LOOKING LIKE SHE MIGHT grab it from him if she had to wait a moment longer, Micki took the pink piece of paper Baker handed her. On it she saw:
Physics—99
Calculus—99
English—99
American History—98
Economics—95
When he saw her copying the numbers down and calculating, he asked, “What’re you doing?”
“I wanna see what my average is.”
He put his finger next to the UN—unsatisfactory—she’d gotten for general conduct. “That better improve next time. It was supposed to go up.”
Staring at the desk, she said, “Yessir.”
“Otherwise, that’s—that’s an excellent report card.”
She looked up. “Thanks!”
“Yeah, well, give it back to me now so I can sign it.”
For the rest of homeroom, he avoided any eye contact with her.
♦ ♦ ♦
GAZE FOCUSED ON THE ceiling, Micki watched the play of shadows and listened to the sounds coming from the street: an occasional passing car, some kids hanging out … At one point she heard a bottle break; a little later, the rev of a motorcycle engine before it screeched away. But mostly she was concentrating on the radio. As part of a Thanksgiving Day special, the station was playing sets of songs by different bands before it commenced its official countdown of the top one hundred rock songs of all time.
She was hungry again. Though hours till dawn, she’d already been up for quite a while. When she’d opened her eyes and couldn’t fall back to sleep, she’d decided to have breakfast, take a long hot shower, then go back to bed. With no school for four days and no work till Friday, what difference did it make if she did things at crazy times? And though the water had become icy cold less than five minutes after she’d turned it on, it hadn’t dampened her spirits. Not only had Baker said something nice to her for once, but the desire to shoot up had finally burned itself out. Yesterday, midway through her shift at the restaurant, she’d realized it was gone. And Baker would be gone. When asked about his holiday plans, she’d heard him mention to several people that he was taking a trip to Vermont with Cynthia.
The radio was in the middle of a set of one-hit wonders. Marmalade’s “Reflections of My Life” came on, and Micki turned up the volume. But as the second verse started, she heard a car slow down, then stop in front of her building. She heard its door open and close. It was Baker. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Footsteps were coming up the stoop, and then the downstairs door opened.
She jumped out of bed, switched on the desk light, and frantically threw on her jeans. It wasn’t even four o’clock in the morning. Wasn’t he leaving on his trip today? The footsteps reached the landing and drew closer to her door. His key was turning in the lock while her fly had caught on her nightshirt.
He stepped into the apartment.
They stared at each other across the room. She was still buckling her belt. He closed the door. She shut the radio off. Leaving only silence.
Eyes narrowed, Baker looked her over. When he’d gotten out of the car, her apartment had been dark. Now the light was on and she was wearing jeans. “Anybody else here?” he asked as he turned on the overhead fixture. Then he strode over to the fire escape window, stuck his head out, and looked down.
“Not that I know of.”
He closed the window and locked it, then walked over to the closet and the bathroom—both empty. “Why were you getting dressed?”
“I heard the car.”
“That could’ve been anybody; how did you know it was me?”
She shrugged.
“You looked out the window?”
She shook her head no.
A chill shot through him.
She said, “Y’know, you left your car running.”
“Cynthia’s waiting down there. I wanted to keep the heater on.” Micki’s shoulders relaxed until he added, “I need you to get dressed and throw a few things in your bag. You’ll be staying at Heyden till Sunday.”
Her entire body tensed. “Why can’t I stay here?”
“You’re not allowed to be here without my supervision.”
“I’ll stay out of trouble. I’ll—”
“Micki! I’m in no mood for arguments.”
“Is this ’cause a what happened Monday? ’Cause a the fight? ’Cause I got drunk?”
“The decision was made long before then.”
He’s leaving me there for good, she thought. Not just the weekend. She swallowed hard. “I—I’m supposeda work a lot this weekend—extra shifts an’ all. Mr. Antonelli—”
“Knew last week,” Baker interrupted. “He’s already made other arrangements.”
So everybody had known. Except her.
“Get dressed,” he repeated. “I don’t like leaving Cynthia down there alone.”
“Well, she coulda come up, y’know.”
Baker pulled out his lighter and lit a cigarette.
“Oh, I see,” Micki said. “She doesn’t belong in a dump like this.”
“Just get dressed, Micki.”
She took her shirt and bra into the bathroom to change, then came out and put her sneakers on. With a couple of rough tugs, she yanked her little duffle bag out of the closet from under her laundry. But on her way to the dresser, she stopped to glance at Baker. Leaning against the door, he had one leg casually crossed over the other at the ankle. And his right arm, lying across his waist, was propping up his left as he smoked. Underneath his leather jacket, which was still zipped—unusual for him—she could see the collar of a black turtleneck. And he was wearing a new pair of jeans. Black jeans. She resented this for some reason. Her eyes met his, traveled all the way down to his leather boots, then back up to his face.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked. “Committing me to memory?”
She went to the dresser. That was exactly what she’d been doing. No matter what, she would remember that once—just once—she’d made it with a guy that looked like him. And in her mind, it would always be tender and romantic. No one had ever been that way with her. Probably no one ever would again.
“Hey!”—he grabbed a fistful of clothes out of her hand and threw them back in the drawer—“you only need enough for three days. You certainly don’t need these T-shirts.”
“They’re mine. I bought ’em with my money that I earned. I can take ’em if I want!”
“You’re only staying there through the weekend. How many times do I have to say that? Don’t you think I’d have the balls to tell you if I were leaving you there for good?”
Her icy stare was cynical.
“Give me that!” And he snatched the bag out of her hand. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he proceeded to pack whatever he thought was appropriate. “Go get your toothbrush and all that stuff.” She did as she was told, then lifted her mattress and removed her money and bankbooks. He went over and grabbed them. “You won’t be needing these, either.” She glared at him while he stubbed out his cigarette. He was about to return her things to their hiding place when he paused: between the fire escape right outside the window and the cheap lock on the door, just about anybody with half a brain could get into her apartment. He stuffed the money, checkbook, and savings-account passbook in his jacket pocket. “I’ll hold on to these so they’ll be safe.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I don’t need any of your smart mouth right now.”
“Yer always such a dick.”
His nostrils flared. “Put your jacket on, and let’s go.”
While she was shoving her arms into the sleeves, she spied her radio.
“Leave it,” he said.
“What’s the fuckin’ difference t’you?”
His palm connected with her body just below the shoulder, jolting her. And then his finger was in her face. “It’s a long drive to Heyden. And if you don’t straighten out your act, I could make it very uncomfortable for you.”
“Like I fuckin’ care at this point.”
He dropped the bag to the floor. “That’s it; I’ve had it.” The cuffs were in his hand. “Turn around.”
She held her ground.
“Don’t test me, Micki. Because, one way or another, I’m going to get these things on you.”
Eyes blazing, she turned and put her hands behind her, letting him slap the metal around her wrists. Then he picked up the bag and opened the door.
She walked out without a final glance. I’m coming back, she told herself. But only part of her believed it.
He hadn’t taken her schoolbooks.
♦ ♦ ♦
JUST AS THEY REACHED the first floor landing, Baker yanked her to a stop. In a frenzied whisper he said, “Don’t you dare say a word to Cynthia about what happened between us.”
“I thought y’said she wouldn’t care.”
He shook her. “Did you hear what I just said?”
Voice weary, she replied, “I told ya I wouldn’t say nothin’ t’anybody.”
“Yeah, but that was then.”
“I got no reason t’hurt her.”
“But you’ve got plenty of reasons to hurt me.”
“Not at her expense.”
Baker lowered his eyes. And for the rest of the way out to the car, the grip on her arm was less severe.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER OPENED HIS door, Cynthia woke up. From the way he was helping Micki get in—one hand on her head so she wouldn’t bump it on the roof, one hand on her arm to steady her—Cynthia knew Micki was cuffed.
“You keep your mouth shut,” he ordered Micki. “I don’t want to hear a word out of you.”
Now sitting up very straight, Cynthia looked like she was about to object, but then faced front again. Baker pushed the back of the bucket seat upright, threw Micki’s bag in the trunk, and got in himself. Cynthia shot him a nervous glance.
“Everything’s fine,” he said. But when he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw Micki’s eyes glued to the front door of her building. He shifted the car into first and pulled away.
Once her apartment was out of sight, Micki unwound her body and slouched down. But after a few minutes, she started to twist and squirm: her cuffed hands were pressing into her spine while her lower limbs were mangled. The front seats—to accommodate two pairs of very long legs—were pushed back as far as they could go. She caught Baker’s eyes in the rearview mirror and immediately looked away. Three hours—that’s all she had left.
♦ ♦ ♦
NOTHING ABOUT THIS VACATION augurs well, Baker thought. They’d initially planned on arriving at the White Horse Inn by late Thanksgiving Eve; that’s how he’d made the reservations last year. But two weeks ago, Cynthia had gotten a call for a television commercial to be shot on the Wednesday of their departure: yesterday. To keep the peace, she’d agreed to leave at this insane hour so they’d at least reach Vermont by early Thanksgiving Day. He, in turn, had promised to let her sleep the whole drive up if she needed to—which seemed highly likely. Apparently, the shoot hadn’t ended until after midnight. After midnight. He couldn’t fathom how a sixty-second advertisement had to take a whole fucking day to shoot. But then, what did he know? He was just a cop. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut about things like that. Their one lucky break was that Heyden wasn’t too far out of their way. But what a lousy way to start a trip.
A truck and a run-down van were the only vehicles in sight as the Camaro crossed the Triborough Bridge, Baker skimming along in the right-hand lane. But as soon as they’d reached the other side, he pulled over on a level span of shoulder. Engine still running, he left the car in neutral with the emergency brake engaged.
“What’s wrong?” Cynthia asked.
“Nothing.” And he got out and pushed the back of his seat forward.
Micki stared at him. “I haven’t said a goddamn thing since we left.”
“Give me your hands.”
It was then that she saw the tiny key he was holding. Her eyes flicked up to his before she twisted around so he could remove the handcuffs.
Without another word he got back in the car, and, once again, they were off.
♦ ♦ ♦
ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER—the sky still black but dusted with thousands of stars—they stopped at a Howard Johnson’s for breakfast. The restaurant was large and empty, the aroma of coffee, grease, maple syrup, and cigarettes mingling in the air, forever circulating through the ventilation system. The only diners, they were seated in a booth up front—Cynthia on one side and Micki on the other with Baker next to her, facing the door.
Their waitress, who wasn’t more than a few years older than Micki, looked like she’d been crying and was about to start again any minute. She asked if they wanted coffee, and Baker said yes for all of them. She filled their cups and said she’d return.
Cynthia, studying the menu intently, said she was starving—which meant she might actually eat an entire English muffin. Already knowing what he wanted, Baker simply glanced over the choices. Micki’s menu, however, lay unopened in front of her. And with nothing else to look at—the dark windows more like mirrors—her attention settled on Cynthia. The woman wore no make-up, and there were dark bags under her eyes. Her hair, tied in a low ponytail, hung in front of her left shoulder while oversized hoop earrings glowed rich and warm. She looked like a gypsy. Micki shifted her head and took to staring blankly over the tops of the booths.
Wriggling out of her coat, Cynthia said, “Oh, it’s so warm in here!”
Baker merely unzipped his jacket.
Micki was silent.
Cynthia asked, “So, tell me, Micki: what’s your favorite subject at school?”
Micki’s gaze refocused, eyes filled with such darkness that the woman’s smile faltered. Baker, barely breathing, waited: god only knew what kind of profanity was going to come out of Micki’s mouth.
“Physics,” Micki finally replied.
“Physics! Really!” Cynthia said. “Boy, when I was in high school, you never heard a girl say that. People gave me a hard time just for loving math so much.” Cynthia grinned. “The guys better watch out; we women are taking over.” And she winked.
Micki’s expression didn’t change.
“So—um—what do you especially like about physics?”
Micki’s jaw tightened. But then she said, “Quantum mechanics. And special relativity. Mr. Taubenfeld, my physics teacher—he’s my favorite teacher—gave me a book so I could teach it to the rest of the class.”
“Wow, you must be extraordinarily bright,” Cynthia said.
But Micki, now looking at the far wall, was contemplating how unlikely it was that she’d ever get to make that presentation.
And Baker recalled the book Micki was referring to, a white paperback with a red circle on it: Space and Time in Special Relativity by N. David Mermin. He’d first seen it about a week and a half ago. Even for the accelerated program she was in, he’d thought the topic a bit advanced. Yet he’d never asked her about it—never even asked her, in all this time, what her favorite subject was.
Eyes and nose redder than before, their waitress, dabbing at her face with a tissue, came back to take their order.
“I can’t decide,” Cynthia said, “between the English muffins and the corn toasties. Hmm …” She played with her ponytail. “I guess I’ll have the English muffins.”
Handing the waitress his menu, Baker said, “Scrambled eggs with French fries. That comes with toast?”
“And juice.”
“I don’t want the juice.”
“I’ll take your juice,” Cynthia said. Then she looked at the waitress. “Orange juice?”
“Or tomato or grapefruit.”
“Ooh, I’ll have the grapefruit.”
The waitress nodded, then looked at Micki.
“Nothing.”
“I’m paying, Micki, so order whatever you want,” Baker said.
“I don’t want anything.”
The waitress collected the rest of the menus. But as she turned to leave, Baker stopped her. “Bring her the same thing I’m having.”
The waitress nodded and hurried away.
Doing a slow burn, Micki looked down at the paper placemat. It had a bunch of stupid games printed on it. And then she had an idea. How fortunate that, like Baker, she’d kept her jacket on. “I need to use the john,” she said.
He got up to let her out, his jacket shifting to reveal the handle of a large gun in a shoulder holster. Micki’s throat constricted: the son of a bitch was such a liar. He had no intention of bringing her back from Heyden. She started for the restrooms, only to find that he was following. Almost sick, she still reached for the door, but he yanked her back behind him and knocked.
“What’re you doing?” she asked.
When there was no response from inside, he opened the door and went in. Micki followed. To the left was a row of sinks with the stalls just beyond. Straight ahead was a window of frosted glass.
“Well, this works out fine,” he said. “Go on.”
“But—but y’can’t stay in here.”
“Why not? There are doors on the toilets.”
“But this is the ladies’ room.”
As if on cue, the door swung open. It was their waitress, most definitely on the verge of a fresh crying jag stopped dead by the shock of seeing a man in the women’s bathroom.
Baker, blocking her entry, flashed his badge in front of her saucer-shaped eyes. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”
And though it hadn’t seemed possible, her eyes widened further.
“Nothing to be concerned about,” he said. “We’ll be out of here shortly.”
Since the girl made no effort to move, Baker essentially closed the door in her face and, arms folded over his chest, leaned back against it. “Well, let’s hurry it up here, Micki; somebody’s waiting now.”
Cursing silently, she went to the furthest stall—ignoring the damn window—and pushed in the door. She looked at the toilet, pictured Baker standing by the sinks, then marched back to where he was waiting. “I changed my mind,” she said.
“Gee, what a surprise.”
They returned to the booth to find the waitress had just served their food, the table now full of plates and condiments. Micki, mouth in a thin line, stared past Cynthia, who was studying her with a concerned expression: Cynthia’s seat afforded a partial view of the restroom area.
When Cynthia turned her gaze to Baker, he said, “I had to go in with her, Cyn.” He looked at Micki with an odd mixture of emotions, adding, “And she knows why.”
Fuck you, Micki thought.
No one said anything.
Cynthia glanced from Baker to Micki.
No one moved.
Then Cynthia picked up half of an English muffin to smudge the tiniest dab of butter across the top. The knife scraped against the browned irregular edges of the craters. It was the only sound.
Micki was staring across the room.
Baker was staring at Micki.
Until Cynthia, still buttering the muffin, said in hushed tones, “So—um—our waitress just got dumped by her boyfriend; that’s why she’s so upset. High school sweethearts, they were. He went away to college while she stayed home. He’s in his senior year now. Last night he returned for the holiday and told her he’d fallen in love with someone else.”
Baker picked up the ketchup and used it to douse his eggs and French fries. Leave it to Cynthia, he thought, to get a total stranger to pour her heart out.
And then the couple began to talk about the weekend: scenic drives, long walks, and evenings in front of a fire. Sunday, before heading back to the city, they’d drop in on Cynthia’s parents to have lunch.
“My mom,” Cynthia said, “told me it already snowed quite a bit by them. I’d like to rent some skis and do some cross-country at the inn. Would you try it, Jim?”
“I’ll give it a shot—have to see if my knees can handle it.”
Tuning in and out of the conversation, Micki was catching bits and pieces of the idyllic scenes the couple was painting, her own mind conjuring up images of Heyden. She wanted to tell them both to shut the fuck up. Instead, she drank her coffee. But left the food untouched.
Baker quickly cleaned his plate, the bright-red ketchup left behind like a finger-painted design. Cynthia, eating much more slowly, was still working on her first English muffin, to which she’d added preserves.
The waitress, stopping by to pour fresh coffee, asked, “How’re we doing here?”
“I’m done,” Baker said.
“Me, too,” Cynthia said, and pushed back her plate.
“Are you going to eat any of that, Micki?” Baker asked.
Eyes fixed on her cup, she said, “No, sir.”
“It’s a shame for that to go to waste.”
She looked at him. “So put it on my tab.”
He snorted and flashed a wan smile. But Cynthia had caught the sadness in his eyes.
“You can take her plate,” Baker told the waitress. “And I’ll take the check.”
♦ ♦ ♦
DAWN WAS BREAKING. BUT before they got back on the highway, they stopped for gas. While the tank filled up, the attendant cleaned the windshield and then the back window, the squeegee squeaking across the now-crystal-clear glass. Micki thought of Mr. Paladino, her economics teacher. His special quirk was to sponge down the blackboards and squeegee them dry.
Her heart hurt.
They drove on into the morning, the light playing differently across the scenery as the sun rose higher, patches of mountains left in shadow from clouds that had moved in. Cynthia was sleeping, her hair—having come loose from the ponytail—draped over the side of the reclined seat.
But the signs for Albany were growing more prominent. And by the time the car left the highway, Micki’s stomach had worked itself up into such a state that she thought she was getting an ulcer. They braked for the stop sign at the end of the ramp, and Cynthia woke up.
“Hey, Sleepyhead,” Baker teased, “could you read me the directions?” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She yawned.
Micki imagined grabbing the sheet of instructions and ripping it into tiny little pieces.
Not that that would do any good.
♦ ♦ ♦
A SPARSE COATING OF white covered most of the landscape now, and the sky had clouded over. The guard opened the gate, and they drove along the road leading to the main building. From time to time, Baker glanced at Micki in the rearview mirror. When the full expanse of the facility came into view, he saw the stricken look on her face.
“You okay back there?” he asked.
“I’m just fuckin’ great.”
“You watch your mouth—”
“Jim!” Cynthia said, lightly touching his arm.
Micki stared at the buildings and grounds she thought she’d never see again. Actually, she had to hand it to Baker: not once had he thrown it in her face that, in a moment of despair, she’d said she wanted to come back to this place.
He stopped the car in front of the largest building, a standard, institutional-looking structure that contained the administrative offices, the cafeteria, and the high-security cells. Surrounding it, in a semi-circular pattern, were several pleasant-looking cottages that housed the general population. It wasn’t until he stepped out of the Camaro and looked past the extensive network of well-manicured lawns and recreational fields that he saw the high stone wall topped with barbed wire that enclosed the entire compound. He pushed the back of the seat forward. “Let’s go,” he said to Micki. She got out while he removed her bag from the trunk. But before he closed the door, he bent down into the car. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Cyn. This shouldn’t take long.”
Eyes pale, she replied, “Sure.” Then, leaning across the seat so she’d be seen, she said, “Bye, Micki.”
Micki turned away.
Baker shut the door and took another look around. Under the cold, grey sky, the deserted grounds looked faintly blue. Yet very real. Until this moment, Heyden had been an abstraction, a step removed—like watching some disaster playing out on the nightly news. But here he now was, about to deliver Micki back into the hands of people he didn’t know and couldn’t trust. She’d been tormented here. He stared down at her, but could only see the top of her head—she was looking back down the road.
“I had no choice,” he said quietly.
She shrugged.
No tears, he thought. The kid never cries. For all she knows, I am leaving her here for good—and still nothing. He breathed in to ease the tightness in his chest. But the harsh morning air only stung his lungs. “Look at me,” he said.
“Jesus, leave me alone already.”
“Look at me,” he demanded, reaching beneath her chin.
She knocked his hand away and stepped back. “Don’t you touch me!”
“Then look at me when I’m talking to you!” His words came out in little clouds of vapor that instantly dispersed into the atmosphere. “Don’t make this any worse than it has to be. Behave yourself and things’ll go a lot easier.”
She couldn’t tell if he was talking about her living at Heyden again or simply telling her not to cause a scene right then. Her gaze fell to his chest. After a couple of seconds she said, “I’m very cold.”
And indeed, Baker noticed, she was shivering. But it reminded him of his talk with her in the empty conference room: “Say whatever you want to me,” he’d offered, and her only reply had been, “I need a late pass.”
When he heard the door open behind him, a rush of warmth swelled in his heart, followed by a deep, aching pain.
“Sergeant Baker?” a woman asked.
He turned toward the voice. “Yes.” And then to Micki, “C’mon.” He followed behind her as they went up the steps and inside.
With the exception of a female prison guard waiting toward the back, the front office—full of grey metal desks, grey metal counters, grey metal filing cabinets, and flickering fluorescent lights—was empty.
Her manner officious, the woman who let them in said, “I’m Deputy Warden Leslie Stanton. I’m in charge while Warden Morrow is away for the holiday.” Her demeanor turned even colder when she added, “We spoke on the phone.” She didn’t offer her hand, and Baker didn’t offer his. Big-boned and wide-hipped, the woman had to angle herself a little in order to step behind the long counter that separated the nominal reception area from the clerical section of the room. Out of a file with Micki’s name on it, she produced a triplicate-typed form. She told Baker he could give Micki’s bag to the guard.
As he handed over the duffle—which was immediately and methodically searched—he said, “I appreciate your taking care of this at such an early hour—and on a holiday, no less.”
With a cool eye that said she was having none of it, Stanton pushed the papers across the metal counter. “If you’ll just sign these, Sergeant.”
He glanced them over and placed his pen on the signature line. After a moment’s hesitation, he wrote his name and straightened up.
Addressing the guard, Stanton said, “Search her thoroughly before you take her to C Cottage.”
“I already searched her,” Baker lied. “She’s clean.”
Micki’s jaw dropped while the guard, still holding her by the arm, paused.
Not trying very hard to suppress her smirk, Stanton inquired, “But you didn’t strip-search her, now, did you, Sergeant?”
“No, but there’s really no need for that.”
“I see. Well, let me remind you, then, that you just signed her over into my custody. I’m the acting warden here now. I am responsible for the safety and well-being of both staff and inmates at this facility, and I will determine what is and isn’t necessary at this time.”
There was something ironic about his receiving this little speech, so much like his own words to Micki when she balked the first time he patted her down. But he hated this arrogant bitch of a woman and the indignity she relished subjecting Micki to. So while everyone waited—the guard now looking annoyed—he reconsidered his options: he could take Micki on his trip with Cynthia—but that was out of the question—or he could cancel the trip and forfeit his money and vacation.
Knowing she was twisting his balls, Stanton’s eyes gleamed. And as soon as it was clear he would offer no further objections, she, once again, ordered the guard to go.
Micki took a last look at Baker. Maybe he was going to come back for her after all. But as she was led away, her heart plummeted like a rock into a maelstrom of churning, muddy waters when, behind her, she heard him say softly, “Bye, Micki.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BY THE TIME MICKI was shown to her cot, Stanton was already waiting. Looking smug, she said, “It certainly didn’t take you very long to return to us.”
“I’m only here till Sunday,” Micki retorted, an angry blush creeping into her cheeks.
“Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we.” And Stanton, head thrown back, cackled as she made her way out.