Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  “Yeah—well—I’m keeping her here at my place this time. Maybe next Tuesday she’ll be able to pick up her shifts.”

  “I gonna be open-a Christmas Eve-a, but-a closed-a Christmas Day-a. This-a no good for me, you understand-a? I need-a her to work-a when she’s supposed to work-a.” He uttered a heavy, guttural sound, then added, “I make-a the other arrangements.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER HAD SEEN ENOUGH junkies in various stages to know what to expect, but living around the clock with someone going through withdrawal was another story. Even worse was the realization that he had little to do but sit by and watch the disgusting process unfold. Once—and only once—he went to the study and opened the door. Teeth gnashed together, she was shivering violently beneath two blankets. He forced himself to stay there for several minutes. Until he wanted a drink. Then he closed the door and settled for a beer.

  Smoking incessantly, he was having cigarettes delivered with whatever take-out he ordered, currently puffing away on Lucky Strikes because the vending machine at the Chinese restaurant had apparently run out of Camels. Micki, however, had no interest in food, so he was ordering and eating meals by himself. And on those rare occasions when she said she was hungry, it was solely for chocolate—of which he had none. He eventually gave the pizza-delivery boy a couple of extra bucks to run down to the corner store and get a bunch of Hershey bars for her.

  But like a phantom houseguest, she mostly stayed in the study and kept to herself—until Friday morning, when she flew into the living room, startling him out of his reading. He choked on the cigarette smoke he’d just inhaled.

  “Y’gotta give me something,” she demanded. “Every fuckin’ part of me hurts. I can’t sleep and—and—it’s just too much already. I can’t take this anymore, y’understand?”

  He looked at her with a shrewd eye.

  She wiped at the sweat beading on her face. “C’mon, I’m really hurtin’ here.”

  His reply was a long, affected blink.

  “Didja hear what I said? I can’t take this anymore.”

  “Save your breath. You’re not getting a goddamned thing.”

  “CAN’T Y’SEE I NEED SOMETHIN’? I FEEL LIKE I’M FUCKIN’ DYIN’, YA SADISTIC SON OF A BITCH!”

  He returned to his book and cigarette as if she weren’t even there. She stomped back to her room, muttering and cursing under her breath, slamming the door behind her. But a short while later—in what seemed like a miracle—she started to feel better.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  FOR THE REST OF the day, Micki slept and watched TV. In the evening, after some hesitation, Baker showed her how to use his stereo, surprisingly tolerant of her tendency to play a single song over and over—Derek and the Dominos’ “Anyday” being a particular favorite. And yet in the two days they’d been together, barely a word had passed between them that wasn’t of the most basic nature or strictly out of necessity.

  They were the most intimate of strangers.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  NIGHT WAS TURNING INTO morning, and the muted sound of water running in the shower was mixing with the squeaky brakes and rumbling motor of a box truck heading toward its first delivery. A snowplow shovel scraped by. But Baker, lying in the dark, was thinking about Cynthia. And engagement rings. Gould had told him about a family friend who was a diamond dealer: “This guy’s gonna give you a great price. I promise. He’ll take good care of you.”

  Sighing, Baker turned over on his side. He was in desperate need of female companionship—more precisely, sex; this was far too long to go without. And yet the thought of picking up some action at a bar was depressing. The last few times he’d done that, he’d ended up feeling lonelier afterward. Besides, until Micki went home, the issue was moot.

  He turned over onto his back again and heard her shut the water off. A few minutes later, she left the bathroom. But when he should’ve heard the door to her room close, there was only silence. The clock read 3:32. He got out of bed and pulled on his Levi’s.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MICKI HAD BEEN IN the shower almost half an hour, the steady stream of water hitting her skin with considerable force—strangely pleasant—little liquid beads rolling down in rivulets, over and over. Completely steamed, the medicine-cabinet mirror reflected a fuzzy, fogged-out image. And her fingertips were shriveled like prunes. She dried herself off and made her way through the dark living room to watch the snow falling outside. Under the streetlamps’ glow, everything was coated in a pristine layer of white. And like the freshly covered world, she felt incredibly clean and pure. But her heart ached and her body was tired, eyes heavy with the weight of all they’d seen. She felt old.

  “Everything okay?” Baker asked.

  She spun around.

  He turned on a light, his face relaxing into a smile: Her gaunt figure was swimming in black terry cloth. “My robe’s a little big on you,” he said. When she looked hurt, he added, “It’s kind of cute, though. Why don’t you roll up the sleeves a little so they won’t be covering your hands?”

  Instead, she brushed her bangs to the side. And though sunken and sad, her eyes looked clear. She looked clean.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “C’mon, I’ll make us some breakfast.”

  He lit a cigarette and left it hanging from his mouth while he put up a large pot of coffee and toasted a whole package of Downyflakes. Drinking most of the coffee himself, he watched her practically inhale all of the waffles.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE DAY PASSED SLOWLY. In between long naps, Micki watched TV with Baker: football, drag racing, an interview with a cop who’d testified with Serpico (she fell asleep halfway through that), a Star Trek rerun … They played cards and Scrabble. They played backgammon. They barely talked.

  Later that night, during a commercial break in a TV show, Micki asked when she could go home.

  “Maybe toward the end of the week. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “But I have to work.”

  “You can go to work. I’ll take you there and pick you up afterward. I’m going to tell Mr. Antonelli to call me if anyone sees you step out.”

  “He knows?”

  “He thinks you’re sick again. I’ll just say it’s important I keep a close eye on you. I doubt he’ll press me for details. By the way, do you want your watch back?”

  “No.” While going through the worst part of withdrawal, she’d become extremely sensitive to the ticking of her watch. If it was anywhere near her, that was all she could hear, louder and louder until she had to ask Baker to keep it in his room for her. Just thinking about it now was making her feel queasy again.

  Baker went back to his program. But only a few seconds later, he turned his head to find her staring at him. “What? What is it?” he asked.

  “Did you always want to be a cop?”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Indicating the TV, he asked, “Are you watching this?”

  “Not really.”

  He got up and turned it off. When he was back on the couch, he took a swig of beer, stroked his jaw, rubbed the back of his neck, and finally said, “I was going to say ‘no,’ but I’m not so sure that’s true. Even when I was in law school, I was more interested in finding out stuff about how cops were involved in cases than in being lectured about torts or contracts.”

  She gaped at him. “You were in law school?”

  Baker grinned. “I could’ve been a lawyer.”

  “So what happened?”

  “One day, I finally admitted that I hated law school and—with rare exception—lawyers. So I quit and went to the police academy instead.”

  “Have you ever regretted it?”

  The smile faded, and his eyes lost focus. “Let’s just say it hasn’t exactly been wha
t I expected. But, no, I’ve never regretted it.” He put the bottle to his lips and took another drink, then looked at her. “So what’re you going to be?”

  “Me?”

  He pointedly scanned the room until his gaze returned to her. “I don’t know, Micki, I guess I must be talking to you—I don’t see anyone else here.” He saw the faintest hint of a smile, and then she seemed almost shy.

  “I dunno,” she said. “I really haven’t thought about it.”

  “Well you’d better start; you’ll be off to college soon enough. You ought to think about applying for the spring semester after you graduate.”

  She looked at the patterns on the fake Oriental rug. “I used up all the money I’d saved. It wasn’t much, but it was something, y’know?”

  “With grades like yours, I’m sure you could get a scholarship to any school you want.”

  “Yeah, right—especially once they find out I have a record.”

  “If you stay out of trouble, your records will be sealed.”

  “But—”

  “Look, Micki, believe it or not, something like this could even work in your favor. The idea of giving a street kid a chance might be very appealing to some schools—y’know, good publicity, good PR.”

  She looked up. “Y’think so?”

  “Yeah, I do. But you have to straighten out that act of yours.”

  Her gaze fell again.

  “Y’know, you could be anything you want; you know that, right? Except—well—probably not a cop.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

  He felt a catch in his chest. He polished off the beer and stared at the dark glass of the TV. When he turned back to her, his voice was quiet. “I may not have stuck that needle in your arm, but I sure as hell put the syringe in your hand.”

  Stunned, her expression went blank: it wasn’t any of the answers she’d imagined; it wasn’t the one she’d hoped for, either. She said, “I—I think I’m gonna go to bed now.”

  And as she made her way to the study, he wondered what she dreamed about.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  ACCORDING TO THE RADIO’S forecast, the projected temperature for the day was at least sixty-four unseasonable degrees with the possibility of a record-breaking high. Baker decided it was time to get the hell out of the apartment. He telephoned Cynthia at ten thirty, a time when she was usually well up and about. But her guarded manner signaled she wasn’t alone. Claiming he was calling to let her know about Micki, he engaged her in some meaningless small talk before asking her to recommend a movie.

  “I just saw a really cool one Thursday night,” she said. “It’s playing downtown at the Waverly. Kind of offbeat and hip. Funny and sad. Very deep, too. You might even get it.”

  He decided that that was definitely a shot at him, yet responded with only a good-natured laugh. But as soon as he’d hung up the phone, he lit a cigarette and tossed the pack of matches back onto the nightstand.

  He’d sounded pathetic.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  FOR OVER AN HOUR, Baker and Micki walked around Central Park in spring-like weather, the light snow that had fallen only two nights before having completely vanished. Folk-rock guitarists and Latin conga players provided background music while people roller-skated, bicycled, and played Frisbee with each other or their dogs.

  Finally freed from Baker’s smoke-filled apartment, Micki breathed in not only the fresh air—tinged with the scent of moist, dark earth and, occasionally, horses—but all the sights and sounds, as well. It was a heady mixture of colors, rhythms, textures, voices, silvered strings, hoof beats, harmonies, and sirens. They flowed together and drifted apart, dripping down like rain from a summer sun shower. Electric and alive, the park had become a celebration under the bright winter sky.

  But everpresent and persistent, as if it were a spoiled brat determined to get its way, the drug demon was tagging along after her. The tension kept building until all she could think about was getting high. From time to time, Baker observed her spaced-out expression and restless, jittery motions. Twice he gently touched her shoulder to bring her attention around, even catching a wayward Frisbee about to hit her in the head. And that was when he realized he should’ve brought his own Frisbee, which was somewhere on the shelf in the hall closet. Throwing it around would’ve been a hell of a lot better than all of this aimless walking in silence.

  As they headed back toward the street, he said, “I know the park seems okay right now, but don’t ever come here by yourself—especially after dark. It’s too dangerous.”

  She looked up. “Really? For who?”

  “Yeah, very funny.”

  On Central Park West they caught the subway and started downtown. Noisy, old, and uncomfortably close, the packed train—a local—made its way haltingly down the tracks, periodically stopping in the tunnels, the lightbulbs overhead flickering or going out completely. Micki, standing and holding a metal strap, started twisting and squirming, unable to get away from the press of bodies that were shifting and bumping hers as the train rocked and lurched. Baker squeezed in front of a disgruntled-looking, middle-aged man in order to position himself directly behind her.

  At West Fourth Street they got out and were surrounded by what appeared to be a bunch of struggling musicians, artists, and leftover hippies. Some NYU students who’d chosen to remain in the city over Christmas looked like they were trying very hard to be cool enough to blend in. The theater’s ticket line was short and moved quickly. And not five minutes after Baker and Micki had settled themselves inside the auditorium, the lights dimmed. The couple sitting right in front of them lit a joint, and Baker considered leaving. But then he told Micki to get up so they could change their seats to several rows down and to the left.

  Stepping sideways, maneuvering past pairs of knees, she shot him a sharp glance. “Aren’t you going to make them stop or something?”

  “Just hurry up before the film starts.”

  The movie, Harold and Maude, opened with a well-dressed young man attempting suicide while a Cat Stevens song played on a turntable. Baker, shifting his weight in the uncomfortable seat, wondered what on earth Cynthia could’ve been thinking. But as the story unfolded, he saw a tale of rebirth—of seeing everything in life through a completely different lens. And when it was over, the closing image frozen into a backdrop, he sat through the credits, waiting until the very last note of the soundtrack had faded before getting up. Cynthia’s little jab that morning suddenly stung a whole lot more. Just what the hell did she think of him?

  “Did you like it?” he asked Micki as they were leaving the theater. During the movie, out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen her looking sad. A few times, he’d even caught her crying. But he’d heard a few giggles in there, too. He’d never heard her laugh before. And when he’d cracked up at the scenes involving cops, she’d looked at him with amazement. “I do have a sense of humor,” he’d whispered forcefully in return.

  After some pizza, they took the subway back, and Micki went right to sleep. But Baker stayed up a while longer, listening to the entire album of Tea for the Tillerman.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER midnight when Micki awoke, feeling edgy and raw. She got out of bed and pulled on her jeans. Using the hallway light, she padded through the dark living room and into the kitchen, where she flipped on the fluorescents. Full of static and buzz, they stuttered and sputtered to life as if they weren’t quite sure they wanted to bother. She scavenged around among the supplies Baker had gotten from the corner store the night before, looking through them twice, as if she might’ve missed something—finding only one remaining Milky Way bar for her trouble. But there was beer in the refrigerator. And pills in her jacket. She leaned against the sink and played with the now-empty candy wrapper. Tomorrow, with that uncanny ability of his, Bak
er would know she’d taken something whether he had proof of it or not. She pulled out the bottle opener and the four beers left from the new six-pack.

  Seated at the table, she popped off the first cap and began drinking, wondering if anyone really liked the taste of beer. She polished off the second bottle, thinking how creepy the kitchen was at night: the windows all dark, the mechanical hum of the refrigerator almost evil—even more so when the low-pitched whirring ended with a shudder. But halfway through the third bottle, she knocked the metal opener off the table, and it clattered brashly to the floor. Her heart thumped and her mouth went dry. Not a minute later, the living room was flooded with light. Baker stepped through the doorway.

  Looking down at the bottle she was holding, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  He lifted the beer from her hand. “This was my fault,” he said, and poured the remainder down the sink. Then he opened the last bottle and emptied that, as well. “Next time you’re feeling bad, I want you to wake me up, okay? This is not the way to deal with it. And once you go back to your apartment”—he threw the empty bottles into the garbage—“you’re to call me if you’re getting into a bad head. You can always stay here if you need to, understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Just call me first, okay? Don’t just show up at my door.”

  “Yessir,” she said quietly.

  “How long have you been up?”

  “I dunno, maybe twenty minutes.”

  “And you already drank two and a half beers? You must be a little buzzed.”

  “Not really. Well—maybe a little.”

  The lines between his eyebrows deepened. “Do you drink, Micki?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Hmm. Well—do yourself a favor and don’t start. You’ve got all the makings of an alcoholic.” And I would know, he thought. “Are you going to go back to bed now, or do you want to stay up?”

  “Go t’bed.” But when she got to her feet, she felt a little unsteady.

  “By the way,” he said, “Tuesday night is Christmas Eve. I thought maybe Wednesday we’d go to church.” And though he’d made it sound as if he were looking forward to going, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d attended mass.