by Randy Mason
She eyed the minestrone.
“C’mon, just a little more, okay?”
“I’m not hungry.” Yet she picked up the spoon and swirled it around in the vegetable- and pasta-laden liquid.
“How about drinking some of that water, then?”
She put the spoon down, but didn’t pick up the glass.
“You’re very dehydrated; you’ve got to drink a lot. Now have some of that.” And he pointed to the water.
Both hands around the glass, she lifted it to her lips.
He cleared the table, poured the leftover soup back into the plastic tub, and washed the pot and plate. Micki—not doing anything herself, just watching him from the table—felt uncomfortable. But he appeared to think nothing of it, and continued to fill the pot with water before putting it on the stove to boil. Arms folded over his chest, he leaned against the counter beside it.
The apartment was very quiet. Minutes passed.
“Still snowing,” he observed.
Glancing over her shoulder, she looked out the window.
He took her blue mug from the drainer and the polka-dot one from the cabinet. He opened the box of tea and placed a bag in each cup. “Do you know how to play cards?” he asked.
“Cards?”
“Yeah, y’know, like gin rummy or poker?”
“Yeah, I know how to play those. Why?”
“How about a few hands of gin, then?” He poured the boiling water into the mugs and brought them to the table. Settled in his chair, he unwrapped the stiff new deck, softened it, and shuffled. “You know how to play for points?”
She nodded.
“With knocking?”
She nodded again.
“When the knocking card’s a spade, points are double, okay?”
“Yessir.”
His head pulled back. Then he gave her a small, uncertain smile and slapped the deck down in front of her. “Cut.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THEY’D BEEN PLAYING FOR almost an hour with Micki beating Baker soundly until the last few rounds. While she was dealing the next hand, he tallied the score with satisfaction: “It’s about time I started evening things up a bit.” He fanned out his new cards and immediately rearranged them, adding, “I’d hate to have to admit I got my ass kicked by a kid.” But when he looked up to see her reaction, the teasing, light-hearted expression disappeared from his face. How had he not noticed? Her eyes were glazed, and little patches of red had bloomed on her cheeks. He reached across the table, and she recoiled, then forced herself to let him touch her. Both her forehead and neck were extremely hot. Very gently, he eased the cards from her fingers. “I think you’d better get back into bed.”
♦ ♦ ♦
HE TOOK ANOTHER LOOK at the thermometer, 103.8, then put it aside and set up the alcohol and towels again, Micki following his every move. Seated on the chair that he’d placed by the mattress, he was about to pull down the sheet when he was struck by what he was contending with this time.
He stood up. “Your shirt has to come off.” And he turned away to give her some privacy. But when there were no sounds coming from behind him, he looked back to find her the same as before. “I need to put the towels directly on your skin; you understand that, don’t you?”
She clutched the sheet to her neck.
“C’mon, Micki, we’re wasting time.”
She glowered at him.
“C’mon, let’s go!”
“Forget it.”
“If you don’t take that shirt off yourself, I’m going to take it off for you.”
She clutched the sheet even tighter.
Baker moved his chair away. With one smooth motion, he ripped the cheap linen from her hands and cast it back over the blanket at the foot of the bed. But before he could get a hold of her shirt, she’d grabbed two fistfuls at the hem to hold it down.
He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Micki, let go. You’ve got to take this shirt off.”
“No!”
“Damn it, Micki, I don’t need this right now! Take the fucking shirt off, and let’s get on with it!”
Her feverish eyes blazed.
“What’s the big fucking deal?” he said. “It’s not like I’m going to see anything I haven’t already.”
“Fuck you.” And she curled up with her back to him.
But he forced her flat again, his hands pressing her shoulders to the bed. Leaning over so his face was right in hers, he was about to say something when she asked in a hoarse, half-threatening sneer, “Aren’t y’afraid you’ll get sick from me, bein’ this close?”
“No.”
She turned her head away.
But he grabbed her jaw and pulled her face back to his. “Now you listen to me, Micki, I know there’s a lot of shit between us, but right now you’re simply a very sick kid who needs someone to take care of you. And guess who that person just happens to be at the moment?”
She looked terribly unhappy.
“Now, I’m going to do whatever I have to. No matter what it takes. But it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you cooperate. Believe me, this is just as awkward for me as it is for you.”
She snorted.
“I said,” he repeated, “this is awkward for me, too.” And he let go of her jaw.
Her eyes, only half open now, remained fastened on his. But everything else seemed to be sliding away.
“Despite what you think,” he continued, “and despite the stupid things that find their way out of my mouth, I am not insensitive. I can appreciate how you must feel.”
And for a few moments, they stayed like that, staring at each other, his face so close, eyes so intense, that her heart started to pound. Slowly, she turned her head away. And released the shirt.
“You need to sit up,” he said.
But when she tried, she found herself struggling. He swiftly grabbed her under the arms and raised her to a sitting position. Then he started to lift the shirt. “Put your hands up over your head,” he ordered. But even that was too much for her, and he had to roughly tug it off.
As soon as it had been removed, she slumped against him, arms falling on his shoulders. Collapsed upon his chest, she felt heavy. And some of her hair was brushing his neck. But the intense heat of her body, bare skin against his clothes, was bringing back memories of holding Gould’s first baby in his arms. With a firm grip, he lowered her down, sliding his right hand in place to cradle her head.
“It sounded like I was arresting you,” he said. Though he gave her a self-conscious smile, a terrible sorrow shot through him. And when he’d finished easing her down to the mattress, their eyes locked—only, hers were filled with fear. The two of them were from opposite sides. And no matter what he did, she was too weak to even attempt to put up a fight. He could do anything he wanted. And she was almost completely naked. Hands still encircling her ribcage, he could feel the softness of her breasts against the inside of his wrists.
He tightened his grip. “Everything’s going to be all right, y’hear me? I’m going to do exactly what I did before and get your fever back down.”
Her fingers, which had feebly grasped his forearms when he’d lowered her, now held on as much as they could—even as he was taking his hands away.
She closed her eyes.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER ANOTHER CHANGE OF towels, Baker took a look at the thermometer: 105.2. “I’m going to call the doctor again.” Though her eyes opened to small slits, he wasn’t sure she’d understood him. “I’ll be right back,” he added.
“Unnh.” She looked distressed.
“It’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Unnh!” She closed her eyes again.
Leaving the door ajar, Baker went and placed the call. The doctor he’d spoken
to earlier at the emergency room was still there.
“Hold on a sec, okay?” the resident said.
Baker lit a cigarette. He heard some muffled discussion, and then the resident came back on. “I finally got through to a doctor who lives in Forest Hills. You said you’re near the subway, right?”
“The Twenty-Third-and-Ely stop is right on the corner.” Baker heard more muffled talking.
“Someone’s on the other line with him. He says he’ll take the train over and have a look at her.”
“I’d be very grateful.”
“Who says doctors don’t make house calls anymore, eh?” the resident joked.
“And, um, this guy’s good?” Baker asked. “It’s just—well—you said he’s only an intern.”
“Oh, I never got through to that guy. This is Dr. Orenstein; he’s an attending physician here, an excellent doctor. Though I have to warn you: his bedside manner isn’t the greatest.”
“That’s the least of my worries. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” Baker gave the resident Micki’s address and the payphone’s number. “How long do you think it’ll take him to get here?”
“I’d figure about half an hour or so—unless the subway gets really screwed up.”
“Thanks again for all your help.”
“No problem. And if you need to, just give a ring back; I’m on call tonight. Couldn’t get home anyway, I guess.”
Baker hung up, took a few more hits off his cigarette, then stubbed it out against the payphone before returning to the apartment. He reapplied the towels with fresh alcohol and took her temperature again: 105.4.
“Doctor’s on his way,” he said quietly.
But she lay very still.
Between the top of the turned-down sheet and the end of the towel, which had gotten scrunched up, a small section of her stomach was bare, her left hand carelessly draped over the exposed skin. Without thinking, Baker placed his own hand next to it. When her thumb and index finger lurched forward to grab his pinky, his eyes grew wide. Heart aching, he took his hand and placed it over hers. “I’m right here, Micki,” he said softly. “I’m right here.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER OPENED THE DOOR to find a tall, thin man who introduced himself without so much as the suggestion of a smile. And if Dr. Orenstein was at all anxious about the surroundings in which he now found himself, he didn’t show that, either.
Micki’s fever was down to 102.6. Nightshirt back on, she was sitting up and quite coherent. She was also refusing to be examined. Dr. Orenstein said he was leaving. Baker asked the doctor if he would step outside for a moment while he had a word with Micki alone.
The door clicked shut, and Baker, his voice so low it was nearly a whisper, said, “You’d better change that attitude, Micki. This doctor walked blocks through that fucking mess outside just so he could take the subway here—and you’re not even a patient of his. Now you’re going to stop being a pain in the ass, and you’re going to let him examine you. And if he thinks you need a shot, you’re going to let him give you one. Do we understand each other?”
Baker looked very angry. “Yeah, I understand, okay?” she shot back.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI ZONED OUT WHILE Dr. Orenstein took her pulse and blood pressure. When he slipped the stethoscope underneath her nightshirt, she stared blankly ahead. Over by the kitchen, Baker stood by and observed, though he thought it odd the doctor hadn’t asked him to leave. But then, his presence probably made the doctor feel more comfortable. He was certain it made Micki feel more comfortable.
“How old are you?” Orenstein asked as he poked the otoscope in her ear.
When she didn’t answer, Baker volunteered, “She’s probably about seventeen.”
The doctor paused to look at him. “Don’t you know? Doesn’t she know?”
So Baker explained the situation as briefly as possible while the doctor looked inside her throat and her nose, checked her eyes, and felt the swollen glands under her jaw. Because of the needle tracks on her arm, he asked about her drug use, and when he percussed her back and then palpated her stomach, he had questions about all the scars on her body.
But Micki merely glared, letting Baker explain what he would. When the doctor had shone the bright light in her eyes, she’d felt his breath on her face. It was disgusting. She wanted him to go away.
“And where,” Orenstein asked, his eyes now sharply focused on Baker’s, “did these black-and-blue marks come from?”
“She got them when she stayed at the detention center over the holiday.”
The doctor looked like he was waiting for something more.
Folding his arms over his chest, Baker shifted his weight. “And, um, I don’t think she ate much or slept much the whole five days she was there. Maybe that’s why she got sick.”
“Hmm,” the doctor responded, and Baker didn’t know if Orenstein was agreeing with him or brushing off his statement as a layman’s meaningless comment.
After all was said and done, the doctor declared the infection bacterial—most likely strep. He drew some blood for analysis, took a throat culture, and gave Micki a shot of Bicillen. Baker turned away as she lay down on her stomach so the doctor could inject her in the buttock. She considered this the final indignity.
The doctor then packed his bag, prescribing lots of fluids, rest, and aspirin. Baker lit a cigarette.
His tone harsh, Orenstein said, “Why don’t we step into the hallway while you smoke that.”
Micki wrapped the sheet around her, seething silently as they talked about her in hushed voices on the other side of the door—a fitting end to this latest invasion of her privacy. But then her gaze fell upon the doctor’s medical bag, all smug and unapproachable, sitting by itself on the table. Her eyes lit up. She slipped out of bed and padded over.
Full of scratches and scuffs, the weathered leather made the satchel look incredibly old. It also looked very serious, all black and heavy—not something she should be playing with. But as soon as she undid the latch, it fell open, as if offering its contents for inspection. The stethoscope was too obvious and boring, but the ophthalmoscope was much too big: where would she hide something like that? Where would she hide anything, for that matter? Maybe she could find some pretty pills. She moved the expensive equipment and the tongue depressors aside and found the hefty, nasty-looking hypodermic apparatus the doctor had used to give her the shot. But then, underneath, neatly packaged in sterile wrapping, were some sleek, disposable syringes. Her hands turned cold and clammy. Even as she told herself to get back into bed, her eyes were scanning the room to figure out a hiding place. And then it hit her: the dead space above a desk drawer, on the inside, flush to the front. She grabbed a syringe, closed the medical bag, and hurried over. But the Scotch tape didn’t stick that well to the rough, unfinished surface of the wood. And though she used a lot of it, she wondered if it would hold.
She scurried back to bed and dove under the covers—already wishing she’d never taken the syringe in the first place.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN THE MEN RETURNED, Baker’s eyes seized upon the medical bag. There might as well have been a fucking spotlight on it. His gaze shifted to Micki, who was sitting up in bed, eyes a little too bright, fixed a little too intently on his.
“So where can I send the bill?” Orenstein asked as he handed Baker his card.
“What?” Baker had been so preoccupied with whether or not to ask the doctor to check his bag that he hadn’t heard anything the doctor had said since they’d walked through the door. He took his own business card from his wallet and wrote his home address on the other side. As he was handing it to Orenstein, he decided it probably would be a good idea to get the doctor to look over his supplies: better safe than sorry.
But Orenstein had finished putting on
his coat and was shaking Baker’s hand. Baker heard himself thanking the doctor as he showed him to the door, where he continued to stand, filled with indecision, even as he heard the downstairs door being opened and closed. No sooner did he envision Orenstein as being on the subway than he regretted not having asked. And still he couldn’t bring himself to confront Micki. Of course, he could thoroughly toss the apartment at the first opportune moment—even look around quickly now if she went to the bathroom. But in his silence, he felt he’d made a terrible mistake.
♦ ♦ ♦
USING HIS COAT AS a thin cushion, Baker slept on the hardwood floor. By morning, his back and joints felt achy and stiff. He wanted to go home and catch a shower, a shave, and some decent sleep. When he heard a shovel scraping the sidewalk, he rushed downstairs to pay the boy to dig out his car. Then he made his way to the supermarket to buy some chicken soup.
♦ ♦ ♦
“I’LL INFORM MR. ANTONELLI you won’t be working tonight; I’m sure he’s expecting that anyway,” Baker said as he put on his coat. “And you’re not to go to school tomorrow, either.” He paused in the doorway. “If you start feeling worse again, you call me—y’hear?”
She nodded, even as the urge to confess welled up. But she didn’t utter a word as the door closed behind him, his footsteps moving down the hall and then the stairs. She hurried over to the bay windows to watch him leave, leaning over the desk so she could see him down the street, clearing snow from his car and scraping ice from the windshield. Then he got in. And drove away. She continued to stare at the empty space—until a dirty black Mustang pulled in and parked.
Baker had gone home.
chapter 22
SCHOOL REOPENED ON FRIDAY, and it was back to routine for most of the city despite piles of dirty snow and inches-deep puddles of slush. On his way home, Baker stopped at Micki’s, but found she’d returned to work. He used the chance to thoroughly search her apartment, only to come up empty: no syringe or anything else she could’ve taken from the doctor’s bag. What he did find, though, were all five cans of soup he’d bought still sitting on the counter where he’d left them.
