OVERCAST SKIES THREATENED SNOW, but the weather reports claimed it wouldn’t start till after midnight. Baker was late. Standing at the window, Micki was watching the street and thinking about sleeping some more until he got there. Maybe he’d forgotten. A yellow VW Beetle put-putted by in search of a parking spot, and then she spotted the familiar blue Camaro pulling up behind it. Her heart jumped, and she watched as Baker double-parked in front of her building. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was looking at something in the newspaper while he headed for the stoop. She threw her jacket on, checked her pockets, and grabbed her keys. As soon as he knocked, she opened the door.
“Never just open the door,” he said. “Always ask who it is first.”
“I saw you from the window.”
“Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why don’t you grab your books and throw some stuff in your bag—you can stay over at my place tonight.”
“Why?”
“Change of scenery, that’s all.”
He stepped inside to flick some ashes into the saucer.
She gathered her things together.
♦ ♦ ♦
BECAUSE MICKI LIKED RIDING in the car and listening to the radio, they drove all the way up to Westchester for a three twenty showing of The Return of the Pink Panther. This latest movie with Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau was supposed to be the funniest yet, and they weren’t disappointed; the hapless French policeman was at the top of his form.
Afterward, they went to a nearby diner made up to look like a medieval castle, a coat of arms flying from a banner on top of the roof. Inside, while waiting for the hostess, they watched oversized cakes go round and round in a glass carousel. They were soon seated in a booth, where they took off their jackets and examined the menus. When the waitress arrived and pulled out her pad, they both ordered burgers, fries, and Cokes.
They were munching on crackers when Micki said, “I don’t like the new patrol cars.”
“The turquoise ones?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the color.”
“But the old white-tops—with that awful green and black—are so ugly.”
“But these are too pretty—too friendly. I mean, they’re police cars.”
Baker chuckled, and their platters arrived. They took turns pouring ketchup all over everything.
“So tell me something,” he asked after taking a bite, “’cause I’ve been curious.”
Micki’s chewing became cautious.
“I know how you got your last name, but I’ve always wondered how you got your first name.” Sipping his soda through a straw, he raised his eyebrows.
Micki put her burger down, then picked up a French fry and swirled it around in the pool of ketchup on her plate. Eyes glued to the French fry, she asked, “Have you stopped drinking?”
“Yes.”
She looked up. “Not even beer?”
“Not even beer.”
“How come?”
“Because I have a problem with alcohol.”
She returned to playing with the French fry, which proceeded to break in half, its hot, white center releasing aromatic steam. She looked up. “You have to swear you’ll never tell anyone.”
Caught with his mouth full, he swallowed what he was chewing and wiped a bit of ketchup off his lips. “Okay.”
“No, you have to actually say it.”
Though most of his face bore a solemn expression, a gentle smile was creeping its way into his eyes. “I swear I won’t tell a soul, Micki—cross my heart and hope to die.”
She rolled her eyes, then took a deep breath and put the French fry down. “Okay—so … the place I fell asleep in ’cause I thought it was safe—y’know, that first night that I can remember—that was Tim’s hangout. When he found me there, he was really pissed. I woke up with a knife to my throat.”
“Jesus! Really?”
“Yeah—well—he said, ‘Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your fuckin’ throat right now.’ Of course, I couldn’t, and, I dunno, I thought I was good as dead. But then the next thing I know, he asks me my name. And I thought if I told him the truth—that I couldn’t remember—he’d never believe me. So—um—on the floor, there was all this garbage, y’know? And I noticed this old magazine that was open to an article about Mickey Mantle. So—so I just said, ‘Mickey.’ ” Looking at Baker expectantly, she twirled the upright ketchup bottle around on top of the table.
His knitted brow relaxed while a grin began to emerge. “But you spell it M-i-c-k-i.”
“Well, I didn’t want anyone to know.” God, he could be so dense.
Throwing his head back, Baker laughed, and Micki looked at him with an uncertain smile. He said, “Mickey’s a normal enough name—more so for guys—but still, I don’t think anyone would’ve guessed where you got it from.”
She shrugged, mouth twisting with mild irritation.
He added, “Thank god it wasn’t an article about Yogi Berra.”
And though she hung her head to try to hide it, Baker could see she was laughing.
Breezing to a stop by their booth, the waitress inquired, “How are we doing here?”
Gaze fastened on Micki, Baker replied, “We’re doing just fine.” The waitress moved on, and Baker leaned back, affecting the mannerisms of Inspector Clouseau “in disguise” as Monsieur Guy Gadbois: his shoulders, eyes, and cheeks twitched, his face sometimes assuming an almost pained expression. Then he raised his glass of soda, and, in his best Clouseau voice, said, “Here’s-a loo-king at-a you, kid!”
Micki giggled.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI TURNED ONTO HER back. Though she’d fallen asleep several hours earlier, she was now wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
For just a moment, she feels a pulling sensation in her leg, as if it’s about to knot up. And then she’s completely paralyzed and on her left side, someone pressing heavily on her right shoulder. Left pudgy cheek squished into the mattress, it’s hard for her to breathe, and only one eye, wide with terror, is open.
But now she’s looking down from the ceiling and feeling nothing—she’s numb. The room is squalid; the only furniture, the bed. But she can see herself on it, no more than an infant, her naked little body still clothed in baby fat. Behind her, a man is standing, hips thrusting while, out in the hallway, there are others—including her father. And something is changing hands. But the man in the room is doing something horrible to her. He hates her and wants to punish her for being female—even though she’s so tiny.
Once again in her little body on the mattress, her heart is racing so fast and so hard that she thinks it’ll burst. Bright flashes of light are coming from the direction of the door.
And then it’s over. Micki’s back in Baker’s apartment, still staring at the ceiling.
She’s starting to remember.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE NEXT MORNING, BAKER made eggs and toast, but was the only one eating them. Micki’s breakfast was a Nestlé Crunch bar that she was poking around on the plate in front of her. Chewing slowly, he eyed her selection, then her. She refused to meet his gaze. Halfway through her “meal,” she lost interest and merely sipped her coffee, directing a vacant stare at the middle of the table.
Baker put his toast down with a heavy hand that knocked the butter knife off his plate. He needed this shit like a hole in the head. “What’s bothering you?”
Still staring at the Formica, she shrugged.
“Hey!”
She looked at him.
“What’s wrong?”
She studied his face: the dark eyes, the deepening lines … But all she said was, “Nothing.”
He let it go. Maybe this was some strange rebound effect from the pleasant time they’d had yesterday.
But he didn’t think so.
♦ ♦ ♦
TWO UNIFORMED OFFICERS WERE leading away the senior Jamison had caught attacking a junior girl on a staircase that led to the basement. This was the second attempted rape since Baker had been at the high school. Seated at his desk, he was starting in on some paperwork when the phone rang. He was surprised to hear Malone’s voice on the line: “Good news, Sergeant.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“ARE YOU WARM ENOUGH?” Baker asked.
“I’m fine,” Micki said, looking out the passenger window. Baker was driving her to the hospital for her weekly session, but all she really wanted was to go home and sleep. All day long, the images from the night before had intruded on her thoughts—even during a surprise physics quiz.
Sleet was falling steadily, and Baker pulled up to the hospital’s entrance so he could let her out before he parked. She released her seatbelt and unlocked the door, but then hesitated. “Would you come up with me?”
♦ ♦ ♦
“WHAT A PLEASANT SURPRISE,” Dr. Lerner remarked as Baker followed Micki into the office. “To what do I owe this?”
“Is it okay?” Micki asked.
“Yes. Though in the future, I’d prefer to schedule family sessions separately—in addition to your private ones.”
Family sessions! “I—um”—Micki took off her jacket—“I just thought I’d give this another shot.”
Already seated, Baker lit a cigarette and flashed an anxious smile, though no one was even looking in his direction.
When Micki had settled herself, the doctor asked, “What is it you’d like to talk about, Micki? My guess is, you had something particular in mind.”
With everyone’s eyes on her, she fidgeted. “Yeah. Well—I dunno. Things—seem different now. I wanna know if it’s real.”
“In what way are they different?” the doctor asked.
“Y’know …” But both the doctor and Baker remained silent, so Micki said, “He’s more—relaxed about stuff. And he doesn’t, y’know, even search me anymore.” Then looking at Baker, she added, “He still searches my apartment, though.”
“I’m worried about you using drugs. I know it isn’t easy staying clean.”
“Then how come you stopped the other?”
“Because I feel I can trust you not to bring contraband to school. And because—and because it makes me uncomfortable now.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.”
The doctor said, “You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well, why should I be? He can say anything he wants. How do I know if he really means it?”
“You don’t think I’m being honest?” Baker asked.
Micki shrugged.
“Why would I lie?”
“Maybe you just want me to think you like me now so I won’t try to kill myself again. I’m sure that didn’t go over too well with—with—y’know.”
“So you think this is all an act? So I’ll look good?” Baker’s voice was rising.
“Why not?”
“So yesterday I was only pretending to have a good time?” Shaking his head, he shifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “Jesus, Micki.”
She looked at him sitting there with his right ankle crossed so casually over his left knee. Cigarette smoke was wafting toward his eyes, and he was squinting slightly as he took another hit. “I dunno, okay?” she shot back. “I dunno anything anymore! How do I know if y’really feel anything?”
He nodded while he exhaled a large stream of smoke and stubbed out the Camel. Still looking at the ashtray and grinding out the cigarette, he said, “I breathed life back into you.” His voice had come out choked, and he turned his face away.
Her mouth fell open. Voice so low it could barely be heard, she said, “I just—I—I dunno. You’re only my guardian ’cause y’have to be.”
Both feet now planted firmly on the floor, he leaned forward so his forearms rested on his knees. “Captain Malone called me this morning. He said I can go back to my squad whenever I want.”
Lips in a thin line, she averted her gaze, eyes alighting on the doctor’s bookcase and Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams.
“I told him I’d wait until the school year ended.”
She turned back. “What?”
“I think it would be best if I were there until you graduate.”
She was almost unaware that the question “why?” had escaped her lips.
He lit another cigarette. “Because you could use some stability in your life.”
Still looking stunned, she said blankly, “Oh.”
Lerner asked, “How do you feel about that, Micki?”
“I dunno,” she replied. “How am I supposed to feel?”
“Well then, how do you feel about Sergeant Baker?” Lerner asked. “Last time you were both here, you were very angry at him.”
Micki glanced at Baker, then looked back at Lerner.
“You were especially angry,” Lerner continued, “about his having had sex with you.”
Micki took to staring at her hands, which were sitting in her lap.
“How do you feel now?” the doctor asked.
There was only the ubiquitous, careless shrug.
Body tense, Baker smoked.
“I’d really like you to answer,” the doctor pressed.
“I—I guess I don’t feel so angry anymore,” Micki said.
“What’s different?”
Micki stared out the window. The sky was completely overtaken by clouds. “I dunno. I’m not sure. It all seems so far away now, and—and I don’t think he did it to hurt me.”
Feeling a familiar stab of pain, Baker closed his eyes.
But before Micki had a chance to say more, flashes of the previous night’s images returned, and her eyes grew panicked. When she caught Lerner observing her, she felt as though the doctor could see right into her head.
“Our time is up for today,” Lerner said. “But perhaps you’d like to schedule another appointment this week, Micki?”
“I have to work.”
“Perhaps Saturday morning.”
“It’ll almost be Monday again anyway.”
“I understand,” the doctor said. “I’ll see you next week, then.”
Baker looked from one to the other.
“And I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dr. Lerner said to Baker with a smile.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, grinding out his cigarette and standing up.
♦ ♦ ♦
BUT THE NEXT DAY, Lerner was called away on a family emergency, and Baker ended up badgering Warner for insight into Micki’s odd behavior.
“For chrissakes, give it up,” Warner finally said. “I can’t answer these questions. You know Micki far better than I do. I may be getting a Ph.D. in psych, but I’m not a friggin’ mind reader.”
Baker went home, took off his jacket, and went to pour himself a drink. When the liquor cabinet’s door refused to open at his tug, his face filled with astonishment. He straightened up, retrieved his cigarettes, and lit one, smoking fiercely. Then he threw some things in his gym bag and hurried out.
♦ ♦ ♦
“YOU BETTER THINK THIS through very carefully,” Gould cautioned.
“I have,” Baker replied. Phone cradled between his head and shoulder, he was about to light a cigarette, then returned it to the pack.
“Well—you better be one hundred percent sure before you say anything. If you change your mind and take it back, it’s gonna be a million times worse than if you never said anything in the first place.”
“So you think I should leave things the way they are.”
Gould sighed. “I can’t answer that. Alls I know is it won’t hurt nothin’ to do nothin’.”
“I’m thinking about what Micki needs.”
“You better be thinkin’ about what you need, too.”
I am, Baker thought.
“It’s gonna affect you,” Gould continued. “We’re talkin’ major lifestyle change.”
“Not really.”
“Jeez, I don’t know. What’s the rush? What’s another week? Wait so’s you can talk to the shrink about this.”
“Yeah, okay,” Baker said reluctantly.
Gould’s tone brightened. “Do you realize that, two weeks from today, I’m gonna have been married ten years?”
“Ten years? Shit!”
“We’ll be throwin’ a little party the Friday after next. Bring Cynthia if you want. By the way, did you—um—ever return the ring?”
“I couldn’t. I felt like such an ass.”
“Lenny’ll still take it back—seein’ hows you’re my partner and all. You know that, right?”
Baker took a deep breath, “I think I’m going to hold on to it for now.”
“Yeah? So things are going good, eh?”
Picturing the grin on Gould’s face, Baker smiled himself. A kid started crying in the background.
Gould said, “I gotta go but I’ll give you a call in a few days.” And he hung up.
Baker got a can of Coke, then sat in the dark, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the chair. He wanted to talk. To Micki. He couldn’t explain the sense of urgency. But it wouldn’t go away.