Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  “I’m so sorry,” Lerner replied, “I guess I didn’t explain myself very well.” Eyes gleaming, she stared straight down into his soul. “I haven’t been describing Micki, Sergeant; I’ve been describing you.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  STILL REELING FROM HIS session, barely able to keep his eyes open, Baker struggled up the stairs to his apartment. It was only six thirty. He could easily nap for an hour or so; Micki wouldn’t be leaving work till at least ten o’clock. He wanted to get back to Queens in time to make sure she got home okay—a temporary solution to what might be an ongoing problem.

  He shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his shoes, then called his answering service. And with the alarm clock set, the radio’s volume low, he flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE KITCHEN DOOR SLAMMED shut behind her, and she stepped out into the cold night air. It helped cut through the fog inside her head. Tuesdays at Bel were often slow, but this had been one of the worst. Every time she’d looked at the clock, scarcely ten minutes had passed. Between the heat and the boredom, she’d spent the night fighting to stay awake.

  But when she came out of the alley, she was instantly alert; she couldn’t afford to be careless on the street. In fact, anytime she was outside her apartment now, she was twice as vigilant as she’d been before. She might as well be back in the South Bronx.

  There were no sounds coming from the mirror company’s parking lot, but she started diagonally across the street anyway. Not more than three steps off the curb, she saw Rick, Joey, and two other guys appear out of the shadows on the opposite side. She stepped back on the sidewalk and walked past the driveway, seeing no one and hearing nothing from within. But Rick and the others were keeping pace with her—watching her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Just as she was about to check behind her, something hard smashed against her skull.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  GROANING, HE REACHED FOR the alarm clock. Damn thing was so annoying, ringing and ringing. He tried to shut it off, but nothing happened. Oh, fuck: it was the phone. He sat up and switched on the light, squinting as it stung his eyes.

  “Hello?” His voice sounded thick and raspy.

  “Sergeant Baker?”

  The male voice was familiar, and Baker snapped to attention. He checked his watch: 10:37. He’d overslept. “Who is this?” He shut off the radio.

  “Officer Roberts. I’m calling about Micki.”

  “Oh, shit! Is she all right?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Shit!” Blood was throbbing in his temples.

  “She was jumped on her way home—hit in the head and knocked out. But she’s basically okay. I’m at the ER with her now, and she’s fine—just a mild concussion.”

  “That’s all?” Now standing, Baker was pacing back and forth in the perimeter allowed by the tethering length of the telephone cord.

  “Well—there’s a little more to it. It seems they came up behind her—”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t say for certain; Micki didn’t see who attacked her. But my guess would be McBain, though I’m sure they were all in on it. She mentioned that Galligan was among some kids who were following her from across the street. Y’see, Saturday night we approached McBain on a disorderly and ended up arresting him after things got out of hand. When Micki passed by on her way home, Galligan yelled out to her that she was dead. Did you know they threatened her when she came home last week?—told her if she didn’t get you to get us off their case, they’d make her pay. ‘Take it out of your ass’ were their exact words.”

  Struck cold inside, Baker recalled the little scene he’d interrupted on her stoop. “Go on,” he said.

  “After they knocked her out, they dragged her all the way to the back of that parking lot where they like to hang out. Someone—and it sounded like Mrs. McCrory, though she wouldn’t give her name—heard all the commotion and called it in. When the old lady saw what was going on, she must’ve yelled to them that we were on the way, ’cause none of the boys were there when we arrived. As much as she’d love to see the whole lot of them put away, I don’t think she could’ve stomached standing by while Micki got gang-raped.”

  Baker felt sick. “But you said she was all right. Now you’re saying that they—that they …” He couldn’t finish.

  “The old lady scared them off in time. The doctor said there was no penetration.”

  No penetration. So cold and clinical sounding. “You’re at Old Queens County General?”

  “Yeah, but—” Roberts hesitated.

  “But what?”

  “Well, she asked me not to call you.”

  “She what?” Pacing again, Baker picked up the base of the phone and almost threw it against the wall.

  “She asked me not to call you, said she didn’t want you to know.”

  Baker was breathing so heavily Roberts could hear it on his end of the line.

  “I tell you what,” Baker said, “you take her home, but don’t tell her you spoke to me; let her think I don’t know. Tomorrow I’ll straighten this out in my own way.”

  The image of Baker with Micki in the interrogation room months before flashed through Roberts’ mind. “Take it easy with her. Don’t forget, she’s got a mild concussion.”

  “Did the doc say it was okay for her to go to school?”

  “He said she should stay home and rest, but she kept pushing till he said it probably wouldn’t hurt. But definitely no gym.”

  Baker grunted. Micki knew if she skipped school, she’d have to make up a reason why. “Just take her home, but don’t say anything. And make sure her apartment’s safe before she goes in.”

  Baker hung up, but continued to pace around. Tomorrow things were going to change.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN MICKI CAME INTO the office the next morning, Baker said, “You look tired.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “And you’re late.”

  “I said I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that.” He stood up and crossed to the file cabinet to return a folder.

  “Or what?” she challenged.

  Slamming the file drawer shut, he turned to face her. “Do you think I don’t know what happened last night? Did you really think they wouldn’t call me?”

  With a fresh look of insolence, she shrugged.

  “You’re still seventeen, and I’m still your legal guardian.”

  “I wasn’t doin’ anything wrong, so what’s the difference?”

  “What’s the difference? You got hurt didn’t you?”

  “It was nothin’.”

  “It was nothing? By the time they found you, you were half undressed and unconscious—almost gang-raped. And you call that nothing? What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “It’s none a yer business.”

  “Christ! How many times do we have to go through this? You’re supposed to tell me everything. Everything. I shouldn’t have to hear about this from someone else.”

  “Yeah? Well I think I shouldn’t have t’tell y’about somethin’ like this at all. Why should I, huh? Just so y’can get y’rocks off—”

  His palm struck her cheek. Hard.

  She felt a sickening sensation in her skull, and the beginning of a new headache.

  “Fuck it!” he said, slapping his thigh. “I swore I’d never hit you again, but you get me so pissed off.”

  “Yeah, right,” she mumbled.

  “Yeah, right!” he retorted. He grabbed her shoulder. “When was the last time I hit you, huh? When? C’mon, tell me.”

  She glared at him.

  His expression turned smug. “You can’t even remember exactly. For chrissakes, Micki, things h
ave changed; can’t you see that?”

  She snorted.

  “Jesus, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you understand that I care about you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

  “Hey! I mean it. I know I made a lot of mistakes, and”—his heart was banging against his ribs—“I’m sorry—really sorry—for the things I did.” This caused her to look up. “But I can’t undo it all, I can only go on from here and try to do better.”

  He’d actually apologized—actually said the words “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” he asked.

  Her mind went completely blank.

  The seconds ticked by while his throat constricted and his chest squeezed painfully. He said, “Well then you listen to me, and you listen good: no matter what you believe or don’t believe, don’t you ever talk to me that way again. You’d better show me some respect, because I’ve had it; do you understand me?”

  Her heart fell. It was all just words. In the end, it was the same old shit.

  “Do you understand me?” he repeated.

  Voice flat, she responded, “Yessir.”

  His head pulled back while he sucked in air. “Y’know what? I don’t want to hear anymore of this yes-sir-no-sir bullshit. Just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ like a normal person. And don’t call me Sergeant Baker anymore, either. My name is Jim, and that’ll be just fine.” When her jaw dropped, he suddenly felt like he was all alone on a stage, not knowing where to stand or what to do with his hands. He took hold of the back of his neck and said, “Um, why don’t you go home and rest. Roberts told me the doctor said—” But his words hung in the air, her reddened, freshly slapped cheek staring back at him. “Jesus Christ! Are you all right?”

  Her head hurt. “Yessir.”

  Squinting, as if he might see the truth more clearly, he scrutinized her face. “Are you sure? ’Cause I still think you should go home. It’s only the second day of real classes; it’s not like you’re going to miss much.”

  “I’m all right.”

  But by the middle of second period, which was now American History 2, Micki told Mr. Ingram she wasn’t feeling well, and returned to the office. Baker—at his desk, his back to the door—was on the phone.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said to whomever he was talking to. “Listen, I’ll call you later, okay? I gotta go.” And he resumed his paperwork.

  Micki, standing behind him, was waiting for him to turn around: he had to know she was there. But Baker, rifling through papers as if looking for something, was waiting for her to address him—hoping she wouldn’t just tap him on the shoulder.

  Silently, she said his name: Jim. She imagined saying it out loud. What if he hadn’t really meant what he’d said? What if he’d already forgotten he’d said it? Her heart thumped, and her face grew warm. It was making her head hurt again. She blurted out, “Baker?”

  He turned to face her. “What is it, Micki?”

  “I … I …”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You can call me Baker if you want.”

  “Um … I think you were right. I think I should go home.”

  He nodded. “Give me two minutes while I get Warner to cover for me.”

  “I can take the subway …” Seeing the look on his face—and the tilt of his head—her voice trailed off. She put her jacket on and waited.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THEY TURNED ONTO FORTY-FOURTH Drive, and Baker searched for a parking space. When they were inside her apartment, he told her to throw some things together so she could stay at his place overnight.

  “Why can’t I stay here?” she said. “I wanna go to sleep now.”

  “You’ll feel safer at my place.”

  “What about work? I can’t leave Mr. Antonelli without someone for tonight. Juan took off till Friday and—”

  “You shouldn’t be going to work tonight anyway. If worst comes to worst, I’ll fill in.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m sure I can handle it.” Jeez, he thought, it’s just washing dishes. How tough could it be?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  CLOUDS ROLLED IN AS they drove through Manhattan, bright sunlight giving way to muted grey. When they pulled up to Baker’s building, James Taylor was singing “Blossom” on the radio. Baker double-parked and left the engine running. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a miniature NYPD-detective’s shield attached to it. It was not the spare set she’d seen before.

  “Here,” he said, handing them to her. “I don’t have time to go up with you; I’ve got to get back to work. Just make sure you double lock the door after you go in. Or if you go out, for that matter.”

  “Oh! I thought you were going to … Yeah. Sure.” But though she had her bag and her books in her arms, she still hadn’t opened the door.

  “You want to hear the rest of the song?” he asked.

  “You mind?”

  He shook his head and pulled out a cigarette. Side by side they sat and listened, their expressions somber. Then he twisted in his seat to face her. “I want you to promise me you’ll never try to kill yourself again.”

  Chest heaving, she looked down.

  “Promise me, Micki.”

  Tears fell, and she closed her eyes.

  He reached over and gently touched her hand. And though she flinched, she didn’t pull away. “Call me if you need me, okay?” he said quietly.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WITHOUT MUCH CHOICE, AND with only a prayer that business would be slow, Mr. Antonelli let Baker take over for Micki that night. But when the cop headed into the kitchen, he found it shockingly hot. It was also incredibly small, as were all the people in it—except him. The tight, cramped, steamy quarters were not what he’d expected. He borrowed one of Tony’s T-shirts to work in, but it was too small and too-soon soaked with sweat. To add to his misery, he couldn’t even smoke when he wanted to. Twice he managed to run out for a few quick puffs, wondering if he’d catch his death of pneumonia from the shirt’s moist fabric chilling against his skin in the cold winter air.

  Just as things were calming down from the evening rush—the bottom of the sink finally visible through the piles of plates, pots, and pans—a steady stream of odd little groups came in to finish off the night. It wasn’t until the clock read 10:22 that he hung up his apron and ripped the thick rubber gloves off his sweaty hands. After he’d changed back into his turtleneck, Mr. Antonelli offered him his pay. He told him to hold it for Micki.

  He left Bel and walked the way Micki would to go home, checking out the now gated and empty parking lot where she’d been attacked the night before. Looking up at the adjacent buildings, he wondered which one of them contained Mrs. McCrory. Without her stepping forward as a witness, there was no hard evidence to charge any of the boys with anything. Earlier he’d spoken to Roberts about pressing her to give a statement.

  “Forget it,” Roberts had said. “Remember, she’s got to keep living here. We’re grateful she at least tips us off the way she does. For an old gal, she’s pretty feisty.”

  Baker stood quietly before the shadow-filled lot. Not a minute later, he was marching off to his car.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  IT WASN’T LONG TILL he found the three boys he’d seen on Micki’s stoop. They were partying with some others at a wall under the elevated train tracks, a fire they’d made in a large industrial drum keeping them warm. Of the three, Baker knew only Rick, but it wasn’t hard to guess which of the remaining two was probably McBain.

  He drove past, all the way to Queens Plaza South, then back up to Forty-Fourth Avenue, killing his headlights and rolling quietly to a stop just shy of the corner. From this vantage point, he could see the boys without being easily observed himself. Laughing, they were passing around a b
ottle and a joint. The little scum-sucking pricks were acting like they ruled the world. He wished he could make sure none of them ever laughed again. But he could only go so far. And he could only go after one. And while McBain had most likely initiated the actual attack, it was Rick who’d started the whole thing—Rick who’d been such a pig to Micki in every way.

  Baker cracked his window open, zipped up his jacket, and pulled out his cigarettes to wait.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT, THE boys’ party broke up, and Baker was in luck: while the other boys marched down Twenty-Third Street toward Forty-Fourth Drive, Rick was headed north toward the Queensboro Bridge—alone. Based on things Micki had told him, Rick was probably off to score more weed, going there now to show the others just how cool he was. Fucking asshole.

  The cop turned down Forty-Fourth Avenue and drove back to the wall. Then he turned onto Twenty-Third Street with his headlights off and came up behind Rick. Rick, appearing to possess no street sense at all, seemed unconcerned or unaware that a car was following him. It wasn’t until Baker stopped and got out that Rick even bothered to glance over his shoulder. He then darted across the street in a stiff, nerdy gait, but Baker quickly overtook him. Grabbing the boy, he spun him around and slammed him up against the chain-link fence. Overgrown with weeds and piled with litter, it clinked and rattled loudly. But there was no one there to hear.

  The teen attempted an arrogant, cocky smirk.

  Baker said, “You’d better wipe that shitty-assed grin off your face right now, dickhead.” Then he yanked Rick forward and turned him, pushing him, face first, against the fence. After he kicked the boy’s legs back and apart, he patted him down. Thoroughly. His catch: a small blue pipe with a rolled-up, sandwich-sized plastic bag containing only the remnants of some grass. He turned the boy again and pushed him back into the jangling links. Holding up the items and shaking them, he said, “This is kid stuff.” Then he threw everything over the fence.

  The smirk returned to Rick’s face.

  Baker could feel the heat growing inside him. How easy it would be to take the boy down to the ground, grab a handful of hair, and smash that ugly face of his into the concrete till it was shredded and raw. Voice low, he said, “You think I don’t know what you did to Micki? You and that punk McBain? You think I don’t know it was you who set her up last night? You and your friends who trashed her place?”