A Guide for Murdered Children

by Sarah Sparrow

“What!”

  “You have to promise.”

  “I promise, I promise—”

  “Jasmine said that Roxanne told her that she masturbates to Kristen Stewart.”

  “No . . .”

  “I think when Kristen started having hundreds of girlfriends, it like gave her permission. I mean she was always attracted to Kristen. She used to lay in bed and watch Twilight in slow motion—now we know what she was doing!”

  “Who isn’t attracted to Kristen Stewart?” said Honeychile, wryly.

  “Oh my God, I’m not. Not in that way.”

  “Speak for yourself,” she said roguishly.

  “Honeychile!—”

  “Oh come on, Zell. She’s hot.”

  “She totally is but so is Selena and Hailee and Kendall and whoever. But it’s like a whole other level to think of them while you’re like pleasuring yourself with a vibrator.”

  “Is that how she does it? With a vibrator?”

  “That’s what Jasmine said.”

  “Maybe she and Jasmine . . .”

  “I don’t think so. Jasmine is totally penis-obsessed!”

  “When do you think you’ll do it?” said Honeychile.

  “Masturbate—?”

  “When do you think you’ll fuck.”

  “—because if you meant masturbate, I’m already pretty much a professional.”

  “You are not.”

  “I so am. And you better start, Honeychile. You need to be prepared. You have to have been doing it awhile before a guy puts his dick in you.”

  “You are so repulsive!” said Honeychile. They laughed and swatted each other. “I guess you should have gotten me a vibrator for my birthday! Because it’s actually kind of hard to masturbate with a Walmart gift card.”

  “You can try,” said Zelda.

  They were laughing so hard that Rayanne came to the bedroom door.

  “Girls? I hope this isn’t going to go on all night.”

  “It won’t, Mrs. Devonshire,” said Zelda obediently.

  “Mom,” said Honeychile. “Can you just chill?”

  She started belting “It’s My Party” again but Zelda was too shy to join in.

  Rayanne shook her head, smiled and went to bed.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the middle of the night, Honeychile had the worst asthma attack of her young life.

  The scary episodes had happened twice since she’d been with the Devonshires. She would turn completely blue and then be revived by a shot of adrenaline that Rayanne kept on hand. This time, a minute before, Zelda awakened from a nightmare and crawled from her sleeping bag to rummage in the fridge. She made a bowl of Cheerios with soy milk that she heated in a saucepan, thinking it would calm her nerves, then sat at the table to read a story about Dakota Johnson and Zayn Malik in a magazine that she brought from home. When she got back to the room, Honeychile was on the floor gasping. She switched on the light: her skin was a shocking, diaphanous white, made more horrifying by the bottomless wishing wells of half-open eyes when her BFF tried to rouse her.

  She bolted from the room screaming.

  In the brief moment when Zelda ran down the hall to pound on their door—Harold leapt from bed and ran to his daughter while Rayanne retrieved the EpiPen from their bathroom—a paroxysmal shiver flooded the cold, dead body, bestirring it to life. Of course, the injection was of no use, but everyone was convinced it had saved her. Her lids fluttered. Honeychile looked at them in shock and awe, saying, “Oh,” then “Wow.” Her mother held her in her arms while the revived girl began telling everyone she was sorry. Rayanne told her not to be silly, to just lie quietly, that she was going to be all right now. They lifted her from the floor and put her in bed. Harold asked his wife if they should take her to the ER and Rayanne said, “We’ll see. Let’s see. Her color’s coming back. I’ll sit with her.” (Rayanne was actually cooler than Harold in such crises.) Honeychile said she was thirsty and Zelda brought her a glass of water.

  After a while, she recovered enough to say that she wanted to go to her sanctuary. Rayanne said she didn’t think that was a good idea—the den was all the way downstairs, too far from their bedroom—but the girls wound up camping there, with quilts that Mom provided. Rayanne slept alongside them, or tried to for an hour or so before Honeychile kicked her out.

  Unchaperoned, the girls proceeded to eat about a gallon of rocky road. On their third trip to the kitchen, this time to make popcorn in the microwave, they were overtaken by a mood of giddiness and abandon.

  “Oh my God, Honeychile, I wish I had taken a picture of you on the floor!” said Zelda. “You totally looked totally dead.”

  THE SLEEPLESS PORTER

  Something was wrong.

  Something had felt wrong for weeks now and it wasn’t just her interrupted sleep (which hadn’t really occurred since chemo) that was the culprit. Rather, Annie felt the source of her discomfort lay in the nature of the anomalies she had begun to encounter during her rounds on the night train.

  Last night, for example.

  A rowdy girl appeared in one of the cabins, causing havoc. She was almost completely out of control. Occasionally, such a thing happened with new arrivals—Jasper, her mentor, called it “transition anxiety”—though in most cases, fright quickly dissipated into agitated calm. This one was different; it was as if she didn’t belong there, and knew it. When the girl fled from the dark-paneled cabin, Annie was forced to summon help. Thankfully, the ancient, shadowy beings called Subalterns—the train’s rarefied equivalent of sentries—were always close at hand. After she was forcibly led back to her room, Annie brought a tray of lemonade and cookies that she naively thought would soothe, but the hellion sent it flying.

  There was something else that caught the Porter’s attention. Most of Annie’s wards on the train were between the ages of five and eleven—sometimes a twelve-year-old would find their way—but this one was a full-blown adolescent. Short and odd-looking, the fearsome interloper was physically deformed as well, though there’d been precedents for that. Annie remembered a boy a few years ago who appeared in his cabin in a wheelchair. (He had a taste for pizza with chocolate sprinkles.) There was no rule that said so, but able-bodied children had been the norm.

  What did it mean? That she’d soon be hosting murdered teens and young adults? The middle-aged? And if that were true, what difference would it make? As if she had a say! Had she become complacent and arrogant in the mysteries of her custodianship? Did she dare to believe that the incomprehensible could ever become familiar? She was there for one thing only: to serve. Nothing that went on was up to her, nor ever had been. It’d been a long while since Annie felt the astonished apprehension of her vocation, and now she scrambled to reclaim that sacred feeling because she knew it was essential. One must stay humble or go mad.

  She lit incense and knelt before her mentor’s cabinet, bracing herself with a prayer of humility.

  Yet still . . .

  She felt aged out and in over her head.

  * * *

  • • •

  She was contemplating the freakish new normal when the physician came to the examination room and invited Annie to his office. That was where he told her the cancer had returned.

  He was startled yet relieved when a smile came to her face. It was always better when the patient, by denial or disposition, didn’t break down in front of him. He had walked this woman through her illness for twenty years and gotten to know her as best as anyone could. He’d never met anyone like her. She was an open book and a riddle all at once. He didn’t know what she did for money—knew nothing, really, about her life. What she had told him was contradictory. She once mentioned an inheritance but the doctor knew that she lived in a building on Skid Row. She said she was a volunteer in the pediatric wing of Macomb General. He had a friend on staff there w
ho confirmed Annie was a “legend,” beloved by all, though apparently she had resisted the hospital’s overtures to put her on salary.

  Her type of cancer was of the unlucky variety that can never be declared cured. When he showed her the CT scan of inoperable tumors, her reaction was the same as in the past, when he would tell her, “Annie, you’re good as gold. See you same time next year.”

  * * *

  • • •

  She cried on the bus ride home, not with self-pity, but from gratitude. Jasper had told her this day would come and now it was here. He also said that when her time as Porter was nearing a close, she would begin to experience “turbulence,” but she never pressed him about what that meant. Now the anxiety of the last few weeks made perfect sense and filled her with a measure of relief. Looking out the window on the familiar, rain-slicked streets that grew more derelict as she got closer to home, Annie understood. She took solace in a sudden, secret knowledge, no longer hidden, that help was on the way. Someone was heading to the station—her replacement. She could feel it. She would do for them as her mentor had done for her . . .

  How honored she was.

  Walking from the bus stop to her apartment, she was greeted by shouts and tender whispers of “Mother” by the scavengers and outcasts. Each asked if there was anything she needed, eager to provide a service, any service—the service of Love. The whole wide world was filled with mothers and fathers and it made her heart thrum. The children of the train were mothers and fathers as well, and teachers too, long after their lives had abruptly ended. Love was deathless. The fruitless children of the train had parented her.

  She showered in the hallway’s communal bath. When she returned to her room, Annie took special care in front of the mirror as she prepared for sleep. She put on the dress she was wearing when she and Jasper first met (Annie hadn’t worn it since), then riffled through drawers to find the necklace he gave her on the day that he died. With loving thoughts of the one who had rescued her from obscurity and madness, the Porter lay atop the bedcovers. She smiled to herself, thinking she must look like a corpse at a wake.

  That night, when she boarded the train in full dress, the Subalterns emerged from the shadows, as if in respectful salute. They knew. It sent shivers down her spine.

  It was the one time—and the last—they would dare to show her their faceless faces.

  WILLOW IN NEW YORK

  1.

  It was a long while since he’d been back—and the feeling wasn’t good.

  If Rafael had been a tad more enthusiastic about seeing him, Willow might have been in less of a funk. But what did he expect? He’d left Cold Case under shitty terms and the terms were shitty still. It was likely Rafael knew why he was coming to see him, but at least he had the decency not to get into any of it over the phone. Or maybe it was indecency, because if not being rehired was a done deal, the pilgrimage to the city would be a humongous jack-off. Groveling was humiliating enough, made worse by a monster toothache. He’d been popping four Advil every two hours since he left home, to no effect. If his kidneys shut down, so be it.

  Abandon Port Hope, all ye who enter here!

  My life is fucking absurd.

  The appointment at the precinct was a few hours away and his best idea was to find an AA meeting. It made no sense but Willow suddenly got paranoid about running into anyone he knew; say, a cop in recovery. His life being the absurd one it was, of course he ran into a familiar face: a confidential informant straight out of the Way Back Machine. They nodded to each other, and throughout the hour their eyes furtively met. As was his habit, Willow bolted to the street right after the Lord’s Prayer, but the CI caught up.

  “Dub!”

  “Hey, Marlon.”

  “Buddy, how ya doin’?”

  Willow kept walking. “Good! I’m well.”

  “Man, I haven’t seen you in what, three years?”

  “’Bout that.”

  “I thought you overdosed!”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Just teasin’, man. How’s the leg?”

  “I’m still using it.”

  “Dude, how long you been sober?”

  “Three years.”

  Marlon knew it was a lie. He could sniff sobriety dates like dogs that sniff cancer. The lowlife knew everything; that’s why he’d been an invaluable informant. He wasn’t like other snitches Dubya had enlisted through the years—the man had a kind of morality code, which turned out to be a lucky thing for Willow. (A very lucky thing.)

  “That’s awesome, Dubya. I’m here on a fucking court card, can you believe it?”

  “Outrageous,” said Willow, deadpan.

  “You still funny!” said Marlon, his face cracking open in a smile. “So—you a detective again?”

  “I’m retired.”

  Willow hadn’t stopped moving, hoping to shake him.

  “Good on ya! I figured that, ’cause otherwise I’ma hear from you. Your shit went dead. Where you staying?”

  “Staying?”

  Marlon wide-grinned at his old employer’s superior, game-playing bullshit. “Downtown?”

  “I’m staying in Maui.”

  “Maui? No shit. Isn’t that where Woody Harrelson and all those rich, dope-smoking celebrities live? You hangin’ with Woody?”

  “You ask a lot of questions. You should work for the TSA.”

  “The TSA don’t ask shit. Hey, lemme give you my digits.”

  “That’s okay, Marlon,” he said, wincing at the asininity of that word.

  “Come on, man—we’ll cut up old times.”

  Willow winced again as the CI pressed a slip of paper into his hand. He must have written his number down during the meeting.

  “I’m into some shit that’s a little bit . . . inneresting.” Which was code for money. “When you burn out on all that smokin’ and surfin’ you’re doing with Woody, you should hit me up.”

  Marlon was fishing. Willow could read the damning once dirty, always dirty in the snitch’s conspiratorial eyes.

  “Later,” said Willow, power-walking away.

  “Don’t lose that number! And say hi to Mr. Harrelson!” Then, after Willow was a hundred yards gone: “We owe each other! Forever!”

  2.

  “I’m sober, Rafael.”

  “Good for you,” he said, genuinely glad. “For how long?”

  “Three years—from about the time I left the department.”

  May as well feed the lie. Besides, if they made him pee in a cup, he’d ace it. Willow had been clean a few months now and they hadn’t yet invented the test that measures for how long. Though they might be able to detect marijuana in the hair follicles, because THC hung around in the system.

  “How’s Pace?”

  “She’s good—she’s great. Perfect. Gave me a grandson.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Yes it is,” said Willow. “He’s really somethin’.”

  “I’ve got a few of those myself now. Though ‘Grandpa’ on the CV can be a bit of a cock-block. I tend not to mention it to my Tinder hookups.”

  “You’re on Tinder?”

  “Can’t imagine life before it. ‘Love Me Tinder’—Elvis said it first.” Rafael took a harder glance at his old colleague. “What’s going on with your jaw there?” It had swelled like a tiny cantaloupe.

  “Toothache. Haven’t had one since college.”

  “Could be an abscess. They’re a bitch.”

  Willow knew it was time.

  “Rafael—I appreciate you seeing me. I really do. And I know you didn’t have to, so I thank you for that. Being sober awhile, I’ve had a lot of time to think. About my mistakes. And all my . . . horseshit.” Rafael cracked a smile and that was a good thing. “And a big part of why I’m here is to make amends to you—to the whole unit, really—but
that’s not the only reason. Which you probably already know.” He took a long, reflective pause, footnoted by contrition, humility and steely resolve. “What I’m saying, Rafael, is I’d like to come back. It’s different for me now and I think I could be an asset. I know I could. I’ve done a helluva lot of growing up.”

  Rafael nodded, hands clasped together, avoiding his eyes. In that moment, Willow still thought it could go either way. His old boss stared down at the desk, making minuscule adjustments to a letter opener and scorpion paperweight.

  “I know that,” he finally said. “And I’d love to have you. Problem Number One is that we just don’t have any room. Not in Cold Case, anyway. We have a pretty tight group of folks right now, Willow, and you know how tough that is to achieve.”

  “I do. I do. That’s fair.”

  “Takes awhile to get the chemistry right.”

  “And Problem Number Two?” asked Willow, trying to be wry and lighthearted about the whole fiasco. “Or would that be Problems Two through Ten?”

  “Dubya . . . you were a terrible Cold Case guy.” Willow cringed at his candor. “Some folks just don’t have the aptitude.” The qualifier stung him more than the opening salvo. “Which I have to say was a surprise. What we do in that unit is kind of a black art. My gut told me you’d take to it more than you did. So that’s on me.”

  As he sat there and faced the music like a hapless adult-child, he experienced an unexpected sense of liberty. He’d made his little play and got checkmated. A consistent theme in his life was that whenever a door closed—and they always did—he sighed with relief. Rafael, who was actually fond of him, took pity, offering the consolation prize of a promise to have a word with his cronies (all of them men with whom the remorseful detective once worked) about upcoming vacancies in the homicide division. Willow demurred, using the excuse of not being “street-legal” due to his leg injury, which he said had been acting up and might need a surgery (another lie)—leg injury being an unfortunate callback for the putative source of his addictions and the three rehab stints the union wound up paying for. Rafael, himself relieved, didn’t pursue. What they both “understood” was that homicide would never take him back. Toward the end of his eleven-year tenure in narcotics, Willow got ambushed by some dealers he’d busted. He killed two and was shot in the process, becoming some kind of hero—which was how he finagled his way into homicide, his dream gig. But life in that ecosystem quickly became insupportable. In-house suspicions that he’d ripped off said dead drug dealers (and had been doing that for years) began chasing him around like a cartoon storm cloud. Nothing was ever proven, but the “cronies” were glad when he finally asked for a transfer to Cold Case. He owed Rafael for making that possible; the man never believed the scuttlebutt.