by Randy Mason
But as soon as she closed the door behind him, she felt the change taking place: she was starting to sweat. She threw off the blanket, then the jacket, the jeans, and the socks. When she got back into bed, she was down to just T-shirt and underpants. She felt exposed and pulled the sheet up to her waist.
♦ ♦ ♦
LYING ON HER BACK felt cooler, so she stayed that way, eyes closed, the world swimming feverishly around. Noises trickled in from outside, but different than the usual: shovels scraping sidewalks, a snowplow plodding down the street with its tire chains clanking …
Shallow and slow, breathing seemed difficult, and she found herself focusing on the rise and fall of her chest. Life felt tenuous, as if it might quietly slip away without her noticing. Without anyone noticing. For she was alone. She was always alone. Even when Willy had taken care of her after she’d been cut up, she’d been left alone more often than not, going in and out of a feverish fog much like this one.
Tim would’ve stayed with her, though; he would’ve stayed right by her side until she was over the worst of it. Then again, maybe not. Why would he have been any different? She wanted to touch the silver cross he’d given her, but her hand wouldn’t move.
The ticking of the clock receded into the background until the room itself opened up and disappeared. Finally free, she drifted into a chaotic ocean of consciousness, streams of thought flowing out in all directions, getting tangled in the fragile threads of reality. She was traveling faster than the speed of light, circling the edge of the space-time continuum, every moment infinitely long while life itself grew geometrically shorter.
Outside, the snow continued to fall.
♦ ♦ ♦
SCHOOL HAD OFFICIALLY CLOSED at one o’clock on account of the blizzard, yet Baker had waited until virtually everyone else had left before heading out himself. Now kicking himself for not leaving earlier, he navigated the snowbound streets, driving toward Micki’s apartment and cursing his luck—and her. If it weren’t for her, he’d be on his way home. It was probably just a bad cold, but she would have to get sick when there was a major snowstorm going on. God forbid anything should ever be easy with that kid.
Yet by some different stroke of fate, both Forty-Fourth Drive and Twenty-First Street—major roads—had seen the benefit of a snowplow. And someone was pulling out of a spot in front of the deli, leaving a nice patch of relatively bare asphalt underneath. Pulling in right behind, Baker swerved a little over an icy ridge.
The sidewalk and steps in front of Micki’s building were completely covered in white with dirty footprints packing it down to varying degrees. He picked his way up the stoop, stomped his feet, then took the staircase inside two steps at a time. Unrestrained, his keys clattered against each other on his overloaded keychain while he let himself into the apartment. Yet Micki, asleep, was surprisingly undisturbed. He noticed the grocery bag on the table and pulled out a large plastic container, still faintly warm. When he lifted the lid, he was greeted by a wonderful aroma: minestrone soup. He moved several items around in the little refrigerator and cleared some space for it on the bottom. Then he sat down at the table, lit a cigarette, and thought about all the snow piling up in the streets. Head tilted back, he blew a few smoke rings toward the ceiling, then exhaled the rest with a heavy sigh: he could’ve been in Manhattan by now. Whether she woke up or not, as soon as the Camel was done, he was leaving.
But he’d never seen her sleeping on her back before. Covered only by the sheet, she had both arms out on top, the upper area of her left one an extremely ugly mixture of colors. “I didn’t let them take me easy,” she’d said. His eyes drifted to the half-empty glass of water sitting next to the bottle of aspirin on the kitchen counter, then over to the nightshirt that was hanging across the back of the desk chair—which was sitting in front of the radiator. He sat up straight: he could see the bruised part of her arm because she was wearing one of her regular T-shirts in bed. With a single forceful crush, he ground his cigarette out, then hurried over and placed his palm against her forehead. She was burning up.
“Micki,” he said softly. “Micki!” And he shook her. When there was no response, he strode into the hallway and found that the payphone—without its usual sign—was actually working. He dialed nine-one-one and reached an operator who sounded brusque: the city, caught unprepared by the extent of the storm, was overwhelmed with blizzard-related emergencies. Only moments before Baker’s call, there’d been a multi-car disaster on the upper level of the Queensboro Bridge. The operator further informed him there were no available ambulances, especially for something as undramatic as a high fever. “And given the condition of the roads,” she added, “all emergency services will be backed up for an indeterminate amount of time.”
“But she needs to go to the hospital, and she needs to go now.”
“Please stay calm, sir. What’s her temperature?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t have a thermometer.”
“Perhaps she’s just sleeping very soundly.”
“What the hell is the matter with you? I don’t need a goddamn thermometer to know her life is in danger. The kid’s unconscious and totally unresponsive for godssakes.” He slammed the receiver down.
He ran outside to pull his car directly in front of the building: he’d take Micki to the hospital himself. But someone had double-parked and abandoned their vehicle beside his. He charged into the deli. “Is anyone here the owner of the light-blue Cutlass outside?” But the only customer in sight was a fourteen-year-old boy.
Back at the apartment’s payphone, he dialed “0” and asked the operator to connect him to the local precinct. When instructed, he deposited a dime in the slot and listened to it clink and chime its way down the chute. Yet before the call had gone through, he hung up. Even if they were willing to transport Micki as a favor, the roads were too unpredictable: what if they got stranded en route? There’d be no qualified medical personnel on hand.
Checking the coin-return box, he retrieved his dime and dialed the operator again, this time asking to be connected to the local emergency room. And after he’d described Micki’s condition to a nurse, he finally got a doctor on the line.
“Have you tried putting her in a warm tub so she’ll cool down with the water?” the resident asked.
“There’s no bathtub here, only a shower,” Baker said.
“Then you’ll have to cool her down with alcohol.” And the resident explained what that entailed, saying afterward, “Let me see if I can locate someone who could reach you by foot or subway. I think one of the interns might live nearby. In the meantime, you’d better get going. You can’t afford to wait.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BECAUSE PEOPLE WERE BUYING all sorts of provisions in anticipation of being snowed in, the stores were doing a booming business. Baker went to Sunny’s and picked out a large basin, two towels, a bag of cotton puffs, and the last three bottles of rubbing alcohol they had. The checkout line moved quickly, and he hurried to the drugstore. There he gathered seven more bottles of alcohol plus an oral thermometer, then stood in queue to be rung up. He listened to a woman accusing the pharmacist of overcharging her for her prescription. For several minutes, the argument continued with no progress.
“Excuse me,” Baker cut in, “but I have an emergency.”
Shooting him a nasty look, the woman said, “We all have an emergency.”
Baker flashed his shield. “Mine’s official police business.”
Mouth bunched up, the woman made an exaggerated visual inventory of his purchases before eventually stepping aside to let him pay. When he pulled out his credit card instead of cash, he thought he heard her groan.
Paper bags cradled in his arms, he used his back to push open the heavy glass door, nearly losing his footing on the icy sidewalk as he left. He struggled through the snow and slogged through the slush while g
usts of wind blew broken umbrellas down the street. Back in the calm of the apartment, he shrugged off his coat and set up a makeshift workstation by pulling the dinette chairs to the side of the bed: one to sit on, the other for supplies. When all was ready, towels soaking in the alcohol, he looked down at her.
“Micki? Micki!” And he roughly shook her shoulder. But neither the shiny eyelids nor the slightly parted lips moved. So after taking a handful of material on either side of her shirt, he tugged and pulled until he’d succeeded in removing the garment and casting it aside. But when he turned back, he froze, his cheeks starting to burn. Until he realized he felt … nothing. His shoulders relaxed and he softly exhaled, his gaze shifting from her bared breasts to her closed eyes. And then the damaged skin on her face.
He set to work.
He wrung the towels out a little, then placed them on her body: hand towel across her chest and stomach; washcloth, folded up, on her forehead. He removed the thermometer from its little plastic container and placed it under her armpit. But five minutes later, when he took it back, his face grew ashen: 105.6 degrees. Her true temperature was at least one degree higher. Sitting by the bed, he continued to diligently soak and apply the towels, the constant chatter in his head temporarily silenced while time crept by in hushed and empty tones. He listened to her breathe.
Night began its approach, and he got up to switch on the desk lamp, the faded luminescence leaving most of the room in shadow. Her features looked so relaxed, as if she were merely resting. Yet she might’ve died had he gone straight home. She might still. He removed the folded washcloth from her forehead again, then paused to gently brush back some stray strands of hair.
♦ ♦ ♦
HER TEMPERATURE WAS DOWN to 102.2. Baker grasped her upper arm. “Micki?”
She moaned.
With a fresh surge of energy, he resumed his efforts. But nearly half an hour later, her condition appeared unchanged. He considered calling the ER again, though he’d already called twice to find out whether the doctor had found someone willing to see her. The first call had merely served as a reminder—the resident had gotten sidetracked and forgotten. The second call had proven equally disappointing because the only house-staff candidate had apparently taken his phone off the hook.
Baker removed the towels once more and turned to dunk them in the basin.
Micki’s eyes fluttered open. It smelled like she was in the hospital, but it looked like her apartment. She recognized Baker’s back. Chilled, she reached down to pull up the covers—and discovered her shirt was off. As Baker turned toward her, she quickly crossed her arms over her chest.
“Micki!”
“What the fuck’ve y’been doin’ t’me?”
A hot spark shot through him. His back ached, he needed a cigarette, and he was hungry as hell. He tossed the freshly soaked towel into the basin. “What’ve I been doing?” he retorted. “I’ve been staring at your tits all day ’cause I’ve got nothing better to do with my time.”
The corners of her mouth turned down, and she curled up on her side, leaving him to glare at the bumps of her naked spine. Standing out against the scarred skin, they were a perfectly curved row of bony protrusions, making him think about—of all things—seahorses. He stood up, grabbed his coat, and marched out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS SOON AS THE downstairs door had slammed, too, Micki got up and put her dried nightshirt on. Light-headed and weak, she went back to take a look at the basin by the bed. It was full of alcohol and towels. Despite being such a dick about everything, Baker had been nursing her.
She felt tired. And it was dark outside. How long had she been asleep? Still warm with fever, she shuffled over to the sink and drank a sip of water.
Baker was coming back, wasn’t he?
♦ ♦ ♦
BUFFETED BY BITING GUSTS of wind, Baker tromped down to the deli.
“Some weather we got here, eh?” Frankie said, smiling.
“Yeah, right,” Baker replied. “Give me a ham and Swiss on rye with mustard, and two packs of Camels.” Leaving the deli man to make up his sandwich, Baker moved around the store, picking up a six-pack of beer, a box of Tetley tea, and a box of saltines. After a lengthy perusal of the magazine rack, he chose a copy of Sports Illustrated and, looking less than enthusiastic, tossed it on the counter. While Frankie was bagging everything, Baker lit a cigarette, eyes falling on the red and blue packs of Tally-Ho hanging from a display on the wall behind the register. He pulled out his wallet. “You can throw a deck of cards in while you’re at it.”
“You look upset,” Frankie said. “Did the blizzard mess you up?”
Baker put some money on the counter, but was still looking in his billfold when he answered, “Kid’s sick.”
“Flu?”
Now absently staring out the glass door, Baker said, “I don’t know.”
The deli man—Baker’s change in his fist—paused until Baker finally gave him his attention. Then he counted out the bills on top of the counter before putting the coins in Baker’s hand. “Tell her I hope she feels better,” he said. But when Baker reached for his purchases, Frankie held up his finger. He went to the back and took down a box of instant cocoa. Eyes fixed on Baker’s, he dropped the hot chocolate into the bag, adding, “Tell her that’s from me.”
♦ ♦ ♦
NO HAT, NO GLOVES, and no scarf, Baker walked back in the direction of the wind, the sidewalk full of miniature hills, lakes, and valleys made of snow, slush, and ice. And though the precipitation appeared to be abating—he could now see more than halfway down the street—the damage had already been done, the snow reaching almost to his knee, even higher in the drifts. The car that had blocked his Camaro was no longer there, but a nice wall of hard-packed snow had replaced it, courtesy of the snowplow’s return.
He wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.
Cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger, shielded from the elements by the rest of his hand, he looked up at Micki’s windows and smoked it down to nothing. Then he shook the snow from his hair and headed back up the stoop, where he stomped his feet.
Inside the apartment, he switched on the overhead light, then took off his coat and boots. “Are you awake?” he asked.
“Yessir,” she mumbled.
He wiped the thermometer down with an alcohol-soaked cotton puff—which didn’t work nearly as smoothly as he’d thought it would—then rinsed it with water. When he’d reached the bed, he said, “I want to take your temperature.”
She sat up straight. “I feel better.”
“Just do me a favor and put this under your tongue.”
Her fever was down to 100.6. Using a funnel he’d made out of aluminum foil, he poured the alcohol back into the empty bottles. After that, he opened the fire escape window further to air out the room; took the minestrone soup from the refrigerator and poured some into a pot; returned the chairs to the table and took out the things he’d bought at the deli; then held up the box of Nestlé’s and said, “This is from Frankie,” before putting it away.
But Micki was giving him a deadly look: he was going to eat her soup. Without even asking.
Continuing his preparations like a man on a mission, he unfolded the waxed paper around his sandwich and popped open a can of beer. He took her glass from the counter, filled it with fresh water, and placed it across the table. But the apartment was starting to feel cold—he’d opened the window too wide. He went over and closed it within half an inch, letting the curtain fall back into place. And then, as though it really mattered, he smoothed the material out across the rod.
Micki watched him puttering around, doing whatever the hell he liked, never asking, as if he owned the place. Now he was pouring the hot soup into a bowl.
“Put your jeans and jacket on
so you don’t get chilled, and come sit down,” he said. He put the bowl on a plate and surrounded it with a bunch of saltines and a spoon. But when he placed it on the same side of the table as her water, she felt the color rise in her face. She lowered her eyes.
“You feel up to getting out of bed?” he asked.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEY WERE SITTING ACROSS from each other at the little table. He could feel her gaze upon him. He picked up his sandwich only to put it down. “I”—he glanced away, took a deep breath, then looked her straight in the eyes—“I’m ashamed of what I said before.”
Her eyebrows arched up. And when he finally explained what it was he’d been doing, she seemed almost proud of having had such a high fever.
“You were very sick,” he said. “Very sick—you could’ve died.”
“Well, maybe y’shoulda let me.”
He leaned in and thrust his finger in her face. “Don’t you ever say that again, do you hear me?”
She pressed herself against the back of the chair.
“Do you hear me?” he repeated. “I did not mean what I said in the car.” He tore off a chunk of sandwich with his teeth and started eating. But when he noticed that all she was doing was dipping her spoon half-heartedly in the minestrone, he quickly wolfed down the rest of his meal. “I’m going out in the hall for a smoke.”
Once he was gone, she took a sip of the soup. Still hot, the liquid traveled down her throat, the spices burning the raw, inflamed tissue before leaving it feeling soothed. Only it hurt too much to swallow. Ten minutes later, when Baker returned with the scent of cigarette smoke wafting in around him, she was still at the table, the bowl of minestrone nearly full, the plate of crackers untouched.
Hands on hips, he pointed with his chin toward the soup. “Is it good?”
She nodded.
“Why don’t you have a little more, then?”
She shrugged.
“Just a little more. It’s good for you, Micki. You need to get something in you—keep your strength up.”
