NO SOONER HAD BAKER reached the Manhattan side of the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge than he turned around and headed back to Queens, parking in the exact same spot he’d had before. Yet Micki’s apartment was already dark. Paused on the building’s front steps, he broke out in a cold sweat. What the hell was he going to say? He stood on the stoop with the wind kicking up around him, the night weighing heavy in the air. And then a souped-up car gunned by, engine roaring, tires squealing as it fishtailed around a corner.
Head hung low, he turned away, got back in the Camaro, and left.
♦ ♦ ♦
SUNDAY WAS DROWNING IN booze, a river of whiskey flowing steady from the night before. But anytime Baker put the bottle down for too long, he’d see Micki in those moments afterward, hugging her knees to her chest and looking too young, too vulnerable. Looking like someone he should never have touched. The sky was already growing dark, and he hadn’t checked in on her once. God only knew what she was doing—maybe shooting up. Or getting smashed, like he was. Too drunk to drive over and see, he drank even more.
But as night descended in earnest on the cold Manhattan streets, he got up from the recliner and staggered toward the window, a terrifying cry of despair welling up from the depths of his being. When it threatened to lay bare the ugly mire that was churning underneath, it was swiftly silenced by yet another long drink. But not for long. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder before lowering the bottle, desperate eyes staring back from the dark pane of glass. Transfixed by the ghostly, ill-defined reflection, he watched as he raised the bottle to his lips again.
He looked away and grunted. He really needed to talk to someone; needed to confess; needed to get it off his chest that he was a self-righteous bastard who’d done the very thing he’d sworn up and down he never would. But who could he tell? If Malone or anyone in IAD ever got wind of this, Micki would be sent back to Heyden in a heartbeat; she would end up paying for his mistake. And his career? That would be over, too. Finished. Finito.
He gulped down more liquor, put the bottle on the table, and picked up his pack of Camels. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he fumbled with the book of matches and finally lit one. Jeez, Micki would have to be completely mindless not to recognize his situation. If she chose to take advantage of it, his authority over her was shot. He froze, the match burning brightly in his grip, fingers getting hot as the tiny flame danced its way down the cardboard stick. Maybe she’d planned this all along. He lit the cigarette and waved out the match. That was insane. It would mean that everything she’d ever said or done had been a calculated act of deception.
He picked up the bottle and snorted: it never mattered where he started—this was where he always ended up.
♦ ♦ ♦
THREE HOURS LATER, BAKER stopped drinking and lay down to sleep; he still had to face the kid at school in the morning.
“The kid”—it suddenly sounded strange. Last night, when he’d danced with her so innocently, he’d viewed her as a child. Later, in his horny, drugged-up state, he’d—conveniently—viewed her the way she liked to view herself: as an adult. She did, after all, live alone with nearly all of the responsibilities. But she wasn’t an adult. Not really. And certainly not with him. How he was going to make her see that, he wasn’t exactly sure.
♦ ♦ ♦
SUNK INSIDE A HEAVY, lifeless sleep, Micki didn’t wake till almost ten on Sunday—a record for her. But she stayed in bed until she dozed off again.
At one thirty in the afternoon she got up, head hurting when she moved it too quickly: too much sleep. And yet all she could think about was crawling underneath the covers again. Or getting high. It was one or the other. Or both. There was money under the mattress, enough for a dime bag, but she could practically hear Baker calling her a junkie and a whore. Jacket on her lap, she sat on the floor and searched for the pills floating around in the lining. She located three and tried to move them back toward the hole in the pocket. But it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. She considered ripping the damn things out, but then simply stared at the jacket as if it were a broken toy.
Tired of doing nothing, she pushed herself up and looked at the clock, the hours stacked ahead in aimless succession. She got dressed and went outside. Cold and grey. The unseasonable temperatures had come to an end. Without the extra lining zipped in, winter streamed through her jacket as if the leather weren’t even there.
She reached the sidewalk and saw Rick approaching, a big grin on his face. He opened the foil-wrapped package he was carrying and said, “Look what I got.”
Sweet and rich, the aroma of chocolate greeted her nose. “Brownies?”
With a lift of his chin, he said, “Hash brownies.”
Her eyes lit up.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEY WERE BACK IN her apartment, and Rick, looking proud, said, “I put in almost two grams a hash. I figger we can split it.”
“Yeah, uh-huh.” She cut the single slab of chocolate cake in half and put one part on the counter. She wrapped the other back up and handed it to him. “Get out.”
“Wha—? But—”
“Just get the fuck out.”
“Hey! I di—”
“GET—OUT.” And she went to the door and opened it, eyes looking straight through him.
Face pale, Rick fiddled with the package in his hands. “Whatsa matta wit’ ya?” He tried to smile. “Y’on the rag or somethin’?”
“Get the fuck out NOW.”
In the hall, he turned and said, “Yer a fucked up bitch, y’know that?”
But she’d already slammed the door.
She returned to the giant brownie, breaking off a small piece and popping it in her mouth. It was awful. Even the rich, fudgy chocolate couldn’t mask the taste of the hash. There was too much drug. Maybe it hadn’t been mixed into the batter evenly. She wolfed it down as quickly as possible, then chased it with a glass of Coke.
Jacket and sneakers tossed off, she stretched out on the mattress with her hands behind her head so she could listen to the radio and wait for something to happen. But scenes from the previous night kept running around, over and over, in a never-ending loop. Only, she didn’t want to think about it anymore, didn’t want to remember what it felt like with him on top of her. Inside her. The way her heart had rolled up and stopped beating when she saw the money lying on the floor. He must’ve put it there afterward when she’d turned away as he’d gotten dressed. He’d paid her. Like a whore. Left it silently for services rendered. Recalling what she’d done at the very end, her face grew hot. Curiously, with everything that had happened, that was the one thing she really regretted.
The disc jockey introduced a song she hated. She turned off the radio and got up to get another glass of soda. But she managed only one step toward the kitchen before the room began to spin. Heart racing, body shaking and tingling, she thought she was falling. She felt sick. With what seemed like her last willful act, she stumbled back to bed.
Flat on the mattress, looking up, she watched the ceiling endlessly expanding, the brown spider-web cracks growing longer and wider. And sounds from the street reached her in a strange disorder of time: she could’ve sworn she heard two guys say goodbye, have a conversation, then say hello. She kept waiting for some wild and beautiful hallucinations: rainbows of colors or a burst of glittery stars. Instead, she was drifting in a pale, lusterless sea of hopeless detachment.
Not a muscle twitched as she lay there, paralyzed. And unbelievably aroused. She felt desperate to have sex with someone—anyone at all. In fact, someone was knocking. Rick. It could only be Rick. She heard him calling to her.
“C’mon, Micki! Let me in. You in dere?”
And as much as she despised him now, she wanted him to come in and fuck her. But she couldn’t budge, couldn’t utter a sound.
“Stupid bitch!” And he went away.
Hours later, she woke up in the dark, body stiff but able to move. Yet when she turned on the lamp, the apartment was shot through with danger, everything thrown into shadows and sharp, black corners, the furniture cold and disturbing in the faded light.
She switched on the radio, then sat on the bed, the music pouring out in a brilliant, bold escape from the magical little box. Prancing and shimmying, words and notes tumbled over each other as they danced across the floor, evaporating into air and disappearing into walls. And though she tried very hard to concentrate, things slipped away from one second to the next. By the end of a line of lyrics, she’d forgotten what the beginning was. Nothing made any sense.
Maybe the hash had done some kind of permanent brain damage.
She went back to sleep.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE ALARM CLOCK WOKE her. Dry and crusted over, her eyelids were stuck together; her teeth, coated with fur. She felt as rumpled and grimy as the clothes she’d slept in. She crawled out of bed, unfolded her limbs, and, with the help of a chair, stood up. After a brief respite, she drank water, then coffee, did a half-assed workout, and showered. But the filmy sheath around her brain was receding at an agonizingly slow pace. Finally dressed, her jaw tightened as she stuffed Baker’s money into her pocket. Maybe—if there was any justice in the world—he wouldn’t be at school today.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER HAD MANAGED ONLY fitful bouts of sleep. By the break of dawn, he’d given up entirely. Since then, he’d been scrutinizing everything from every possible angle until he was anything but the calm, controlled man he’d hoped to be. Looking out the office window, he saw Micki crossing from the top of the front stairs to the main doors. He went to his desk and ground the stub of his cigarette into the thick glass of the ashtray.
She walked in. “I don’t want your damn money.” She was holding out his twenty-dollar bill.
His brow furrowed.
“Fine,” she said, and strode over to slam the cash down next to the cigarettes on his desk.
“Suit yourself.” But he’d noticed the subtle differences: the thick speech, the imprecise motions. “Take off your jacket and push your sleeves up.”
With rough, angry movements, she did what he asked, then held her arms out in front, palms up. But as soon as he reached for them, she stepped back. “Don’t you touch me!” she hissed.
Heart thudding, he barely glanced at her veins. As if there weren’t a million other places she could shoot up. “Turn around, Micki.”
“Forget it.”
“C’mon, it’s just routine like always.”
Warner and Marino came through the doorway.
“This is the last time I’m going to help you, Denny,” Warner said. “You should’ve stayed late Friday to finish this and not be taking up my time while I’m on duty. It’s—” But the two men froze: the tension between the cop and the kid was palpable.
“I don’t care!” Micki said to Baker. “I don’t want you touchin’ me.”
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“ ‘What’s the problem?’ ” she repeated. “What’s the problem? I don’t know if it’s Mr. Morality who’s gonna pat me down or some guy who drives around, stoned off his ass, and—”
“Fuck you.”
“Y’already did.”
“Way to go, Jim!” Marino hooted.
“Shut up!” Baker snapped, eyes still riveted to Micki’s.
“C’mon, man, no one blames you for bopping the little—”
“SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, DENNY.” And Baker’s piercing gaze was now fully trained on Marino.
Marino shut up, backing his way out the door. “Hey, man, take it easy. It was just a joke.”
“You breathe a word of this to anyone,” Baker said, “and you’re a dead man.”
Hands raised, Marino said, “No problem. Everything’s cool. Already forgotten.” And he left.
Baker reached over and dug his fingers into the heart of Micki’s bicep. “Let’s go next door and have a little chat.”
Out of consideration for the intense pain in her arm, she let him take her two units down to an empty conference room. He swung her inside and closed the door.
“Did you think that was cute?” he asked.
“I was just stating a fact.”
“You know damn well I didn’t mean it literally.”
“You took it literally when I said it.”
His nostrils flared. “You’d better get it through your head that nothing’s changed. Like it or not, you’ll do what you’re told. If you think, for one minute, you’re going to hold this over me—”
“I’m not gonna do that.”
“Damn right you won’t, ’cause no one’s going to believe you.”
“Oh, really? They believed me.”
Baker started to sweat: he shouldn’t have shot his mouth off so quickly. “Well—no one would care.”
“Oh, I think they would,” she replied. “I think that social worker, Miss Gutierrez—or whatever her name is—I bet she’d be real interested. And Captain Malone, too.” She tilted her head. “Then there’s always your girlfriend.”
“Yeah? You think so? Well here’s a newsflash: it wouldn’t mean a damn thing to her. Cynthia and I have an understanding right now.” He could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks, the telltale warmth of a spreading blush.
But Micki’s face hardened: just one more reason you fucked me, you son of a bitch. She turned to look out the window, at the trees shedding their leaves, then shrugged. “Whatever. Like I said, I’m not gonna say anything.”
Baker’s head pulled back. “And why is that?”
“Because I wanted it, right?” Glancing over her shoulder she said, “You asked me, and—and I wanted you to do it.”
In the span of one brief instant, she’d put herself into the equation and then taken herself right back out, as if what she’d agreed to Saturday night was to let him use her. But it wasn’t really like that, was it? He’d satisfied her, hadn’t he? His mind became flooded with images: strobing, impressionistic flashes of her naked body moving under his. Disjointed and mostly out of focus, the fragments were drenched in an orange-red haze, the heat of the moment burning itself further into his memory when what he really wanted was to smother it out. He remembered how desperately she’d clutched at him when she came. He watched her now as she gazed out at the cold November day, the light—finding its way through the windowpanes—in streaks across her face. She looked tired and drawn.
The first-period bell rang.
She whirled around. “Y’want me to fuckin’ write it in blood?”
Very softly, he said, “No, Micki. Your word is good enough for me.”
When she realized he wasn’t being sarcastic, her face fell. But Baker wasn’t sure what that meant.
The silence grew.
“I don’t think any less of you,” he offered.
She snorted.
“What are you high on?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, then you’re hung over from something. You think I can’t tell?”
She shrugged.
“What did you take yesterday?”
Her gaze shifted to the window again. To think he had the balls to be questioning her about using drugs after—
“Micki!”
Her eyes snapped back to his.
“Answer me!”
“Hash,” she said.
“I thought you said you never smoke anything.”
“I ate it, okay?”
“How much?”
“About a gram.”
His jaw dropped. “You ate a whole gram of hash? Yourself? At once?”
“So what!”
“So maybe you’re lucky to be standing here today.”
“Yeah—real lucky.”
His voice turned harsh. “You want a reason not to take drugs?”
She glared at him.
“Saturday night’s a good reason not to take drugs. I was totally out of control and did something I very much regret. What do you think would’ve happened if you were that high and hanging out with a bunch of boys like you did that night you broke curfew?”
Micki looked away. She knew exactly what would’ve happened. All she had to do was think about yesterday when Rick was knocking at the door; all she couldn’t forget was what had been done to her when she’d been passed out in the shooting gallery.
Baker said, “I never would’ve done what I did if I’d been straight.”
Yeah, Micki thought, you’ve got to be totally stoned to screw a lowlife like me.
As if reading her mind, he said, “That’s not what I meant!”
But she was staring at a stubby little pencil someone had left behind on the conference table. It had bite marks all over it, the eraser—
He took a step toward her.
Her eyes shot up to his.
“I don’t make it a habit,” he said quietly, “of going around fucking little girls.” And though his face betrayed nothing, he cringed at the pain that flashed across hers—he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that.
“I—I’m not a little girl.” And yet her voice had come out thin and uncertain.
“I’m nearly twenty years older than you.”
The late bell rang.
“What went on between us,” he said, “should never have happened, do you understand that? And it certainly doesn’t give me license to do any damn thing I please. I’ll respect the same boundaries I always have.” His tone relaxed. “If we can’t get past this, then it’s all over.”
But her eyes were fixed on the door, and she was picturing the lone flower that had sprung up several weeks ago behind the chain-link fence beside the bank. A lush, vibrant pink, the petals had basked in the bright midday sun—fine lines, like veins through skin, glowing red. But when clouds had rolled by, the light had dimmed, revealing nicks and tears—little chunks bitten off by tiny rodent teeth or bugs. The following week, the flower was gone, its headless stem sticking up among the ratty, browning weeds. She had no idea why she’d felt so sad about it then. Or now. Her eyes slowly drifted back to his.
“I know this isn’t easy—”
“What’s the difference anyway.” And she abruptly turned around, holding her arms away from her body.
Baker hesitated, then patted her down the way he always did. It was over so quickly it hardly seemed worth all the fuss. Totally sexless. For him.
But for Micki, everything had changed. The sensation of his large hands moving over her, his body so close, sparked memories it never could have before. She wanted to run away. Instead, she was facing him again, head tilted back so she could eye him with a hard, unforgiving gaze.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
He sounded so genuine. He was so smooth! “Sure, why not?” But she turned away.
And for just a moment, he shut his eyes. Then he said, “Look at me, Micki.” But he had to yank her around. “Look at me, Micki!”
And they studied each other. For quite a while. And though nothing further was said, it seemed as though they’d reached some sort of agreement.
Baker spoke first, his voice low. “Right now, while we’re here in this room, you can say anything you want to me. You can rank me out, curse at me—whatever. I promise I won’t retaliate. Not now, not ever. But once we walk out that door, all the old rules still apply.”
She shoved her hands into her pockets.
“There must be something you want to say.”
She lowered her gaze to his chest.
Aware he was towering over her, he went and sat on top of the conference table, legs dangling over the edge, jeans faded, black turtleneck soft and loose. “Don’t you have anything to say to me?” he asked again.
But on her way to school, Micki had decided she was going to act like she didn’t care. It was hard for someone to gloat over something that didn’t bother you. And though she’d done a pretty bad job of things so far, she had no alternative strategy to fall back on. But what she wouldn’t give to just tell him off.
Baker watched her staring into space. There was probably a whole slew of epithets about to be hurled in his direction. Maybe she simply couldn’t decide what to start with. He was dying for a cigarette.
Her expression turned hard and cold. “I need a late pass.”
A little thrill of fear shot through him, and he looked on anxiously as she turned toward him, her whole persona sharp and angular. How she’d surprised him in bed with the gentleness of her touch, a feathery lightness that had sent chills rippling through his body. Hard to believe it was the same person standing before him now.
He hopped down from the table. “Okay, Micki, as soon as we get back to the office.” He went to the door and held it open for her. But when she was passing through, he grabbed her arm. “Stay—away—from the drugs. Do you hear me? I can’t let it go a second time.”
She jerked her arm back, then stalked off down the hall.
He watched the thin, black figure. So angry. So alone. So … silent. As he followed her to the office, he wondered where she’d found the black jeans. He wouldn’t mind buying a pair of those for himself.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER MICKI HAD GONE to class, Baker pocketed the twenty dollars, lit a cigarette, and sat down. He was pretending to examine some papers on his desk when he asked Warner, “How come you’re still here? Anyone covering one-north for you?”
“Dixon’s holding down the fort for now.”
Baker stapled two pages together. “So then the second floor is open?”
“Yeah, the second floor is open.”
“I see.”
Walking over till he was standing right next to Baker, Warner asked, “What the hell are you thinking sleeping with her?” Baker looked up. But before he could answer, Warner added, “And just how long has this been going on?”
“It was once. Just once. I did something really stupid Saturday night. Jesus, she could have my shield for this.”
“Maybe that’s what you want.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I think you’re very ambivalent right now about being a cop. It means that whatever the real reason is that you’re stuck here, you resent this job and you resent being Micki’s guardian. Part of you wants out, but you’re too chicken to make the decision yourself; you’re going to let the kid make it for you. I can just imagine what would happen if she tells anyone.”
“She already said she won’t.”
“Well then, I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about. That kid’s got more integrity than anyone I know—certainly more than you.”
Baker’s eyes flashed. But before he could respond, Warner added, “How could you sleep with her? She’s only seventeen years old, for chrissakes.”
“It’s not like she’s a virgin—”
“What the hell difference does that make? Seventeen years old is seventeen years old, and thirty-six is thirty-six.”
“Yeah? Well I can tell you she’s no innocent, young thing in bed.”
“I think you assume too much.”
And, silently, Baker agreed. In fact, he agreed with everything Warner had said. Still he heard himself saying, “The bottom line is that I didn’t force her. She—”
“Is that so,” Warner cut in.
Baker took a hit off his cigarette.
“How much choice do you think she really had?” Warner demanded.
“I asked her if she wanted me to stop. I left it up to her.”
“You left it up to her? She isn’t even half your age. You’re in a position of authority over her. One word from you and she’s locked up again. She’s at a stage when her hormones are running wild, and suddenly she’s got a chance to make it with some guy every female in this school would like to make it with. I’d bet anything, she figured this was the only shot she’d ever get at someone even half as good looking as you. And for once, you’re offering to make her feel good when all she’s ever known from you is pain. That kid’s dying for love, and the closest she can get is sex. So you tell me: how much choice did she really have?”
Baker’s jaw worked.
“You,” Warner continued, “you had the choice. Not her.” He lowered his voice. “You’re damaging that kid.”
“She’s already damaged,” Baker heard himself say.
“You’re a heartless son of a bitch.”
But as Warner started for the door, Baker reached out and touched his arm. “I didn’t mean that; I—I don’t know what it is about that kid that makes me act this way. I don’t want to be like this; I really don’t.”
“Then get some help.” And Warner stormed out of the office.
Baker looked down at the cigarette still burning in his hand. There were ashes all over the floor.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEY WERE READING Two Gentlemen of Verona in English. Micki hated Shakespeare. Voice droning on and on, Mr. Newsome’s oversized head was tilting side to side while he made annoying little digging gestures with his pinky to emphasize points. Her notebook filled with doodles, she wasn’t listening to anything he was saying. She hated Mr. Newsome almost as much as she hated Shakespeare.
She dropped her pen to the page, sat back, and let the classroom dissolve into a blur. And as if he were standing right in front of her, she could hear Baker’s voice again: “I don’t make it a habit of going around fucking little girls.” Yet she could still feel the softness of his lips against her throat, her chest, her breasts … further and further down … kissing her scars until he’d buried his face between her legs—
“Are you with us today, Miss Reilly?”
“Huh?” Her face reddened at the sight of all the eyes fastened upon her, classmates twisting around in their chairs to look at her.
“I asked if you are with us today.”
“Yeah, sure.”
There was muffled laughter, but only because at least one student did a major tune-out in Newsome’s class every day.
“Then perhaps, if I repeat it yet a third time, you could answer my question.”
I doubt it, Micki thought. She hadn’t done any homework over the weekend.
The door opened. One of the student assistants from the general office came in and handed the teacher a slip of paper. After a quick glance at it, Mr. Newsome looked up and said, “Well, Miss Reilly, it looks like you’ve been saved by the note.”
Several groans attested to the general opinion of Mr. Newsome’s sense of humor.
Eyes still focused on Micki, he continued, “You are to go to the security office immediately. There’s no indication as to the purpose of the request, so I suggest you take your books with you.”
The messenger left while the color completely drained from her face.
Newsome’s mouth became a small, obnoxious smile. “Are you in trouble, Miss Reilly?”
I’m always in trouble, you fucking idiot, she thought. And she hated being called Miss Reilly—at least by him. When students irritated or ignored him, he always called them by their surnames. She pulled her books together, snatched the note from his wimpy hand, and hurried out the door.
♦ ♦ ♦
ALONE IN THE CORRIDOR, she tried not to panic. It couldn’t be all that serious if Baker hadn’t come for her himself. Halfway down the stairs, she ran into Angie, who looked her over and said, “You better have a pass to show me.” Micki handed her the now crumpled piece of paper, which the guard examined and gave back before waving her on.
But when Micki reached the first floor landing, she slowed her pace, returning to the moment when she’d opened her eyes to find Baker staring down at her, no longer high, no longer the romantic stranger he’d been—the tender interlude over. He’d seen things he had no right to see—had invaded her once more in yet another way, leaving her with some strange sense of guilt. Yet he was nothing more than a parole officer; he’d made that more than clear. And she—well, she wasn’t a little girl. No matter what he said.
She arrived at the office, but the door was closed. About to turn the knob, she felt a fresh surge of anger: there was still the issue of the money. She rotated the engraved piece of oval brass and stepped inside.
But only Warner was there.
“Where’s Sergeant Baker?” she asked.
Dressed in a light-colored sweater and blue jeans, Warner was standing in the middle of the room. “I’m the one who called you down here, Micki.”
“What for?” She took a look at the note wadded up in her fist. It had Warner’s signature—not Baker’s.
“I thought you might want to talk.”
“About what?”
“Why don’t you put your books down and make yourself comfortable.” And with a slight movement of his head, he indicated the couch.
Instead, Micki put her books on the general desk, then hopped up, swinging her legs over so she could put her feet on the seat.
Warner, feeling like he’d forgotten how to walk, crossed the room and closed the door. Things weren’t going the way he’d anticipated. He pulled out Baker’s chair—the only one with castors to roll around on—and swivelled it to face her. Sitting down, he said, “Well, this is just as good.” But his smile looked forced.
She stared down at him.
“So,” he said.
“So what?”
“So how do you feel about what happened between you and Jim?”
Even now, she couldn’t imagine calling Baker “Jim.” “Did he put y’upta this?” she asked. “Is this some kinda test? I told him I wasn’t gonna tell anybody anything.”
“He doesn’t even know I’m talking to you. And anything you tell me is completely confidential—strictly between you and me.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“You might feel better if you talk about what happened.”
“I feel fine right now ’cause it didn’t mean a fuckin’ thing. Maybe ya jus’ wanna get off hearin’ all the little details.”
Trying not to fidget, trying to keep his voice neutral, he asked, “Is that what you really think?”
“I’m not gonna tell ya shit.” Cool and calm, her eyes began to look like those of an animal sizing up its prey.
Warner swallowed.
“Y’gonna tell Sergeant Baker I cursed?”
“I want you to feel free to express yourself.”
Micki smirked. And Warner knew he’d never broach the other issue, the one that had been so salient in his decision to send for her.
She jumped down from the desk. “I don’t wanna talk, y’got that?”
Her stare was so empty that the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He arose, the chair rolling clumsily away behind him. “That’s okay.” But his voice was choked off. He cleared his throat. “That’s—that’s fine. But, y’know, if you change your mind, I’m always here to listen.”
“I need another pass,” she said.
He felt nervous just turning his back to fill out the piece of paper.
♦ ♦ ♦
ONCE MICKI WAS GONE, Warner exhaled loudly. He threw away the balled-up page she’d tossed on top of the desk, and closed the door she’d left open behind her. He could almost hear his clinical psych professors chuckling, his supervisor jumping on his lack of insight. More than cavalier, his assessment of Micki had been distorted, a product of his own fears and wishes—something he’d have to explore tomorrow night with his own therapist.
He wiped away the small beads of sweat that had formed over his lip, then turned Baker’s chair around and put it back where it belonged. Thoughts of replacing the cop as Micki’s guardian were gone. Recalling her stare, a shiver ran through him: were those the eyes of a killer?
♦ ♦ ♦
AT THE END OF the day, Micki checked in as usual, then headed home. Warner entered the office shortly afterward to cover for Baker so he could leave early to follow.
“I’m worried about her,” Baker said as he put his jacket on and pocketed his cigarettes.
Warner’s reply was a stony look.
“Hey, I know I fucked up, okay? The best I can do now is try to keep her from fucking up, too.”
“How could you do that?” Warner asked. “I still can’t believe it. I would never have pictured you as the type.”
“I’m not the type. I was flying—took some hits off a joint I confiscated, then got wrecked by whatever else was in it. By the time I got Micki back to her apartment, I was too messed up to drive home. When I saw I was in trouble, I tried to get out of there, but things just happened; I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Things just happened? You think you’re not responsible?”
“Shit. Don’t tell me what the line is: my decision to smoke that joint, my responsibility whatever took place afterward. I’m not trying to defend myself; I’m just trying to explain how it went down.”
“All day long, I’m asking myself if I should report this to someone. The one thing stopping me is my fear of what’ll happen to Micki if you’re taken out of the picture.”
“You want to know what’ll happen? She’s only got two options: me or juvenile detention. That’s it. I think we can at least agree that she shouldn’t go back to juvi.”
Warner rubbed his brow.
“I’m telling you,” Baker said, “it’ll never happen again. It was just the drugs. Jesus, what do you want me to say?”
“What worries me is that you smoked that joint in the first place when you knew you still had to drive her home.”
Head down, hands raised, Baker said, “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately; I let it cloud my judgment.”
“ ‘Cloud your judgement’? ‘Cloud your judgement’? That’s an understatement. And what about your drinking?”
“What about my drinking?”
“I wouldn’t say I’ve ever seen you tanked, but there’ve been plenty of mornings when I’ve smelled liquor on you. In fact, today it’s so bad I can still smell it on you now. You’ve got to be hitting the bottle pretty hard at night.”
“Even dead drunk, I wouldn’t do what I did Saturday night. The kid would never be in danger; I know my limits.”
Warner took a toothpick from a container on his desk. “I need some time on this.”
Baker nodded and lowered his eyes.
“But what about Denny?” Warner asked. “Aren’t you worried? Do you really think he’ll keep his mouth shut?”
“He’s the kind of asshole that doesn’t see anything wrong with what I did. He’ll keep silent for the sake of ‘us boys’ sticking together—not to mention he’s scared shitless of me.” Baker shifted his gaze to the window, then looked back. “I wonder if I could ask a favor.”
The toothpick moved from one side of Warner’s mouth to the other.
“I really am worried about Micki,” Baker said. “I think she needs to talk to someone. I was wondering if you’d give it a try.”
“I already did.”
“What? When was this?”
“Third period, I’m in the office then anyway.”
“You pulled her out of class?”
“What about it?”
“Let’s get something straight: no matter what you think of me right now, you can’t just pull her out of class.”
“I think you’ve got bigger things than that to be worrying about.”
“Really? Because I—” But Baker stopped. “So how did it go?”
“It didn’t go at all. She wouldn’t talk to me.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“I guess I always thought she liked you.”
“But she doesn’t trust me.”
Shutting his eyes, Baker exhaled. Having her talk to anyone else was too risky.
“If you want to help her,” Warner said, “you’re going to have to straighten this out yourself.”
“Oh, right. Like she’s ever going to trust me now.”
“She just might.”
Baker looked up. “What makes you say that?”
Warner shrugged. “I don’t know; it’s just a feeling.”
A glance at his watch, and Baker bolted for the door. “I’d better go, or she’ll get home before I get there. Call me later.”
The door slammed shut, and Warner threw the toothpick away.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER A QUICK SEARCH through Micki’s apartment, Baker returned to his car, which was parked around the corner. Though the location provided an ample view of the subway entrance, it was still far enough away that Micki wouldn’t spot the Camaro unless she was specifically looking for it. Or turning down Twenty-First Street to go to the bank. He hadn’t thought of that.
But Micki appeared with only a glance to check for oncoming traffic before walking across. He started the car, waited briefly, then drove to the light.
Shit! Instead of going into her building, she’d paused on the stoop. She was staring right at him. It looked like she was about to give him the finger, but then thought better of it. Turning away, she shoved the door open with so much force he could picture it banging against the interior wall and rebounding as she went inside.
But maybe it was better this way. He couldn’t exactly spend the rest of the day staking out her apartment. If she believed he was lurking somewhere, waiting, it would probably deter her just as much as if he actually were. Confident she was watching, he turned the corner and drove slowly down the block until he found another parking spot. Sure enough, not five minutes later, she stuck her head all the way out the fire escape window. When she caught sight of him, she ducked back in and slammed the window down.
♦ ♦ ♦
FUCKING BASTARD! AND YET, if he weren’t there, she might’ve ended up doing exactly what he was thinking.
She paced around the room, then pounded the side of her fist against the heavy, clumsy wood of the dresser. But all it did was make her heart hurt. Cradling her hand, now red and swollen, she lay down on the bed to sleep. And while she would never have admitted it, she was grateful Baker was outside.
♦ ♦ ♦
BACK IN HIS APARTMENT again, Baker was standing over the telephone. Maybe he’d wait till after dinner. No matter how many times he tried to rehearse what to say, it never sounded right. He started to walk away, then went back and dialed, as nervous as he’d been when he’d called her after their first date. It rang seven times. Just when he was about to hang up, he heard, “Hello?”
“Cynthia?”
“Hi, Jim.” Her voice sounded far away. “I guess I should’ve called.”
“No, it’s okay. I think I’m the one who should’ve called. But I just—well, I have something to say.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “I guess I really don’t know how to deal with what’s happening; I’m still kind of shocked. And—and I’m confused about us. But I meant it when I said I’d help no matter what you decide—”
“Jim—”
“Even if you don’t want to see me anymore—”
“Jim—”
“No, let me finish. I don’t want you to think—”
“JIM!”
He fell silent.
“I lost the baby.”
“You lost it?”
“I miscarried; it started this morning. The doctor called it a spontaneous abortion. It’s very common for first pregnancies.”
“Jesus! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s like having my period. Only … weird.”
“Well, you don’t sound okay.”
“I’m just very tired.”
“You sound depressed.” His tone softened. “Did you want to keep it?”
“No, I’d pretty much decided not to, but”—her voice cracked—“but still …”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“I really need to be alone right now.”
“Well, can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine. Really. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He hung up the phone. And felt strangely numb.
♦ ♦ ♦
HE POURED A DRINK, lit a cigarette, and sat down in the living room to watch the evening roll in outside the window. What did that mean, exactly: “It’s like having my period, only weird.” He’d never been able to imagine what it was like to get a period in the first place—to bleed every month. What a hassle that had to be. When his last girlfriend had had an accident overnight, he’d been shocked by the amount of blood all over the sheets.
His eyes widened. Man, he’d been really dense. That was what was missing from Micki’s apartment. For over two months he’d been checking every inch of the place, and not once—not once—had he ever seen any of those “feminine hygiene” products: no sanitary napkins, no tampons.
He’d bet anything she wasn’t pregnant, but, at seventeen, how could she not get her period? There was no mention of it in his copy of her file. Then again, he didn’t have her medical records. He sighed. No sooner did one problem go away than another came along to replace it. Just what was he supposed to do now—ignore it? That was, of course, his first choice. But what if something were seriously wrong? What if she needed some sort of medical attention? Unfortunately, with Cynthia going through this pregnancy thing, he couldn’t exactly ask her for help. Which left the school nurse and Angie; they were the only other females he could think of at the moment. But he could hear Cynthia saying there was no reason he couldn’t talk to Micki himself. He was a grown man, wasn’t he? Micki was his responsibility.
And, as usual, Cynthia would be right.
Besides, it wasn’t like Micki would have to go into graphic detail. He’d simply find out what, if anything, she knew. If he felt it was necessary, he’d take her to a doctor. He poured another drink. Well, it had waited this long till he even realized what was going on; it could wait another week before he questioned her about it. Things needed to settle down a little first.
The phone rang, and he started, the whiskey sloshing around inside the glass. He rushed over to pick up the receiver, body tensing at the sound of Warner’s voice. But when he hung up, he felt that maybe—just maybe—everything would straighten itself out.
He smoked another cigarette before stretching out for a nap.
♦ ♦ ♦
OPEN BOOKS, INDEX CARDS, and papers full of notes covered the little red kitchen table. Warner massaged his forehead in a futile attempt to ward off the headache he’d felt coming on since lunchtime. But trying to work on his dissertation was pointless anyway: all he could think about was Micki.
Although his knee-jerk reaction had been to get her out from under Baker’s authority, it wasn’t nearly so clear-cut. Baker could’ve been lying when he said it was either him or Heyden, but Warner was inclined to believe him. And as much as he deplored Baker’s brutality, Heyden sounded even more unacceptable. Either way, it was unlikely another guardian could easily be found. Just thinking about his encounter with Micki that morning made him shudder.
The throbbing in his head was getting worse. Sharply focused behind his left eye, it felt like a dulled stake was being driven through the socket. This was the kind of headache he’d have to sleep off. He stood up and looked at the table littered with academic artifacts. To think he actually felt that, right now, it was best to do nothing.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER RETURNED TO Micki’s at ten to ten, the lights were out. Since she didn’t work Mondays, she had all of ten minutes till she violated curfew. He sat in his car, smoking, knowing she could be anywhere, doing anything. He should’ve kept a tighter watch on her.
Another twenty minutes went by before he shut the radio and opened the Camaro’s door. Immediately, he heard two angry voices: one male and one female—though the latter wasn’t Micki’s. As he crossed the street and drew closer, he could tell the altercation was coming from Micki’s building, from the basement apartment that had its own entrance below the stoop. Up till now, he’d never heard anyone else inside the place, though several times he’d caught music—Andy Williams or Perry Como—coming from somewhere on the first floor.
Loud and vulgar, the argument seemed to be escalating. However, once he was inside the entryway, it was significantly hushed; by the time he reached Micki’s apartment, completely inaudible. But he could hear Micki inside: the unnerving moans and mumbles, the restless thrashing. He hadn’t expected her to be home, let alone sleeping. When he unlocked the door and cracked it open, the ugly row from the basement was once again distinct, carried up on the outside air and through the poorly sealed windows. Micki, however, appeared to be fighting her own private battle in some terrifying dream world.
Heart heavy, he eased the door shut and locked it. At least she wasn’t doing drugs.
Or so he hoped.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI DRAGGED HERSELF THROUGH school on Tuesday, talking to no one and never raising her hand. In what little time she had before work, she took refuge in sleep. Baker, having followed her home again, hung around till she left for Bel, then went home himself to take a nap. But after a dinner of sardines and frozen peas, he cleaned his guns and then his ashtrays. As soon as Mr. Antonelli gave him the call, he shut the TV and returned to his car.
Back in Queens, he parked on Forty-Fourth Drive, east of Bel but on the opposite side, facing west. Perfectly positioned. All so he could sit in his car and smoke, eyes glazing over as he watched the restaurant from his bucket seat instead of the Nets game from the comfort of his recliner. Not that things weren’t happening: further down the street, a series of kids—mostly boys—were going in and out of an alley. It had to be the one that led to the parking lot where Officer Roberts had picked up Micki. At one point, a large group came out together, including Rick, who had his arm around a trashily dressed blonde—the girlfriend, no doubt. Baker puffed away, free fingers tapping against his thigh while he watched the two laugh their way toward Twenty-Third Street.
Micki finally left the restaurant, and Baker waited till she’d crossed the road before he turned the engine over and followed. While she went into her building, he looked for a space, but was forced to double-park. Slumped down, he lit a fresh cigarette, only to see her apartment go dark less than ten minutes later. Eyes trained on her front door, he shook off the fog and straightened up. When she failed to reappear, he was once more standing in the hallway. Listening.
Wednesday was a carbon copy. Until he dropped his keys on the way out. Swearing silently, he bore a hasty retreat. But the noise had cut through the mangled images of her unconscious. She awoke to the sound of heavy footsteps hurrying down the stairs while her heart was racing so fast it was hard to breathe. Tangled blanket and sheet were thrown off, and she rushed to the window to peek through the curtains. Paused on the concrete, Baker was lighting a cigarette. He waved out the match, then looked back over his shoulder. It seemed their eyes met, though she was sure he couldn’t see her in the darkened window. Or could he? He turned to fully face the building, staring up at her, the streetlamp casting a long, black shadow before him. And though he turned and walked away, his shadow seemed to stay.
♦ ♦ ♦
BY THE TIME BAKER stopped by Cynthia’s, it was pushing midnight. Seated at her dining room table, drinking coffee, he felt like he was at a casual business meeting instead of the short date they’d agreed to earlier. And, in time, Cynthia revealed her agenda: she’d continue to see him only if he remained civil about her seeing Mark, as well.
Baker caught himself gazing at one of the paintings hanging on the wall. A Picasso-style canvas in bold colors and striking lines, it presented parts of a face like scrambled pieces of a puzzle. He’d always hated the work. Tonight he couldn’t stop looking at it. He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he asked if their plans for Thanksgiving were still on. When she said yes, his heart leaped, then stuck in his throat: according to the terms of Micki’s release, he was required to leave her at Heyden while he was away.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE EARLY MORNING SUN was blinding, and Baker pulled down the shades. Alone in the security office, he was pacing back and forth, waiting for Warner to arrive. Just as he was about to pour another cup of coffee, the other man walked through the door.
“I was wondering if you could help me out with something,” Baker said.
Taking off his coat, Warner replied, “Depends.”
“Would you consider supervising Micki over Thanksgiving?”
Warner grabbed a mug and pulled out the carafe. “No.”
“Really? But why not? If you don’t, I’ll have to leave her at Heyden while I’m gone.”
“Can’t do it. I’m sorry.” He put the coffee pot back and opened the refrigerator.
“But it won’t be much of a hassle; you’d only have to check on her once a day and leave your phone number with my answering service. I don’t expect her to get into any real trouble; she’ll be working most of the time.”
Warner added milk and began to stir the steaming liquid in front of him. “Sorry, but I can’t, okay? I just can’t.”
“I thought you cared about her.”
“I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Putting the spoon down, Warner looked at him. “Just forget it, okay?”
“You’re so fucking quick to criticize, but you won’t actually do a goddamn thing yourself.”
“The kid scares me.”
“She scares you? What the hell happened the other day?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened, but there’s no way I’m taking responsibility for her.”
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER A BRIEF VISIT to the weekly poker game, Baker parked his car across from Micki’s building. Window open, arm resting on top of the door, he was waiting for her to leave Bel Canto. A figure finally emerged from the alley beside the restaurant, then marched into the road. And it didn’t matter the distance or that the lighting was poor, he would have recognized that little tough-guy walk anywhere as she made her way down the block, looking ahead at the row of cars on either side—looking for him. She went straight up to the Camaro and leaned over to talk through the window.
“Y’gotta watch me the whole friggin’ day ’cause y’got nothin’ better to do with y’time?”
He opened the door and got out, but Micki was already halfway across the street. He let her go inside alone while he finished what was left of his cigarette, eventually mashing the discarded butt into the asphalt with the toe of his shoe.
When he entered her apartment, she was hanging up her damp T-shirt from work, pointedly ignoring him.
“I saw your teachers today for Open School Day,” he said.
Her back to him, she poured herself a glass of Coke. “So?”
“So they had some interesting things to tell me.”
Bubbles were fizzing up in a rush through the dark brown liquid. She’d poured the soda too fast. In a minor eruption, the mocha-colored foam was spilling over, running down the sides of the glass and onto the Formica into a little puddle. She turned to face him. “Yeah? Like what?”
“Like your art teacher telling me students take their work home every few weeks. She was surprised I’d never seen any of yours. What happened to it?”
“I threw it away.”
“You threw it away?” When Mrs. Holtzberg had pulled out Micki’s folder, Baker had been astounded. There’d been pencil sketches of hands, other students’ faces, and a glass—all looking incredibly real. “She’s very talented,” the teacher had said, smiling. “If she wants to, she could become a professional artist. She’d have to take classes at an art school or college, but she’s got the raw ability.”
“They’re mine,” Micki said. “I can throw ’em out if I want to.”
“But why? You should be proud of them; you should hang them up. I’d hang them up if they were mine.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her mouth twisted. “Y’wanna hang one up on your refrigerator?”
Nice shot, he said to himself. But then a curious expression came over him. “I don’t know, Micki. Would you like me to hang one up on my refrigerator?”
“They’re … they’re mine,” she repeated.
“I see. Well then, there’s another issue we need to address: every one of your teachers—every single one of them—informed me that you haven’t handed in any homework since last Friday.”
“I’ve been … tired.”
“You’ve been tired? Well, guess what? You’re not tired anymore. Now you’re going to sit your butt down at that desk and start your homework—and not just tonight’s homework; you’ll do last Friday’s, as well. Then tomorrow you can make up Monday’s, and, over the weekend, you can catch up on the rest.”
“Y’can’t force me to do my homework.”
Slamming his palms just under her shoulders, he shoved her back against the counter. “Get over there.”
Something flashed across her face. It looked like … betrayal. Inwardly, Baker cringed.
She snorted. “Y’gonna beat me up f’not doin’ my homework?”
He shoved her again though there was no place left for her to go. “Is it worth it to you to find out?”
She stood her ground.
“Answer me.”
Trapped beneath his gaze, the counter pressing into the base of her spine, she felt very small. “No, sir,” she said quietly.
He took a step back, and she moved past him, picking her books up from the table and taking them to the desk. She sat down with a thud and opened her loose-leaf.
“Are you still reading Two Gentlemen of Verona?” he asked, for he thought he spied its back cover on top of the pile of texts.
Without turning around, she took a long, labored breath—he was such a pain in the ass!—and answered, “Yessir.”
“Jeez, I hate Shakespeare.”
She rolled her eyes for the benefit of the window.
“I’m going to the corner to get something to read,” he said, and started for the door. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Who the fuck cares, she thought.
♦ ♦ ♦
COFFEE IN ONE HAND, a copy of Newsweek tucked under his arm, Baker returned. He threw his cigarettes, matches, and keys on the table, then took off his jacket and sat down.
Just make yourself right at home, Micki thought, and continued writing at a furious pace.
“That better be legible,” he said. He’d seen some of her classroom notes. Apparently, the faster she wrote, the larger and sloppier her penmanship became. One of her classmates had even nicknamed her the Phantom Scrawler.
Mid-scribble, she ripped out the page, crumpled it up, and threw it to the floor.
He removed the lid from his coffee, lit a cigarette, and opened the magazine.
She started writing again.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI STOOD UP. “I’M done.”
Nearly two in the morning, Baker had been on the verge of making a final coffee run. He walked over. “Let me see.”
Gritting her teeth, she watched him page through her work while he was standing so close she was breathing in his scent. It brought back the warmth of his skin against hers, the sensation of his body moving underneath her hands—
“What happened to tonight’s history homework?” he asked.
“We didn’t get any.”
“Let me see your assignment book.”
She yanked it out from under the physics text and slammed it down on the desk.
He calmly picked it up and flipped through. “You’ve got two tests tomorrow: physics and math. Did you study for those?”
“Y’don’t need to study for that stuff: either y’know it or y’don’t.”
“But you have to memorize formulas for physics, don’t you?”
“I’ve got it all down cold. Besides, he’s been letting us use a reference sheet.”
Tossing the pad onto the desk, Baker looked at her fixedly.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll pass both of ’em.”
He grabbed the front of her shirt, twisting it into his fist and pulling her toward him. “I don’t want you to just pass, Micki. Till now, you’ve been getting grades of a hundred or in the high nineties; I expect you to keep that up.”
Her heart was pounding, the question in her eyes left hanging in the air.
“So I’m going to ask you again,” he said. “Are you really ready for those exams tomorrow?”
She was so tired. And he was taking this school stuff so fucking seriously. “Yessir.” she said.
He let go. “I hope so, because I want to see them once they’re graded.” He went to the table, put on his jacket, pocketed his things, and picked up the magazine. Looking around at the clutter that had overtaken the room, he said, “And straighten this place up.”
Fuck you, she thought.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER HE’D GONE, SHE poured her glass of Coke—now warm and flat—down the drain. She cleaned the sticky counter, picked the crumpled paper up from the floor, and put away the clothes that were lying around. But she didn’t touch the empty Styrofoam cup from his coffee. Or the saucer he always used as an ashtray. They both stayed on the table. Exactly where he’d left them.
♦ ♦ ♦
A LIGHT SNOW WAS beginning to fall. Outside the windshield, tiny flakes were swirling in the breezy air.
“What do you care?” That was Micki’s unvoiced question. “What do you care if I don’t do my homework or study for my tests?” But the real question was, why didn’t she care anymore?—not that he wanted to hear the answer.
The snow hit the ground, then disappeared. It was too warm for anything to stick. Baker sat a moment longer, recalling the look on her face when he’d shoved her. Even now, it made his stomach turn. He started the engine and switched on the headlights.
Thank god she couldn’t tell when he was bluffing.
♦ ♦ ♦
CONFIDENT THE PHASE OF greatest danger had passed, Baker didn’t park in front of Micki’s until one o’clock in the morning the following night. He’d already told Mr. Antonelli not to call anymore—not that he could’ve kept up his little surveillance routine much longer anyway. It had taken a much heavier toll than he’d anticipated.
When he saw Micki’s lights still on, he made a pit stop at the deli, then took his time walking back along Forty-Fourth Drive. Coat half-unbuttoned despite the near-freezing temperature, he was mulling over the evening’s date, which, from the very beginning, couldn’t have gone much worse. He’d been so pleased Cynthia wasn’t spending a Friday night with Mr. LA that, spotting a program for the actor’s weekend showcase—an experimental theater piece—lying on her kitchen counter, he’d asked her why she wasn’t at the performance. When she’d explained she was going to the final show and then the cast party afterward, he’d been crushed.
The misery continued with a short stroll to see a movie that was disappointing, then a drive all the way down to the East Village to an Indian restaurant that was uncharacteristically noisy and crowded. Afterward, they returned to her apartment for coffee and dessert, at which point the conversation had turned inexplicably stiff—as though they hardly knew each other. At half-past midnight, they exchanged a modest kiss at the door, and Baker, feeling patronized and tolerated like an unwanted puppy, left. He was heading up First Avenue, looking forward to the solitude of a drive on the New York State Thruway, when he remembered Micki. Cursing loudly, he’d then crossed over to Second and gone downtown toward the bridge. At least traffic had been light.
He went up the stoop and into Micki’s building, the coffee—in a thick paper cup instead of the usual Styrofoam—burning hot in his hand. When he let himself into the apartment, she was at the table in her nightshirt, drinking cocoa. Their eyes locked, and her body tensed.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“Whatta y’want?”
“Are we going to go through this every time I come here?”
“Why don’tcha just stop comin’ here?”
“Y’know, I’m trying to be patient with you, Micki, but you’re really pushing it. Did you at least get your homework done?”
“It’s Friday. I don’t havta do it till Sunday.”
“But I told you yesterday that I wanted Monday’s homework done tonight.”
Her gaze shifted past him. “It’s all there.”
“Then what the fuck are you arguing with me for?”
She shrugged.
Slamming the unopened container of coffee on the table, he said, “You can be such a goddamn pain in the ass.” Then he went to the desk and started leafing through her binder.
Forcing back a smile, she threw the remainder of her hot chocolate down the sink and began to wash the mug. He glanced over and noticed the jeans she was wearing.
“Were you just outside?” he asked.
Still with her back to him, she placed the mug in the drainer. “No, sir.”
“Then what’s with the jeans?”
She turned around and folded her arms over her chest.
“There’s no need for that, Micki.”
She shrugged.
Baker’s expression softened. “You’ve been very tired lately.”
“Yeah, y’think so? Well, last night y’kept me up till two in the morning doin’ homework.”
“I think you’ve been sleeping worse than usual anyway the last few days.”
As if you really fucking care, she thought. She walked to the side of the bed that was furthest from him and announced, “Well I wanna go to sleep now, okay?”
“Okay.” And he turned and closed her loose-leaf. Then he ran his fingers over its blue fabric cover and, much to her annoyance, straightened up some items on her desk. “When I saw your light on”—he faced her again—“I bought myself a cup of coffee. I figured you’d be up for a while.”
So what, she thought. Who the fuck cares about your fucking coffee.
He added, “I’d rather drink it here than in my car.”
He wasn’t really asking about the coffee. She shrugged again. “Whatever.” With her back to him, she began to unbuckle her belt.
Baker went over to the kitchen, took out his cigarettes, and lit one. When he looked back, she was already under the covers. Lying on her side, she was facing the door. He shut the light, sat down at the table, and pulled the lid off the paper cup.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER A FEW MINUTES had passed, Micki opened her eyes and glanced at him. A dark figure, large and silent, he was looking toward the windows, the tip of his cigarette a changing orange glow. Only one week had passed since the senior dance, but it seemed more like years, the memory so strange and out of place she could almost believe she’d imagined it. But she shouldn’t have let him stay; should’ve told him to take his goddamn coffee and go. So what if he knew she didn’t trust him anymore? She’d never really trusted him to begin with.
♦ ♦ ♦
NOT ALLOWING HIMSELF TO look, Baker could feel her watching. He nursed the coffee till it was cold, all the while thinking about how nervous he’d been lately: first sitting at the poker game with Captain Malone yesterday, then tonight when he’d been out with Cynthia. But no one, apparently, sensed any difference in him. And if Cynthia were to notice some sort of change, their relationship was so strained she’d probably attribute it to that. He wondered if she was sleeping with that asshole actor yet. He refused to even acknowledge the man’s name, forgot it time and again as soon as it was mentioned. He’d just seen it on that damn theater program, and still he couldn’t bring it to mind.
The last bitter drop of coffee gone, he looked over at Micki. Lying on her stomach, arms tucked in tight, she was asleep. It was an easy, peaceful slumber, same as the other time he’d done this. He got up and let himself out, hoping she’d sleep just as soundly the rest of the night.
That was, after all, the real reason he’d stayed.