The Night of the Parents by Christopher Suarez
CHAPTER SEVEN
“How far away is your place?” I ask Jobie as soon as we’re out on the street.
“Not too far. Five blocks this way and then two blocks to the right,” he says, pointing.
I make an “after you” gesture with my hand. Jobie leads the way down the street.
The next five blocks are home to several more bloody pre-teen corpses, two more mashed together abandoned cars, and a burning storefront. At the end of the fifth block we turn right and suddenly Jobie stops in his tracks. He turns to face us, both arms spread out to block our way.
“Cross over to the other side,” he says curtly. At first I think he does this because his home is on the other side of the street. But then I see the tiny bloody bundle on the sidewalk a few feet behind him. It takes a few seconds for my mind to register what it is. A baby. A blanket-wrapped baby that some crazy mother or father must have spiked into the pavement like a football. Christ. I definitely don’t want Lynda to see that, so I position myself between her and Jobie and put an arm around her to guide her across the street. Unfortunately Madison gets a glimpse of the tiny bundle and immediately knows what she’s seeing.
“Good God,” she says, raising a hand to her mouth.
“What?” Lynda asks.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “Just walk.”
“Good God.”
“What is it?” Taylor asks.
“Just another body,” I tell him.
We don’t encounter any more people on the last two blocks, dead or alive. We don’t find any more wrecked cars. We don’t hear any more screaming. It’s as if we’re passing through a “No Apocalypse” zone. The houses on Jobie’s block turn out to be small, neat, one family houses. The lights are on in four of them. The rest are dark.
“Have you thought about what you’re gonna do if your mom isn’t smashed when we get there?” Madison asks Jobie, a real edge to her voice.
“She’ll be smashed.”
“What if she isn’t?”
“Then I’ll pour her a drink.”
“And if her need to kill you is greater than her need for a drink?”
“It won’t be. But even if it is, there are four of us and only one of her, and she has no strength at all. The only thing she ever lifts is a bottle.”
Madison isn’t convinced. “I need a weapon.”
“There are plenty of things you can use at my place.”
“I want to have something before I get to your place.”
“Then look around.”
“I will.”
A minute or so later we pass a run-down looking house that has a lot of junk in its driveway: an old, battered couch; two equally battered kitchen chairs; a filthy Big Wheel tricycle; three big cardboard boxes full of gardening tools and junk. The owner is either planning on having a yard sale or already had one. Without asking the rest of us to hold up Madison walks up the driveway and starts looking through the boxes. After poking around for a while she pulls out this weird gardening tool that I’ve never seen before. It looks like a metal spade attached to a wooden handle about half the length of a broomstick. She rejoins us on the sidewalk holding the weird extra-long spade propped up against her shoulder, the same way Jobie holds his baseball bat. “This’ll do,” she says confidently.
Ever the cool kid, Jobie just shrugs. “Looks good,” he says, then starts down the street again.
An angry, adolescent male voice shouts out from one of the dark houses.
“You think you’re man enough to kill me? Me? Man, you couldn’t kill me with a goddamn bazooka, punk!”
Obviously a son facing off with his homicidal father. This one clearly has no fear of his old man.
“Sounds like somebody has his situation under control,” Taylor says.
Two long-haired, leather-jacketed boys of about sixteen race towards us on bicycles, hooting and hollering and waving samurai swords. “Yeah, that’s right!” the one in front shouts as they pass us. “Arm yourselves!”
“Yeah baby!” the other hollers.
They speed off down the street.
“Lynda and I should have weapons too,” Taylor says.
“Why didn’t you get one back there?” I snap. Damn, what a flake. Lynda too.
“I didn’t think of it back then.”
“Well it’s too late now.”
“You said you have stuff we can use, right?” my brother asks Jobie.
“Sure,” Jobie replies. “If that’s okay with your older sister.”
“Of course it is.”
“I can speak for myself,” I say.
“Well why wouldn’t it be? Suppose something happens and Lynda and I get separated from you.”
“You won’t get separated from me as long as you use your heads.”
At the end of the block Jobie directs us to cross back to the other side of the street, where there’s an apartment building on the corner.
“I live on the fourth floor, apartment four C,” he says.
We enter the vestibule. Jobie tucks his bat under his arm, takes his key out of his pants pocket and lets us into the lobby, which is clean and graffiti free. He leads us to the elevator and presses the up button.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “We should take the stairs. I mean, what if we go in there and there’s a power failure? Nine-One-One isn’t responding, and even when they start up again they’ll have to take care of all the murders first. We’d be stuck in there for days.”
Taylor’s not keen on the elevator either. “And what if your . . . what if some psycho adult is waiting for us in the hallway when the doors open? We’ll be cornered.”
“We have weapons,” Madison counters, smirking.
“We should take the stairs,” I repeat.
“Okay, okay,” Jobie says finally. We follow him to a door marked “Stairs”. The stairwell, like the lobby, is clean and graffiti free but hot and stuffy despite the season. We climb the four flights to his floor and exit into a hallway that to me seems way too narrow for a residential building. Jobie leads us to his apartment and, without any hesitation, tucks his bat under one arm again and unlocks and opens the door.
“Come in,” he says casually. Gripping my branch tightly, I enter behind him. Madison nudges Taylor and Lynda inside, then closes the door behind us and locks it.
I expected Jobie’s apartment to be a mess because of his mother’s alcoholism, but it turns out to be very well kept. Okay, there are old, stained magazines spread out on the coffee table, along with a half full bottle of scotch and two lipstick-stained glasses, but other than that the place looks spotless. The carpet looks recently vacuumed, the two small end tables on either side of the couch – and the lamps on them – look dust fee, and the place smells of plug-in air freshener. My house is a hell of a lot messier.
Mrs. Tobias, Jobie’s mom, lies face down on the couch, unconscious. Her breathing sounds raspy and irregular, and she looks pale. Her face is puffy. She appears to be in her forties but she could be younger, depending on how much her alcoholism has aged her. Overall, she doesn’t bear much of a resemblance to her son. Her dyed blonde hair has brown roots though, so they have the same hair color.
As we all stare rudely at his mom, Jobie calmly places his bat in an umbrella stand by the door, then takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coatrack. He sits down in one of the two leather armchairs across from the couch.
“Is that your mom?” Lynda asks.
“That’s her.”
“She doesn’t look too good. I mean, she looks sick.”
“She’ll be okay.”
Without taking off my jacket I drop my branch and plop down in the other armchair, leaving Madison and my siblings chairless. Madison gives me a dirty look and sits down on the carpeted floor, as far from the couch as she can manage. She lays her weird superspade down at her side. Taylor and Lynda sit next to her. Like me, they all keep their jackets on.
“You
r mom’s a great housekeeper,” I say sincerely.
“Oh yeah, right,” Jobie sneers. “You think she cleans this place? I’m the housekeeper.”
“Oh. Well you do a great job.”
“Thanks.”
“Must be rough having to take care of everything.”
Jobie shrugs. “I don’t mind cleaning. Actually I kind of like it. It relaxes me.”
I point at his mom. “We should tie her up.”
“Is that why you won’t take your jackets off – because she’s not tied up? Because you’re all planning on running out on me if she wakes up and tries to kill me?”
“Only if she’s too tough to put down,” Madison says. “Alcoholics sometimes are. Even sick ones.”
Jobie laughs. “I tell you she’s no threat. I could put her down with one hand tied behind my back.” He points his foot at Lynda. “Hell, she could.”
Lynda’s not convinced. “We should tie her up anyway. At least her hands and feet.”
“She’s right,” I say.
Jobie shrugs again. “You tie her up if you want to. I’m not touching her.”
Something about that comment strikes me as odd. Gross or not, the woman on the couch is still his mom. Okay, I know boys often don’t want to be hugged anymore once they reach their teens, but should he really have such a problem about touching his mom’s wrists and ankles?
“Got any rope?” I ask him.
“What the hell would I have a rope for?”
I sigh. “How about twine? Or even an extension cord?”
Jobie disappears into the kitchen and emerges a moment later with an extension cord bound in a rubber band. I yank off the rubber band, unravel the cord and tie Mrs. Tobias’s ankles together with the plug end and her wrists together with the socket end. She doesn’t stir at all. When I’m done I step back from the couch and look down at the pathetic woman’s face.
“Is it me or does her breathing sound a little . . . slower?”
Jobie doesn’t even look. “I tell you she’s fine.”
“If you say so.” I take off my jacket finally, spread it out on the back of my armchair, and sit down again. Madison, Taylor, and Lynda take off their jackets too and throw them all in a pile in the middle of the floor.
“Well I guess we’re safe for now,” Madison mutters.
Jobie leans his head back and closes his eyes. “You’re safe.”
Unless his dad shows up. He’s always said that his dad abandoned him years ago, but what if that’s not true? After all, someone has to pay the rent on this place. His mom certainly isn’t employed. Even if she’s on welfare, I doubt welfare moms receive a rent allowance. What if his dad lives nearby and pays the rent, but Jobie never admitted it because he hates him for leaving his mom?
“Safe. Yeah. Yippie,” I think to myself. I want to ask Jobie who pays the rent but I know he’ll get pissed off if I do, so I keep my mouth shut.
Taylor once again puts his arm around Lynda and pulls her close to him. They both stare blankly at the jacket pile, looking like poster kids for the dangers of childhood trauma. I feel a sudden, powerful urge to comfort them but I know there’s absolutely nothing I can say that will make them feel better. I wonder: Is this the first time I’ve ever really cared about them? I search my memory for another occasion when I felt protectively towards them, but I can’t recall one. Has it really taken this nightmare to finally turn me into a caring big sister?
Madison draws her knees up to her chest, hugs them and rests her head on them. I have no idea what her sibling situation is. She hasn’t mentioned any since all this started. If she does have sibs does she give a damn about them? And what about Jobie? He’s an only child, so of course brotherly love is alien to him. But what about his feelings for his mom? I already know he has a hang up about touching her, but does he love her? He certainly doesn’t seem to. Will this horrible night eventually inspire him to care about her?
“Caril?”
Taylor, still holding Lynda close to him, eyes me curiously.
“What?”
“Back at that youth center, and in the park, why didn’t Dad call your name?”
Lynda eyes me too.
“Beats me.”
“Do you think it’s because of the way he’s always . . . disliked you?”
Hearing him say it, hearing someone finally acknowledge that I’ve been treated unfairly, leaves me temporarily speechless. I look down at the recently vacuumed carpet and try to think up an answer. They both wait patiently for me to respond.
“So you’ve noticed,” I say finally.
“Of course.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe the more a father usually loves a kid, the more he hates him tonight.”
“Then in a way you’re lucky.”
“I guess.”
Another moment of silence. Then: “Caril, I’m sorry I never spoke up for you. You know, when Dad got on your case.”
“Me too,” Lynda says, rubbing the back of her neck and grimacing.
I’ve always fantasized about them – and Marky – saying that to me one day. Usually in my fantasies we’re all older, in our thirties and, despite the unequal amount of parental affection we’d received as kids, all equally disappointed by life and bitter. I always respond by saying “Well why didn’t you speak up for me?” And the answer I get is always either “I was afraid to go against Dad” or “I don’t know.” Which one will they give me now in real life?
“Why didn’t you speak up for me?” I ask, still looking down at the floor.
Taylor comes right out and says it. “It made me feel superior to hear him put you down, since you’re older.”
“Same here,” Lynda says meekly.
“But we’re not. Superior.”
“Definitely not.”
In my fantasies, my response to their apology is always the same: “Go to hell! Your apology doesn’t change a thing! It might have back when I was a kid, but not now!”
I should say something like that now. After all, does any apology ever change anything? But they look so sad. So . . . remorseful. I can’t bring myself to be hard on them.
“Forget it,” I tell them. “What difference does it make now?” I look up at them finally and see that they’re both blinking back tears. “You two get some rest.”
I don’t know if they’re really tired or if they’re just glad to end our conversation, but they immediately lie back on the floor and close their eyes. I wish I could doze too, but now that they’ve apologized I’m more obligated than ever to protect them.
There’s a small, old model television with a cable and VCR hookup in the corner. I consider turning it on to see if the networks are still broadcasting, but decide against it. Everyone’s in rest mode at the moment, even Madison, and besides, what good will it do? Regardless of what any emergency broadcast anchorman says to do, we’re staying put.
A more important matter is food. I’m not hungry myself, thanks to the burger I had at the diner, but I’m sure the others are. At least, they will be once the trauma of the night starts to wear off. How much food does Jobie’s mom have in the apartment? Usually alchys don’t eat much. If it comes to a choice between filling the pantry with food and filling it with booze, they choose booze. But an alchy with a son might have a halfway decent food supply. As soon as Jobie wakes up I’ll ask him about it.
From somewhere out on the street comes the sound of another emergency vehicle siren, and with it vivid images of the last five hours. They pop up in my mind like pop up ads on a computer screen: June, battered and bloody, lying on that couch in the youth center; Dad and the other two psycho parents running down the street, chasing after our van; that crazy priest lying prostrate on the altar of his church; the dead boy curled up in the first pew; that poor dead baby on the sidewalk.
For some reason my mind circles back to the priest. He was out of his mind no doubt, but he sti
ll had his faith. I know it’s fairly common for crazy people to believe in God, or even to think they are God. Still, the fact that he held onto his faith through all this makes me feel slightly ashamed.
Should I pray? If I do, will He even listen to me, considering what a lousy Catholic I am? I remember how often I prayed when I was little, usually because I was upset about something Dad said to me. I always felt better afterwards. Will I feel better now?
Okay. Just a short one. Please God, let this nightmare end. Please, no more killing.
There. That’s it. To block out any more religious thoughts I reach for the remote to turn on the television. But before I can press the power button the doorbell rings.
“How far away is your place?” I ask Jobie as soon as we’re out on the street.
“Not too far. Five blocks this way and then two blocks to the right,” he says, pointing.
I make an “after you” gesture with my hand. Jobie leads the way down the street.
The next five blocks are home to several more bloody pre-teen corpses, two more mashed together abandoned cars, and a burning storefront. At the end of the fifth block we turn right and suddenly Jobie stops in his tracks. He turns to face us, both arms spread out to block our way.
“Cross over to the other side,” he says curtly. At first I think he does this because his home is on the other side of the street. But then I see the tiny bloody bundle on the sidewalk a few feet behind him. It takes a few seconds for my mind to register what it is. A baby. A blanket-wrapped baby that some crazy mother or father must have spiked into the pavement like a football. Christ. I definitely don’t want Lynda to see that, so I position myself between her and Jobie and put an arm around her to guide her across the street. Unfortunately Madison gets a glimpse of the tiny bundle and immediately knows what she’s seeing.
“Good God,” she says, raising a hand to her mouth.
“What?” Lynda asks.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “Just walk.”
“Good God.”
“What is it?” Taylor asks.
“Just another body,” I tell him.
We don’t encounter any more people on the last two blocks, dead or alive. We don’t find any more wrecked cars. We don’t hear any more screaming. It’s as if we’re passing through a “No Apocalypse” zone. The houses on Jobie’s block turn out to be small, neat, one family houses. The lights are on in four of them. The rest are dark.
“Have you thought about what you’re gonna do if your mom isn’t smashed when we get there?” Madison asks Jobie, a real edge to her voice.
“She’ll be smashed.”
“What if she isn’t?”
“Then I’ll pour her a drink.”
“And if her need to kill you is greater than her need for a drink?”
“It won’t be. But even if it is, there are four of us and only one of her, and she has no strength at all. The only thing she ever lifts is a bottle.”
Madison isn’t convinced. “I need a weapon.”
“There are plenty of things you can use at my place.”
“I want to have something before I get to your place.”
“Then look around.”
“I will.”
A minute or so later we pass a run-down looking house that has a lot of junk in its driveway: an old, battered couch; two equally battered kitchen chairs; a filthy Big Wheel tricycle; three big cardboard boxes full of gardening tools and junk. The owner is either planning on having a yard sale or already had one. Without asking the rest of us to hold up Madison walks up the driveway and starts looking through the boxes. After poking around for a while she pulls out this weird gardening tool that I’ve never seen before. It looks like a metal spade attached to a wooden handle about half the length of a broomstick. She rejoins us on the sidewalk holding the weird extra-long spade propped up against her shoulder, the same way Jobie holds his baseball bat. “This’ll do,” she says confidently.
Ever the cool kid, Jobie just shrugs. “Looks good,” he says, then starts down the street again.
An angry, adolescent male voice shouts out from one of the dark houses.
“You think you’re man enough to kill me? Me? Man, you couldn’t kill me with a goddamn bazooka, punk!”
Obviously a son facing off with his homicidal father. This one clearly has no fear of his old man.
“Sounds like somebody has his situation under control,” Taylor says.
Two long-haired, leather-jacketed boys of about sixteen race towards us on bicycles, hooting and hollering and waving samurai swords. “Yeah, that’s right!” the one in front shouts as they pass us. “Arm yourselves!”
“Yeah baby!” the other hollers.
They speed off down the street.
“Lynda and I should have weapons too,” Taylor says.
“Why didn’t you get one back there?” I snap. Damn, what a flake. Lynda too.
“I didn’t think of it back then.”
“Well it’s too late now.”
“You said you have stuff we can use, right?” my brother asks Jobie.
“Sure,” Jobie replies. “If that’s okay with your older sister.”
“Of course it is.”
“I can speak for myself,” I say.
“Well why wouldn’t it be? Suppose something happens and Lynda and I get separated from you.”
“You won’t get separated from me as long as you use your heads.”
At the end of the block Jobie directs us to cross back to the other side of the street, where there’s an apartment building on the corner.
“I live on the fourth floor, apartment four C,” he says.
We enter the vestibule. Jobie tucks his bat under his arm, takes his key out of his pants pocket and lets us into the lobby, which is clean and graffiti free. He leads us to the elevator and presses the up button.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “We should take the stairs. I mean, what if we go in there and there’s a power failure? Nine-One-One isn’t responding, and even when they start up again they’ll have to take care of all the murders first. We’d be stuck in there for days.”
Taylor’s not keen on the elevator either. “And what if your . . . what if some psycho adult is waiting for us in the hallway when the doors open? We’ll be cornered.”
“We have weapons,” Madison counters, smirking.
“We should take the stairs,” I repeat.
“Okay, okay,” Jobie says finally. We follow him to a door marked “Stairs”. The stairwell, like the lobby, is clean and graffiti free but hot and stuffy despite the season. We climb the four flights to his floor and exit into a hallway that to me seems way too narrow for a residential building. Jobie leads us to his apartment and, without any hesitation, tucks his bat under one arm again and unlocks and opens the door.
“Come in,” he says casually. Gripping my branch tightly, I enter behind him. Madison nudges Taylor and Lynda inside, then closes the door behind us and locks it.
I expected Jobie’s apartment to be a mess because of his mother’s alcoholism, but it turns out to be very well kept. Okay, there are old, stained magazines spread out on the coffee table, along with a half full bottle of scotch and two lipstick-stained glasses, but other than that the place looks spotless. The carpet looks recently vacuumed, the two small end tables on either side of the couch – and the lamps on them – look dust fee, and the place smells of plug-in air freshener. My house is a hell of a lot messier.
Mrs. Tobias, Jobie’s mom, lies face down on the couch, unconscious. Her breathing sounds raspy and irregular, and she looks pale. Her face is puffy. She appears to be in her forties but she could be younger, depending on how much her alcoholism has aged her. Overall, she doesn’t bear much of a resemblance to her son. Her dyed blonde hair has brown roots though, so they have the same hair color.
As we all stare rudely at his mom, Jobie calmly places his bat in an umbrella stand by the door, then takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coatrack. He sits down in one of the two leather armchairs across from the couch.
“Is that your mom?” Lynda asks.
“That’s her.”
“She doesn’t look too good. I mean, she looks sick.”
“She’ll be okay.”
Without taking off my jacket I drop my branch and plop down in the other armchair, leaving Madison and my siblings chairless. Madison gives me a dirty look and sits down on the carpeted floor, as far from the couch as she can manage. She lays her weird superspade down at her side. Taylor and Lynda sit next to her. Like me, they all keep their jackets on.
“You
“Oh yeah, right,” Jobie sneers. “You think she cleans this place? I’m the housekeeper.”
“Oh. Well you do a great job.”
“Thanks.”
“Must be rough having to take care of everything.”
Jobie shrugs. “I don’t mind cleaning. Actually I kind of like it. It relaxes me.”
I point at his mom. “We should tie her up.”
“Is that why you won’t take your jackets off – because she’s not tied up? Because you’re all planning on running out on me if she wakes up and tries to kill me?”
“Only if she’s too tough to put down,” Madison says. “Alcoholics sometimes are. Even sick ones.”
Jobie laughs. “I tell you she’s no threat. I could put her down with one hand tied behind my back.” He points his foot at Lynda. “Hell, she could.”
Lynda’s not convinced. “We should tie her up anyway. At least her hands and feet.”
“She’s right,” I say.
Jobie shrugs again. “You tie her up if you want to. I’m not touching her.”
Something about that comment strikes me as odd. Gross or not, the woman on the couch is still his mom. Okay, I know boys often don’t want to be hugged anymore once they reach their teens, but should he really have such a problem about touching his mom’s wrists and ankles?
“Got any rope?” I ask him.
“What the hell would I have a rope for?”
I sigh. “How about twine? Or even an extension cord?”
Jobie disappears into the kitchen and emerges a moment later with an extension cord bound in a rubber band. I yank off the rubber band, unravel the cord and tie Mrs. Tobias’s ankles together with the plug end and her wrists together with the socket end. She doesn’t stir at all. When I’m done I step back from the couch and look down at the pathetic woman’s face.
“Is it me or does her breathing sound a little . . . slower?”
Jobie doesn’t even look. “I tell you she’s fine.”
“If you say so.” I take off my jacket finally, spread it out on the back of my armchair, and sit down again. Madison, Taylor, and Lynda take off their jackets too and throw them all in a pile in the middle of the floor.
“Well I guess we’re safe for now,” Madison mutters.
Jobie leans his head back and closes his eyes. “You’re safe.”
Unless his dad shows up. He’s always said that his dad abandoned him years ago, but what if that’s not true? After all, someone has to pay the rent on this place. His mom certainly isn’t employed. Even if she’s on welfare, I doubt welfare moms receive a rent allowance. What if his dad lives nearby and pays the rent, but Jobie never admitted it because he hates him for leaving his mom?
“Safe. Yeah. Yippie,” I think to myself. I want to ask Jobie who pays the rent but I know he’ll get pissed off if I do, so I keep my mouth shut.
Taylor once again puts his arm around Lynda and pulls her close to him. They both stare blankly at the jacket pile, looking like poster kids for the dangers of childhood trauma. I feel a sudden, powerful urge to comfort them but I know there’s absolutely nothing I can say that will make them feel better. I wonder: Is this the first time I’ve ever really cared about them? I search my memory for another occasion when I felt protectively towards them, but I can’t recall one. Has it really taken this nightmare to finally turn me into a caring big sister?
Madison draws her knees up to her chest, hugs them and rests her head on them. I have no idea what her sibling situation is. She hasn’t mentioned any since all this started. If she does have sibs does she give a damn about them? And what about Jobie? He’s an only child, so of course brotherly love is alien to him. But what about his feelings for his mom? I already know he has a hang up about touching her, but does he love her? He certainly doesn’t seem to. Will this horrible night eventually inspire him to care about her?
“Caril?”
Taylor, still holding Lynda close to him, eyes me curiously.
“What?”
“Back at that youth center, and in the park, why didn’t Dad call your name?”
Lynda eyes me too.
“Beats me.”
“Do you think it’s because of the way he’s always . . . disliked you?”
Hearing him say it, hearing someone finally acknowledge that I’ve been treated unfairly, leaves me temporarily speechless. I look down at the recently vacuumed carpet and try to think up an answer. They both wait patiently for me to respond.
“So you’ve noticed,” I say finally.
“Of course.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe the more a father usually loves a kid, the more he hates him tonight.”
“Then in a way you’re lucky.”
“I guess.”
Another moment of silence. Then: “Caril, I’m sorry I never spoke up for you. You know, when Dad got on your case.”
“Me too,” Lynda says, rubbing the back of her neck and grimacing.
I’ve always fantasized about them – and Marky – saying that to me one day. Usually in my fantasies we’re all older, in our thirties and, despite the unequal amount of parental affection we’d received as kids, all equally disappointed by life and bitter. I always respond by saying “Well why didn’t you speak up for me?” And the answer I get is always either “I was afraid to go against Dad” or “I don’t know.” Which one will they give me now in real life?
“Why didn’t you speak up for me?” I ask, still looking down at the floor.
Taylor comes right out and says it. “It made me feel superior to hear him put you down, since you’re older.”
“Same here,” Lynda says meekly.
“But we’re not. Superior.”
“Definitely not.”
In my fantasies, my response to their apology is always the same: “Go to hell! Your apology doesn’t change a thing! It might have back when I was a kid, but not now!”
I should say something like that now. After all, does any apology ever change anything? But they look so sad. So . . . remorseful. I can’t bring myself to be hard on them.
“Forget it,” I tell them. “What difference does it make now?” I look up at them finally and see that they’re both blinking back tears. “You two get some rest.”
I don’t know if they’re really tired or if they’re just glad to end our conversation, but they immediately lie back on the floor and close their eyes. I wish I could doze too, but now that they’ve apologized I’m more obligated than ever to protect them.
There’s a small, old model television with a cable and VCR hookup in the corner. I consider turning it on to see if the networks are still broadcasting, but decide against it. Everyone’s in rest mode at the moment, even Madison, and besides, what good will it do? Regardless of what any emergency broadcast anchorman says to do, we’re staying put.
A more important matter is food. I’m not hungry myself, thanks to the burger I had at the diner, but I’m sure the others are. At least, they will be once the trauma of the night starts to wear off. How much food does Jobie’s mom have in the apartment? Usually alchys don’t eat much. If it comes to a choice between filling the pantry with food and filling it with booze, they choose booze. But an alchy with a son might have a halfway decent food supply. As soon as Jobie wakes up I’ll ask him about it.
From somewhere out on the street comes the sound of another emergency vehicle siren, and with it vivid images of the last five hours. They pop up in my mind like pop up ads on a computer screen: June, battered and bloody, lying on that couch in the youth center; Dad and the other two psycho parents running down the street, chasing after our van; that crazy priest lying prostrate on the altar of his church; the dead boy curled up in the first pew; that poor dead baby on the sidewalk.
For some reason my mind circles back to the priest. He was out of his mind no doubt, but he sti
Should I pray? If I do, will He even listen to me, considering what a lousy Catholic I am? I remember how often I prayed when I was little, usually because I was upset about something Dad said to me. I always felt better afterwards. Will I feel better now?
Okay. Just a short one. Please God, let this nightmare end. Please, no more killing.
There. That’s it. To block out any more religious thoughts I reach for the remote to turn on the television. But before I can press the power button the doorbell rings.