Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters,
or none that can be finally buried.
Finish one off and circumstances
and the radio create another.
Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently
to God all night and meant it,
and been slaughtered anyway.
If only they could all be explained away as easily as Michael.
How many times did she break off dates with him? Too bad, too. He'd seemed like a really nice guy.
He'd stopped her on the street outside her apartment building, asking for directions. Normally, she wouldn't have stopped, she was too aware of the lengths some people would go to in order to con others, to mug them, even to rape them. But he looked so hapless, staring at his map, his glasses falling down his nose, that she took pity.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for the Oakridge Mews," he said.
"Oh. It's just around the corner to your left," she replied. He looked up from his map and she saw then his firm jaw, his penetrating blue eyes.
"Thank you so much," he replied slowly, staring right into her. She felt a bit disconcerted. "I'm going to be looking at one of the apartments there," he explained, "I wish there was some way I could thank you." His manner was like this, very formal and polite. She guessed he wasn't from around here.
"Don't worry about it," Olivia responded, turning. She was late for work; she began to walk down the street away from him.
"Wait!" he called. She turned again to see him coming up behind her, puzzled. "Don't go just yet. I'm new here. I've just been transferred to a new job. I don't know anyone in New York. My name's Michael Easton." He stuck out a hand. Ordinarily, Olivia would have been suspicious, but there was something very sincere about this man.
"Olivia Benson. Look, I really have to be getting to work."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you," he said. He watched her walk off down the street and it wasn't until she rounded the corner that he realized he might never see her again.
Three months later, in late December, she ran into him again.
She was heading for the checkout when she realized she had forgotten to buy some milk. There was a long line-up of people buying last-minute fixings for their Christmas dinners. She spun around too quickly and smacked into the person behind her. The impact knocked them both over.
"Damn it." She got up on her hands and knees began to pick up her groceries from around her.
"I'm terribly sorry," said the man, "Allow me to help you."
"I'm okay, thanks," she said. He persisted in picking up her fallen items anyway. When everything was back in her basket, she finally looked him in the face. He looked strangely familiar. He was wearing a black trench coat over a pair of dress pants. He had on a red wool scarf and black leather gloves. There was a small poinsettia in his buttonhole.
"Thank you for your help," she said.
"Olivia…Benson?"
"Yes…" she replied, puzzled. He extended his hand. His grip was warm and firm.
"Michael Easton. We met a few months ago. You gave me directions." She shook her head.
"I'm sorry," she replied, "I don't quite remember."
"That's all right."
"Hey, do you mind? People are waiting," informed a rotund bearded man behind them.
"Terribly sorry," Michael replied. Olivia was touched by his manners. People like that were a rarity in her neighbourhood. It was then that she remembered when they had first met; he had been polite then, too.
"So, did that apartment work out?" she asked as she began to unload her groceries on the conveyor belt.
"I'm surprised you remember. Yes, I've been living in the Oakridge Mews for a couple of years. I suppose we're neighbours," he smiled.
"I suppose so." She smiled back.
"Paper or plastic?" asked the young, blonde cashier with a fake smile.
"Uh, plastic is fine," Olivia replied, searching in her bag for her wallet.
"Olivia," Michael began, "I hope you don't think this is too forward…" She found her credit card and handed it to the cashier.
"What is?" she asked.
"Well, I can't help but notice that it's December 23 and you're buying bread and carrots. Do you have plans for Christmas?" he inquired. She looked down at his basket of groceries: apples, cheese and toothpaste. When she didn't answer immediately, he continued more quickly, "What I mean to say is, would you like to come over for Christmas dinner? I don't have any other plans. It wouldn't be anything too fancy, I'm afraid to say." She thought about it. It seemed a little much for a first date, but Elliot and Kathy were off at Kathy's mother's with the kids, Cragen was meeting some old friends, Munch had been enigmatic about his plans, and Fin had mentioned he might be seeing his new girlfriend. Olivia's best friend from the Academy, Angela, had invited her over for the past couple of years since Olivia's mother's death, but ever since Angela had had a baby two years ago, Olivia couldn't help the feeling that she was intruding.
She looked into Michael's eyes. He looked so solid, though his voice had sounded so afraid she might refuse him. What the hell, she thought, it's better than being alone.
"Sure," she answered with a smile, "that would be nice." She could see him sigh with relief.
Outside the grocery store, fresh snow was beginning to fall softly. They exchanged phone numbers in the orange glow of the parking lot lamps.
"I guess I'll see you soon," Olivia said.
"Until then."
When Olivia got home and unlocked the door to her apartment, she realized meeting Michael had made her forget the milk.
Olivia knocked on Michael's door just after six o'clock on Christmas day, bottle of wine in hand. On the assumption that it wouldn't be anything formal, she was wearing a red chenille sweater and jeans under her coat. Michael, however, was wearing a high-quality, deep red button-down shirt and black dress pants.
"Come in," he gestured with a glowing smile. He accepted her wine graciously and showed her the coat tree. She was almost surprised he didn't hang the coat himself. "Dinner's almost ready. Why don't I show you around?" What he had referred to as an apartment was really more of a townhouse. Michael led her through the kitchen into the dining room, which contained a table set for two with red taper candles in the middle of it, and into the large living room. He only briefly gestured to the bedroom, without opening its door to show her. She wasn't sure whether he hadn't had time to clean it, or whether he was afraid of pressuring her. She guessed the latter.
"You have a very nice place, Michael," she complimented.
"Thank you. Why don't you have a seat and I'll bring in dinner?" She scanned the books on his immense bookshelf rather than taking a seat on one of the hard-looking blue sofas. The majority of the books seemed to be texts relating to literature. However, she also noticed a few books about hiking in the Maritime Provinces as well as a few trashy mystery novels. She sat down on a blue swing-backed chair and picked up his coffee table book of photographs of Canadian scenery.
"Are you from Canada, Michael?" she called.
"Yes, from Montreal," he replied, "Dinner is ready." Olivia returned to the dining room and was startled by the fastidiousness and sheer size of the meal on the table. She could recognize turkey, potatoes, stuffing, broccoli, and squash, but there were also several dishes she couldn't quite make out.
"Wow," she said as she sat down.
"Perhaps I did make too much. I'm sorry, I didn't ask if you had any food allergies, so I made some wheat-free stuffing and a meatless turkey." She blinked in amazement.
"No, no allergies," she replied. He sat down across from her and, with all the food between them, he seemed miles away. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself as he served them and she had to admit this was better than sitting in her apartment, watching It's a Wonderful Life for the millionth time, feeling sorry for herself. "So why did you leave Canada?" she asked, picking up a forkful of squash. She tasted it. It was exquisite.
"I got a job at Hudson. I teach undergraduate English Literature." She nodded. "What about you, Olivia? I never found out what you do." As if on cue, her cell phone rang. She felt a sinking feeling of she was about to disappoint him.
"Excuse me one minute," she said, stepping out into the living room to take the call. "Benson," she answered. It was Cragen, letting her know she was to meet Munch in the Alphabet City ASAP. "I'll be right there." She returned to the dining room but didn't sit back down.
"Is everything okay?" asked Michael, concern written on his face.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go. There's been an attack I have to respond to." She remembered she hadn't answered Michael's question. "I'm a detective," she clarified. She saw his face fall.
"It's all right. If you can wait a minute, I'll throw some of this food together for you to take," Michael offered. She felt horrible; she could hardly refuse. She went into the front hall and retrieved her coat and scarf from the coat tree. When she was ready to leave, Michael met her with a Tupperware container full of food. He looked fairly crestfallen.
"Thank you so much. I'm so sorry about tonight. Maybe we can do lunch sometime," she suggested. He seemed to perk up a little at the thought.
"I'll phone you tomorrow?" She frowned.
"Maybe I should give you my work number." She pulled out her card and watched him frown as he read it: "Detective Olivia Benson. Manhattan Special Victims Unit."
"Special Victims Unit?" he inquired.
"Um," she struggled to phrase it positively, "we deal with crimes involving children and…sexually-motivated crimes." His frown deepened and he furrowed his brow. She understood the reaction. She didn't suppose he'd signed on for someone with her job when he'd picked her up at the supermarket.
"Well, I'll talk to you tomorrow then, Detective," he said quietly.
"Thank you so much again, Michael." She didn't know exactly how to part. They weren't close enough yet to kiss or even hug and a handshake somehow felt too formal. She settled on a small, awkward wave.
Snow was falling so heavily the ploughs couldn't quite keep up. Olivia waded through a few drifts on her way from the place where she had parked to the crime scene on Avenue B. There, she saw Munch conversing with a uniform. He broke away and came to meet her.
"What do we have?" she asked. He led her over to a dark alley, which was now crawling with crime scene technicians.
"Our vic was found over here. She was raped and sodomized with a bottle. She's in a bus right now on her way to Mount Sinai. I was waiting for you before I headed over there."
"Did we find the bottle?"
"CSU has it."
"Where's your partner?" he asked as they made their way to Munch's car.
"I could ask you the same thing. Elliot's at the in-laws for Christmas."
"I don't know what my partner's doing."
"So how did we get roped into this? Didn't you have plans for Christmas?"
"What? A Red Sea pedestrian like me?" She smiled.
"Guess not." In the car on the way to the hospital, she tried to picture a future Christmas similar to the one Elliot must be having, but with her at the centre of the family. She saw the table loaded with food, saw Munch and Cragen and Angela's family all being hosted by her and…Michael? Could he fill those shoes? Could he be to her what Kathy was to Elliot: someone to take over at home while she tracked down rapists and pedophiles? This thought dampened the romance of the image.
He called six times in the following weeks.
"You have reached 555-4514. I can't come to the phone right now, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. –Beep-."
"Um, hi, Olivia. This is Michael Easton calling. I just wanted to let you know I had a nice time last night, even though you couldn't stay. I guess I'll try you at work."
"You have reached the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. Detective Benson is currently unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone, or, if you would like to leave a number where you can be reached, press one now. If this is an emergency, please call 555-6119. –Beep-."
"Michael Easton here. I was just calling to see how you are and to find out if you're going to be able to go for lunch any time soon. Please call me back at 555-9247. That's 555-9247. Thank you."
"Benson."
"Olivia? It's Michael."
"Hey. I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to get back to you. Things have been crazy around here."
"I read in the paper. Are you involved in investigating the missing girls?"
"Um, yeah. I'm not really allowed to talk about it, though, so…"
"I understand. Do you know when you'll be free?"
"I'm sure I can get some time off tonight. I know it's short notice… How about we meet at Bukowski's? Do you know where that is?"
"Yes, it's close to my building. At what time would you like to meet?"
"Is seven okay?"
"That would be fine." Olivia was about to say more, but she heard Cragen call for her and Elliot.
"Look, Michael, I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow." She hung up, forgetting to say goodbye.
"See you," he said to the empty line.
"You have reached the Manhattan Special Victims Unit…."
"It's Michael Easton calling," his voice was excited, "I just wanted to tell you I'm really looking forward to dinner tonight. You can call if you get a chance, but I guess I'll see you tonight otherwise. Hope you're having a good day."
"Benson."
"Olivia? It's Michael."
"Michael."
"Are you all right? You weren't at Bukowski's… I read that another girl was kidnapped…"
"I am so, so sorry. I haven't been home. I can't leave right now. We're close to breaking this thing, but it needs a little more time."
"I understand," he said, his tone indicating otherwise. God, she thought, why did a case like this have to come up just when she might have met someone worthwhile? "Maybe we could meet for lunch tomorrow. We could even go somewhere closer to your work, if that would help."
"Okay. There's a little Mexican place called Tita's."
"I know where it is. One o'clock?"
"I'll be there."
"Benson."
"Hello, Olivia. It's Michael again."
"Michael, I'm sorry. Did you get my message?"
"What message?"
"I phoned to let you know I couldn't meet you today. Did you go?"
"Yes, I waited for over an hour," he said, irritation present in his voice.
"I'm so sorry. I tried to get ahold of you. Look, can I call you when this thing blows over?"
"Sure." Somehow, they both knew she wouldn't call.
"How's it going, Maureen?" inquired Olivia, who had been invited to the Stablers' for dinner. "How's Hudson?"
"You mean the classes she's actually been going to?" Elliot commented.
"Dad," Maureen rolled her eyes, "It's okay," she answered vaguely.
"What are you taking?"
"Linguistics, Poli Sci, Biology, History, and English Lit," she rattled off.
"Sounds like a lot of work," Olivia observed.
"She's really enjoying English," Kathy smiled, "Eat some more broccoli, Dickie." She spooned some on to his plate.
"No," Dickie objected, pushing it away.
"Dickie," Elliot warned.
"Professor Easton's the best," Maureen clarified, turning to Olivia.
"Easton." Olivia hadn't heard the name in a long time, but she supposed she should have known his life was carrying on as usual, just like hers.
"Olivia Benson?" the voice came from behind her, somewhere between the bananas and the zucchinis. She turned and saw Michael Easton, looking somewhat older and more distinguished. The woman he was with had long, shiny brown hair and trendy glasses. She was wearing a pinstriped pantsuit. She looked out of place carrying the grocery basket full of toilet paper, bread, and bananas.
"Michael. I haven't seen you in…"
"Three years. Olivia, this is my wife, Monica. Monica teaches Women's Studies at Hudson. Monica, this is Detective Benson, she lives just around the corner from us." Monica extended a hand and gave Olivia a warm smile.
"Nice to meet you," said Olivia.
"Nice to meet you, Detective." Olivia couldn't quite identify what she was feeling: some mixture of disappointment and sadness. She couldn't help but think that, had she been a man, she could have found a woman to cope with her work schedule. She could have found a Kathy.
When she got back to her apartment and unpacked her groceries, she realized she'd forgotten the milk.
If my eyes roll and I mutter,
if my arms are gloved in blood right up to the elbow,
if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror
like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,
I do it in private and nobody sees
but the bathroom mirror.
