The Night Parade(5)

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look at it.”

“It’s just old.”

“Why’s it so big?”

“This is how TVs looked before they were flat.”

“Does it work the same?”

“Sure.” He found the remote Velcro’d to the top of the set. “Here,” he said, switching it on. The TV hummed, crackled, then came to life with a bleary image. Some sitcom with canned laughter. The color looked a bit off, the actors’ skin a sour yellow.

He handed the remote to Ellie—he had to pry one hand away from the shoe box and shove the remote into it—then opened the pink suitcase. He snatched up the gun and ammo that were buried inside and quickly tucked them into his own duffel bag, then proceeded to empty some of the contents of the suitcase onto the bed. An old Chutes and Ladders game, some Harry Potter and Shel Silverstein books, a drawing set with colored pencils and graph paper. They weren’t Ellie’s belongings, but they would suffice. He took out a pair of pink pajamas, suddenly wondering if they would fit the girl. What the hell, it didn’t matter. This wasn’t a fashion show.

“The clicker doesn’t work,” she said, examining the TV remote, which she clutched in one reddened hand. David noticed that her fingernails had been gnawed down to nubs.

“Maybe the batteries are dead. You can change it manually.”

“What does that mean?”

“You can . . .” he began, then leaned forward and punched one of the channel buttons on the front of the set several times. The image on the screen bounced from sitcom to news program to QVC to a tampon commercial. “See?”

“Oh.”

“There’s some pajamas for you.” He nodded toward the bed, where he’d laid them out. “Why don’t you go into the bathroom, wash up, and change?”

She peered at the folded pink pajamas over her shoulder. Then at the books and games. After a moment, she said, “Those aren’t mine.”

“I know that, hon. It’s all we’ve got.”

“Why?”

“It’s just . . . it’s what we’ve got.”

“Where’d they come from?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“That house?”

“Yes, Ellie.”

“What about a toothbrush?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “We’ll have to skip it for tonight. I’ll buy us some toothbrushes tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to wear those pajamas.”

“You’ll be more comfortable. We can get new pajamas tomorrow, along with the toothbrushes. It’s just for one night.”

“I’d rather sleep in my clothes.”

He sighed. There was no fight left in him. It didn’t matter, anyway. “Okay. Fine. In the meantime, why don’t you go wash up best you can in the bathroom. There should be some soap in there.”

Wordlessly, she set the shoe box on the bed, then got up and made her way to the bathroom. She closed the door, watching him through the narrowing sliver as it closed until the latch caught and he heard the lock turn. A few seconds later he heard the water clunk on in the sink—a snake-like hiss.

All of a sudden, he thought he would throw up. There was a plastic ice bucket on the floor beside the nightstand and he snatched it up while he simultaneously dropped down on the edge of the bed. The mattress springs squealed as if in pain. Clenching the bucket between his knees, he hung his head over it, salivating, waiting for the wave of nausea to either pass or for a burble of acid to come rushing up and out of his throat.

It was the thought of Kathy that eventually had him gagging and vomiting into the receptacle. He did it as quietly as he could, for fear Ellie might hear him, and when he was done he set the bucket outside the door next to a concrete ashtray. In such a short period of time, the night had grown considerably colder.

Ellie eventually came out of the bathroom, her auburn hair damp and down around her shoulders, her face looking fresh and clean. She wore only her undershirt and panties, and she clutched her clothes to her chest. He considered saying that she might be too cold without the pajamas, but in the end, he decided to let it go. He was spent.

Ellie folded her clothes and set them atop the dresser as David grabbed his duffel bag and headed toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower. Don’t open the door for anyone. Understand?”

She nodded.

“If anyone knocks, you come and get me.”

“Who would knock?”

“No one,” he said.

“When you come out, can we call Mom?”

“No, honey. Not right now.”

“How come?”

He considered this. “Because it’s very late,” he said in the end. “She’s probably asleep.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling the word sting his tongue like battery acid. His throat suddenly felt very thick. “Tomorrow.” He blew her a kiss and went into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

The water came out of the showerhead steaming hot, which both surprised and pleased him. Leaning toward the mirror, he tugged down one lower eyelid and then the other. The skin underneath looked pink and moist, marbled with a delicate network of blood vessels. He turned on the ceiling vent, checked the lock on the door a second time, then set the duffel bag on the counter and opened it.