ball, hands in fists against her collarbones. Overhead, her upstairs neighbor’s high heels clicked across the ceiling. And back. Then across once more before leaving her in silence—alone with the sound of her own sobbing. How could Jim not know that what she wanted most from him right now—more than anything—was the warmth and comfort of his arms around her?
chapter 13
IT WAS PARENT/TEACHER NIGHT at the high school, but Baker was only there to oversee security. He’d told Micki that morning that he would meet with her teachers the following Thursday afternoon—Open School Day. She’d seemed less than enthusiastic.
“Is there a problem?” he’d asked.
“No, so why do you have to talk to them anyway?”
Unfortunately, her objections merely piqued his curiosity. But that had soon been overshadowed by the phone call he’d received from Gould: there was going to be an opening in the homicide unit�
��Ritter was retiring.
As Baker now watched parents filing in, all he could think about was how long he’d hungered for a spot on that squad. Given his current problems with IAD, even if he were still working with Gould, he would never have been considered for the position. But to be doing this bullshit instead, to be so completely out of the running …
When the evening was over, the school finally emptied and locked, Baker got in his car and took the Grand Central Parkway to the Triborough Bridge, heading for the thruway. Cloaked in the night’s deep shadows, there would be long stretches where only his own headlights would illuminate the pavement. He listened to the drone of the engine and the tires against the asphalt. He tried to empty his mind. But he kept coming back to Gould’s call and then, ironically, the lack of Cynthia’s. He hadn’t heard a thing from her since Sunday—had no idea which way she was leaning.
He took a deep breath: he’d gotten her pregnant. He could almost feel his shoulders broaden. But the reality of it, the repercussions …
He switched on the radio, then slowed for a toll plaza, rolling down his window to the opening strains of Steely Dan’s “Midnight Cruiser.” Stopped beside a booth, waiting for his change, he turned up the volume while the Camaro trembled in his grip, grumbling and murmuring, impatient to be released into the blackness up ahead. Then he accelerated back to highway speed and shifted into overdrive, music blasting, miles slipping away, the path before him open wide. But the once familiar thruway seemed foreign tonight—not that anything felt the same anymore. The world had quietly changed while he—still traveling down the same road, waiting for his moment to arrive—had carelessly missed his exit.
He hurtled into the darkness at eighty-five miles per hour. Going nowhere fast.
chapter 14
NOW THAT SHE WAS actually standing at the top of the stairs, watching other kids go inside in pairs or groups, Micki’s stomach started to twist. The senior dance. Who the fuck was she kidding?
