“Oh.” His voice came out in a whisper. “It’s all over you.”
She held the blanket with both hands and shut her eyes. Outside the wind knocked over a metal trash can, its hollow metal rolling across the far side of the parking lot.
“Okay,” he said. “Don’t move. You’ll get coffee on your blankets and I’m not sharing mine with you.” He took the edge of the blanket and she let it go. He pulled it back and looked away. “Come on,” he said. “Up and into the bathroom.” She reached for the blanket. “Tommie, you can’t sleep like that. Now come on, I’m not looking.” He reached down to the nightstand and turned out the light. He scooped her up and she jerked, catching him in the cheekbone with her elbow. Just a loose elbow. An accident.
“Goddamn it, Tommie.” He took her wrist. “Christ, that hurts.”
“I’m sorry!” Her strange little face twisted up, her eyes small and white and wet in the dark.
“I’ve got you, okay? And I can’t see you. So just relax.” Her body was rigid and shook with noiseless crying. “Boy,” he said, crossing the room, “you walloped me.” He carried her into the bathroom and turned the water knob with his bare foot and ran his toe beneath the faucet. “You like it good and hot or a little cooler?” Now she was clinging to him.
“I don’t want a bath. Please, I don’t want one.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” Something about the dark made him whisper. “You’re covered with coffee. Look. It’s all dark. I can’t even see you.”
“You. Can. Feel me.” Her chest heaving in his arms.
“Oh, come on, Tom.” The bath filled with water.
“Why. Don’t you. Go outside and count?”
“Why don’t I what? Oh, Tom, I’m stupid. That’s exactly what I should have done. I’m going to put you down right now and do that, okay? It’s just me. Just your friend Gary.”
She nodded.
“Good. Okay, now careful. Don’t punch me again!” He pushed the hair back off her wet face and he lowered her down. “Is this okay? Tell me it’s okay. We’ll take a quick bath and you’ll sleep better. You can sleep all day tomorrow if you want. Right? Is it okay?” He lowered her down. “Do you want to do it yourself? Can you do it yourself? Is it safe to leave you here all upset?” He tried to hold her as she leaned over to step into the tub, but she twisted away from him and fell in, smacked her head against the porcelain edge. He went down on his knees. “Oh, Christ,” he said, fumbling in the bathtub for the rubber stopper. Now her chest and throat broke open with crying and he was worried about people in neighboring rooms. “Ssh,” he said. “Ssh. What happened? What is this? Did you bite your tongue?” Blood on her chin. The tub filling with water. “Tommie, please,” he said. “I’m sorry. Christ, tell me you forgive me. Oh God, you can’t trust me. Do you see how you can’t trust me?” He was whispering, the faucet roaring, and the girl crying and shaking in the tub, her hand over her mouth.
“You have to get out of those clothes. If I leave you in here, you put those clothes on the edge of the tub and I’ll hang them to dry, right?” Her underwear. “Tom. Tom, I can’t understand you, take a deep breath.” He put a hand on her back and breathed out, sighing. “Ahhh,” he said. “Right? Deep breath. Ahhhh. Can I leave you here?”
Nothing. Shuddering breath.
“Listen, Tommie. I’m going to help you, okay? Real quick. We’ll just soap you up and go to sleep, right?” He tore open the paper on the soap bar and set it on the edge of the tub. “Here,” he said. “Lift up your bottom.” She did not move. “Okay, Tom. You’re a big girl. You can do this yourself. I’m going to walk out of this bathroom, lights out, and you take off that tank top and your underwear and leave them on the edge of the tub right?”
“I want.” She sniffed. She ran her hand beneath her nose and her arm came away streaked with snot and blood. “To go home.”
“No,” he said. “No you don’t. Here.” He held up her hands and lifted off her tank and held his breath. “I’m not looking,” he said. “I give you my word. I’m just giving you a bath, right?” She nodded. “Now slide those off. There you go. Good girl. Oops. Oops. Get the other leg. Good. Okay. Now soap,” he said. “Soap soap.” He put it in her hand. “Ssh,” he said. “Ssh. Lather that up. You know how to do it. This is fine, right? Just like a father would do if you were sick, right? Or if you bumped your head. Let me see your chin. Is it bad? Stick out your tongue.” She sat there holding the soap, so he took it back and rubbed his palms with it, his hands shaking. And he washed her. Scooped up warm water to splash over her shoulders. He cleaned her face. He talked the whole time, not stopping, and she hung forward and he soaped her back and lifted one arm at a time and underneath the arm and across the chest, mechanically, coldly, like a nurse. “That’s it,” he said, singing, “nice and clean. Then we’ll sleep in and sleep all day tomorrow. We can just stay here all day and sleep and watch TV and eat snacks.” He turned off the faucet. The room went dead quiet. Small splashing of bathwater. He picked up her feet and soaped her toes and ankles and calves and ran the bar of soap up beneath her thighs and around her bottom moving fast, every inch of her body as smooth as the inside of her arm. “We’ll pull down the blinds and double up the pillows and blankets and just sleep.” Whispering now. Small splashing of bathwater. “You can curl up right against me. You can snore away and”—he filled his hands with warm water and spilled it over her head—“dream and dream.” He stood and took a cellophane-wrapped cup from the bathroom sink. “Let me wash your hair and I’ll tuck you in. Just like you were my girl. Just like you were my very own. Now. Here you go. Yes just stretch right out. Lean—yes. Put your head in my hand. There you go. Relax. Yes.” And he was filling her hair with warm sloshes of water and with shampoo and he rubbed her scalp in small soapy circles, and the water lapped in the dark and he felt her let the weight of her head go into his hand. “Do you want to be my daughter for the week?” He was saying. “My very own?” She nodded her wet, soapy head in his hands, and it was fine, she was fine, he rinsed her hair, filling the plastic motel cup with warm water and pouring it over the top of her head. “Yes,” he was saying, “let me wash you, sweetheart, let me put you to sleep.”
When the girl woke the road was running beneath her. Sky painfully brilliant through the windshield. “I thought I was dreaming,” she said suddenly and sat straight up. She was in the yellow sweater and her old sneakers and dirty blue jeans. Outside the truck, before and beside and behind her, an endless span of blond grass and silver bitterbrush and greasewood and sage. All of it vast and unchanging, as though Lamb and the girl were at rest and not rushing west, a diffuse and unmappable destination toward which they sped on an otherwise empty state highway.
“You were dreaming.” Lamb looked over at her, his cheekbone a soft shining purple, blue eyes bright. He was in a clean shirt, face scrubbed, hot coffee and a boiled egg in his belly, and the open road before him. “Boy, did you ever sleep, my pretty little pig. Were they good dreams?”
She looked out the window, then back to him, to the bruise on his face. “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked back outside. “Where are we?”
“North Dakota.”
“I want to go home.”
“No you don’t. Don’t be that way. Here.” He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a giant chocolate chip cookie wrapped in Saran Wrap. “You hungry?” She turned her head, and he put it on her lap. “You have a good internal clock,” he told her. “Anybody ever told you that?”