Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  Della called from D.C. We spent time catching up, and she swore me to secrecy about the deal she’d worked out for Astrid and Dee. She never wanted them kids to know how it came about.

  She also told me to go up to her apartment—I had my own key—because there was something nice up there. When I hung up, I got Millie in the Merc and drove over to Della’s. We ran up her steps and went inside, where I saw she’d laid out some photos from the wedding in the same order as the day had gone. I got a kick outta reliving such a fine day, and I particularly liked the last photos—the ones of the bench full of gifts for me and Fiona. We hadn’t seen them because we’d parked the bus outta the way and left for our honeymoon by a different route.

  I took the boxes Della’d packed with all the gifts and drove straight back home, where I set them on my workbench in the barn. I pulled out each gift, one at a time, and imagined who’d given what. Not a one had signed their names, but I knew whose gift was whose as surely as if they had. Then I got Cleva’s pictures out and set the gifts out in a way that mirrored how they’d done it on the bench outside the store.

  It was mid-afternoon when Fiona came home from her early shift, and I made her come out, acting like I was having trouble with something in my shop and needed her help. When we got to the door, I put my hands over her eyes.

  “What’re you doin’, Rabbit?” she asked, giggling softly.

  I didn’t say anythin’, just guided her in closer and took my hands away. She looked at the workbench, then up at me, then at the workbench again. She handled each one real careful-like, gently setting them back down, respecting the fine things they were.

  Later that week when Shiloh and I were finishing up a sideboard, he got this smirk on his face. “So, how’s married life?”

  That was such a stupid question, especially after only a coupla weeks, I chose not to answer and kept working. I could tell he was waiting for an answer of some sort, so I told him about the gifts people left us. He nodded in a way that said go on. Well, I sure wasn’t gonna tell him about our honeymoon, so I mentioned how I was still trying to get Fiona to laugh at my jokes (short of putting on that stupid hat again). “She laughs at yours. Why not mine?” I asked.

  He thought a minute, pulling on his mustache. “Well, maybe this one will do the trick.” He started laughing before he even told it, so I figured it must have been one of his favorites. “This guy, Homer, goes to prison and in the mess hall, he notices that inmates are standing up and shouting out numbers. ‘Twenty-one,’ one guy says, and everyone bursts out laughing, cornbread crumbs flying across the tables. Another guy stands up and calls out, ‘Eighteen.’ Brought the house down, or I guess I should say brought the big house down. This goes on for a while, and finally Homer asks his cellmate what was going on. ‘Oh, we’ve all heard the jokes around here so many times, we’ve given them a number. When someone calls out a number, we think about that joke and laugh.’ Homer’s eager to fit in, so the next day after someone called out ‘Twelve’ and got a big laugh, Homer stands up and shouts, ‘Ten.’ Not even a smile from the crowd. Homer’s too embarrassed then, but later that night he asks his cellmate about it. ‘Well, Homer, some people can tell a joke, and some can’t.’”

  Shiloh started laughing again. “V.J., I know you can tell that joke!”

  51

  Della

  By the first of November, I hadn’t heard from Christine. I was still up in D.C. on deadline with election stories, and I couldn’t break away to go after her again. I knew she’d gotten my package of photos, so I figured she knew I meant business. I left a message with Hilde for her to call me and gave her Alex’s number.

  After a hectic day in the District, talking with a couple of hard-to-pin down House incumbents, I came home to a red light flashing on the answering machine. When I hit play, the caller didn’t identify herself, but she didn’t need to. I heard Christine say, “It’s done. The money will start the middle of this month.”

  I went to bed feeling good about my plan, but in the night, I woke with a start: Enoch needed to be told his crazy common-law wife was alive in Washington, D.C. Early on, I’d thought about telling him, but with all the schemes and stakeouts and wedding plans, I’d put it off. Maybe the right thing would’ve been to tell him sooner, but I was afraid he’d overreact or go to the sheriff. I wanted my plan in place first.

  When I got back to Laurel Falls after the election, I’d do it. This wasn’t anything to discuss on the phone.

  52

  Della

  Alex and I had both been working long nights. Even though we enjoyed the election hoopla (we got to go to one of the victory parties for Clinton), we were both ready for a break in Laurel Falls. Alex didn’t whoop that time when we crossed into North Carolina, but our feelings were close to the same. He planned an extended stay until the new year.

  I loved having him with me, but I couldn’t help but worry. Especially after Abit mentioned he thought Alex looked awfully tired. I told him he was borrowing trouble. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see what he was talking about.

  I telephoned Enoch as soon as I got back, making it sound as though I just wanted to catch up. He must have heard the seriousness in my voice because he suggested I stop by late-morning, when the kids were in school. I was disappointed I wouldn’t get to see Astrid, but I sure didn’t want that precocious little girl picking up on my concerns.

  When I arrived, Enoch made me a cappuccino—an excellent brew from a more modest machine than Christine’s. We sat out on the deck, and I busied myself with my coffee, delaying the news as long as I could. Finally, I just blurted out: “Lilah is still alive, Enoch. And she’s married to a very rich man.”

  His face did that strange thing I’d seen dozens of times when I was a reporter, racing through shock, disbelief, confusion, and then anger. In his case, he ended with relief. He sat quietly for a few moments before speaking. “I think I always knew on some level that she’d run away. I never pictured her dead. But I don’t know what to tell the kids. They seem to have gotten over her. During that last year, it was hell when she was around. But I know they must wonder—and worry.”

  A few months ago when he came by the store, he’d mentioned that he’d taken the kids to a therapist in Chester for several sessions. I hoped they’d worked through some of their worst feelings of loss, because I didn’t want him to involve them in the latest plans. “Given what I’m about to tell you, Enoch, I think the best thing is to leave well enough alone,” I said. “I know telling Astrid and Dee the truth seems like a parental obligation, but think about it. Christine—yes, she’s using her given name these days—made it clear she doesn’t want them. Why should they be reminded of that?”

  “Yeah, but they don’t know what happened to her. That still has to weigh heavily on their little hearts.”

  I’d decided not to tell him her bipolar antics were made up. That seemed too wicked to share. And again, what good would it do? I just said, “It’s your call, Jonathan.”

  His head snapped around, and he stared at me. I gave him some time. Once he was over yet another surprise, he didn’t seem concerned that I knew about his past. “Listen, we didn’t do anything but tag along. We were nobodies. Wannabes,” he said. “And no one cares about that anymore; the FBI quit looking more than a decade ago. By then, though, we’d created all this,” he said, waving his arm around the garden and cabin area, not unlike the way Christine had motioned in her baroque living room. “It would have been impossible to change everything we’d established. Our names, our lives—we’d even gone mainstream with Social Security. We’d never had that before, so once we started …”

  “How’d you get Social Security with fake names?”

  “Easy. Lots of people around to help with false documents—one of the benefits of living in the underworld.” He also confirmed that they’d never married, so she was legally Mrs. Clifford Overton.

  “Well, what about your parents? Your family? Aren’t they worried about yo
u?”

  “Oh, mine paid me with a trust fund to stay away. Christine’s told her the same thing, only their demands came with no money.”

  “So if you tell the kids about Christine and your past, they’ve got a whole lot more baggage to process. And it would ruin my plans.”

  “Your plans?” he barked at me. I quickly explained my scheme involving Christine, and he grew agitated, pacing around the deck. “No way, I mean, no way am I letting her back into our lives. We can’t take any money from her.”

  “Only you and I know it’s from her. And actually, it’s from Clifford, her rich husband, who makes his money ripping off the rest of us as the price of real estate in D.C. skyrockets.”

  Enoch kept shaking his head no, and I kept making my case, pointing out that Astrid would soon be a teenager—clothes and nicer things meant more then. Dee could go to summer camp—and they could both go to college.

  “Okay, okay. I get it.” He stopped pacing and rubbed his face.

  I explained how the plan worked and that I regretted we couldn’t get a lump sum. I didn’t trust Christine to keep up her end of the bargain, but I hoped the photos and records from her past would keep her in line. She really didn’t want Clifford—or her society friends—to know about all that.

  “The money will be doled out monthly,” I said. “That way Christine can sneak it out of their joint checking account without Clifford noticing her withdrawals. Besides, in their bloated budget, it isn’t that much money. In all likelihood, he’ll never notice—if he even checks their accounts. That’s probably left up to some flunky who couldn’t care less. Just the excessive expenses of a trophy wife accustomed to luxury. The money will be yours to share and save for the kids’ college or whatever they need in the future. It’s up to you to decide if a rich uncle died or you won the lottery.”

  “Oh, I’m not claiming her money as my own. No, if I go along with this, I’ll tell the kids someone died. I’m not sure how I’d word it—if I agree. The kids don’t know any kin, so I guess that works in my favor.” He ran his fingers through his curly hair until it stood straight up on top. When he didn’t say anything for a while, I got my hopes up. Then he added, “But I still don’t like it.”

  “If she doesn’t come through with the money, we can let it all go. I promise I’ll never mention any of this ever again. I don’t want to bring more trouble into your lives. I won’t tell Horne a thing about your past—though I’ve got to warn you. I don’t think he’ll ever stop looking for that goon who shot him.”

  “How’s that search going?”

  “Nowhere. Horne still thinks it was attempted robbery, but he won’t ever find him. That guy was a pro.”

  Enoch looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run some errands before I pick up the kids at school. I’ll let you know something this evening.”

  He didn’t call until the next morning. “Okay,” he said without saying hello. “I guess that witch should pay for the heartache she’s caused.”

  53

  Abit

  Some of the autumn leaves still looked good, coloring the view from our windows with copper and rust, even though Thanksgiving was just a week away. Fiona and I were having a big feast for Mama and Daddy, Della and Alex, Millie and old Jake. Our first.

  I was looking forward to decorating for Christmas and spending extra time with Fiona and Millie. We were settling into a comfortable sameness, in a good way. Just leading our lives, without a lot of fuss or bother from others. Mama and Daddy nearabouts forgot me, now that I was leading a life so different from their own. And Quinn and Elodie seemed to think the Atlantic Ocean kept them from even letting us know they’d gotten home safely from the wedding. (We figured we’d’ve heard if they hadn’t.)

  But we were enjoying ourselves. I didn’t see how life could get any better. I felt so full up with it, I even mentioned something about it to Shiloh, though as soon as I did, I knocked on wood. (Fiona’s superstitions were rubbing off on me.)

  The next day, I reckoned I hadn’t knocked fast enough.

  I’d fixed up my woodshop in the barn real nice, and I enjoyed working out there. More often than not, I found myself humming some bluegrass tune I’d been practicing on my mandolin. Shiloh was off that day, so I let it rip as I sang “Way Downtown.” But I stopped cold when I saw Fiona standing in the doorway, looking like she’d lost her best friend. She held out something and started cryin’. I looked down and saw her birth control pills in her hand. It took me a moment, but then I got it. They’d failed.

  “I swear, Rabbit, I took them faithfully. Just like I promised.” She cried so hard I had to hold her up. At first, I couldn’t say I didn’t feel angry—though panicked was more like it. But then I felt as sad as I ever had, holding that lass who felt she needed to prove her honesty to me.

  I took the container from her outstretched hand and set it on the workbench. Then I put my arms round her and held on for dear life. I thought about how this had torn us apart before, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again. We loved each other, and we were a strong family of three. The only difference was we were gonna be a strong family of four. We’d deal with whatever came our way. I didn’t know what Fiona was thinking, but likely it was close to the same, the way she was holding on so tight. There weren’t no words for what was passing between us. Just a flood of tears trying to wash away our fears.

  54

  Abit

  My religion was simple enough to say—be kind—but hard to do sometimes. I didn’t mean it was hard to be kind to Fiona. I doted on her; I even learned to cook pretty good. And I let her know I didn’t want her hiding her happiness about the baby, just because I was eat up with worries.

  But I did find it hard to be kind to all the folks who came up and told me I should be happier about the baby, as if they knew what was going on inside my head. Or Mama, getting all teary-eyed and asking me if it weren’t just the most wonderful thing in the world. All that kinda stuff stirred up something in me that didn’t feel kind. Not sure where those feelings were coming from, but I wished I could’ve made them go away.

  Fiona called the little baby Nixie after an Irish sprite. That was a lot better than calling it it until we chose a proper name oncet it came into the world. Then Fiona had a sonogram at the hospital where she worked; what with my issues and our curiosity that seemed like a good idea. After we saw it in her belly, we shortened the name to Nix to sound more like a boy. And so far, things looked good. That test showed he was growing just fine. But it wasn’t his outsides I had concerns about; it was more what was going on inside his head.

  Something about knowing it was a boy got Fiona all worked up over naming him sooner rather than later. I wanted to see what he looked like first. Eventually I gave in, and we started playing with possibilities, narrowing the search down to Colin or Conor, both Irish names that worked in America. But then I put those names through my imaginary panel at the Laurel Falls Elementary School, and there weren’t no way I was naming a kid Colin.

  “Why not, Rabbit?” Fiona asked, stroking my hair and trying to calm me down. I’d gotten all worked up, likely some kinda flashback to being on the goddam playground myself.

  “Because the kids at school would be off and running with that name, that’s why. No way.”

  “Are you daft? What are you talking about?”

  “No, I’m not daft. I’m experienced. And I can just hear all them names and jokes about bowels and bowel movements and any number of worse things. No way. Now with Conor, well, the worst that would conjure is Conman, and, after all, that’s how we met. Seems fitting. You don’t think Conor sounds too country clubbish, do you?”

  She shook her head like I was crazy. “I like Conor just fine,” she said, “and no, it doesn’t sound country clubbish, whatever you’re on about there.” She paused a moment and added, “But what about religion? I came from a strict religion with more rules than I want our boy to grow up with.”

  “Let’s try teaching him to be k
ind.”

  As I worked out in my shop, I tried to recall the Bible verses I’d heard as a kid calling on us to welcome all the little children. I couldn’t remember the exact verses, but then I didn’t need to. I knew it was the right thing to do.

  I made all kinds of furniture for that young’un. I musta loved him already, because I put everything I had into his crib, sanding it smooth so he could grab it and gnaw on it without getting splinters. I made a changing table and some simple little chairs for when he could walk and needed to rest. I wanted to make a cradle, but I ran outta time. Fiona had me fixing plenty of other things inside the house, getting ready for Conor.

  Fiona decided to keep on working, at least a while longer. She said we needed the money, especially for the baby. Hard to argue with that, but I hated seeing her come home looking so tired. I tried cheering her up with songs on my mandolin and stories about Shiloh and all. One evening, she seemed particularly give out, so I thought she might get a kick outta Shiloh’s prison joke. I’d been practicing, and I’d gotten it down pretty good. I told it just like Shiloh did, but when I got to the punch line, Fiona was just like them damn convicts. Not even a smile. “Honey” she said, “just stick to what you do well.”

  I never could make Fiona laugh at my jokes. She tried to make me feel better by telling me I made her laugh plenty just being Rabbit.

  “Well, thanks a lot,” I said, kinda peeved.

  She brushed the hair out of my eyes. “Oh, darlin’, you know what I meant.”