A Guide for Murdered Children

by Sarah Sparrow

  The sentries stood at the door to make sure only invited guests attended. Because the Meetings took place in a church—the churches were under the belief they were being rented out for 12-Step meetings—outsiders occasionally wandered in, thinking it was AA or Al-Anon. But once all of the children from the train arrived, Bumble locked the doors. The Meetings lasted ninety minutes. At each, there were usually five or six “landlords,” Annie’s word for the ones whose moribund bodies housed the children who had returned. (The Porter encouraged them to think of the child-tenants as “roommates.”) It took a moment for the landlords to even find their way to the Meeting, because the absorption of the train kids was disruptive, to say the least—as if being resurrected from the dead hadn’t been disruptive enough. For a week or so, both children and hosts were severely disoriented and depressed, not only clobbered by the bizarreness of whatever it was that had happened to them but also struggling to adapt to having two sets of memories; they’d become little ones and grown-ups all at once. Ultimately, it was the child who would dominate, while drawing on the energy, intellect and experience of the landlord in whom they resided.

  Annie could feel that she wasn’t long for this world and knew as well she would not be traveling to the other. To journey at life’s end to the place the trains came from was a privilege afforded only to the most powerful of Porters, and while she’d done well in her vocation, Annie never believed she was that special. No, she would die here, in this world, like her mentor. She had been a Porter far longer than any she’d heard of, longer than was meant to be. She had such knowledge from whispers overheard in the long, dark corridors of the Pullman cars while she carried trays to the cabins of her guests. She eavesdropped on other Porters, old and new, as they congregated in the locomotive’s nooks and niches, discussing her longevity in a respectful hush. They stepped back in obeisance, even awe, as she swept by with her tray of treats on the way to greet a new child . . . and she was an anomaly. Porter work wasn’t amenable to a long life; it took too much. Yet somehow, by fate or physical constitution, she had persevered.

  There was much she would never know. How many Meetings were taking place throughout the city, the country, the world? How did it all begin? And what did any of it mean? (The impossible question of impossible questions.) Not since she was a young girl who awakened one morning with a shock of apprehension that everything was a dream had Annie doubted that life (and death) could hold such mysteries. Still another unanswerable question haunted and persisted: Why would Mystery be used to such vengeful ends? Yet through the years, Annie’s curiosities had ended, the leave-taking perhaps another mystery in itself. All she was certain of, all she had, was Love. She’d even begun to love the murderers—hadn’t they brought her all the beautiful children? But she suppressed the heretical feeling whenever it arose, suspecting it might cause harm to her innocent wards.

  Now the old, haunting curiosities had come back, and she wondered what that meant . . .

  Tonight, new arrivals were due. As always, Annie wasn’t sure they’d make it. Everyone of course had the address she handed them on the train, but it usually took a week or so for them to appear as landlords at the church. It was inevitable that they would; it simply had never happened that a child from the train hadn’t. And when they did, all would be well.

  She wrote the boy’s name, Troy, on a Guide, in Roman-looking letters—very masculine but still fun. On another she wrote the girl’s, Maya, in gold. Then she drew a little unicorn head without knowing why, dusting glitter over the sprig of Elmer’s glue that made its horn.

  WILLOW UNBOUND

  1.

  The Meadows staff strongly suggested that he transition to a halfway house. (In the final days of rehab, they always pushed hard for a “plan.”) The flowcharts demonstrated that your best shot was to move into a sober living situation. If you run straight home and stop going to meetings, warned a counselor, relapse is one hundred percent.

  The Big Book said “half measures availed us nothing,” but Willow compromised and decided to stay with his kid. He’d only visited the house in Marlette twice—once for the birth of his grandson and another for the burial of Pace’s dog, the same guilt-puppy he’d flown in from New York to give to his daughter on her sixteenth birthday. It died last year on her thirty-first.

  Geoff, Pace’s husband, grew up in Marlette, a city in Sanilac County that was even smaller than Saggerty Falls. He tended bar and was an all-around decent fellow who actually looked up to Willow—a lucky turn, because he’d never have agreed to the layover if Geoff was an asshole. The cottage was lovely and well kept, and it was wonderful to see Larkin. He noticed the toddler was walking a little funny. Pace said the pediatrician told her it was a muscle thing that he’d grow out of. “He said it’s really common.” Really? Right, Willow wanted to say. He’s just like the millions of other kids out there hopping around like fucking wounded kangaroos. He pictured Geoff breaking the boy’s leg in a fit of anger but dismissed the brain video as a dark, reflexive cop fantasy because it didn’t remotely fit the picture. Larkin was happy as a clam and clearly loved his daddy.

  So there he was in Marlette, “the heart of the thumb,” an hour due south from the unmanicured tip of the nail, Port Hope, where the detective resided—and an hour north of the old Saggerty Falls stomping grounds. There he was, in yet another borrowed room. This one happened to be in an attic. He’d become a squatter in other people’s lives, a grizzled rehab gypsy, a stranger in other people’s narratives, not to mention his own. At least he didn’t have to share this room with drug addicts, drunks and sundry other dueling disorderheads, a detail that for the moment offset the unmentionable negatives—that he had $17,346 to his name and an iffy pension; that he was lost, adrift, aged out, invisible to the unfairer sex; that his future looked the same as his bleak, checkered past. Was there even the old standby left called Hope? Dubya still named it that but the edifice was in the midst of collapsing into itself, like a slow-motion film of a demolished building.

  * * *

  • • •

  The meeting at First United Methodist, five miles from his daughter’s home, was decent enough. There were some attractive ladies—garden-variety 12-Step newcomers with the world’s shortest dresses and shittiest tattoos—but try as he may, he couldn’t even make eye contact, let alone get any action. He’d lost the thread of what was “attractive,” anyway. Attractive in rehab and Alcoholics Anonymous was different from attractive in the world. One thing he did know: he wasn’t sexy anymore. He wanted to get the fuck out of there. He was tempted to stay till the end so he could at least hold one of the hotties’ hands during the Lord’s Prayer, but the goal was just too pathetic.

  He got up during a share, poured himself a cup of coffee and walked right out the door.

  As he left the church parking lot, he thought it might be time to refill his Cialis prescription. Trouble was, it was so damn expensive. Everyone bitched and moaned about the high cost of EpiPens and cancer pills but no one said boo about the usurious cost of dick stiffeners. Where was the outrage? Maybe he’d talk to his son-in-law about getting some over the Internet. Maybe Geoff had his own secret stash. But why even bother, when he was nonexistent to women? At least he was out of rehab and halfway home.

  He’d been on the fence but Pace insisted he come. “I want to cushion your reentry, Dub-Daddy,” she said. What shocked Willow was that he’d acquiesced. Must be gettin’ soft.

  * * *

  • • •

  They sat at the dinner table while Larkin watched TV nonsense from a beanbag chair.

  The fried chicken was very, very good.

  It was more than very good, considering what he’d been eating at the Meadows. Which hadn’t been all that bad, but there’s just something about the taste of food when it’s been cooked for three versus a hundred. He and Geoff shot the shit about this and that. His daughter didn’t say a word. She was biding her time
. Finally, she said, “So how was it?”

  —the dumb, elephant-in-the-room question that had been on respectful moratorium, waiting to be voiced.

  “Well,” said Willow. “It was weird and it was beautiful.”

  Pace smiled wryly. She loved her dad’s way. “Any celebs?”

  “Not really. Maybe a pop singer or two.”

  “Oh my God, who?”

  “Didn’t catch their names.”

  He was fucking with her just a little.

  “Are you serious?” she said, outraged.

  “Didn’t see the superstars all that much. They were in a different group—with the sex addicts. There was one . . . a dark-haired gal.”

  Pace didn’t know if he was kidding. “Selena Gomez?”

  “That doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Daddy, if you don’t remember her name, I am going to kill you.”

  “Hell, he couldn’t tell you her name even if he knew it,” said Geoff. “It’s an anonymous program.” He winked at his father-in-law. “Right, Dubya?”

  “The man is absolutely correct,” said Willow. “Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions, ever reminding us to place principles before celebrities.”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit! Nothing’s anonymous anymore. You better call some of your friends who were there and ask them.”

  “Listen to your husband. I could never rat out my trudging buddies, Baby Girl.”

  “Oh right,” she scoffed. They were all enjoying their fun.

  “And it especially applies to me,” he said. “I mean, as a retired law enforcement officer.”

  “I’ll get it out of you yet.”

  “If you need some cash,” said Geoff to Willow, “you could always sell that shit to DMZ on the down-low.”

  “It’s TMZ, dipshit,” laughed Pace.

  “That time may already be approaching,” said Willow.

  Pace let it go and said, sincerely, “You look great, Dad.”

  “She’s right,” said Geoff. “You look rested. Healthy.”

  “Well, thank you. I feel pretty good.” What else could he say? He added his signature sign-off: “Onward.”

  2.

  A few hours after dinner, there was a gentle rap on the door of his room in the attic. He was feeling like Anne Frank up there.

  Pace had a plate of cookies and a thermos of ice with Diet Dr Pepper, just how he liked it. She sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “I’m so, so proud of you, Dub-Daddy.”

  “All right,” he said modestly. “Come on, now.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Don’t blow too much smoke at me, it’s bad for my recovery.”

  “It’s such a big thing that you did. And I know how hard it is. How hard it’s been.”

  Her words made him feel good—right-sized was the term they used in the Program.

  “Thank you, darlin’. It was pretty harsh there for a while. I spent two weeks plotting my escape.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” she laughed.

  “Then something kind of happens and you start to ease into it. You stop fighting. And you look around and see a whole bunch of other people who blew up their lives and it’s comforting somehow. I guess they call that surrender.” He smiled at his beloved. “And hey, I should be thanking you. For finding a place for your crazy old man to dry out.”

  Pace touched his hand before worry clouded her face. “Are there AA meetings in Port Hope? Or anywhere close to where you live?”

  “Oh, sure. AA’s everywhere.”

  “Okay,” she said, tentatively. He knew where her head was going. “Have you thought about going back to work?”

  “Not really,” sighed Willow. “Not yet.”

  “Well, give yourself a moment,” she said, with can-do resoluteness. Then she wavered. “But don’t you think maybe it’d be a good thing? To go back to work?”

  “Market’s tough out there for an ex-cop. An old ex-cop. They’re giving all the high-paying jobs to wounded vets—you know, graveyard security at tow yards, that sort of thing. Most of the really prestigious jobs are taken. Like guard positions in parking lots at Walmart.”

  “Very funny. Don’t be so cynical. Why don’t you raise the bar? You could open up a private-detective agency.”

  “Maybe I could,” he said. “Hire myself to find myself.”

  He was trying to keep it light.

  “I think part of the problem,” said Pace, “might be that you’re not—you need to keep your mind active.”

  “It sure was active at the Meadows. They saw to that. There was the journaling class, painting therapy, movie night . . .”

  “You know what I mean, Daddy. Now that you’re out, it’s important to use that head of yours. Because you’re brilliant. Have you called any of your old contacts in New York?”

  He shook his head. “The only so-called contacts I didn’t burn are the bartenders, and I burned quite a few of those.” Pace’s face darkened as she stared at the floor. “Hey now, it’s all gonna be okay, Baby Girl. I’ll find something, don’t you worry. Okay?”

  “I do worry. I worry about you.”

  “Well, I’m fine and I’m going to be fine.” He waited for her to eke out a smile. “Talked to your mother?”

  She knew what he meant. “I don’t tell her stuff about you, Dad.”

  “I didn’t mean that—though maybe I did. I guess I was a little curious about how much she knew.”

  “Nothing from me. Not that she wouldn’t be happy to hear you’re sober. She’d be thrilled.”

  “Whatever. I just want to be the one to tell her.”

  “And why would you do that? It’s not like you give her regular updates. When’s the last time the two of you even spoke?”

  “I guess it’s been awhile. She doing okay?”

  “She’s good—they’re good. They just moved.”

  “Oh boy. Adelaide hates to move.”

  “I know, but they got a bigger house so I think she’s okay with it.”

  “A bigger mousetrap,” he said cryptically.

  Father and daughter grew quiet. Pace’s brow furrowed and Willow thought she was going to yap again about worrying over him. Then he realized her thoughts were elsewhere. “What’s going on?”

  “I wanted to tell you . . . about Larkin’s leg.”

  Willow stiffened. “Did Geoff do something to him, Pace?”

  “Are you serious? Fuck no.” She shook her head in chagrin at Dark Cop, Dark Dad. “Larkin has a little problem with his hip, that’s all.”

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “Apparently, he’s had it from birth. They didn’t think it was serious.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve kind of had a lot going on. If you haven’t noticed. I didn’t want you to freak out but Geoff told me you wouldn’t and that I was being dumb.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Not serious-serious. Kind of, I guess. They say if he doesn’t have surgery, he might have trouble walking.”

  “He already has fucking trouble walking!”

  “Don’t yell at me!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said contritely.

  “I mean as he grows, it’s going to get worse. They said it’s probably best not to wait.”

  “It’s not a cancer or anything?”

  “No!”

  “Okay,” he nodded. “So we’re talking when. For the surgery.”

  “Soon. Sometime soon, I guess. They say it’s not that big a deal. I mean the actual operation—that it’s kind of basic. The doctor says he does them all the time. I mean, if it needs to wait, they said that’s okay too. But the sooner the better.”

  “How much do you need, Pace?”

>   “I don’t know,” she shrugged. It embarrassed her to talk about money with her father. “Geoff’s group plan is supposedly going to cover some of it—why does anyone even have insurance if it always only covers some of something, and, like, the smallest part?” She scowled in exasperation. “But it’s going to be okay. I’m in the middle of hassling with them.” She sighed. “The doctor needs fifteen thousand off the top. I’m pretty sure we’ll get most of that back. But I don’t trust the insurance companies for shit.”

  “I’ll give you ten tomorrow.”

  “Dad, you don’t have that kind of money.”

  “You don’t know what I have.”

  “I didn’t go to Mom yet because—she gets so flipped.”

  “You don’t need to. You let me handle it.”

  She came and sat next to him on the bed and Willow held her like he used to when she was small, when she got a booboo or had a bad dream and cried in his arms, before the divorce, before he moved away.

  Years later, when Pace visited him in New York, he tried holding her but she’d squirm away. She never forgave him for leaving her and Adelaide, never knew or understood the reasons why. She could never understand—how could she?—and he resented her for that until he came to know that wanting a child to understand was the most selfish and grievous of sins.

  MINIATURE DREADS

  Port Hope—could the name of where he lived (he thought to himself) be any more magnificent, more ironic, more absurd? Detective Willow Millard Wylde—tired, retired, refried and broken—was actually living, in what felt like the end of days, end of his days, in Port Hope! He’d been there since his forced retreat from the NYPD and the world . . . On arrival home from his sojourn to his daughter’s, Dubya had his ashes hauled—what could have been more hopeful? Miranda, an overweight “bodyworker” who worked at Menard’s Home Improvement, made nighttime house calls until she built “a full-time massage therapy practice.” She gave a pretty good half-hour rub before improving his home by jerking him off sans oil. Miss Miranda had beaucoup cleavage and let him touch her fat thighs, which the recovering cop kneaded with the rough fingers of his still-healing hand—way better than doing those P.T. exercises with Silly Putty the doctor at the Mayo suggested. (No amount of Miranda or putty would make his bullet-shattered leg right again.)